Where’s the Department of Labor When You Need Them? (Star Trek TNG-Era OC-Insert)

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In space, no one can hear you bitch about noncompliance with safety regulations. Or, an OSHA inspector's journey through the madness that is Starfleet.
Intro
Location
Pennsyltucky, 'Murica
Pronouns
He/Him
AN: Crossposting this from SB...



"Reporting here as ordered, Sir." I stood ramrod straight, following my new body's instincts, and trying desperately to suppress that dumb hick accent I was born with. Thank God I retained this body's memories when I woke up in that shuttle, or else I would have been screwed six ways to Sunday.

"Ensign Buckley, this is Lieutenant Commander L'vor, Chief Engineer here on the Carpenter."

Ethan Buckley… Same name. Same face, if a decade and a half younger. Same parents. Same dog… Everything lined up so close, it was like some omnipotent being was playing a practical joke on him.

In my old life, I was the third son of a coal miner and a waitress out in the middle of bumfuck, West Virginia. For as long as I could remember, my daddy was missing half his left hand due to it being caught in machinery. Here and now, I was the third son of a dilithium miner and a waitress, born in the Humantown of a backwater Andorian colony. The accident this time was a mining phaser going haywire.

It was quite difficult to reconcile the two lives, especially with one of them being in a TV show I watched occasionally. But, this ship wasn't the nice, clean Enterprise... It was a lot more run-down and sketch.

"It is a pleasure to have you, Ensign." The Vulcan was on the short and skinny side, with jet-black hair and pale skin, tinged with green. Even through that impenetrable stoicism, I could tell he wasn't jumping for joy dealing with some brat fresh out of the academy. "Your new station is over there. Lieutenant Cook will inform you of your new duties." And with that, he left to do God-knows-what.

I briefly looked around, taking in my new surroundings. The warp core gently hummed, a pleasant heartbeat as it supplied power to the rest of the ship; almost pleasant enough to numb the overwhelming sense of dread washing over me since I stepped on board. It was like being in one of those Chinese factories you see on those gore sites - I'm half expecting the Liveleak logo to suddenly appear somewhere in the air.

Right, the ship! The USS Carpenter (NCC-998-B) was one of the last remaining Constellation Classes still in active service. I don't know if the line "Overworked, underpowered vessel, always on the verge of flying apart at the seams" rings a bell, but it doesn't exactly inspire much confidence.

But... well... It was the future! Surely, they wouldn't send me into a death trap…

Right?...

…Huh, those railings over there look awful short.



One Week Later…

Oh, dear God, they actually did. Apparently, humanity never ever learned. Really, I should have known better, with the shit I've seen in my old job.

In the so-called barbaric times of the 21st century, I was an inspector for this little thing called the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. They say that humanity is better now, evolved past the violent tendencies of the days of yore. They also seemed to have evolved away from the need for safety regulations, too. Arrogant jackasses.

Because holy shit! I could name fifty-something violations in this here Jeffries Tube off the top of my head!

For example, practically the entirety of 29 CFR 1915 Subpart B could just be flushed down the toilet here. They literally told me to crawl in and clean the EPS conduits. No paperwork, no permits, no nothing - Just waltz on into a confined space all by myself to dick around with a component containing literal 20-thousand-something-degree plasma. They didn't even send a guy to keep watch over my green-as-grass inexperienced ass!

Oh, yeah, and don't even bother with any protective equipment. You'll be fine with just your Starfleet pajamas and a tricorder! So what if there are no harnesses or even guard rails around the vertical sections – surely nobody would trip and fall ten decks straight down and split their heads open!

Gah! It was just too much!

"Ensign Buckley, the displays in section 10 of Deck 8 are experiencing malfunctions." L'vor's voice chirped through the badge.

Translation: the damn things exploded from yet another random power surge.

Carefully and deliberately, I place the cover back on over the EPS conduit, treating it like the horrifically dangerous piece of infrastructure it was.

"On it, Sir,"

What the hell was there to explode with a glorified touchscreen? A fucking iPad didn't have this problem despite being assembled by the hands of starving third-world children! Why did Starfleet!?



One month later…

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

Lieutenant Commander L'vor looked away from the newly installed console to stare at me impassively. It was raised slightly, to match the new, much higher railing – No more poor sumbitches tripping and falling over into the warp core thanks to yours truly.

"Granted."

"Earlier this week, I made multiple requests to install seatbelts in the shuttlecraft, but all of them were ignored. So I am requesting it again, as I believe it is a gross safety violation that should have been rectified a long time ago."

"I was under the impression that inertial dampener systems have made such things obsolete," L'vor raised an eyebrow, "Please, explain."

"Gladly, Sir," I couldn't help the savage grin I gave as I handed over the PADD, "I have compiled a list of shuttlecraft incidents over the past 20 years where inertial dampeners had failed. 43% of them occurred at acceleration levels survivable had there been a seatbelt or harness installed. 1,532 fatalities due to this simple oversight – and I'm a at loss how nobody noticed this before..."

L'vor speed-read over the scathing report I so lovingly crafted. For the sake of professionalism, I refrained from the colorful metaphors I reserved for the companies that still ran things like it was the Victorian Era, but damn did I almost give in to the temptation.

Slowly, the Vulcan's eyebrow crawled all the way up to his hairline; which I assumed was his species equivalent to shitting your pants in shock.

"This report has been most… enlightening." His gaze hardened, "This should be addressed immediately – proceed with the installation, Ensign." He turned around, "Lieutenant Cook, please finish these warp field diagnostics. I must have a word with the Captain."

With fiery determination, I checked the straps of my hard hat, picked up my tools, and headed straight down to the shuttle bay. I had no doubt that L'vor was going to make a lot of admirals' lives hell with yet another "logical proposal"...

As he should. Fuck the primitive screwheads who designed these ships!



For the next six months, the USS Carpenter would be one of the few ships in Starfleet to report zero workplace accidents… Additionally, in many holodecks across the fleet, the effigies of an ensign with an anachronistic hardhat and a Vulcan lieutenant commander would be burned along with a pile of books containing new safety regulations; engineers dancing all around, hooting and hollering.
 
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Lt. JG. Buckley, SCO
In the not-dark-and-very-much-well-lit corridors (per the new Starfleet Regulation 1915.82) of the USS Carpenter, rumors traveled faster than Warp 10. And it wasn't the Klingons, or the Romulans, or any other existential horror that the crew feared the most. It was but one man:

Lieutenant Junior Grade Ethan Carling Buckley Jr., Safety Compliance Officer

"Shit, it seems every other day these piece of shit '30s EPS conduits blow themselves out…" Crewman Turner grumbled as he fumbled through a messy pile of tools. A certain spot on his head itched like hell, but the hard hat was in the way of relief. He loosened the straps to reach and scratch it, "Alright, Thull, hand me the phase modulator – let's get this shit over with–"

"Hold it! Safety inspection!"

"Oh boy… Here comes tall, dark, and pissy…" Turner reluctantly retightened the straps.

He looked up to find Lt. JG. Buckley glaring down at them with the heat of a thousand suns, "Crewman Thull, where the fuck are your boots?"

"Sir, he's a Megazoi–"

"Crewman Turner, I didn't permit you to speak freely. Crewman Thull, last I recall, you have a specialized set of safety boots to fit your non-standard anatomy. Why aren't you wearing them?"

"I-I forgot, Sir. Megazoids don't typically wear any footwear. I-It's not in our culture."

"Well, don't you worry, Crewman Thull, I'll be right outside your quarters ev'ry Gotdamn mornin' to remind you to put them shits on from now on." Buckley ranted, slipping into his Appalachian accent, "Now, I don't give a damn if you're a Bolian cliff spider, ain't nobody workin' on this ship unbooted. Ever see the aftermath of a 50-gallon drum dropping on a man's toes? Here's a hint: it looks like kimchi drenched in plomeek soup!"

Suddenly pale, Thull ran off to retrieve his missing habits.

Buckley then made a dramatic show of glancing down, eliciting an eye roll from the remaining crewman, "Crewman Turner, police your damn tools. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I believe you're older than three."

Then, with a huff, he stalked off, most likely about to ruin another poor bastard's day…

"Prick," Turner muttered under his breath.

"Oh! And lock and tag those fucking consoles over there before some dumbfuck cadet gets shrapnel in his face from a power surge!" Buckley hollered from the end of the corridor.



You know what? I think I'm starting to get used to this new fancy-schmancy space job.

After the whole thing with the seatbelts, me and L'vor were given a citation by the fleet. Now every duty station in every ship in the Federation had seat belts installed. Well, technically, some of the older classes like the Constellation had this weird metal leg-strap thing on some of their seats, but that didn't help for jack shit and was more likely to break you in half Bane-style in a real emergency.

As a result of my efforts, the Captain saw it fit to see me promoted to a new position with a raise in "pay grade" (the Federation didn't do actual payment beyond the monopoly money that was Energy Credits, damn Communists). Now, I was charged with daily inspections of crew operations, and my authority was second only to everyone's favorite Vulcan chief engineer in safety management.

Additionally, in what free time we were afforded, L'vor and I started working on filling in the blanks in Starfleet's safety standards. Thankfully, not every engineer in this universe was a complete ignoramus – Charles Tucker III and Montgomery Scott had a lot of the important shit written down in the old manuals, so we weren't starting from zero. But still, those two were Goddamn cowboys who would've given even the most incompetent DoL regulator heart palpitations, so I still didn't take their written word for it.

Oh, speaking of new safety regulations, I was standing right outside the transporter room, ready to give a certain numbskull captain an earful.

"Captain Th'Ryn, Commander Vakhtangishvili, Lieutenant Duckland… Where are your environmental suits?"

The Andorian captain waved him off, "C'mon Buckley, we'll be fine. The scanners didn't find any dangerous lifeforms–"

"–That you know of." I cut in, "This is an alien planet that we discovered literally fifteen minutes ago. I dunno what the hell's crawling on it, and I'd much rather you avoid bringing back something we won't be able to handle."

"Don't worry, the biofilters will get it. They always do," The commander assured.

"That's what they said about the brain slugs at Peltron VII. But of course, the USS Leningrad–"

Whoosh! They walked in; the doors shutting in my face.

"…fuck's sake." Sighing, I slapped the badge on my left pectoral, "Buckley to L'vor, Protocol 2020. Pass it along to the CMO. I dunno what the hell the Captain's thinkin'..."

"Acknowledged."

I ran to the nearest storage locker to put on a Level A Hazmat. It was literally in my job description to not take chances.



Safety Compliance Officer's Log, Stardate 41015.8:

Pardon my French, but I fucking told you so. As it turned out, the away team brought back a flesh-eating fungus. Due to the fungus' psychogenic effects, causing out-of-character belligerence, the away team refused to follow basic quarantine protocols, causing the infection to spread to half the damn crew within an hour, and the rest by the end of the day.

L'vor, the Chief Medical Officer, and I were the only crew unaffected. The only reason that everyone's alive right now is because Dr. K'tlitik is a miracle worker able to shit out a cure on a dime.

This cannot and should not ever happen again. Buckley out.
 
Beating the Drumhead
Simon Tarses had finally done it! He had gotten his first posting after a year of blood, sweat, and tears through the academy's training program. Now, he was on the USS Carpenter!

Of course, he didn't have the stomach to become a full officer. Starfleet Academy only took the best of the best, the cream of the crop; and he knew in his heart of hearts that his B student self wouldn't qualify. So, he enlisted as a crewman, a medical technician/assistant to the Chief Medical Officer to be precise.

It wasn't the most exciting of work; there would be no manning the phasers against Romulan warbirds nor any flying the ship, weaving between the waves of colliding ion storms. No, it was mostly diagnostics, tests, more diagnostics, and more tests. Did he mention the diagnostics and tests?

But, as his father once said, even the most mind-numbing work was important in the end. And for him, it was fulfilling enough. Those tests and diagnostics saved lives, and if he wasn't there to do them, Dr. K'tlitik wouldn't have the time to give his patients the care that they needed…

…nor would he have the time to get an earful from a certain Ensign Jitt, whose elbow started feeling funny for the nth time this week but still refuses to have it checked out with a skeletal assessment kit. The Carpenter wasn't exactly the most exciting of postings.

Whoosh…

A new patient? Simon turned around to find a man in an engineer's uniform (distinct by the strange headgear which that division of the crew seemed insistent on wearing for some reason). He was tall, a little bit on the skinny side, and had hair that was somewhere between very dark brown and black.

"Uh… Dr. K'tlitik's resting in his quarters. I can wake him up if you want–"

"No need." The man raised his hand, dark brown eyes regarding Simon with half-disinterest and half-curiosity, "I'm just here to make sure the force field emitter's up to code. I'll be outta your hair in a sec," Gently, he set his heavy-looking toolbox down, "Computer, run forcefield diagnostic Buckley alpha-one."

The familiar hum tickled Simon's ears as multiple force fields of various strengths appeared with a half-second of static. The man scanned it up and down with his tricorder, tapping in notes on his PADD.

"You're the new guy – Tarsus, right?"

"Tarses, Sir" Simon corrected.

"'Course." The man nodded, "Lieutenant Junior Grade Ethan Buckley. I'm the ship's SCO."

"SCO?" He wasn't familiar with any position that went by that acronym.

"Safety Compliance Officer. My job 'ere's to make sure the crew don't earn themselves a Darwin Award and keep everything on this rustbucket to code." For some reason, he felt like an old in-joke just went over his head, "Hopefully, you won't be seeing much of me… unless you do something stupid like say… bring an alien plant on board without a Level 4 isolation field around it and cause everyone in the lab on deck four to break out into a manic orgy."

That… sounded way too specific for his comfort.

Tarses looked up from his diagnostics to see that Buckley was up to and found him carrying around a sledgehammer, like an old one, from a construction site from one of those 20th-century holo-novels. Buckley lugged it around, striking a field as hard as he physically could, before scanning it again, "Alright, field integrity is within acceptable parameters, I'm done here."

As he watched the man pack up his rather schizophrenic set of tools (phase modulators and polarity inverters right next to an old-timey screwdriver and pliers) and walk away like everything was normal, Simon started to second guess if Starfleet was truly the best path for him.




Captains Log, Stardate 41099.2:

We have finished our rendezvous with the USS Crazy Horse and are now en route to Starbase 11. Rear Admiral Norah Satie, one of our new passengers, intends to hold a party there in celebration of her incoming retirement. I had also come to learn from her that it was her first posting; a fitting bookend for a long and dignified career.





Crewman Tarses, Personal Log, Supplemental:

I ran into the Admiral and her Betazoid assistant while I was carrying lab equipment down in Deck 7. I don't know why, but she scares the hell out of me. There was something in her eyes; like... How did Crewman Turner put it again? A few cards short of a full deck?

Yeah, that.





Another day, another EPS conduit goes to shit. At least this one had the decency not to explode into a shower of sparks – it would have been quite embarrassing, considering it was down the hall from the guest quarters the Admiral was staying at. Unfortunately, while there weren't any burns, it still managed to fry the gravity plating and blow the lights out in sections 3 through 5.

Carefully, I rerouted the power away from the work area and locked and tagged any nearby consoles or other equipment. Looking around, many of the other crewmen were doing so as well, almost by instinct now. Good.

Working with EPS-based systems always carried the risk of power surges, something I initially thought was extremely stupid, but given the sheer amount of power that flows through 24th-century systems, it was a necessary trade-off. It wasn't like you could just pipe the power from the warp core to the deflector system with a simple copper wire, after all. Damn thing would vaporize the primary hull.

"All clear. Check your harnesses," I announced and ordered.

The crewmen quickly did their mandatory checks before stepping forward and floating off to do their work. Sure, their harnesses had a miniaturized tractor beam tech to keep them stable at all times, but I always made sure that they had at least one physical cable attached to the walls. You never know when Murphy's Law might kick in.

Whoosh…

Speaking of… Rear Admiral Satie and her dogsbody had just emerged from their cave and they were walking right towards me.

"Admiral, I'm afraid you're not allowed in this section, this is an active work zone,"

"Hm?" She gave an expression of faux surprise as she glanced toward her attendant, "Oh, I was just curious to see how this ship conducted its operations."

It only took one glance at that strange glint in her eyes and… Yep, definitely an evil admiral of some kind; wasn't sure what flavor yet.

I swear, there must have been something in the water at Starfleet Headquarters...

"I assure you, Ma'am, operations are going smoothly, and safety protocols are being rigorously enforced." Alright, now how do I get her out of my hair? "I'm afraid that it is not exactly in my purview to explain it in any further detail, but I am sure Lieutenant Commander L'vor would be happy to explain, upon obtaining permission from the Captain," I explained in the same government bureaucrat tone that I would give to a particularly dumb foreman. I'm sorry, L'vor...

She narrowed her eyes, casting a suspicious glare at me, then leaned in as her lackey what-his-name whispered in her ear. Soon after, she tried to glance over my shoulder to see my men at work.

"And If I were to confirm the facts myself?..." She trailed off.

Then you'd be a micromanaging bitch getting in the way of my job – I was so tempted to say, but instead, "I'm afraid you do not have the necessary clearances, Ma'am."

"Clearances? Pardon?"

"Safety Clearances. As this ship's Safety Compliance Officer, it is my duty to ensure the safety of anyone who enters an active work zone. Doubly so for older vessels such as the Carpenter." I looked down on my PADD to quickly pull up her file, "I cannot permit you entry into this area as you do not have the necessary engineering credentials, nor have you undergone zero-gravity training in over two decades. Additionally, you do not possess the required safety equipment," I gestured toward my harness and tapped my hard hat.

"That is... quite the effort you are going through to cover a simple repair, Mr. Buckley," Oh, her lapdog speaks!

"As I have said, safety protocols are enforced very rigorously on this ship." I paused for a moment, "Permission to speak freely?"

"...Granted," She said after some hesitation.

"Why is an admiral such as yourself so interested in a routine EPS conduit repair?"

Before she could answer, the intercom chirped, "Captain Th'Ryn to Admiral Satie, the food's getting cold."

"Oh, pardon me, I was supposed to have dinner with the Captain." She turned around, without so much as a goodbye. Her aide followed closely behind, like a lost puppy.

"Have a safe day, Ma'am!" Bitch.

I turned around, just to make sure my men hadn't found a novel way to kill themselves. Instead, I saw a gaggle of crewmen and cadets, frozen in place, gawking at me like slack-jawed yokels first discovering electricity.

"S-Sir…" One of the cadets spoke up, "Did you just tell an admiral to go eat shit?"

"I wouldn't quite put it like that, but yes. Take this as a lesson, Cadet. There's a difference between rank and position on a starship. She may outrank me by five pay grades, but my position as Safety Compliance Officer overrides that in certain circumstances. On this ship, in the domain of Safety Management, I might as well be Jesus Christ come again in Starfleet's eyes, and there ain't Jack she can do about it unless she goes through the Captain."

They looked at each other and back at me, "Whoa…"

"Don't let it get to your heads. Ain't none o' you got positions worth a damn," I nipped any stupid ideas before they could have them, "... Also, last I checked, your jobs ain't sittin' around with your thumbs up your asses. Get back to work."

"""Yes, Sir!"""




Lieutenant Junior Grade Buckley, Personal Log, Stardate 41111.3:

Remember that admiral we sent to the retirement home on Starbase 11 the other week? Well, apparently, according to her, the crazy old bat, Crewman Tarses and I are saboteurs and traitors to the Federation…

Yeah. Let that sink in… You're not the one who got electronically served with legal bullshit at four in the morning.

I dunno what saggy old orifice she pulled those claims out of, but seeing as this is the Federation and not the Romulan Star Empire, they should be laughed out of any reasonable court…

...Well, one would hope.





Lieutenant Junior Grade Buckley, Personal Log, Stardate 41140.7:

Holy shit, they're actually taking this bitch seriously. And the captain is being charged too as an accomplice! A third of the damn crew is being ordered to return to Earth to be court-martialed.

Un-fucking-believable!

She must have had some serious pull within the Good Ol' Boy circles...





Lieutenant Junior Grade Buckley, Personal Log, Stardate 41154.6:

For the sake of posterity, here's some advice in case you find yourself on the wrong end of a nutcase Admiral: Get yourself a Vulcan JAG officer, and pray for a Vulcan Starfleet judge.

The case was thrown out three minutes due to how exceedingly illogical it was, and how it had the legal foundation of wet tofu. They didn't even get the chance to put us in the brig before it got shitcanned – not even a mugshot as a souvenir.

Rumor has it that Admiral Roddenberry himself sent the Captain an apology letter. Though, I'd suspect it was a political move, given the media shitstorm that Satie's fall from grace had caused. For once, the Enterprise isn't on the front page of the Net; for better or worse…





Security Compliance Officer's Log, Stardate 41155.3:

After that whole… thing. I have finally been able to return to my normal duties. I checked over the logs of what happened in my absence, and what did I find?

Fourteen. Fucking. Accidents.

FOURTEEN!...




"Computer pause." I pinched the bridge of my nose, "C'mon, man… You already got your ass chewed once for swearing on official logs…" A sigh, "Computer, delete log and start over…"



Security Compliance Officer's Log, Stardate 41155.3:

Now that my court-martial is done and over with, I have finally been able to return to my normal duties. But, upon checking over the logs of what happened in my absence, I have noticed 14 separate incidents where crew members were sent to the sick bay.

It is clear that further corrections need to be implemented, as well as more diligence among the crew in attending my safety seminars.




"Computer, end log. Save it," I leaned back into my chair, looking out the window of my rather small quarters. Outside, the interstellar dust made white-hot streaks as it struck the deflector field, "I swear… These people are gonna be the death of me."
 
An Overlong Stayover
The USS Carpenter was not a ship of many luxuries like the Galaxy classes; there were no holodecks, nor were there any other gaudy amenities to impress the diplomats. But, there were a few spots that were favorites among the crew.

For example, Cargo Bay 3 was left intentionally empty most of the time as a sports and recreation area – it had enough space to fit two basketball courts, a tennis field, and a small track running 'round the edge. There were also three small mess halls strategically placed to be nearby, no matter where you were on the ship. But, by far, the most popular destination of all was the Crew Lounge on Deck 5.

Originally three empty guest quarters that never saw use, the previous captain of the ship, just before Th'Ryn took charge, decided to have the space opened up, and knocked the walls down between them. A bar was installed, 80s-style furniture was placed all around (1980s specifically – the previous captain was a huge history nerd), and even a few beanbags surrounding an old CRT TV, with functional replicas of various historical game consoles hooked up.

In this crowded room, with the sounds of Star Fox playing in the background, a curious cadet was asking some very pointed questions, "Whose this Buckley guy I keep hearing about?"

The older, grizzled engineer gave the kid a blank look, "How long you've been here, Cadet?"

"Uh, three days, Sir. Transferred in a few days ago from New Jupiter,"

"Well…" The engineer leaned in, casting an ominous shadow over his face, "Buckley is a bit of a legend on this ship… To those who follow the safety regs to the letter, he's a guardian angel." A menacing grin grew on his face, "But to those who dare to forget to put on–"

Indeed, Buckley had gotten a bit of a reputation as a cryptid, appearing and disappearing to chew out a crewman for this and that…

"Jones quit fucking with the kid." A female Tellarite engineer cut in, "Buckley's the Safety Compliance Officer on board. As long as you follow code and don't do stupid shit, you'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say, Naaghre! He's not busting your balls all the time over the littlest–"

"You're a Class IV fuck-up, Jones. That's why he's always on your ass."

"Sir… Ma'am" The cadet nervously looked between the two.

"Don't worry kid, you're in good hands. Nobody has died in the two years he's been here."



Meanwhile on the other tables…

"…heard from my brother on Spacedock that they're mothballing the Hathaway and the Victory."

"Wait, doesn't that mean that we're the only Constellation left in the fleet?"

"Holy shit, man, you're right!"



"Rraah! Jollor nhagh'vanool! I was this close to beating Andross! THIS CLOSE!" A Barzan ensign nearly broke the Super Nintendo controller in a rage as he held the fingers on his other hand a micron apart.



Whoosh.

The room went dead silent as the doors slid open to reveal a stone-faced Lieutenant (No Longer Junior Grade) Buckley. It was like one of those old Western films, where the lawman strode into the saloon and ordered a drink.

But, instead of asking for a nice glass of whiskey, he-

"Spaghetti Carbonara with Pa'u cheese, Andorian Tuber Root fried with garlic and basil, and a Pink Lemonade, near freezing,"

Without a care in the world to all the stares, he took his tray full of Human and Andorian mishmash and took his usual spot next to L'vor and a strangely gold-shirted Crewman Tarses.

Slowly, the volume returned to normal levels. And as always on this ship, rumors abound…




Captain's log – Stardate 41199.9:

The Carpenter is currently en route to Starbase 80 to conduct an overdue inspection by the direct orders of the Admiralty. There were a few other science vessels within this sector, but unfortunately, we were the only ship with a proper Safety Compliance Officer on board.




"Computer end log and save." The Andorian captain dropped his face into his palm, giving a long-suffering groan, "Buckley, I'm so sorry…"




I couldn't help the ear-splitting smile as I stalked through the airlock, PADD in hand. The crew had been a little bit too competent lately, and my sadistic side had been begging for a reason to tear someone a new asshole.

Starbase 80… Whew! It was bound to be an OSHA man's nightmare come true! According to previous reports, most of the parts haven't been replaced in over a century, in the air I caught the distinct smell of piss and old shrimp, and…

I turned around as the Carpenter undocked, leaving to survey a nearby nebula.

…The window had a big ass crack running through its center. You know… the one leading outside? To fucking space? The only thing between me and delta-p linguine was a forcefield standing on its last legs. I lost my smile as suddenly, an overwhelming sense of pants-shitting terror washed over my burdened soul.

Mother of God, what the hell had the Captain roped me into this time?...

I nodded toward Tarses, who nervously scanned the hack-job walls with his engineering tricorder, checking the integrity. I was quite shocked when he announced his surprise career change, but I guess dealing with she-who-must-not-be-named together must have inspired him to transfer… somehow.

The good doctor was sad to see him go, even spinning a small glass statue as a bit of a goodbye gift (Side note: Hamalki art was cool as hell – I even commissioned a few pieces in exchange for favors). Fortunately, the engineering division was happy to accept him with open arms, and I was quick to take him under my wing. Another good thing, the kid didn't have the ego that many Starfleet engineers had, acting like they're the next Montgomery Scott. He just checked in every morning, did his damn job, and did it right.

Whooosh-KerCHUNK!


The other door opened to reveal a haggard ensign wearing a Kirk-era uniform… Well, reveal half of that ensign, the left side of the door was stuck closed.

"Welcome to the… hrngh" The ensign tried to push the door the rest of the way, but it wouldn't budge, "Welcome to Starbase 80, Lieutenant…"

"Buckley. Ethan Buckley. And Santa's Little Helper behind me is Crewman, Second Class Simon Tarses." Tarses gave a shy wave.

"Hm…" The ensign grunted. A blue flash went through the window, and the Carpenter went into warp, "Looks like you're stuck with us, Lieutenant. Welcome to the club." He spat out some old chewing tobacco onto the floor…

"Oh, no, no, no… You got it all wrong," I shook my head, peeking through to see the disaster that was the rest of the base, "I'm not stuck here with you… You're stuck here with me."

"Huh?"

"Tarses and I are here to conduct this station's annual inspection, which Starfleet has been neglecting for the past two decades. Your compliance is appreciated… and mandatory."




"Barrels stacked on top of each other unsecured?" Another couple of fails marked on my PADD, "Hoo-wee! A double whammy of improper storage of radioactive material and a fall risk. Y'all must be itching to meet Jesus…"



"Kreee! Kreee!" The Pyrithian bat screeched as a pair of crewmen unsuccessfully tried to catch it with a trash bin.

"Unregistered dangerous animals in a restricted area? That's a paddlin'..." I tapped another fail on the PADD.

A grizzled Lieutenant Junior Grade entered the room, picking up a wrench that happened to be lying around. She threw it as hard as she could toward the bat – it hit straight on, cracking its skull, killing it instantly.

"What the fuck…" Tarses mouthed.

Well, at least I now had a candidate for my dodgeball team…



"Now, would y'all mind showing me where y'all keep your Zero-G harnesses?"

"Harnesses, Sir?"

"You know, the thing you put on when the grav plating goes to shit?"

"Uh, sir, I don't think we have any on this station…"

"How the hell do you get around then?"

"We just… kinda swim around… Sir,"

"...Fuck's sake," I muttered as I tapped down my hundred-somethingth fail on the PADD.



"Ensign Gargamm, could ya do me a favor and read the expiration date of this here fire extinguisher?"

The young Rigelian strained his eyes trying to read the soot-covered tag, "Date of Expiration… October 13…"

"October 13 what, Ensign?"

Gargamm squinted, reading it again "October 13, 1996, Sir."

"Well, how 'bout that…"



"That railing over there! The guard rail is supposed to be above my navel, but the damn thing is placed lower than a Chuck E. Cheese kiddie urinal. Fix it."

"What the hell is a Chuck E. Cheese?..."



"Alright, so, what do you use to keep track of who's assigned where?"

"Well, originally, we used a rolodex for this. But we recently upgraded to using Cardfile!" The poor ensign was beaming at me, expecting me to be proud for some reason.

"Cardfile?"

"Microsoft Cardfile, Sir! It's an incredible leap in technology. I still can't believe we're able to do such things digitally! It feels like we're living in the future now!"




24 hours later…

I don't know how, and I certainly don't know why, but somehow, someway, I was the only officer worth a damn in the entire sector. Thus, the position of de facto Commander was foisted upon yours truly by the wreck that was this station's crew.

"Ensign Roberts, try calling the Carpenter on all frequencies again. They should have been here 8 hours ago!"

"Hailing… No response, Sir,"

Naturally, instead of letting these idiots dick around as they had done since time immemorial, I put their asses to work.

I tapped the comms button on one of the workstations, "Lieutenant Jiqqul'loi, how long till long-range sensors are back up and running?"

"12 hours, maybe less…" Translation: two-and-a-half days. The engineers here never learned how to overestimate your time to make yourself look competent. In fact, they often did quite the opposite.

I leaned against the railing, now replaced with one of proper height since the industrial replicator was brought back online. Left with nothing else to do, I stared out of the viewscreen into the twinkling void, contemplating my circumstances.

Where the hell was my ship? What the hell was taking so long in that nebula?




Another Two Days…

At 0600, I lumbered into the operations center with a steaming cup of coffee, with enough cream and sugar to make it no longer taste like coffee. I hate coffee, but I hate being tired even more.

"Anything happen since I was gone?"

"Nothing much, Sir," The ensign handed over a PADD to me, "Main sensors are back online, no sign of your ship. All we got is an old ion trail…"

Hm… Those were certainly not Federation readings. Too rough, too dirty for us greenpeace hippie types. There were only two species in the area I know of that had the crumbling infrastructure to pull this off, and one of them learned their lesson at Khitomer.

"Computer, cross-reference these ion trail readings to known Orion ship types."

"Readings show a 93% match to the Menisk Class Transport and a 88% match to Urash Class Cruiser."

If that don't scream pirate, I dunno what does! Surely, the Carpenter hadn't fallen into that sort of trap; that kind of honeypot has been well known since Archer's time…

…Oh wait, fuck, it had been a long while since I last checked the air filters on the ship.

Somehow, I still felt like I was the one worst off, being marooned here.




Three More Days…

Well, look who's back.

"This is the Federation Starship Carpenter. Surrender now or be destroyed!" Th'Ryn's voice came through the audio only comms – unusually aggressive and obviously tweaking on that Orion stank.

Why am I not surprised?

"Ensign Roberts, shields down, weapons off." Not like they would do anything; I doubted the armaments on this thing could kill a housefly if it tried.

"B-but, Sir!"

"Do it." He complied. I pressed on the comms button on my chair, "This is Lieutenant Ethan Buckley, Acting Commander of Starbase 80, we accept your terms and surrender."

"Oh! Buckley! Good to hear from you! We'll be transporting you back on board in a few minutes so that… hrrgnh," I heard some shuffling and feminine giggling coming from the other end of the line, "Uh, yes… So that we can accept your surrender in person."

"Thank you. Make sure it's Carter manning the transporter – I'd prefer not to come back as hamburger,"

"Duly noted. Th'Ryn out!" More giggling before the commline suddenly cut out… Lucky bastard.

Never would I think I'd see the day I'm hinging a plan on another person's incompetence. Carter never scanned jack shit – the impatient bastard went straight to "Beam me up, Scotty" on whoever had the commbadge; he was the reason for the whole flesh-eating fungus incident a few months prior.

I took the opportunity to borrow a phaser from one of the crewmen and raid a nearby supply closet for a rebreather mask. Soon enough, that familiar tingle which old transporters gave went down my spine, my vision overwhelmed with blue for a split second.

Before I was even fully materialized, I stunned the poor bastard manning the transporter control station. Once I was complete, I ran off the pad.

"Computer, activate subroutine My-Captain-Is-A-Fucking-Idiot-Omicron-Three, authorization Buckley Theta-Seven-Seven-Zero."

"Command acknowledged,"

I rushed around to the transporter control console – a level ten forcefield was put around the pad, and the transporters were locked onto every Orion lifesign on the ship. A bright blue light later, I was treated with the snarling sight of a half-dozen half-naked supermodels, and a whole bunch of ugly mugs who wouldn't be out of place on a Warhammer 40k ork ship.

A few crewmen in red uniforms ran into the room, only to be knocked out as the pink mist from the pheromone suppression protocol flooded the entire ship.

Just another day on the job, amirite?




Lieutenant Buckley, Personal Log, Supplemental:

Phillips! You're the security chief on this ship, not me! Why the fuck do you always have to make me do your fucking job!





Lieutenant Commander Buckley, Personal Log, Stardate 41211.4:

For my quote-unquote "heroic actions" with the whole Syndicate ordeal, I've been given another promotion by Starfleet.

…I don't know how to feel about this. On the one hand, last thing I want right now is even more responsibilities over this damn crew. But on the other, I'm pretty sure the entire fleet will collapse from its own idiocy if I don't climb the ladder fast enough...
 
Buncha petaQs...
The Federation and the Klingon Empire were greenlighting yet another crew exchange between ships. However, unlike previous programs of a similar nature, it will go beyond a single Klingon swinging their dick around on board while some poor bastard was forced to eat gagh on a bird-of-prey older than his grandmother.

This time, a whole squad was being exchanged between crews; and wouldn't you know it, we were chosen as Petri dishes! A few kilometers from the USS Carpenter, the IKS Forward to Victory gracefully floated through the void like an eagle.

Well, if you were wondering what kind of crew we were exchanging, take a wild guess on who has to deal with a feral pack of Klingon engineers…

Yep! You've guessed it! Yours truly, the Safety Compliance Officer and now also the Assistant Chief Engineer! Don't you just love promotions?

"Graagh! This meal is revolting! There is nothing worthy of a warrior in this 'Chih-ken' – only overcooked blandness. I can't even taste the blood!" One complained, before poking and prodding the vegetables like a particularly fussy toddler. Well, to be fair, the replicator seasoned things like white 50s housewife, "And what are these… things…" He pointed at the Brussels sprouts.

"No wonder these humans are so weak. Even a Klingon warrior would grow feeble from this replicated slop – this accursed ship doesn't even a proper galley!"

I've been standing here for ten minutes… Not one of them has even acknowledged my existence, or more likely, they were purposely ignoring me. Klingons were notoriously huge fans of shit tests like this.

One young buck slammed his cup down, spraying prune all over the table and carpet, "I've heard that–"

You know what, let's try a more direct approach, "You can stick a cock in your ear and fuck what you heard," The table of Klingons froze, slowly turning their heads toward me, "Now, will any of you fine gentleman care to introduce yourselves?"

One of the younger Klingons, the one who was bitching about chicken thighs, bared his teeth, "And who are you to talk to us like that?"

"Glad you asked!" I sauntered over to him, eyes locked on in an unblinking death glare, "My name is Lieutenant Commander Ethan Buckley, Assistant Chief Engineer here on this ship as well as the Safety Compliance. Or, in more practical terms, I'm the one who owns your ass for the next two weeks."

His hands clenched into fists, the young Klingon was ready to launch himself from his seat to stab me, "You, a twig raised in pampered paradise?" His nails made marks on the table.

Also, for your information, Sonny, I grew up on a Class L frontier shithole, where the summers were -40°C and Oxygen concentration was 16.5% on a good day.

"Kor, shut it. Now is not the time to make enemies." An older Klingon, who evidently had common sense, growled, "This is a Starfleet ship, not some Gorn garbage scow. Act like it."

"You're no warrior, human! Just some–" The young'un unwisely continued.

"–I don't think I'm likin' dat tone of voice comin' outta ya, Kor…" I held my ground, even leaning in, getting face to face, "Keep it up, and you might yourself out the nearest airlock with a sonic wrench up where the sun don't shine."

He glared at me for another moment, before finally backing down.

I backed off, standing straight to address the rest, "Now, this is a Federation ship, and just like how y'all expect my crewmen to follow Klingon rules on the Victory, I expect you to follow mine. That means no bitching, no whining, no stabbing, and certainly no fuckin' honor duels – you take that shit back home! And my policy here can be bogged down to two simple words: Safety. First." I looked at each of them in the eye, "Y'all got that?"
"Yes, Sir!" They thundered.

"Anyone got any more questions?"

"No, Sir!"

"Good. Now rattle off – starting with you," I pointed at Kor.

"Kor, son of Chang."

"Gurn, son of Kuhn."

"Martok, son of Martok."

"B'Eledor, daughter of Noggra."

"Kurn, son of Jor."

And finally, "Mogh, son of Voq."

No way in hell I was remembering all that, but… "Righty then, Folks. Let's get to work!"




"B'Eledor, where's your hard hat?" I asked calmly as I inspected their work site.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't an EPS conduit that went to shit this time, but a simple plumbing issue. The heating system in some of the water pipes failed, causing the water to freeze and burst from the pressure, meaning briefly, Deck 3 was a water park.

"Do you really think I'm so weak that–" B'Eledor started ranting with typical Klingon arrogance. I tuned her out.

I looked at the others, and much to my surprise they were following the rules to the letter, wearing the proper protective equipment. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her getting up, puffing her chest out in the way that emphasized her oversized… assets.

"Surely, you could–"

Congratulations, I don't care.

"Go get your fucking hard hat. I'm not asking again," I shut her down. With a growl, she stormed away, waterproof boots squeaking on the still-wet floor.

Continuing my inspection, I was once again pleasantly surprised at how neatly these Klingon engineers organized their workspace; all electric and electronic systems were locked and tagged, and all the necessary precautions were taken so that the sensitive parts weren't exposed to even a single drop of water.

Out of my mouth came words that few would ever hear…"This is… okay. Good job."

"Of course, Sir," Martok, son of Martok, no relation to that Martok, double-checked the replacement pipe before installing, "Klingon engineers take inspections very seriously. A malfunction is a poor way for a warrior to die," He explained. The others around gave grunts and nods in agreement.

"Then what the hell was her problem?" I vaguely gestured toward the corridor she stormed away down.

Kurn gave a toothy grin, "She was testing you, Sir."

"Testing me? For what?"

The grin turned sharper, and slightly lascivious, "She has gotten it into her head that you might be a potential mate."

"Really?" My teeth ground at the uncomfortable implication.

"You have made… quite the spectacle in our first meeting. That lashing you gave Kor had really gotten her…" He made a hand gesture that got lost in translation, but made some of the others break out in a gravelly chuckle.

"Not a chance in hell." She was technically my direct subordinate and that was a huge no-no with Starfleet fraternization policies – Thanks, Kirk – and I sure as hell wasn't gonna get a call from Sapient Resources over some warrior pussy, "If I wanted to get my dick wet, I would've stuck it in the water reserve tanks. Don't entertain the thought, Lieutenant."

"Whatever you say, Sir." A few gave me pitying looks, "Though be warned, our females are not ones to give up a hunt so quickly…"

Fuck me…



…Actually, don't.




Gamma shift was over. Normally, that meant that I was off the hook and was free to hide away in my quarters until next morning…

"Toads of Battle, curse you to the void!" Kor shouted as the TV screen displayed game over. He nearly poked a hole through the NES controller as he smash the start button for the thousandth time, "I am a Klingon warrior, and you shall not break me so easily!"

But unfortunately, there were a bunch of ridge-headed cats that I had to herd, lest they slash some poor bastard with bat'leth.

"This wine tastes like targ shit." Gurn oh so poetically complained.

"It's synthehol, that's why. Can't be hungover on the job, after all." I explained.

"Bah! Does your Federation always expect you to live like monks? What good is the rough life on a starship if you can't even have the vice that comes with it!?"

"Easy for you to say – Klingon hangover only lasts a couple minutes. I gotta carry that shit for the rest of the day. And…" I trailed off.

Wait… when was the last time I ever took a proper break and enjoyed myself? Not on a "mandatory fun" shore leave, but actually enjoyed myself, having drinks with my buddies?

"And?" Gurn motioned me with, presumably, the Klingon version of go on.

Last life, it was that big ol' fishing trip I had with Tom and Bobby; in this life… Fuck! Starfleet Academy? No wonder I'm so pissy all the time. My only friends were a Vulcan and a quarter-Romulan crewman who was greener than Orion grass.

"...You know what. You make one helluva point," Fuck it. Just this once… I tapped my commbadge and opened a channel to the one who was currently manning the transporters, "Buckley to Matthews, there's a bottle in my room with the transporter tag Alpha-Three-Seven-Eight-Six. Can you transport it over to where I'm at? I'll let you have the chocolates tagged Epsilon-Zero-Six-Three-One if you do."

Sure enough, with that bribe, a 5 liter glass bottle full of clear liquid materialized on the counter.

"Thanks, man!" I closed the channel.

Gurn tried to read what was on the bottle, some of the other Klingons turned around in curiosity, "I am not too familiar with your human language, but I believe that says 'Moon Shine', yes? I am unsure what this '175 proof' means, though…"

"Oh, you'll know soon enough," I screwed off the top and flinched slightly as a smell which could strip paint off a brand-new starship struck my nose, "Before my family moved to our current home, we used to live on a region on Earth called the Appalachian Mountains. Let's just say this drink right 'ere is one of our traditions." I poured out a shot, "Shall we?"

Before I could warn him, he belted out a loud toast, took one and gulped it down. Immediately after, his eyes bulged out as he broke out into a huge coughing fit. Funnily enough, despite Klingon bloodwine having a legendary reputation as one of the strongest drinks in the known Galaxy, it turns out that us puny humans were the only bastards crazy enough to make shit that was above 100 proof.

"Gah! It burns hotter than the pits of Fek'lhr!" He briefly regained composure, "MORE!" Before breaking out into yet another bout of hacking and coughing

I downed a shot of my own, letting the troubles in my chest burn away, before pouring another.



Next thing I knew, I woke up with my head pounding like a crackhead on a jackhammer. My eyes slowly unblurring as I wiped the crud off, I noticed that there was a bare heat against my naked skin, wrapped around me like a monkey. And that source of heat had a very large and distinctly shaped forehead…

Goddamn it.

B'Eledor gave me the smile of a blood-covered conqueror overlooking her new subjects, and the aches and pains of bruises, scratches and bites came overwhelmingly to the forefront. She opened her mouth, about to gloat, but I quickly covered it with my palm. The smile remained in her eyes.

"One word… and I will fucking strangle you…" I was barely able to wheeze out before I had to puke my guts out into the conveniently placed bucket next to my bed.

We didn't talk about it.




Time flies, and before I knew it, I was standing in the main shuttle bay as my captain welcomed our crew back on board; all of them were staring off into space with a thousand-yard stare.

"Tell me, Lieutenant Commander," The Klingon captain addressed me. She was a female, a rarity in the Empire, so I heard, "How have my men treated you?"

"They were adequate." Was my only comment.

"Ignore Buckley – getting a compliment from him is like pulling teeth," Captain Th'Ryn snorted, "They're a damn fine bunch, and you are lucky for having them."

"I could say the same for your men, Captain… Even if they needed some time to get used to the Klingon way of doing things." She glanced back, a few of the goldshirts flinched, "I hereby return them to you – may they serve you with honor!"

They shook hands and went through the formalities, before the Klingons went back to their shuttle. B'Eledor was the last to board; She turned around as the doors closed and looked me straight in the eye with a promise: We will meet again.

I was so fucking dead… Or, at least, the rational part of me. Mini-me downstairs didn't seem too worried about the prospect…
 
What Happened to the Romans?
Captain's Log, Stardate 41262.6:

The USS Yamato had detected an unknown warp signature in System 892, but as they are carrying valuable and time-sensitive cargo, The Carpenter has been ordered to investigate in their place.





Even in the 24th century, paperwork was eternal. As the Safety Compliance Officer and the Assistant Chief Engineer of a Federation starship, there was bound to be a DMV's worth of PADDs at any given moment.

Sure, like a normal functioning human being, I wasn't too enthused about filling out all these soul-sucking forms, but unlike many others (unfortunately), I see the absolute necessity of every single document no matter how small or petty.

A form filled out properly could be the difference between a typical Monday and a disaster, especially on a big-ass starship flying through the hostile void, relying on a hundred billion different parts working perfectly with each other every picosecond. Something as simple as an overly optimistic report on dilithium recrystallization efficiency could eventually leave a ship stranded without power in interstellar space, twenty light-years from the nearest starbase.

That is why I chose this job in the first place. That is why I'm such a pain in everyone's ass. And that is why I lose sleep, making sure these forms are done on time and done right.

That is not to say I don't know the wonders of delegation – Petty Officer Tarses and a handful of crewmen do most of the in-person inspections now, so I no longer had to breathe down ever dumbfuck cadet's neck when they're the EPS conduits – but as an old Hollywood actor once said: trust but verify.

Still, thank God L'vor gave me a few pointers on Vulcan meditation, getting into a flow state at the drop of a hat was a damn superpower I wished I had in my old life.

Side note: I found by reading in my free time that I didn't really agree with most of Surak's teachings, or really didn't find them applicable to humans. Emotions were like children in a car. Sure, you shouldn't let them up front and in the driver's seat, but you shouldn't hogtie them and stuff them in the trunk either.

The intercom chirped, "Th'Ryn to Buckley, we're almost there. Please report to the bridge."

Oh yeah, a quirk about how Th'Ryn runs his ship: the Assistant Chief Engineer was the main engineering advisor to the Captain, and the communicator in between. Apparently, before Th'Ryn took command of his own ship, he moved up the ranks via the Engineering Division; rumor had it that his old captain constantly wanted him on the bridge while he still had duties as Chief Engineer, forcing him to run back and forth across the ship like one of those FitnessGram Pacer Tests.

Can't blame him.

I tapped my badge, "Be right there!"

So take your bets, everyone! Random Anomaly #9993961, the Yamato having a sensor whoopsie, or a first contact?




"Hn… Is it me, or does that ship look just like the Phoenix?" Commander Vaktangishvili, a short Georgian man on the huskier side, muttered half to himself.

"…Like Zephram Cochrane's ship?" An ensign who flunked history class blurted.

If you chose first contact, feel free to cash out your winnings right now. Out the viewscreen, what looked like an old lightsaber prop with two lit cigarettes loosely attached gently floated out in the void.

An alert appeared on the Comms Officer's workstation, "Sir, I'm getting an analog radio transmission from the craft,"

"Put it through," The Captain ordered.

"–is Navarchus Iacobus Tiberius Circus of the Imperial Space Agency. We greet you in brotherhood under the Son, and in the name of the Roman Senate and People. Ave Deus!"

"Sir, it looks like they tried to transmit data digitally, but our computer's didn't recognize it at first – processing data… We should be able to open a standard binary live-video channel with them now."

"Do it."

On screen, appeared a man wearing a cyberpunk version of a Roman centurion uniform, his face completely indistinguishable from a baseline human. Oh boy, this was probably one of those Hodgkin clones the anthropology professor was on about at the Academy. The roman cosplayer looked at everyone's favorite blue-skinned Captain with the awe and curiosity of a monkey looking at fire.

"I am Captain Yishra Th'Ryn of the Federation starship Carpenter," He nodded toward the Comms Officer to send the standard first contact package, "Your computers should be receiving information all about us. But first, I must say, we of the Galactic Community congratulate you on your historic achievement, and welcome you with open arms."

"I can't tell you how much it relieves me to hear that, Captain," The Roman relaxed, giving a smile, before realizing something, "Carpenter… just like what the Son was before he began his ministry and died for our sins… Quite the auspicious name your great ship has." A brief pause, "Now, I'm afraid I have to cut this call short, but I must relay the good news to the rest of the Empire. I look forward to seeing more of your ship in person."

"We'll be more than happy to host you and your crew here come the time. Farewell for now,"

"Best wishes to you. Valē!" End of transmission.







I stared at the Captain. The Captain looked away like a guilty puppy.

"Captain, permission to speak freely?"

"I know what you're thinking, Buckley. You don't have to say it–" I glared harder, "Yes, you may, Lieutenant Commander."

"Thank you, Captain. In my capacity as Safety Compliance Officer, I advise any senior staff to wear environmental suits at all times until a full medical check–"

Aaand they stopped listening…




Security Compliance Officer's Log, Stardate 41263.3:

For posterity's sake, the Captain has stated that hazardous environment suits would be too undiplomatic. I disagree, and have made that loud and clear.

Thankfully, the Romans (as they called themselves) did not object to a thorough examination by one of our nurses (he did make some awful attempts at flirting with the young man, though). Dr. K'tlitik has been advised to hide away for the time being, at the risk of scaring our guests.

We were lucky this time – no strange new diseases or telepathic buffoonery – but I really, really hate being the guy who says "Told you so" all the time.





"Marvelous! Quite marvelous!" The Roman captain exclaimed with stars in his eyes. While the Captain was getting dinner ready for the diplomats, I was the one charged with babysitting duty, "Truly, it is like stepping onto the set of a science fiction comedy!"

Thankfully, the Romans were more sensible than my own damn crew about wearing hard hats in the engineering sections. And they even had the good sense to look but not touch anything; though given how jury-rigged warp tech tended to be in the early stages, that was probably natural selection at work.

"And these replicators, this miracle technology of yours… Your Federation provides them for free?" He asked, incredulous.

"Believe so. Pretty sure that's part of the standard second contact package t'get ya up to par with the rest of us. Though, I ain't a politician or a diplomat, so don't take me at my word there." I answered as best I could.

"Incredible…" The Roman– Circus, I reminded myself – pondered my words. He looked me in the eyes, as if recognizing something, "Also… You don't happen to be one of us servii, no?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, forgive me. I believe your Ensign Brown explained that your human term is 'blue-collar'?" Circus corrected himself. I took a closer look and noticed that his face was more well-worn than some of the others, and his eyes… I see something similar in the mirror every day.

"Ah… yeah, my old man was a dilithium miner on Thauthan V – retired just last year,"

"Lucky man. My father still works as a concrete finisher in Nova Herculaneum, just like his father before him." Circus smiled, "Though, my great-grandfather, he broke his chains to fight in the Great Crusade. That's actually where I got my name from – from him… Changed his name to one of the first martyrs, who died casting one of the first stone to break the old Empire, to make a new one of the people…" His tone turned solemn for a moment, "I wonder what he would think of this day…"

"I… think he would be proud to see what he had fought for…" I chose my words carefully, "In three generations, your kind went from slavery to exploring the stars – that is something to be proud of."

I thought back to my uncle, who died fighting Saddam at Desert Stor– no, the Cardies at Yang-Wou Prime… It was still hard to separate my lives sometimes, when they rhyme so much. Both of them died in the line of duty to fight tyranny, no more, no less.

"I would hope so…" Circus sighed, "Say, there wouldn't happen to be a Ship's Temple anywhere on this vessel, right?"

"Chaplain Morris is currently resting right now, but I don't think he'll mind if we borrow his chapel for a moment."



The Roman captain looked around the small room with a mix of wonder and bewilderment, "It looks just like home… There are many symbols which I don't recognize, but you have the cross, you have the wine for the blood, and bread for the body… How?"

"The Federation represents over a thousand different species, each with a hundred thousand different beliefs. But amongst all of them, we have noticed one thing that all of us share in one way or another – Faith." We both sat down together on the pew, "Back on Earth, more than two thousand years ago, we also had a man who was the Son of God… and he died for our sins as well." I pulled a Bible from the pew in front of us, "Tell me, does that sound like a coincidence to you?"

"..." Circus didn't need words. I could see it in his eyes – he knew the answer already.

Before this… whole thing, I wasn't exactly a religious type – more of an "only go to church on Christmas, Easter, and Weddings" kind of Christian. But finding myself here, and so quickly finding my purpose in life – I would be stupid not to believe in a higher power, beyond even that of a Q.

There was still so much still left to know, and even in the future, nobody knew where we went after we die… Well, except probably me, but that's beside the point.

Science could only get you so far, as is the nature of us mortal on this bubble of spacetime. Was it really out of the question that there was something beyond it?

"Would you like to pray with me?" I offered.

"I would be delighted to," Once again, Circus smiled. But this time, he seemed more comfortable than the entire time he'd been on the Carpenter thus far.

What happened to the Romans? Their empire may have fallen, but their children have come together in brotherhood. That is what the Federation, despite it's many, many missteps, does right; and that is why I have faith in them to do the right thing.




Captain's Log, Stardate 41268.5:

The Planet 892-IV natives, or as they call themselves, the Romans, have officially applied to join the United Federation of Planets. As a result, the Carpenter is due to leave in a couple of hours while the Syracuse brings ambassadors from Earth to continue negotiations.





Lieutenant Commander Buckley, Personal Log, Stardate 41268.5:

Nothing went wrong. I had a good day.
 
AN: Today's lesson? Never tempt Murphy…


"Aggh… Fuck," I peeled my face off the broken console. It gave off a spark, acknowledging that I wasn't the only broken thing around here. With the searing headache concentrated behind the eyes, I didn't know if I wanted to scream or to vomit, "How much did I have to drink last night?... Jesus, I think I saw Kirk's face and some whales…"

"I do not recall either of us imbibing in any alcoholic beverages," L'vor's voice came from my left, in the co-pilot's seat of this… shuttlecraft? A tiny piece of shrapnel stuck against his forehead, leaving a trail of green to drip down his cheek, "I believe that we have encountered a subspace anomaly of some kind. Running diagnostics now…"

Then, sudden like an epileptic seizure, my memories came back to me. We were en route to Deep Space 5 for some well deserved shore leave. We had to borrow a Type-6 shuttle as the Carpenter was getting a refit at a nearby starbase.

I looked behind my seat; Petty Officer Tarses and Lieutenant Duckland were both stirring from unconsciousness.

"Y'all feeling alright back there?"

"Ugh… What happened, Sir?" Tarses rubbed his head.

"I feel fuckin'..." Duckland almost spewed chunks all over L'vor, but managed to swallow it back down in time, "… Terrible. Commander L'vor, no offense, but never pilot again."

"I will take your suggestion under advisement," Right at that moment, the computer finished its diagnostics, "Structural Integrity is at 39%. Shields are offline, as are impulse engines. The warp core is, as you say it, totaled. Sensors and communication systems are functional, as are the life support systems… Hm… Fascinating."

"Would you like to share with the class, Sir?" I pressed.

"We are approximately 180 light-years from our original position. But, that is not quite right – All the stars appear to be in the wrong position,"

"Wrong position? How?" Lieutenant Duckland stretched in his seat, before flinching at a crick in his neck.

Then, all of a sudden, a gray ship exited warp right above the shuttle. I turned my head, I tried to read the writing on its hull, "Enterprise… NX-01."

L'vor raised an eyebrow, "I believe I may have a theory,"

Fuck, the automatic distress call – never thought that safety feature would bite us in the ass one day…

"This is the United Earth Starship Enterprise, we have received your distress call. Are you able to reply?"

I looked back toward Tarses and Duckland again, "Y'all ready to get fucked in the ass by Temporal Investigations?"

"Kill me now…" Tarses whined.



Thank God we were wearing our civilian clothes, else this would have been a helluva lot more awkward.

"And that should be it," The Denobulan CMO, Phlox, finished using the old-timey dermal regenerator over my face. All over my cheek, I felt pins and needles, "You might feel some numbness and soreness for a bit, but it should go away after a good night's rest," The doctor gave a too-wide smile and started checking over Tarses.

The first thing I noticed about 22nd century ships is that they were a helluva lot more cramped than their future counterparts. The Enterprise NX-01 was probably the largest ship in Earth's fleet and a Galaxy Glass in terms of luxury by the standards of the time… but it still felt like I was stuck in the brig of an old Klingon Bird-of-Prey.

"Mr. Tarses, before I continue your treatment… You are human, right?" Phlox asked.

Tarses, wisely, came up with a bullshit story on the spot, "Close enough to make no difference, Doctor… er… My parents engaged in some… illegal experiments. The big ears and the forehead creases are birth defects."

At this point in history, I was 90% sure they didn't have the tech to allow hybrids yet… Good catch.

And with that, we were finally let out of sickbay. L'vor and Duckland were standing right outside the door, waiting for us; next to them were two heavy looking crates.

As the shuttle didn't exactly fit inside Enterprise's shuttlepod bays, we were forced to scuttle the damn thing for the sake of the timeline. The important bits and pieces which we could get away with, as well as our personal belongings, were inside those crates.

But, that wasn't the first thing I noticed about them – they were wearing the crewman uniform of this ship instead of their civvies, prompting an eyebrow raise from me.

"Given the current geopolitical crisis, and this ships' crew shortage. Captain Archer has made an offer…"

L'vor looked about as enthused as I was about further interfering with the timeline. But we were already in the deep end just being here, and besides, we had nowhere to go; it wasn't like the 24th century where you could be dropped off at a friendly starbase within the week. Space in this era was mostly unexplored and untamed.

"Somehow, I have the feeling we're all gonna be demoted back to Cadet once we get back…" Tarses sighed.

"If we get back," Duckland added.



[Entry has been redacted by the Department of Temporal Investigations – Security Clearance Alpha Required]

[Submitting codes…]

[Access Granted – Welcome, Agent Smith]




Lieutenant Commander Buckley Personal Log, Stardate… Fuck if I know:

I find myself two-hundred years in the past and under the command of Captain Jonathan Archer himself. Now that I had a chance to relax and read, it is clear that somebody had been screwing around way before we arrived. This "Xindi Crisis" has never appeared in any of my history classes, but it has us in the middle of this anomaly-ridden hellhole, the so-called Delphic Expanse.

Duckland has been assigned to Tactical under Reed, while L'vor, Tarses, and I have been spirited away into Engineering's night shift. Any other time, I would have more than happy to monkey around with an old Archer Warp 5 engine. But this is the dark ages…




Lord save me from this crew of MacGyvers…

…Not that I could blame them, having to work with these Stone Age tools. But for the past week, I've been having sleepless nights over shit I see going on over here. I've also been second guessing every other step ever since I've seen the duct tape and Elmer's glue that's been holding the artificial gravity systems together.

Worst of all, I couldn't swing around my big ol' dick as SCO anymore, as everything had to go through Commander Tucker. I like the guy, and respect him as an engineer, but no offense, he's a precious little spoiled princess when it came to mortal things like safety regs. Mayweather and the bridge crew's certainly not helping with them pushing the fucking engines to more red lines than a Soviet grocery store every five minutes.

I get it! It's humanity's first warp 5 engines, and y'all wanna show off your hot ride to the local neighborhood. But please, use some fucking common sense and follow the damn signs!

I swear, I'm gonna get an aneurysm at thirty from holding back all of these ass-chewings…

So here I was, changing a broken lightbulb on Deck E, trying to push away violent thoughts of stabbing half of the heroic morons that made this crew…

Whoosh…

One of the doors opened; out came a crewman. He briefly regarded me with an inquisitive stare, "You don't belong here." He stated as fact, with no doubt in his tone.

Hmm… My gut told me he didn't belong here either… Fellow time traveler? He was certainly giving me that future-boy arrogance vibe you get from a temporal agent in one of those inevitable time travel episodes…

Was this guy from that Voyager episode? The one where they went back into the 90s. I could've sworn I saw his face before somewhere…

"Well no shit, John Connor, ya fuckin' think?"

Me and my smart mouth…



"Well, this is quite unexpected. Four Starfleet officers from the 24th century on a 22nd century United Earth ship? And Here I thought Picard's adventure in the mid 21st would be the end of it…" Daniels, if that was his real name, half-muttered as he fiddled with his future doodad.

The unofficial "time-travelers club" had assembled in his quarters, hoping to find a quick and painless solution to their temporal woes.

"Picard's Adventure? What does the Captain of the Enterprise-D have to do with this?" Duckland asked.

"You are all from the late 2380s, correct?"

The crew of the Carpenter shared awkward side-glances. "mid-2360s, Sir…" Tarses corrected.

"Oh, forgive me, I thought you were all from the Cerritos– oh wait," The future piece of tech suddenly flooded the room with a holographic graph, "Please do me a favor and forget what I had just said – I am already on thin ice with my superiors as it is,"

Ah, must have been an important ship… Was there a series I was forgetting?

"Consider it done," I leaned forward in my seat, "So is there any way you can get us back to… y'know?"

"Sorry, but no. The temporal accords are pretty clear on this – I'm not allowed to displace more than two people at a time, and even that is stretching it," The holographic projection zoomed into the center trunk of the branching mess of timelines, revealing it to a braided cord of similar events bunched together instead of just one timeline, "If it brings any comfort, your existence here will not cause any destructive changes in the timeline as what you have encountered was a 'natural' time travel event, as opposed to an artificial one."

"What?" Duckland asked.

"I think what he's saying that we're supposed to be here." Tarses guessed…

"Correct." Daniels nodded.

Duckland pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning, "…This bullshit's why I chose tactical."

"So we will have to find our own way back to the future?" L'vor asked.

"Yes. But, with all the shenanigans that Archer's crew gets up to in this timeline, I am sure an opportunity will present itself soon enough." Daniels turned his device off, the hologram vanishing in a blink of an eye, "Now if that all, I must return to my duties on this ship…"

L'vor nodded, "That will be all. Thank you for your time,"

"No problem," The crew of the Carpenter got up from their seats, "Oh, Buckley, could you stay behind for a minute, I got a few questions."

"Yes?" I turned around as L'vor, Tarses, and Duckland left.

"Your speech pattern, behaviors, and mannerisms indicate that you are from the late 20th century – you even made an obscure motion picture reference from that time period too when we first met – but all my records show that you were born and raised in the 24th century."

"Well…"

"–I already know how backwards Thauthan V is, no need to remind me," Daniels cut through my bullshit with a glare, "What is the real reason?"

"… I am not entirely sure, Sir, but I believe it involves certain forces which are… beyond reproach,"

Daniels stayed still for a brief moment, muttering something along the lines of "Fucking Q," before standing up, "Thank you, that will be all."



Once again, time-traveling nonsense had plagued Jonathan Archer's life – and it wasn't even Daniels's fault this time. Or at least, not mostly. Their friendly resident time-traveling stowaway had seen it fit to inform him that his four newest crewmen were actually from the 24th century.

Well, it certainly explained why they talked funny sometimes, and their other unusual behaviors, like why they seemed to know more about the engine than even Trip did sometimes. Or why Crewman L'vor was so damn sociable with humans compared to all the other Vulcans he knew.

Well, mostly… Even through that lens, Crewman Buckley was still an enigma. He talked like he came from a 20th century time capsule, but at the same time, he was more rules and regulations than an overly-pedantic bureaucrat from the late Soviet Union. Not that he was complaining – even with the nonexistent supply line here in the Delphic Expanse, the ship was about as tip-top shape as it could get thanks to his inspections and Trip's miracle works.

Speaking of them…

"No, no, no! Y'all are gettin' it wrong. I'm a hillbilly, he's a redneck. There's a difference," Archer overheard from another table.

He liked to occasionally eat at the crew's mess instead of the dining room, just so he could get a feel on what the crew was thinking.

"Ya got that right, Mountain Man!" Trip patted Buckley on the shoulder, a glass of bourbon in hand

"What difference? You're both from the South, and you both talk funny."

"The difference is… My ancestors were from West Virginia – a family tree full o' hard union men, both Southern Union and Coal Miner Union." Buckley, sucking down a shot of something clear, pointed at Trip, "His genteel cotton-pickin' rebel ass is from Florida, and not even the good part with all the Cuban chicks."

"Hey! At least my state has Disney World! What the hell have you got other than trailer parks and fuckin' your sister?"

Idly, Archer wondered if he would remember their existence once they leave, or would another temporal agent just wipe his memory of them. At this stage, he wasn't sure which one he'd prefer...



Before I had knew it, a whole month had gone by, and it was only just now that an opportunity had just come. In the Kovaalan Nebula, there was a subspace corridor, not unlike the anomaly that brought us here in the first place.

But, there were a few complications: one, the Kovaalans were really goddamned territorial, and two, the Enterprise NX-01 was currently docked to… the Enterprise NX-01.

It's a long story.

Unfortunately, having my ticket so tantalizingly close did not free me from my mundane chores. Thus, here I was, cleaning out the plasma injectors in the middle of the night, or what counted as night shift on a starship.

Whoosh…

The door to my right opened, revealing the captain of the other ship, as well as a few of his engineers.

"Oh, Captain Lorian, how can I help yo–"

And it was at that moment that I caught one of his subordinate reaching for something. A freezing cold tingle went down my spine – I followed my gut and leapt straight for cover, right as that trigger-happy subordinate fired a phaser at me.

Quickly, I reached for my toolbox, digging into a hidden compartment. Thank God, the phaser still had some charge left. I fired back, stunning two guys before taking cover once again. The battery was depleted now.

"–What the fuck are you doing!?"

"Who the hell is he!?" Some jackass asked.

"Buckley, asshole!" I shouted, "I'm asking again – WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING!? You want the fucking Enterprise to go Hiroshima!?"

"Buckley!? There wasn't a Buckley on the Ente–"

"What the hell are you doing!?" I heard Commander Tucker's voice – the sound of phaser fire soon after.

"Hold your fire!" Lorian ordered.

Slowly, I reached for a wrench, creeping up behind them while they were distracted.

"I can't let you do this, Lorian! We need those to go to warp!"

"I'm sorry it's come to this, but Archer gave me no other option."

And at that moment, I struck, braining one of them with the wrench. Another tried to raise his phaser, but I kicked him in the groin, causing him to collapse and drop it; I kicked the phaser over toward Commander Tucker's direction.

Looks like I still had a bit of high-school karate in me.

Lorian tried to turn around, but I locked him in a quick chokehold. I held the dead phaser directly pointed at his cranium, "Move and your head pops like a fuckin' grape in a microwave,"

The captain raised his hands up in surrender, I let go and backed off. Commander Tucker looked around at the whole situation in disbelief.

"Crewman Buckley, what the hell is that in your hand?"

"It's a phaser, Sir,"

"Don't look like no phaser I've ever seen…" No shit, it's the 24th century kind.

"Well, Sir… I have something to confess," I sighed, I guess now's a good time as any. I gestured to the half Vulcan, "He and his folks ain't the only time-travelers 'round here."

"Hwa?" I could see his mind bluescreen behind the eyes.

"I ain't yankin' your chain, Sir. Remember how that shuttle looked like nothing ya've ever seen?…" I straightened myself up, "Allow me to introduce myself again – My name's Lieutenant Commander Ethan Buckley of the USS Carpenter, I graduated from Starfleet Academy on December 15th, 2359, and I was the Assistant Chief Engineer and Safety Compliance Officer on board."

"Does that mean?..." He trailed off.

"Yep! The others are Commander L'vor, the Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Muhammad Ali Duckland, Gunnery Officer, and Petty Officer Simon Tarses, a humble engineer and one of my inspectors."

"You look a little young for a Lieutenant Commander."

"Thank you, Sir, but they gave me no choice on the promotions. The stress of the job did wonders for my complexion." I turned my attention back towards the captain, "Now, Lorian, it is my understanding that ya need yerself some fresh plasma injectors 'cause your warp system's all cattywampus?"

"Catty-what?"

"Goofed up? Not workin'? Gone to shit? Whatever you call it…" I rolled my eyes, "The point is, I wanna make you a deal. When we scuttled the shuttle to prevent it contaminatin' the timeline, I saved the plasma injectors, along with a couple of spare parts. With a lil' retrofitting, I believe I could get it to work"

"And what do you want in exchange?" Lorian considered the offer. Not like he had a choice otherwise, given his position.

"Nothing much, just–"



Captain Th'Ryn sank back into his chair, which was much more comfortable than the old one. He looked all around, at the half-completed bridge; the consoles which were already installed were top-of-the-line, just like what you would see on a Galaxy Glass. The refit was going wonderfully, and things were about a week ahead of schedule.

"Ensign Ghuji, ready to test out those fancy new sensors?"

"Yes, Sir. Bringing them online right now…" The ensign squinted at his screen, "Huh… That's strange. It's detecting large amounts of tachyon emission from this system's star."

"I guess there's still a few kinks to work out then," Th'Ryn surmised.

"Sir!" Another ensign cried out, "A warp signature, It's–"

A few kilometers from the bow of the Carpenter, a small ship violently dropped out of warp. Its nacelles blew apart in a bright explosion, spraying toxic green trails of warp plasma, but somehow, the rest of the hull remained intact, despite how chewed apart it looked.

Actually… Wait a minute…

It looked a lot like a–

"–Fucking NX-Class?" Th'Ryn caught himself muttering, "Hail them!"

On the viewscreen, a half-Vulcan captain wearing civilian clothes stared back at them, and behind him was Buckley, looking positively miserable. Nearby were L'vor, Duckland, and Tarses, also looking a little worse for wear.

Now, how the hell?

"I'm Captain Yishra Th'Ryn of the Federation Starship Carpenter. Do you require assistance?"

"That would be much appreciated, Captain," The half-Vulcan replied with a great big smile and a slight southern accent.

And unable to think of anything else to say, "Buckley… I see you had enjoyed your shore leave…"

Th'Ryn only got a pants-shittingly terrifying death glare for an answer.



Lieutenant Commander Buckley Personal Log, Stardate 41280.9:

[Redacted by the Department of Temporal Investigations]–FUCK TI–[Redacted by the Department of Temporal Investigations]–I FUCKING HATE TIME TR–[Redacted by the Department of Temporal Investigations]–NEVER AGAIN!



Commander L'vor Personal Log, Stardate 41280.8:

[Redacted by the Department of Temporal Investigations]–It was exceptionally unpleasant. But, I did have the unique opportunity to speak with then-Subcommander–[Redacted by the Department of Temporal Investigations]
 
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A Cross In A Mirror
AN: Brainstorming the next chapter is taking longer than usual, so here's something to fill the time in between.



I was seven when I woke up in chains, starving and beaten near to death. It was only through the benevolence of a fellow slave – an Andorian by the name of Th'Ryn – that I would live another day. He spared me his meager rations, and for that, I would forever be in his debt.

It seemed so far away, yet at the same time, like yesterday that I was Marine Master Sergeant, a couple weeks from retirement. Once upon a time, a young dumb Sergeant Buckley considered leaving the marines to go to college, perhaps for a Occupational Safety and Health degree, like his old man suggested… Of course, a certain event in September '01 occurred (or at least, I think that was the month and year. My memory tended to get fuzzy down here), and in a fit of dumb patriotism, he reenlisted for active duty. And the rest was history...

Or, at least, that was how it was supposed to be. Yet, here I was, a little kid in the deep dark dilithium mines on the slave colony of Thauthan V, with nothing but memories of a more just world. Where I had a name other than "targshit brat"... Where the Klingons and Cardassians were just silly fiction, relegated to fantasies behind the small screen…

But Dear Lord, they were more than real here…

The Klingon-Cardassian Alliance, as I had come to learn over the years, had filled in the power vacuum left behind by the collapsing Terran Empire. While they promised rights to certain species, It wasn't a liberation by any means, more a change of management.

For the Alpha Quadrant, it was the same shit under different masters. And for the Terrans, like me – we had it the worst. The Empire's cruelty had left a galaxy's worth of sapients looking for revenge. Once the masters, we were now the untouchables, left to die under conditions that would have made a gulag prisoner shake their head in pity.

One day – I promised to myself – one day, we will all be free…

As my frostbitten hands sifted through the rock, the whip on my back urging me to hurry up from the already impossible pace, I bid my time… The faint spark of hope in my chest kept me warm on even the coldest of nights.



On my 14th birthday, a miracle had happened: an unnamed Vulcan slave had sabotaged the EPS conduits at the main power plant, sacrificing his life in the process. The resulting EMP knocked out power to the entire colony and fried the triggers for the explosive implants in the back of every slave's neck.

Now or never.

"LIBERTY OR DEATH!" I strained my voice screaming out into the dark caves.

The Klingon tried to raise his disruptor rifle, but a few nearby slaves had tackled him to the ground. Pulling out my shiv with my three fingered hand, I leaped on top and plunged it into the neck of my longtime torturer, reveling as pink blood sprayed everywhere over the frozen ground.

When the day was over, I clutched tight to my chest the only remaining memory of my father, and my only comfort in this new world, a leather-bound bible. I was now certain of my new mission… Of the new purpose which my blood boils for:

No more masters.

No more tyrants.

No more lords but THE Lord.

Amen.




"–Ethan Buckley of the John Brown Brigade, I am offering you one last chance to surrender." I glared through the view screen, down at the gray skies of Terra below, "Please, for the love of all that is good and holy – Take it!"

In the ashes of my decapitation of the Klingons and Cardassians, a new so-called "Emperor" had risen up and declared the Terran Empire reborn. Instead of joining in brotherhood with the free peoples of the galaxy, united and equal under Christ our Savior, they chose the destructive degeneracy and evil of the Babylonians…

Lord help me, they never learn…

"To you? A religious kook who consorts with subhuman filth? The savior of those mindless beasts who don't know their place!?" The obese "Emperor" snarled, face redder than the wine he frequently imbibed. "The Terran people deserve better than you! You are not worth the dirt under my boot!"

Taking a deep breath, I looked at him straight in the eye. "Then… may God forgive me as I cleanse this guilty land…" The transmission was cut.

I turned and faced my oldest friend, my second-in-command, and one who I call my brother, if not by blood, then by faith, and muttered, "The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar…"

Th'Ryn looked back, shedding a tear, for he knew what I had to do, "…Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven."

I grasped the cross around my neck so tightly that blood dribbled down my palm. "Ready the Genesis Device. Prepare to fire on my command."

Damnation or not, the line shall be drawn here, and no further.
 
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Bat'leth Wedding, Part 1
Engineering report… Engineering report… Forms, forms, and more forms… Memo from the Captain, memo from the XO, memo from L'vor…

The usual boring fare for what mostly amounted to a science fiction desk job piled into my inbox, promising a mild inconvenience for my future self. None of the messages were marked urgent, so I only bothered to look at the ones that were:

"Good afternoon, this is Dr. Lewis Zimmerman to all my beta testers. HoloCAD 4.0 is slated to enter open alpha by the end of this month. If you would like a copy, please send a message my way. And, I'm sorry, but I've been saying this a thousand times now – this software is only compatible with mk 2 isolinear systems and above. If you are on an older system, do yourself a favor and catch up to the rest of us in the 24th century. Thank you for your patronage, have a wonderful rest of your day."

Sweet! I bet L'vor would be happy to hear that news! Or positively neutral!

For a while now, ever since the refit (Thank God! The EPS system hadn't shit the bed in weeks!), we had a holographic workstation installed in Engineering. It was a simple device, a single holographic emitter underneath the center table, not even a forcefield generator to make the projections solid. But damn did being able to see what the hell was wrong with the ship in 3D do wonders for the engineering crew's productivity.

Plus, as a bonus, when we were not busy, it also doubled up as a decent rig for 3D modelling. In our spare time, some of the engineering crew and I had been using it to brainstorm ship class ideas; specifically, a successor to the old Constellation class, as it was clear that it was going the way of the dodo, and somehow, like a tumor, it grew on all of us. Nothing serious had come out of it so far, only vague ideas. But, it was an excuse for me and L'vor to figure out what a ship designed from the ground up with common fucking sense might look like.

"Hey, this is Lorian–" Oh yeah, after that whole ordeal, which included many long hours with Temporal Investigations, some of the old duplicate Enterprise NX-01 crew decided to formally sign up for Starfleet. However, the vast majority of them found that their skills and experience aligned much better in the civilian world, particularly near the fringes. I guess the communist utopia that was the 24th century Federation was a little too far removed from the rough and tumble days of the 22nd.

Lorian himself was now the captain of the SS Enduring Profit, a heavy freighter of the Ferengi-owned Urat-Nerag Industrial Shipping Corporation. Good for him; seems a lot more chill than playing cosmic roulette, poking around every goddamn anomaly and star system in sight. Just take stuff from Point A to Point B, fire a warning shot to the occasional pirate, and swim in the latinum.

Lucky bastard.

Wait, there was still one more message left. I wonder who it was from?... Hmm… Something forwarded from the… Klingdon Imperial Office of Foreign Affairs?

What'n tarnation?


Curiosity overwhelming me, I pressed play–

"YOU DARE–!" Only to be assaulted with a deafening roar. I desperately covered my poor ears and smashed the "Lower Volume" button on my PADD twenty-something times, "–STEAL AWAy my daughter's honor! I promise you, man-whore, I will have your filthy head for this!"

As the slightly-above middle-aged Klingon continued making ever more explicit and creative threats – I checked the attachments, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. The Klingon in question was named Noggra, and was apparently someone important. With the video, was a small document – the format being the Klingon equivalent of a PDF – containing a confirmation of pregnancy for a certain B'Eledor, daughter of Noggra.

Oh...

"Show yourself at once, coward! Before I hunt you down and make a eunuch of you! I swear–"

Oh...

I drunkenly fucked a Klingon's only daughter without protection. Not only that, I fucked her while she was under my command.

Oh, fuck.



Captain's Log, Stardate 41333.3:

As the Earth saying goes, the chickens have come home to roost. Thanks to the fruits of an… er… indiscretion between my SCO and the sole daughter of a prominent Klingon Retainer House, the USS Carpenter has been ordered to Qo'noS to prevent a potential diplomatic incident.




Crewman Lewis Turner, Personal Log, Supplemental:

Wow… Out of all the people in this crew to pull a Kirk, it's Buckley? That pasty, humorless, workaholic asshole with the sexual disposition of a bowl of plain oatmeal!?

Jesus! To think he'd find the time to do the hanky-panky in between breathing down all our necks…

And here everyone was thinking it'd be the Captain or our XO! Way to ruin my fucking bet, asshole – now I owe Barnes an extra phaser!




Three hours until we arrive at Qo'noS… Three hours until my impending doom…

Sinking myself into my work did little to ease the pant-shitting terror. Some of the crew tried to ease my anxiety – even L'vor, in his emotionally stiff, stereotypically Vulcan way, saying that my fear was irrational, and that the Captain wouldn't let anything happen to me. I disagreed – being gutted with a mek'leth by my would-be Klingon father-in-law, who was an experienced warrior in his own right, was a perfectly logical and rational fear!

I didn't know the first thing about Klingon culture, but even I knew damn well that their honor-obsessed selves were no Risians when it came to deadbeat dads.

Out of all the things that could have killed me on this rickety-rustbucket of a ship, never would I have though it would be my Johnson that'd lead me to an untimely end. It should have been obvious, really!

I gripped my PADD with maybe a tiny bit too much force, and I carried on with my inspection of Cargo Bay 4.

Everything was stacked securely – Don't think about Noggra. All the straps were secure – Don't think about Noggra! Hazardous material were stored far away from the – Don't think about Noggra!

Damn it! My longtime-trained paranoia was fucking me over instead of helping me now! I checked the time.

Correction, two hours from Qo'noS, now

Gragh! I was getting nothing done!

I wanted to go home, to my Ma and Pa. Was that too much to ask? Even a suffocating, icy hellhole (or a sketchy house next to a wooded, meth-riddled trailer park) was better than this demented anticipation…

…Shit! I haven't even told my parents yet! How the hell was I supposed to bring this up to my rural, blue-collar, super-duper conservative Jesus-freak folks!?

Oh, yeah, I knocked up a Klingon girl while I was– I'd be fucking dead and buried by suppertime!

Baby steps, Ethan, baby steps… Worry about the one angry Klingon first, you can deal with the fallout after this. You've dealt with an entire crew of Orion slavers, for goodness' sake! You can do this!

Besides, that poor girl I had that foolish drunken mistake with probably wasn't having a good time either. Being a single mother in such a society – she must be miserable!



One step off the red-tinted transporter pad, I was assaulted with a flashbang of a toothy smile. The Klingon woman in front of me was positively glowing, nothing but joy shining in her eyes upon seeing me.

I had to admit, B'Eledor looked good when she wasn't in a dirty uniform.

And she…I didn't know how to describe it, but, she just…

Well, that flowing red dress certainly complemented her figure, which had filled out particularly in the–

Okay, shut up, dick, you've already gotten me in trouble once, no need to make this a repeat offense.

"Ethan! It's good to see you!" She bellowed loudly in the gruff tone shared by all Klingons. The pregnancy was far from fully showing on her toned abdomen, but the way she covered it made it obvious enough.

Summoning my courage, I opened my mouth, ready to foolishly speak my mind. But a clawed hand covered my maw, reducing what worries I had worries to an incoherent muffle.

"Hush, now… We will speak in private." She stated, giving no room for argument. Her commanding tone also betrayed a slight bit of cheekiness.

She was so close now. I could only dumbly nod as he took my hand with a firm, yet gentle grip, and pulled me along.

Before being walked out into the streets, I caught a faint whiff of cinnamon. It caused that faint feeling in my stomach to twist again… But for some reason, it felt nice in a weird way.

And honestly… she didn't seem as irritating as she did before, either…



"Just so we are clear," I spoke up once we were secure in the privacy of her apartment. It was a large and luxurious suite in the First City, as befitting of her family's status. Though, unsurprisingly given the Klingon mindset, it was rather Spartan and Brutalist. "You intend on keeping th–our child?"

"Yes." She growled, with a sudden protective fire in her eyes, "And if you dare try to convince me otherwise, I will castrate you where you stand!" Then, just as quickly as the anger game, it left with her shoulders sagging slightly, "…Sorry. My rage had gotten the better of me…" Instinctively, her hand brushed over her stomach.

I held my face firm, not daring to react for fear of what she would do, "Alright, then…" I took a deep breath and sighed, "Seeing as we're bringing new life into this universe, I suppose we oughta get to know each other a little better, beyond that of a stupid Human Starfleet engineer and a Klingon heiress,"

"Yes… That would be a good idea…" Beyond the warrior veneer, there was a slight dusting of pink on her cheeks.

Some of the girls I used to date back in the day, before I signed my life away to Uncle Sam, would have glanced away demurely by now… But B'Eledor instead bored her eyes into my own, with a fierce flame roaring behind them – making it clear as day how she felt about me.

She didn't hate me for what happened; quite the opposite. She was head over heels in a way that even a teenage boy with a room temperature IQ could pick up on it. And she wasn't ashamed of it – not one fucking bit!

I… How?... What the hell was I supposed to do?

Calmly, she reached over and took some gagh covered in a pink targ-blood sauce from a nearby bowl, offering some to me. Being the good guest that I was, I accepted the free food. It was tough, cold, and it wiggled on its way down my gullet…

…But it sure as hell tasted a helluva lot better than it looked! I didn't hesitate to grab some more, not caring about the pink mess all over my hand or face. I looked up as I sucked down my second bite – a toothy smile grew on her face.

"Wistan Gagh… my grandmother's recipe to be exact." She explained, grinning as if she had just vanquished a great foe, "She always used to say 'courtship begins in the kitchen' – It's a popular saying up in the far north, those foolish romantics…" She stared out into space with a wistful expression, "She died an honorable death fighting off Romulan pirates."

"She sounded like a wise woman," I thought back to my own late grandmother, much of her advice toward me being continually unheeded until she was long buried.

"That she certainly was,"

I leaned forward to grab another bite, letting the food settle my lingering anxiety, "Tell me about her…"



After a few hours of getting to know each other, one thing led to another and…

The next thing I knew, I woke up on a broken bed frame, snugged tightly with her with in a blanket burrito, stone-cold sober without any hangover other than the many bruises and cuts.

Opening my eyes, I saw her sleeping warm form nuzzle into my chest… That subconscious sense of regret which should have come never did…

I… I didn't hate this.

I didn't hate this at all.



The few pleasant days with B'Eledor came to a swift end when I was summoned to the doorstep of a large manor in the countryside, her presence conspicuously absent from my side. That feeling of dread slowly crept back in once more at the prospect of meeting her family.

Her father insisted on meeting me mano-a-mano, and there was nothing either of us could do about it.

This was going way too fast, but on the other hand, it wasn't like I was long for this universe, anyway. Looking back to what I experienced, even my dumb ass could admit now that there really was something between us, even if we only knew each other for a short while.

Not my greatest act of decision-making, to be fair, but rarely was life rational. If you try to plan for everything, you'd just end up alone and miserable, going nowhere in life; last life, I wasted all my social life taking the path of least resistance, never seriously dating, never marrying, never truly falling in love.

Was what I had with her just plain passion without substance, or was there something more which could grow? Who the hell knew!

But, I refused to live with regrets here and now; and if that put me in the path of an angry Klingon noble, well nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was a young man again, I could be forgiven for such foolishness, just this once.

Then, the giant wooden doors thrice my height creaked open, revealing her father and his guards waiting for me on the other side, incandescent rage visible behind his visage.

What remaining feelings of bravery quickly shriveled up under his scorching glare.

This was Noggra, Son of Doqi, Patriarch of the House of Noggra, in the flesh. There was a bit of gray in growing in his hair, but that was not a sign of weakness. It a testament to his experience, which extended longer than I was alive, in either life… and it foreshadowed my soon-to-be very painful death.

He loudly barked an order – I wasn't even sure if it was actually words, or just a pure expression of rage – but the guards caught his meaning. One of them grabbed my arm, his meaty paw engulfing my bicep.

I was then dragged against my will to a nearby empty field, Noggra was already waiting for me, blade in hand, steaming from the nose. From his belt, he pulled out another blade, and tossed it at my feet, "Pick it up, ill-begotten bastard! We fight to death or submission."

I had no choice but to oblige, as the man suddenly charged with a roar. Time slowed down, and my heart rate shot through the roof; I haven't felt something like this since I took fire at Kosovo.

My body tried to react, rusty, ill-remembered CQC lessons being pulled from my subconscious. But my muscle memory wasn't enough; Noggra was faster, stronger. His fist crashed into my stomach with the force of a runaway shuttle. I could feel something crack as the wind was pushed out of my lungs.

I tried to swipe and stab, but my attacks were futile as he parried. Crunch! A few molars were knocked loose for my trouble.

He pressed the attack, but somehow, someway, I remained standing all throughout the asskicking. It was a miracle I wasn't already dead.

Then, my blood roared! Boiling with all the manic energy that only the lizard brain one step from perishing could provide. Like a psychotic chimpanzee, I kept punching, kicking, stabbing, slashing, all of which hit an immobile brick wall.

Noggra was just that tough, while I was hastily turning into a human bruise.

I was thrown, tumbling into a puddle of mud. My bones ached, my muscles burned, but stubbornly, they all followed my command to get up again. I spat out a globule of blood and mucus.

"Wrragh!" I wordlessly screamed as I charged.

He tried to slash at me, but I feinted – only managing to make a light cut into my side. I used my body weight to spear into him, finally managing to take him off his feet.

I jumped on top, ready to end him, to end the man who haunted my nightmares for the past week. The adrenaline reached a fever pitch, I thrusted down, blade in hand.

Chirp!

"Th'Ryn to Buckley, your vital's just spiked! What the hell is going on down there!?"

Thwack!


I didn't see it coming. A blow to my head made the world go fuzzy. Before I knew it, I was thrown around like a rotten sack of potatoes. My body landed on top of the itchy grass, nothing clear registering but a sharp pain in my chest.

Above, a shadowy figure loomed, something sharp in its hand, ready to deal the finishing blow…
 
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