The Beginning of Eternity
by Randy Everist
Michael Jameston was irritated. His alarm, set by the computer in his guest quarters of Starbase 1, had not gone off. It was already 0740 hours, a mere twenty minutes before he was to report to Vice-Admiral Osaka’s office for a final briefing before the launch of Eternity. His first command. Why do I do this to myself? He briefly wondered as he pulled his long legs across his body to a sitting position. At age 37, Jameston was a tall, light-skinned, dark-haired man who personified what it meant to be a Starfleet officer, at least in terms of human imagery. But now, he mused, no one really cares about public image. This was a good thing, however, he decided, since more Federation members meant diversity in crew. Diversity in crew was always good and interesting.
He had just finished preparing himself when he winced that he had, once again, lost himself in his thoughts of the new ship and consequently, the crew. “Computer, time,” he called out as he strode briskly to the doors that would invariably slide apart when he drew near.
“Oh-eight-zero-three hours,” droned a disembodied voice. Great, he thought sarcastically. Just great.
***
Commander Jennifer Smyth was irritated. By her count, practically all of the necessary senior staff was running late, and of course, without prior consent. It was 0905 hours already, and the christening of the ship was to commence in less than an hour. Sitting back in the chair next to the center seat, she looked as though she belonged there her entire life. Being 27 years of age and the direct descendant of Hikaru Sulu, a Starfleet legend, her rank was looked upon with skepticism. Her appearance, which was tall and slender, with medium-blonde hair, also made her incredulous when it came to capabilities concerning her duty. A business-oriented mindset was what got her this posting. Quick to make decisions, Smyth’s main asset was advising superiors in crisis situations. However, she interrupted her own reflection, if I were the captain, I wouldn’t be late for my own ship’s christening. Of course, it was also this same quick judgement-call ability that could be considered hasty when applied to judgement of character.
She decided to be more positive before the rest arrived. She turned her head to the viewscreen, though nothing was yet displayed. “Are you ready to fly this thing, Lieutenant?”
***
Kiva Leis was irritated. He hadn’t been on the bridge even ten minutes, and he had seen the new first officer fidget, seethe, twist and then finally ask him a painfully obvious question. Kiva abhorred small talk. He attributed this to being a Bajoran. Although he didn’t really grow up during the Cardassian Occupation, the dark-skinned, 24-year-old did witness his parents’ torture and subsequent execution at the age of eight, right before the Cardies pulled out. As a result of this and his surrounding culture, he enjoyed everything being open, honest and to the point. It avoided a lot of time-wasting, and quickly helped gauge (at least in his eyes) who was sincere and who was simply annoying.
Kiva had been waiting for an assignment of this type ever since he entered the Academy. He had always wanted to fly, and as a child dreamed of piloting a one-man fighter in the Bajoran Resistance. Those were the days. The times when I could dream anything I wanted, or do anything I could imagine, he reflected. However, as he aged, he realized there wasn’t going to be another resistance, and with the rise of the Dominion War came the awareness that the best way to protect his livelihood was to do it as a Starfleet officer. He had never regretted his decision, and relished the chance to prove his mettle in a real-life, prime-duty situation. He turned in his chair to face his superior, remembering officer protocol.
“Always ready, Commander.”
***
Lieutenant Commander William Yang and Lieutenant Adam McKelley were both irritated. Actually, they were downright annoyed. Yang, the tactical officer and chief of security, was 31, Asian, and of a build on the more muscular side. McKelley, the chief of operations, was 28, Australian, and of a similar mold physically. As they exited the turbolift that spued them out on the deck of the bridge, they were apparently wrapping up a discussion that they had been having. “Oh please,” Yang was saying, evidently in response form. “If you hadn’t been some punk freshman then I never would have said anything in the first place.” His tone was insistent. McKelley spoke next. He was just as insistent.
“I don’t think so mate,” he retorted, his heavy accent dripping on every syllable. “If I hadn’t been a freshman and, at the time, a security major then you never would have said anything in the first place. You saw me as a threat.”
Yang opened his mouth to protest, but they already had obtained the attention of both the conn officer, a dark man with a serious expression and a Bajoran nose, and the executive officer, a young and attractive woman. “Gentlemen, let’s put our issues aside for the moment, shall we?” she remarked, almost rhetorically.
Even as Yang and McKelley opened their mouths to form a sigh, Captain Jameston walked smilingly through the opposite turbolift’s doors.
“So, how’s everybody this morning?”
***
After the awkwardness of the bridge subsided, Jameston looked around. It wasn’t as hospitable as the old starships used to be, with moderate tones, comfortable chairs and space to move. But it wasn’t bad, by any means. The Dauntless-class carried a bridge that maintained a balance between aesthetics and practicality, resulting in a decent amount of space and adequate chairs but business-like gray and silver tones throughout the area.
The introductions went well enough, the captain consoled himself. Even with the bad start to my day. But for now, Jameston’s attention was focused on the viewer. There, a glistening bottle spun, end-over-end, with an eerie purpose behind it. He knew it was guided by extremely sensitive tractor beams, but even that realization could not quell the magic associated with actually witnessing it. The viewer angle suddenly jolted to compensate for the movement of the bottle in relation to the ship. The vintage container burst into solid shards of glass, moving wherever their exerted forces would take them. A collective cheer arose from the bridge crew, and doubtless anyone else who was watching from Spacedock.
Jameston had been sitting, but now he rose to his feet. This was too rare an opportunity to miss. Not even looking at him, he ordered, “Lieutenant Kiva: take us out.”
The slender, well-designed and powerful USS Eternity, NCC-13503, eased gracefully out of the confines of Spacedock. “All hands: this is the captain. We are now commencing our official shakedown cruise, in which we will simply progress to the edge of the Solar system, test our weapons systems, and return to a geosynchronous orbit over Starfleet Headquarters. Enjoy the voyage. Jameston out.”
***
The shakedown cruise went remarkably well, with absolutely no hang-ups. Captain Jameston decided to pay a visit to the remainder of his senior staff that he had not yet met. He figured he would start with engineering. Walking through the turbolift doors, he noted something almost immediately. An authoritative, yet soft, voice was floating through the corridor. “And we don’t really have time to worry about the plasma coolant, so I’ll need you to get a small team on it right away,” the voice ordered.
Jameston put on his winning smile and moved forward to meet his chief engineer. She noticed and lifted her head from the padd she was gripping with her right hand. Switching the padd from right to left, she extended her hand in mimicry of Earth cultural greetings. Jameston returned his hand, hardly surprised at the gesture even though she was a Romulan. “Captain Jameston; a pleasure to meet you,” she started. “Lieutenant Commander Britney Clayden,” she introduced herself. She saw his lack of surprise. Jameston recognized this and felt compelled to explain.
“I’ve read your file, Ms. Clayden...a most impressive one indeed,” he commented. “Being Romulan, growing up with human parents,” he tilted his head in wonder. “A fascinating and compelling story.”
He regarded her for a moment. He could tell instantly that she was not one for flattery, but he had not intended for the comments to be anyway. She was medium height, thin, and her dark hair was lying against her shoulders. Long hair on a Romulan? He wondered. But then again, it looked good on her.
“I hope everything in engineering will be to your satisfaction, sir,” Clayden responded evenly. Jameston nodded in agreement, smiled, gave her a pat on the shoulder of assent, and turned away to his next appointment. “Glad to have you aboard,” he said as he left.
***
In sickbay, no matter where one was, one was accustomed to seeing several things. First of all, near-sterile environments. This sickbay was of no exception. Secondly, biobeds with medical readouts and displays. Again, this sickbay was of no exception. And thirdly, doctors with a hypospray demanding that the captain endure another physical. Strangely enough, however, this sickbay was an exception. Where was the chief medical officer? As Jameston gazed about, the place was deserted.
Just then, a man wearing medical blue entered. He had three full pips on his collar, meaning almost assuredly that this was the doctor. He had dark hair, and the captain suspected he was older than he looked. A gleam was ever-present in his brown eyes, and Jameston knew that this was the man. Older than he had remembered from his first meeting just over a decade earlier, the man still carried a boyish charm. “Captain Jameston, I presume?” he started, in mystery-book fashion. “Really, Captain, not inviting me to the bridge for the shakedown?” he chided. “You should know that I adore a good adventure, whether it be in holonovel or real form.” The corners of his mouth had remained upturned in a consistent smile.
“Of course, you’re right, Dr. Bashir. I do apologize,” Jameston started, smiling as equally as the doctor. Jameston had specifically and repeatedly requested that Julian Bashir, the legend, be assigned to the Eternity’s crew. “How have you been?” he asked Bashir.
“Well. I brought my wife Ezri aboard, and even though we don’t officially have a ship’s counselor, I think she’ll do well in situations where that is required,” he replied. Bashir looked at the captain directly now. “I know this is your first command. I know there’s a spirit of adventure and excitement in you. That’s what drew me to you 11 years ago, when you were briefly stationed on DS9 during the War. I know there’s something or someone telling you to back off a bit, play it safe, don’t-do-anything-I-wouldn’t-do mentality. But they aren’t the ones in command of this vessel. That isn’t the strategy or type of thinking or actions that brought you here to this level. If you want advice from someone who has been both true to himself and a hypocrite, then just go with your gut instinct,” Bashir counseled.
Jameston knew what Bashir had meant by being both true and a hypocrite during his lifetime. The genetically-engineered man had hid that fact for years...and yet Bashir had always been true to himself, the sense of a pioneering spirit and strong ethics that had always driven him to the top. “Thanks for the advice, Julian,” he responded. “And next time we have a big mission or adventure, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
The two smiled before Bashir queried, “So when’s that physical?”
***
The rest of the first week had played out well for both Jameston and the Eternity. All systems were running well, he was getting plenty of sleep, and although the first mission could be regarded as mundane, it was of an exploratory nature. As for the rest of the crew’s tensions, Jameston could not be so sure. It seemed his old friend Yang was having some difficulty playing well with others. He turned his head to the transparent door of his office, simultaneously setting down his tea. He stroked a small button and instantly was rewarded with an angry voice. “You absolutely can not reroute weapons control so that we can fire quantum torpedoes out of the auxiliary shuttlebay!” Yang insisted.
“There’s where you’re wrong, sir, if I may say so. Hear me out–“ Even as Jameston was interested in how that could be accomplished, he wasn’t so interested in hearing Lieutenant McKelley and Yang argue. It did make him smile, however. At that moment, a beep sounded, indicating an incoming transmission. He tapped a second button on the genuine oak desk, tilted his head and announced, “Jameston here.”
A young man’s voice immediately responded. “Captain, there is an urgent alpha clearance transmission incoming from Vice-Admiral Osaka.” A tingling wave of nerves flowed throughout his body. Alpha clearance? I just got alpha clearance, he thought. He composed himself momentarily and prepared mentally to receive whatever message that was important enough to be seen by Starfleet captains and above. “Very well. Put it through,” he directed.
The image of the blue background and Federation symbol was snapped out of existence, only to be replaced by the face of an Asian man in his late 60s. That same face bore lines of concern. “Good morning, Captain. I trust that after hearing what I am about to say you’ll understand if I keep pleasantries to a minimum.” Jameston simply nodded in understanding, in essence urging Osaka to continue.
“Early this morning, Starfleet Intelligence received reports of a massive assault on Tulannis V, the Romulan colony located right in the middle of the former Neutral Zone. Let’s not beat around the bush; it was a massacre,” Osaka’s face seemed haunted by what he was about to say. Jameston felt compassion for the Romulans, but wasn’t sure exactly how this applied to him. “Unarmed, barely had security systems...this was no military outpost. They were simple settlers, civilians, families. Several thousand lives were lost. The few coherent ones all remembered one thing: the Federation and Starfleet emblem on the ships,” Jameston’s body went numb. Could what he was hearing actually be correct? Starfleet attacking innocent civilians?
Osaka must have noticed the expression on his face, because he continued. “Oh, it gets worse, Captain. After they pulverized from the outer atmosphere, they sent in a huge ground task force, armed strictly with Starfleet-issue weapons. The men were wearing uniforms of Starfleet design, and as far as anyone can remember they all appeared to be of Federation member worlds. They went through the streets, killing or maiming any and all who stood in their way. Their primary goal seemed to be destruction of the colony, and their secondary was basic supplies. Essentially, it boils down to this: the new Romulan Senate is almost dead convinced that we are responsible for the Tulannis Massacre, and quite frankly, even I have to admit that the evidence is stacked against us,” Osaka admitted quietly.
Jameston spoke to protest. “But the Federation has no motive for such an attack, and is not generally known to ever attack innocent people, stations or colonies,” he countered.
Osaka sighed, as if understanding but agreeing with another side of the debate. “But interstellar law would regard that piece of evidence to be circumstantial at best, and as far as a motive goes...the Romulans are saying that it is either a pre-emptive strike before what is perceived to be an imminent war, or that we are trying to send a message to the new ruling body that we will not be pushed around. In either case, the Federation’s image is going downhill in their eyes, and that is where the Eternity fits in.”
Jameston nodded, his head spinning. “What are our orders, Admiral?” Osaka appeared to be uncomfortable with this question as well.
“Essentially damage control, Captain. Go as far into their space as they’ll allow, meet wherever they’d like, do whatever is diplomatically possible to assuage them. Beyond that, we need you to do some digging. Figure out who in the galaxy pulled that kind of crap and bring them to justice. Which brings me to the other reason I’m sending the Eternity. If worse comes to worse, I know the Eternity has enough firepower to defend herself. And coded messages will be sent hourly back and forth between yourselves and the Seventh Fleet, which will be located just out of normal sensory range. I don’t even want to think about a war, but you’re gonna need help if they want to fight. You are to depart immediately. Good luck, and may God be with you.” With that, Osaka’s face was once again replaced by the light blue field and the Federation logo.
And our first interesting staff meeting begins, he thought.
***