From The Personal Logs Of Elsa Steiner, Starfleet
The Captain had a cat. I shall remember this fact above all others as long as I shall serve in Starfleet, amen. It was my first assignment after completing engineering school, which itself came upon the heels of Starfleet Enlisted Indoctrination School, known throughout the galaxy as ‘Boot Camp’. Nine weeks of learning mostly worthless history and protocol we’d likely never use in actual service with Starfleet. Sure, we got familiarization with the basics, LCARS, phasers, transporter operations, and the like, but all the formations and Chiefs shouting and the standing at attention- they don’t do that in Starfleet, do they?
So there I was, standing at attention in formation with a chief shouting at me. Our shuttle had been assigned this geriatric knuckle-dragger from the security department who obviously believed himself to have been a part of the Andorian Guard at some point in a former life. After being advised gently about the way my shoulders slouched at attention, the Chief questioned my parentage and made a very eloquent commentary about my possible ability to remove my cranium from my nether regions someday if I were to pay more attention to my Chiefs. Then, with the shrill cry of a bosun’s whistle, the chief spun away from me and assumed attention in front of the squarish formation of green crewmen in which I stood. That is to say, the crewman were just as inexperienced as I was. None of them were actually green. Except the Orion who had tried to sell me a box of grid squares for my tricorder. There were several other such blocks arranged in a pretty row, and I was fairly sure each and every ‘boot’ in the ranks was as miserable as I was. Except the Orion, who had just sold a science crewman a box of grid squares and a jar of elbow grease, this last because a chief back at Boot told him he needed to get some.
I saw the Captain for the first time as she mounted the speaker’s platform at the front of the hold. She was tall, with shoulder length brown hair, slightly matriarchal. Okay, at least big-sister-archal. The most striking feature about the Captain was the cat. An orange striped tabby nestled in the Captain’s arms, seemingly comfortable but completely alert. I swore for a moment that the cat was sizing us up with those luminescent green eyes.
Captain Pierson addressed us with a cool, no-nonsense demeanor entreating us to each give one hundred and ten percent to our new postings aboard the Ark Angel. She advised us that although the Dominion War was over, the mop-up had just begun and we had better all be ready for any sort of action. I was ready to find my stateroom. Back in boot, one of our instructor petty officers had sung about his quarters on the Enterprise-D, a spacious two-room suite with a class-A replicator system, luxurious bathroom and plush carpeting. I couldn’t wait. A nice, hot bath in the (replicated) marble tub would be just what this Crewman needed.
The Captain then handed the floor over to a Marine Major who turned out to be the XO. Isn’t it illegal to give a Marine that kind of responsibility? I mean, they can’t comprehend numbers with more than one digit, so how can they order a course change that won’t end up putting us in the galactic core? This guy was unbelievable. He wore his uniform with creases so sharp they looked as if he could dissect Jem’Hadar with them. He wore, for God’s sake, a sword with his uniform and had a lot of those squidgy little ribbons above his combadge. He wore a hat with his uniform, something we had been issued but never required to wear. Mine was black cloth. His seemed to be a large white pancake with a bill covered in gold filigree. Marines sure love decoration. Did I mention the silver aiguillette that hung from his shoulder?
After Jarhead the Wonder Marine was through telling us how tight the ship would be run, he began to educate us on how the new program for integrating Marine operations with amphibious-capable starships (Hey, are these ships really amphibious? I mean, I’ve never heard of a starship landing in water… but oh, well) in the case of another conflict like the Dominion War broke out. Yeah, yeah. Yadda. I stood there, at attention, speculating about how long it would take him to replicate a diamond if given a raw chunk of coal to work with in the proper anatomical location.
Once Larry Leatherneck handed over the floor back to the captain, she turned us all over to the CoB, who looked just as crazy as the Marine had. He gave orders for us to fall out by department and board the boat. What boat? As soon as the Captain and XO were out of earshot, we were entreated by the CoB to board the effing boat. Colorful adjectives or not, I still didn’t see any boat.
After grabbing my gear bag and heading for the gangway, since it seemed that’s where the other new crewmen believed this mythical boat to be, I learned quickly that enlisted personnel are expected to make way for the Captain when she came down a hall, and smartly. I had planned to make sure the Captain knew my name, but not like that. The cat just laid it’s ears back and hissed at me. The CoB told me to show proper respect for the captain when I was on his effing boat. Was I not supposed to show proper respect whilst aboard the starship? And how often was I supposed to be on this effing boat anyway, since we’d spend most of our time in space? I decided to leave my etymological confusions about boats and starships and followed the PADD the officer of the deck had given me to my quarters. Home, at last. As I mentally prepared for that hot bath, the door opened to reveal a large room full of bunks. And other new crewmen. Nineteen of them. All of us were newly assigned and already it smelt like a room where twenty people lived.
I learned quickly that the bunk nearest the PA speaker was mine. I also learned from the Orion crewman whose bunk was below mine that on a voyage this near the Klingon border, it was customary to make the bunk of the crewmate below you, all the time. Had we been near the Romulan border, he would have had to make mine. Regulations.
I was almost sorry I asked when I inquired about the restroom facilities. They were co-ed, and shower stalls were the order of the day. To save replicator power, the sign on the wall said, shower water was to be rationed to five minutes per crewman, per day. Well, there’s always a sonic shower. I hate sonic showers.
After settling in, it was off to the enlisted crewman’s mess. This, at least, should be good. How bad can replicated food be? It’s what we had at boot, and it was pretty tasty. I entered the mess to find not a bank of replicators, but a rather quaint cafeteria line. With a sigh I grabbed a tray and braved the line. The quality of the food was the only pleasant surprise I’d had all day. A fresh omelet, sausage, and toast with some genuinely strong coffee fortified me for my watch. Which, on the upside, was only four hours long. On the downside, I was expected back on duty eight hours later. Hadn’t these people heard of 8 hour work days? As I finished my coffee, I wondered if it would get rid of that horrible gray paint on all the walls in the crew bay I had been assigned to.
As I finished breakfast, I heard the sound of three bells being struck electronically over the PA. After remembering that it had been about seven o’clock local when I came aboard, I surmised that it must be morning watch by these arcane time-telling schemes, and that three bells must certainly mean 0930 hours. Or maybe not. I checked by chronometer to be sure. 0930. Good.
I packed myself back off to my quarters to catch a few minutes rest before I was due on duty, and wondered what else the USS Ark Angel had up it’s sleeve for Crewman Elsa Steiner.
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