This is a story I started a while back, sometime around January... I wanted to do 1st person POV, but wanted to see if I could defeat many of the inherant short comings of 1st person, without making the story seem clunky. I'm not working on this dig right now, but I'm posting Ch.1 for y'all's perusal. Tell me what y'all think.
Armageddon
Chapter One
Starbase 12
Stardate: 3391.6
I really can’t accurately describe what I felt when I first laid eyes on the Endeavour. I was fresh off of the starbase transporter pads after my trip in from Earth. Lots of new things had happened to me recently. I hadn’t been home to old Terra in eleven years. Now, I’d just been there. I had never been to the academy. I was now a fresh ensign after having been a noncom for most of my fleet career.
I’d never worn a gold shirt before. The one I now wore was uncomfortably tight around the collar. I felt naked in it. There were no chevrons or service dashes on the sleeves. Ensigns wore blank sleeves, denoting their newness among the officer corps. My old sleeves had been a bit heavier from the chevrons befitting a master chief petty officer and the marks showing my twelve years of service. My old sleeves had been red.
There I was, though, right then, in a gold command division shirt with the emblazoned sextant insignia of the USS Endeavour NCC-1799 on my chest, and headed toward my new ship. My bags were tucked under my arm by their shoulder straps. I didn’t own much back then, at least not much that I took with me. Not till later in my career did I pack half my life out with me on my ship. At that time in my life, I kept rather spartan quarters.
The corridors of Starbase 12’s repair orbital dock reminded me of several hospitals I’d been in. Every turn and nook looked the same. Each surface was utilitarian white, and clean. The signage on the bulkheads began to blend together. Every concentric hall had a porthole looking out into the black of space. It took some time before I was certain I hadn’t walked one big circle. Finally, however, I came to that one last turn. Somehow, I knew it was going to be the last leg of hallway before I rounded the forty-degree turn.
And there, out the expected porthole, was the lady I was searching for. The USS Endeavour wasn’t an old ship. This was a time in the fleet when any combat capable design of ship was turned down for PR reasons. We had a gaggle of admirals back on Earth telling us we went out looking for too many fights. So, large, new frontline ships were a rarity. Endeavour was one of a very select few, though her design dated back twenty-two years. She was up-rated, but the hull and engine design techniques were badly outdated. Even so, she was under two years old, and I was proud to have been assigned to her.
I studied her lines as I slowly approached the window. Just outside the cold, transparent aluminum partition I could make out her precisely fitted hull panels built of grey-white painted duranium. The ship was almost facing me. I had a grand view of her bow and starboard side. She had the more modern lines; the edges of her saucer were rounded, the track lines of the new-age deflector grid spidering across her flesh. Her exterior lighting was offline, but most of her on board lighting shown out against the dark backdrop of space. She retained a modified pair of the old-style warp nacelles atop two swept-back pylons. They were long and rounded tubes, bearing the name and registry of the ship. But these engines had been inverted by the designers and were turned on their sides. Later I discovered that this had been done to increase the efficiency of the intercooling systems, making it so they did not face one another and drink up the other’s heat output. At that time, though, it was just an oddity. I had been, till thirteen months before, an engineer. I always notice such things if I pay attention.
Endeavour also had one of the brand-spanking-new navigational deflectors I’d read journals about. It discarded the ancient, protruding dish and replaced it with a sleeker, integrated projector. The new dishes used crystalline technology, and as a telltale result, glowed internally. Endeavour’s emitted a ruddy orange color.
All of this I took in, but I also noticed the sound of footsteps growing closer to me. They came from the opposite direction and had a measured, neutral pace. Without moving, I glanced back that direction. My peripheral vision caught sight of a silhouette with a ridged posture and a blue shirt. The individual passed the junction that would have taken him to Endeavour’s gangway, instead angling toward myself and the window I stared out. He wanted to ogle as well.
We stood there for a fair amount of time in silence. I said nothing. There was nothing to be said. The sight of the awesome ship stated more than any words I could muster. And sometimes, it’s best just to shut the hell up.
Finally, after at least two minutes, I looked over at him and was shocked. It wasn’t a human standing there. It was a Vulcan. I was stunned. Few of the Vulcans I’d met by that time were of the retrospective type. But here was this man, this Vulcanian, standing there and enjoying a beautiful sight. Most humans take the Vulcan appreciation for beauty for granted. I’ve learned since, that logical minds are just as easily soothed by simple imagery.
This man stood there a bit longer, still and silent. He was probably the oddest-looking Vulcan I’d ever seen. He was shorter than I, about five-foot-five, and was quite slim. He appeared to have light muscle mass, and the largest head for his body that I could imagine. He had the nearly traditional ‘bowl’ haircut that many of their males seem to prefer and a very somber expression on his face. I probably studied him for a longer period than I should have. Vulcan’s usually don’t take great offense to such, however.
Suddenly, I noticed the officer looking back at me.
“Can I assist you, ensign?”
A quick glance at his blank sleeve told me he was of equal rank. I could address him with a fair amount of confidence, without fear of getting a dressing down. After twelve years of fleet service, I would have hated taking another tongue-lashing from a man of greater seniority. Though, in retrospect, a dressing down from a Vulcan would have been a new experience…
Now I just had to think of something to say. The truth usually works the best for a first impression. “I’ve just never seen a Vulcanian stop to appreciate a starship out a window.”
He did not seem surprised by my statement, nor even taken aback. He seemed to take what I said as matter of fact and did not read further inflection into it. Some of his people do. Many were guilty of racial misunderstanding. Myself especially. The non-human just nodded his understanding.
“Indeed. It is a very pleasing thing to look at, in the aesthetic sense.” He said back. That certainly sounded Vulcan. I gave a half smile, which on my wide, ruddy face looks like a slightly wider, straight set of lips. Some people say I never smile. If only they knew.
The Vulcan motioned toward the corridor he’d passed.
“Are you assigned to Endeavour as well?”
“Yeah,” I answered, re-hefting the weight of my duffel, “I’m Chevy Ford.” I gave the proper Vulcan salute: hand raised, palm forward, my four fingers formed into the somewhat uncomfortable ‘v’ formation.
Those classic Vulcan brows did their single eye arch at the hearing of my name. Most people laugh. “Chevy Ford?” He repeated, saying the first name as though spelled with a ‘sh’.
“Chevy,” I said again. “A ‘ch’ sound. Kind of a sick joke by my parents. They’re ancient car buffs, and they thought it would be cool to name me Chevy Dodge Ford. But it’s my name so I pronounce it the way I want. Most people don’t ever notice the connection anyway. Ancient gas powered cars aren’t big on the list of trivia you normally come across.”
“On the contrary, I’m afraid,” he replied, “I have found that the study of antiquated forms of Terran construction helps to understand how your modern devices have evolved.” He offered his hand to me, in the classic human gesture. “I am Surrak.”
I clasped his hand firmly the way my daddy taught me and shook once. “Surak, as it the father of logic?”
“I am named for him, but with two ‘r’s, in the English spelling. My father is a temple high priest in the Kolinar.”
A final shake of the hands and I let his go. With a final glance out the porthole, I jerked my head in the direction of the gangway. “Shall we board, Mister Surrak?”
“Indeed, Mister Ford. How long have you been in the fleet?”
As I began to tell my newfound friend something of my life up to then, I had no idea that I had just met one of the men who would have one of the most influential impacts on my life. He and I would be nearly inseparable. Indeed, he and I would serve together, nonstop, for the next twenty-three years.
***
About this story, it takes place earlier in Ford's career that I've written before. In fact, I altered his age to make it work out better. I changed the NCC of my Constitution-Class Endeavour after having seen the mirror-universe episode of Enterprise. I wanted Endeavour to be newer than the Defiant, being that in my so-called timeline, Endeavour is the 13th Conny built. If anyone asks about the SFB Endeavor1716 or the 'canon' 17-whatever, it blew up. Yup, that's what I said. Blew up...right...
And dispite my nitpicks over Euro-butchery of the American language
, this Endeavour is named for Cook's ship, not the shuttle, and therefor ends in the incorrect spelling, o-u-r.
Gimme some feed over the writing above, and also of coarse, gimme some hell for the above slander.
--thu guv'!
Topic: An experiment of mine... (Read 3130 times)