| abstract | - The various military services of known space differ in as many ways as there are stars in the sky. The Ferengi organize the Alliance Defense Fleet around patrolling their commerce lanes, and their ships are optimized both to carry cargo and to fight pirates and mercs. The Klingon Great Houses are feudal lordships, fighting internecine battles with each other about as often as they combine under the banner of the Imperial Klingon Defense Forces to fight the wars of the Empire as a whole. The riovir of the fallen Romulan Star Navy frequently acted as politicians and military governors. The Federation Starfleet styles itself an exploration and diplomatic service first and a navy second. And as always, nobody has any fragging clue what the Breen are doing. But if there’s one thing that they all have in common, it’s the importance of traditions. In Starfleet, the CO of a starship is always addressed as “captain”. The Federation flagship is always a member of the newest, most advanced class in service at time of commissioning, and is always named USS Enterprise with the registry number NCC-1701. And before formally being granted the right to command a starship, a Starfleet officer has to take a command simulation called the “Kobayashi Maru.” And because of tradition, despite holodecks having been a thing since the late 23rd century, the “Maru” is still conducted on a physical simulated bridge, located in the Richard Barnett Building on the Starfleet Academy campus in San Francisco, California. Which is where Captain Haelivthras th’Shvrashli, “Thrass” to his friends, is headed. The Andorian, who is on his second two-year tour as an Academy instructor, had been assigned yesterday as one of the monitors for an off-season session of the test, and is going to the pre-test meeting in the faculty room on the third floor. “Morning, people,” he greets everyone as he walks into the room and makes for the coffeepot. “So, who’s today’s victim? Coffee, anyone?” Commander Steven Hackett strokes his beard as he brings it up on his PADD. “Kanril Eleya, and no, thank you, sir.” “Tell me about her,” Rear Admiral Brenth Arkad asks. “And get me a refill, Thrass.” “Bajoran, age 27, brevet lieutenant commander, acting CO, USS Kagoshima. Enlisted in the Bajoran Militia out of high school, served four years, awarded Bajoran Silver Cross for Valor in ’99. Starfleet OCS majoring in naval weapons, graduated ’02. Two tours on the Romulan border as a gunnery officer on the Betazed, then six months as a Militia liaison on DS9.” “Ah,” Thrass says, the description having jogged his memory. “I remember her from one of the classes I taught a few years ago. ‘Scarface’, we called her.” “I hope you didn’t call her that to her face.” “Oh, absolutely not, Steve,” Thrass agreed, chuckling as he pours a cup for Arkad. “One thing I’ve learned in my career, never piss off a Bajoran female. Long story; I won’t get into that. How’d she end up captain? She only graduated three-and-a-half years ago.” “She was at Vega. Everybody senior to her was assimilated or blown up,” Steve answers. The Atrean admiral grimaces. “Rough.” He stretches and takes the cup. “How is she as a person?” “You want my opinion or just what’s in her dossier, sir?” “Speak your mind, Thrass.” “She’s got potential. Now, she’s got a temper, she’s coarse—seriously, she swears a lot—and she’s a straight shooter without a lot of subtlety. On the other hand, she’s smart and she thinks on her feet, she doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and she’s fiercely loyal to her friends. You know I’ve been an advocate of the accelerated OCS program since its inception? Kanril was my favorite student.” “What do you think she’s going to do?” Steve asks. “I have no idea,” Thrass replies, grinning. “I will say, don’t expect much in the way of technical wizardry. Her approach is generally, if it doesn’t die the first time, hit it harder. Don’t underestimate her, though, she’ll surprise you.” “Think she’ll pull a Kirk?” Arkad queries. “No,” Steve answers confidently. “I mean, her acting chief engineer, Ensign Ehrob, liked to play with code according to this file—he got a demerit for hacking another cadet’s dorm console to play Catullan metal on an endless loop—but we’ve gone over all the computers with a fine-toothed comb like we have every run since Kirk. Plus, she wouldn’t know she needed to: it’s her first time taking the test. Per standard Form IV prep materials she knows she’ll be commanding a Constitution-class on a rescue mission across the Klingon border and that’s it.” “Wait, she didn’t take the ‘Maru’ in school? Says here she took a number of command classes.” “But not enough that it was a requirement, sir,” Captain Sivuk says, walking in. “Good morning, Steven, Captain th’Shvrashli, Admiral Arkad, Commander Haas.” “Hey, Sivuk,” Steve greets him. “Test chamber all squared away?” “Indeed. We are ready to proceed at 10:10, as scheduled.” The stocky, graying Vulcan from the School of Engineering is twenty years into his second career, having spent the first fifty-five years of his adult life as a city planner in Shi’Kahr. He steps over to the replicator and orders a raspberry yogurt. “In answer to your question, Admiral, in this case the ‘Kobayashi Maru’ is a chiefly a formality to satisfy those who believe her too inexperienced for her first command. Admiral Quinn has made it clear that despite her youth, he feels she demonstrated command ability abundantly during the fighting at Vega Colony. He will make her the Kagoshima’s permanent CO unless she fails entirely.” “So the actual test result doesn’t really matter?” Hackett asks. “No, it matters,” Commander Justine Haas replies, speaking for the first time. “She does well, she gets fast-tracked, makes captain in two years. And it shuts up the naysayers, causes her less trouble down the line. Besides, the test gives us some fun, too. I’ve seen her type before: tough girl, brash, a little arrogant. She’s a young Kirk with a crinkled nose. Let’s face it: fucking with her will be fun,” she finishes with an evil grin. “Kirk? You really think so, Justine?” Haas is about to answer the admiral when the intercom chirps. The computer’s voice says, “The time is ten hundred hours. The time is ten hundred hours and ten seconds.” “Time to go, people,” Arkad says. He knocks back the last of his coffee and leads the way out of the room. Thrass enters the monitoring room and whistles upon seeing another Andorian, much younger, in the tactical officer’s seat in the bridge simulator. “So who’s the shen with the great rack?” “Captain!” Steve says in a half-scolding, half-surprised tone. “Hey, I’m bonded, not dead. Look, but don’t touch, eh?” Sivuk ignores the repartee. “That is Lieutenant Tesjha Phohl, full name Siritesjha sh’Phohlhi, goes by Tess. She was a torpedo officer on the Khitomer but Captain Yim sent her to help Kanril operate the Kagoshima as acting tactical officer.” “All right, who else is in there?” Arkad queries. Steve checks his PADD again. “Lieutenant Birail Riyannis, a laboratory officer from Biology, assigned to play Kanril’s science officer, and Lieutenant T’Var, ops, who was here on layover between assignments. Kanril requested her; apparently they met in the gym and hit it off. Ah, speak of the devil, here’s the main attraction.” A tall, slim, athletic-looking Bajoran with flaming red hair, wearing a red-and-white Sierra-style CO’s jacket, strolls onto the bridge from the side door of the simulator. “I see why you called her Scarface,” Arkad comments. “What happened?” “Old knife wound,” Thrass answers. “Poison interfered with the dermal regenerator and it scarred, and I guess she decided to keep it as a reminder or something.” He reaches for the intercom. “Good morning, Commander Kanril.” I turn at the sound of a familiar voice. “Professor Thrass? Is that you?” “Yup, I pulled proctor for this round. You doing okay? Heard you had a rough time at Vega.” “No worse than anyone else, sir. Psych said I’m clean.” “Glad to hear it, Commander,” comes an unfamiliar soprano with an odd accent. She sounds mostly British but there’s a touch of another accent I can’t place. I’m not familiar with all of Earth’s languages. “I’m Commander Justine Haas from the War College. Also with us today are Captain Sivuk from Electrical Engineering, Commander Steven Hackett from Astrophysics, and Rear Admiral Brenth Arkad is our rep from the Academy Board. And you’ve met Thrass already, of course.” “Are you ready to begin, Commander?” Male voice, cool, carefully measured, got to be the Vulcan, Sivuk. “Give me two minutes, sir.” I hit the mute button on the console to confer with the team. “Remember the emergency plan?” “I still consider it too complicated,” T’Var answers. “It’ll work.” “Commander—” “It’ll work,” I interrupt more emphatically. “Tess? Riyannis?” “I told you to call me Biri,” the Trill corrects me. “And yes, I’m ready.” “I’m ready, too, ma’am,” Tess confirms. I slap my combadge. “Bynam, you ready?” “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He’s in the simulated engineering section one floor down. I unmute the simulator. “Ready to roll, sirs.” Thrass’s voice again. “Test begins in five, four, three, two, one, mark!” “Captain,” Tess says, “we’ve picked up a distress signal from the USS Kobayashi Maru. They’ve hit a mine near the border and their engines are out. Starbase 227 has ordered us to rescue them.” “Tess, sound battle stations. Conn, set course for their coordinates but bring us out of warp half a light-second from their location. And get me the full specs on the Maru.” “Course locked in.” “Warp seven, engage.” We’re thirty minutes away and I look over the data on the Maru. Ptolemy-class transport ship carrying a starliner pod. 257 passengers, 150 crew. If we have to leave the ship behind it’ll be a tight fit getting them all aboard the USS Constitution. “Tess, have anyone in the saucer cargo bays clear out, now. We’re going to need the space.” She nods and presses the intercom. “Any personnel in saucer cargo bays, please evacuate now.” “Once everyone’s out, I want everything transferred into the other cargo bays, prioritized as you please. Anything we can’t fit, toss.” “Okay, so she’s doing contingency planning,” Hackett comments. “Can I say, I really, really prefer this long form for the test?” Haas agrees. “It’s better than the ‘jump straight to the Maru’ version. Takes more time, but we get a much better picture of the kind of CO we’re likely to get out of it. So far she’s being remarkably cautious. Going in fast but not top speed, saving her energy in case she has to make a quick escape, and I like her idea to pre-clear the cargo bays.” The conn officer, a Bolian named Brota, announces, “Exiting warp in five, four, three, two, one, mark!” The warp field collapses and we drop to sublight. “Tess, charge up the weapons but don’t arm them yet. Sensors, do we have a fix on the Maru?” “Aye, sir,” the blonde human petty officer manning the station answers. “‘Ma’am’, Petty Officer Daniels. ‘Ma’am.’” “Sorry, sir. Ma’am.” I ignore the apology. “Conn, take us in. Quietly, now. Rig ship for silent running.” The intercom chirps. “Yes?” “Commander, this is Commander Hackett. Do you mind if we skip ahead?” I think for a second. “I don’t see why not. Bring us up to a thousand kilometers from the Maru.” The plot on Tess’s console fast-forwards. By the simulator’s clock we’ve been at battle stations for almost an hour, but it’s more like twenty minutes real-time (we skipped ahead during the warp trip, too). As we close on the Maru Daniels announces, “Captain, I’m picking up a disturbance.” “Source?” “Not sure yet. Let me try to clean it up—oh, Hell. Reading four D7-class cruisers decloaking near the Maru!” “Phekk. Hail them.” “They’re jamming subspace!” the communications officer says. “Locking weapons!” “Use the lightspeed comms!” “Channel open!” I switch to tlhIngan Hol. I’m a little rusty but the words tumble from my mouth in a rush. “SuvwI’pu’ tlhIngan batlh, eleya, torvo puqbe’ jIH. HoD Constitution yuQjIjDIvI’ ’ejDo’. jatlh neH.” I switch the microphone to the intercom and order the forward sections of the saucer evacuated in case we have to make a quick escape. Admiral Arkad’s eyes widen at the guttural, phlegmatic sounds of accurate, if somewhat badly accented, tlhIngan Hol issuing from the Bajoran’s mouth. Thrass sees it and grins. “Part of Militia basic training, ever since the war in the early Seventies. Recruits have to demonstrate a minimum proficiency in Klingonese and Cardassian to qualify for offworld.” “Well, she’s not bad for an amateur,” Haas remarks. Steve comments, “I think we goofed on the enemy selection. Changing the subject a bit, what’s up with her ordering the forward sections cleared out?” I’ve seen better-looking Klingons than this guy, G’Sten, he said his name was. I’ve seen worse-looking, too, but not many. “Federation petaQ, your friends trespass on Klingon territory! They will die, and you will die with them!” “My friends have no quarrel with the tlhIngan wo’ and neither do I.” “You speak the lies of a taHqeq!” “G’Sten ghay’cha’ baQa’!” I shoot back. Something I learned working on Deep Space 9 for six months: If a Klingon insults you, you insult him right back. But I’m mostly trying to draw his attention away from the PADD I just surreptitiously passed to Tess, and without a word she types a series of commands into her console. G’Sten seems slightly impressed. “You swear well, bajorngan. But it will not save you.” I don’t have time to think right now why a 23rd century Klingon can recognize my species, because Tess just announced, “Ready, captain!” “Hab SoSlI’ Quch!” I bellow at the screen, just to get the last word in for laughs, then cut the channel. “Tess, hit it! All hands, brace for impact!” “Firing!” And all Hell breaks loose as six things happen at once. Our rear shields vanish and a spread of photon torpedoes erupts from the forward launcher, streaking towards the Klingons. T’Var announces the nav deflector and SIF are at maximum power, and there’s a rumble through the hull as streams of blue-hot particles lance out from the broadside phaser mounts. At the Maru. The Constitution leaps forward, rolling hard to port, the transporters activate the moment the Maru clears the rear shield arc, and then there’s a godawful noise and jolt as our front end smashes straight through the narrow fuselage of the center-most battlecruiser just after a torpedo detonates on its shields. As we climb towards c I hear a muffled voice behind me holler something that sounds like “Holy shit!” “Transport complete, Captain,” T’Var announces. “Our shot disrupted their shields as predicted.” “Tess, gas the cargo bay!” “Venting anesthizine gas!” “Holy shit! Did you see that?!” Hackett exclaims. “Yes, I saw it,” Sivuk says. “She let the computer handle the job for her.” “No, I mean what she did to that battlecruiser! The only other captain I’ve heard of pulling something like that off was Picard back in ‘66!” “Damage report!” I bark as we climb to warp 5. “Severe structural damage to … evacuated sections only,” T’Var reports. If I didn’t know better I’d think I heard some surprise in her voice. “Captain,” Brota says, “we’re heading straight into Klingon territory! Additional enemy ships detected, two minutes out!” “Hold course for fifteen more seconds!” “Three D7 battlecruisers in pursuit! Time to overhaul, thirty seconds!” “They came about faster than I expected,” Tess comments. “Yeah, they did,” I agree. Something feels wrong but I can’t put my finger on it yet. “Conn, crash translate to sublight and give me a Crazy Ivan! Point us straight to the border!” Our warp field shatters in a colossal thunderstorm of released energy and Brota fires the maneuvering thrusters. White-hot fire blazes from the tips of the nacelles and the ship flips end-for-end and yaws thirty degrees to starboard. “Maximum possible warp! Your turn, Bynam!” The intercom crackles, “Warp 9.5! It’s the absolute highest this thing can handle but you’ll bake the core in ten minutes!” “Conn, warp 9.5! Hit the gas!” The simulator screams around us as the warp drive overcomes the inertia pushing the ship almost the opposite direction. The stars blueshift and we rocket past the light barrier. “Pursuing vessels changing course!” Daniels shouts. “Can they intercept?” “No, but they’re coming about to pursue! Five minutes to the border!” “Tess, fire up the torpedo transfer tubes. Start firing torpedoes set for proximity detonation out the aft launcher, random angles, random intervals.” “We’ve only got 96 torpedoes left!” “Just do it! Give them as many reasons as possible not to follow us!” “All right, firing aft tube!” Sudden inspiration hits me. “Wait, keep four torpedoes back!” I hit my intercom. “Bynam, get a work crew to the forward torpedo magazine! I want you to refit four torpedoes with screamer warheads to act as decoys!” “All right, I’m on it!” “Impressive,” Sivuk comments. “Instead of one single strategy, she is combining several smaller tactics. Treating the Klingons as an obstacle instead of the objective, mining her trail with torpedoes, preparing electronic countermeasures to hide her ship—” “Yeah, and now the computer’s starting to cheat more openly to make up for it,” Arkad says, noting the readouts. “Two Klingon battlecruisers still in pursuit! Entering extreme torpedo range! Time to overhaul, three minutes!” “They’re not taking the hint, ma’am,” Tess comments. “And I’m running out of torpedoes.” Bynam’s voice comes through the intercom. “Decoys ready!” “Tess, fire for effect and deploy decoys!” A vicious grin lights up her face, and in a distinctly pleased voice she says, “Aye, Captain.” Four torpedoes scream out of our forward tube and take up random positions dozens of kilometers off. Then T’Var speaks up. “Captain, a word?” “Hm?” “I have been going over the data and the pursuing battlecruisers are closing too fast.” “I know! We won’t make it to the border at this rate unless we drive them off!” “No, ma’am, I mean they are closing impossibly fast. The D7A Akif-class and D7C K’t’kara-class were physically incapable of achieving—” “—of going that fast, yes, I know.” That’s what was bothering me earlier. I start to bark another order, then pause. My objective is to get the crew of the Maru to safety. And if I’m right about what’s going on, that means it’s time to change things up again. I press the intercom key. “All nonessential personnel, evacuate to the saucer section! Space combat personnel, head for the secondary hull! Prepare for emergency saucer separation!” The holographic component of the simulator flickers and the walls compress a bit to simulate us shifting to the auxiliary bridge. We lose about three minutes on the clock. “All sections report ready,” T’Var confirms. “Enemy ships nearing our effective torpedo range, their extreme range! Missile separation!” “Blow the bolts, drop the saucer! Prophets go with you, Lieutenant Commander Baines!” It’s a little-known fact that Constitution-class starships were capable of saucer separation. The reason it’s little-known, however, is because they didn’t do it much: Unlike a Galaxy- or Odyssey-class ship, the maneuver relied on explosive bolts and wasn’t reversible without a shipyard. A dull thud reverberates through the hull and the saucer breaks free and continues on the same course, the impulse engines adjusted to maintain the warp field for a short distance as it clears ours. “Captain, we cannot combat two D7-class starships without the saucer phasers,” T’Var informs me. “No, but we can hold them off,” I answer. “Conn, begin Sulu Flip!” For the second time in ten minutes Ensign Brota reverses our direction, this time without dropping out of warp. The saucer-less Connie hull tilts backwards, warp field churning and structure screaming. We pass vertical and— “Captain, look!” My eyes shoot to the plot as a third ship, this one a VoDleH-class battleship, decloaks in our path and catches us in the midsection with a barrage of heavy disruptor fire. Sparks and smoke fly all over the bridge as I frantically order Brota to drop to sublight, but it’s too late and the screen turns to static. Game over. I sit in the chair for a moment, glaring at the screen blinking a message that I’m dead. “Sher hahr kosst. Phekk’ta yepal y’kren al’borea tash kelot!” I get out of my chair, storm up the stairs at the back of the room, and throw open the door to the monitoring booth. “What the phekk was that?!” “Commander! Stand down!” Captain Thrass orders, warningly. I hear T’Var and Tess come up behind me. “You cheated!” I growl accusingly at the room. “You have missed the point of the test, Captain,” Sivuk says. “Enlighten me, sir,” Tess requests. “The purpose,” Admiral Arkad replies, “is to judge your reaction to a hopeless situation. Can you, as a commanding officer, maintain control of yourself and your crew, in the face of the fear engendered by certain death?” “Sir, I’ve already experienced the ‘fear of certain death’. Twice!” I point to the scar on my face. “You think I got this because my hairdresser fouled up? There’s a matching one on my stomach, Admiral! And I fought the damn Borg two weeks ago!” “What about the fear engendered by inescapable mission failure?” Sivuk intercedes. “Please do not tell me that you do not believe in no-win scenarios. I have heard that before.” “Oh, I believe in no-win scenarios,” I shoot back. “I also believe they mostly take place because somebody fucked up! If you do your prep work properly, you don’t get into a no-win scenario!” I take a breath and finish, “It wasn’t a fair test, sir.” “The universe is not fair, Commander Kanril,” Sivuk answers. “Your logic is fallacious, sir,” T’Var counters. “Excuse me?” Hackett says in surprise. “False analogy fallacy,” I explain. “The universe doesn’t cheat.” T’Var continues, “Any simulated scenario relies on the participants’ willing suspension of disbelief in order to be an effective assessment. However, the D7 battlecruiser that pursued us across the border achieved a velocity that was physically impossible for a ship of that class. With the amount of power that Ensign Ehrob was able to get out of the engines the Klingons should not have been able to come about in time to overhaul before we reached safety, and yet it did. And the VoDleH-class was not capable of cloak. This was illogical, and the simplest explanation is that the simulation program cheated. Kanril and I discovered this, deduced that the simulation was unwinnable, and our willing suspension of disbelief was broken. Ergo, the accuracy of this simulation as a personality test is questionable. Quod erat demonstrandum.” “Wait a minute, back up a bit,” Hackett interrupts. “How do you know what a ship that went out of service over a century ago was capable of?” I answer, “Well, you told me I’d be flying a Connie and that the Maru would be lost in Klingon space. That told me the time period this thing was set in and who I’d probably be fighting, so I hit the library.” I see Captain Thrass grinning behind Arkad. “I warned you guys not to underestimate her. Relax, Kanril. As far as I’m concerned you passed the test.” “Let’s not be hasty,” Arkad corrects his colleague. “Commander, you’re dismissed for now. Report to my office in one hour.” “That’s it?” “Dismissed, Commander,” Sivuk confirms. “Aye, sir.” I snap to attention, turn on my heel, and leave. Outside, I pause for a moment. “Hey, T’Var? Thanks for backing me up in there.” “Your temper will one day get you into serious trouble, Commander. I was hoping to defuse the confrontation.” “Call me Captain. Or Eleya. Because if I can swing it, assuming I actually passed the test I want you as my operations officer.” “On the Kagoshima? I accept, Captain Kanril.” “I’m in, too, if you’ll have me,” Biri agrees. “I’m getting bored with lab work. I haven’t had that much fun since my third host got into that dancing contest on Ragesh III. I like your style, too. Never give up, even when the situation is unwinnable.” I look at the Trill’s friendly brown eyes and raise my eyebrows. “You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” “Of course I didn’t tell you!” she laughs. “Like T’Var said, it’s not an accurate test if the one being tested knows it’s unwinnable. I’ve been in the chamber, uh, six times, I think? Yeah, six, twice as me, four times as Devon.” “Well, what did you do?” “I didn’t. I’ve never had to take the test. I’m in sciences and Devon wasn’t even an officer.” T’Var looks at her. “Noncom, transporter guy,” Biri explains. “Well, let’s hope I made a good impression. I just got this command; I don’t want to lose it.” “She’s crazy,” Haas comments later in Arkad’s office, still somewhat in shock. “Agreed,” Sivuk says. “She reacts like a female sehlat whose cubs are threatened.” Haas shakes her head. “Unfortunately for us all, crazy’s something we need right now, what with the Borg reappearing and the Klingons stepping up their war effort. Her tactics were innovative and in my opinion spot-on. Especially the part where she turned her torpedoes into a minefield—I’ve never even heard of that one before. If the computer wasn’t designed to cheat she would’ve won outright. As it was she still got half the crew and passengers out, and saved her non-combat personnel as well. Also got a Klingon boarding party but she gassed ‘em before they could get their bearings.” “I’m more worried about her temper,” Arkad says. “She flew off the handle because she felt cheated,” Thrass counters. “How did you feel when you took the test?” “It’s not her having the emotion I’m concerned about, it’s what she did with it. One of these days she’s going to lose it in front of someone less forgiving.” “Eh, we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it,” Steve. “No denying that she’s a good tactician, though, right?” Arkad shakes his head. “No, and I think she handled herself well up to the point where the computer decided it needed to drop a damn battleship on her head to stop her. And I like that she tried diplomacy first, for what little good it did her. Thrass, do you want to do the honors?” The Andorian nods and presses the key for the intercom. “M’raak, send the commander in.” Admiral Arkad’s secretary, a black-furred Caitian petty officer in ops yellow, opens the door for me and I walk in and come to attention. “Brevet Lieutenant Commander Kanril Eleya, reporting as ordered.” “At ease, Commander,” Arkad says. “Let’s get one thing straight, first. Your conduct after the test was incredibly disrespectful and it will not fly outside of this room. Am I clear on that?” “Yes, sir.” “Get a handle on that temper of yours or you won’t keep your command for very long.” I freeze in place and start to feel hopeful. “You mean—” The admiral presses a key on his console and a near-indestructible sheet of archival plastic materializes in the replicator. “I’m making your brevet rank permanent and authorizing you as commanding officer, USS Kagoshima NCC-91855. When your ship gets out of the yard next week you are ordered to report to Vice Admiral Sivana Dica at Starbase 179. You can take your frustration out on the Klingons.” “I still don’t have a full command staff, sir.” “One will be provided before you ship out,” Sivuk answers. “I have a couple of requests, actually, sir.” Admiral Arkad gestures for me to continue. “I’d like Lieutenant T’Var for my ops officer and Lieutenant Riyannis as head of sciences. And I want to keep Lieutenant Phohl on as my XO.” “She’s already your tactical officer,” Commander Haas points out. “She wants both jobs, sir.” The admiral lets out a breath. “I’ll have to clear it with Command, but I don’t have any personal objections if you think she can handle it.” I nod. “All right, then. Anything else?” “No, sir.” “Very well. Take the rest of the weekend off, but starting Monday morning, for your penance”—this said shaking his finger at me—“you’re playing teacher’s aide in Captain th’Shvrashli’s ES 300 class until your ship is ready.” “Aye, sir.” The Andorian’s antennae twitch in a manner I’ve learned means they’re pleased. “Dismissed.”
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