Surefoot 37: Second Class

Two minutes later, he was in the Cadets' Rec Lounge, hooked up to what had become his favourite games console, and lost himself in the shifting screens of coloured squares spinning before him.

He lost himself so much that he barely registered the presence of the tall, slender figure behind him. "Excuse me, Cadet? Cadet?"

Stalac paused the game and spun around, his senses picking up a strange mix of potassium, carbon, actinides, which he immediately recognised as being the composition of a Kelpien -- and the only Kelpien onboard was... "Lieutenant Neheru! I'm sorry, I was- I was--"

The scarecrow-like, tangerine-coloured humanoid tilted his elongated head towards the holographic display. "Yes, so I see. I tried to play Strategema once. It was... daunting." He straightened up. "Forgive the interruption, I know we met during your initial arrival, but I thought I would better make my acquaintance. How are you doing onboard the Surefoot, Mr. Stalac?"

"I..." He almost decided to give a pat, safe answer and be done with it. Nurse Eydiir would be along soon, find him here, and recommend his expulsion... assuming she doesn't just kick him out the airlock. "If I am honest, it is... difficult, Lieutenant... I... I want to burrow away and be left alone, and not have people walk around me, or over me, or trip over me, or stare because I'm... I'm--"

"Different?" Neheru prompted, dropping to one knee; even now, he would still tower over most Carbs Stalac had ever seen. He nodded, his lipless mouth widening. "Yes. I understand that, Cadet. It is at times frustrating, to never be able to feel comfortable enough to fully straighten out when I walk down a corridor, or to always end up in a seat where it feels like I have to extend my legs into the Beta Quadrant. And no one else seems to notice, or if they do, they make jokes about it. At least Captain Hrelle and Commander T'Varik ensured that modifications were made to my quarters."

Stalac rumbled to himself. "But, Sir, don't you resent being treated differently from the rest?"

Neheru chuckled. "But I am different, Cadet! And so are you! We are the Misfits. In a room filled with diversity, we expand that definition just a little bit more. We keep people from becoming complacent. And that's a good thing; embrace it. And we provide unique gifts. We can do things no one else can do."

"If you say so, Sir... I am told that I must find a suitable medical role."

"Yes: 'Pursuant to Starfleet General Policy and Starfleet Medical Emergency Operations, at least 40% of the officers and crew must be cross-trained to serve as Emergency Medical Technicians, Medics, Triage Specialists, and other emergency medical functionaries'. And I am aware that Commander T'Varik is insistent that every cadet is included."

"Unfortunately, Sir, I might be a little too... diverse... to help out. I have tried to find something, but to no avail."

"Really, Cadet? So now you sit in here and sulk and play games?"

The Horta rumbled again. "Sir, I genuinely do want to be of service. I'm just... limited--"

"Are you on the Twelfth Plateau of this game?"

Stalac started, turning back to the games console, having forgotten it was still on Pause. "Yes, Sir. There was a Strategema game on the transport shipout here, and I- I sort of became enamoured with the game--"

Neheru rose again. "Cadet, follow me."

Stalac, confused by the sudden change in the subject of their conversation, obeyed.

Twenty minutes later, they were joined in the Holodeck by Commander T'Varik and Doctor Masterson, the Holodeck empty except for a holographic computer interface designed to fully accommodate Stalac's body. The Kelpien addressed the small group. "Mr. Stalac has been anxious about making a meaningful contribution to our medical efforts, given his physical differences to the rest of us. But his proficiency with the game of Strategema inspired me."

T'Varik focused on Stalac now. "You were playing games while on duty?"

"Commander, please," Neheru chided gently. "As you will already be aware, during an emergency, a Medical Officer is typically assigned the role of Triage Manager, overseeing the initial tricorder readings by personnel dealing with incoming wounded, and assigning them to the appropriate facilities and staff. However, the role can be stringent, with the constant shifting of priorities and resources. The ship's computer can supplement this role, but with limitations as to what they are permitted to take on."

Masterson nodded. "It's a demanding job, you can't just leave it to a computer. But it's always tricky taking a doctor out of the action when they could be in the thick of it from the start."

"Indeed, Doctor, which is why Operations Officers often serve in the role when necessary. But it occurred to me that Hortas, whose minds are larger and more organised than most humanoids', in order to store and collate more information than they might otherwise need in a technological society, might serve quite well in this capacity."

Neheru turned back to Stalac, who had been listening and feeling so nervous he feared he might leak acid onto the Holodeck floor. "Cadet: you are about to undergo a training exercise based on a recent rescue operation the Surefoot underwent. Wounded will be beamed in from wreckage and escape pods, medical personnel will examine them, their tricorder readings will be fed into your computer. You have access to the personnel records of the Medical staff available, the Starfleet Medical Protocols for treating wounded, and access to the medical and industrial replicators and transporters. You will not be diagnosing the incoming wounded; your task will be to make the most appropriate decisions, as quickly as possible, in order to help save as many lives as you can. Are you ready?"

"Lives? You mean they'll be depending on what I--"

"Computer: Begin Exercise Stalac One."

Suddenly the yellow and black gridlines of the Holodeck vanished, replaced by the Surefoot Shuttlebay in full pandemonium, as the floor was lined with wounded being beamed in, and medical staff raced about, shouting at each other as room was made for more wounded appearing from the nearby transporter pads.

Stalac shook, once more momentarily overcome by the sudden creation of things that appear real but he only sensed as photons and force fields, before snapping into the role, accessing the databases, seeing the incoming data, grasping the protocols regarding severity of wounds. It wasn't as bad as he thought, requiring the same type of multitasking and prioritising that he used in Strategema and other games, or for studying and memorising.

He sectioned parts of his mind on the various factors: the ever-increasing numbers of incoming casualties and the conditions fed to the main computer from the tricorders, the fluid occupancy of the three Sickbays in operation now, the staff available, the remaining medical supplies, the requirement for increased life support systems to accommodate the extra bodies onboard, the allocation of additional crew--

"Cadet," Neheru prompted.

Stalac started, suddenly realising that he had totally lost himself in his own concentration. The simulation was over, the gridlines of the room had returned, and he saw Neheru kneeling beside him, as T'Varik and Masterson crowded around the console interface, reading data, and occasionally turning and looking at him with expressions Stalac couldn't decipher. He focused on Neheru. "Sir?"

The Kelpien regarded him. "Are you okay, Cadet?"

"Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir, my concentration on some things can be intense."

"How did you find that exercise?"

"Fascinating, Sir! Once approached in the right way, and once I understood the background Protocols, I found it easy!" He rotated to face the others, who now stared fully at him. He messed up, he decided, he knew it. He messed up somehow, and he was getting shipped home. But the role, it had been something he felt more comfortable doing than anything else.

"Son of a bitch," Masterson muttered to himself.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I haven't done anything like that before, I'm sure I can do better with practice!"

Masterson looked to T'Varik, who took over. "Cadet, in the real-life incident which formed the basis of your exercise, 477 survivors were taken onboard following a Klingon attack on their vessel; our efforts at the time resulted in a loss of only 20 lives, with 12 remaining critically injured, 30 in serious condition and a remaining 205 left with minor injuries of varying degrees.

Every incident like this is meticulously examined for the decisions made by the Triage Manager, not to find fault but instead improvements to our procedures; the best recommendations by the computer, had they been employed at the time, would have resulted in a loss of only 18 lives, with 9 remaining critically injured and 26 in serious condition.

Your efforts today would have halved that further."

Stalac wasn't quite sure he heard that. "Halved? Really, Commander?"

"How did you know to pre-order hyronalin from the replicators?" Masterson asked.

"The hyronalin? Oh, that. Well, Sir, in addition to the medical data, the personnel data is also provided for the wounded, to make the personnel aware of any allergies and such. Well, I saw the initial casualties were from Engineering, had suffered from radiation poisoning, and expected more, given the placement of escape pods for the Miranda-class cruiser and--"

"Never mind." Masterson shook his head, looking to T'Varik. "Why haven't we thought of this before?"

"Possibly because Horta crewmembers are exceedingly rare. I will arrange for an immediate modification to the Triage Management Console in the Shuttlebay, and have the Captain authorise the new allocations." The Vulcan turned to Stalac. "Mr. Stalac, you will be assigned additional study hours towards this new duty. And you will begin learning your new role -- immediately." She looked to Neheru. "Well done, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, Commander."

Stalac rotated to face the Kelpien, not believing this sudden turn in his fortunes... and his self-esteem. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Neheru smiled. "We Misfits have to stick together."

ZIR DASSENE'S STORY:

When Zir had first encountered Commander T'Varik months ago on Earth at Starfleet Academy, she had been impressed with the composure and assurance the Vulcan had presented.

Nothing had changed since arriving onboard and seeing more of the First Officer, as they now strode down the corridor towards the Captain's Ready Room. "Cadet, today you will be fulfilling the role of Captain's Yeoman. Are you familiar with it?"

Zir stopped in her tracks, feeling her face turn a darker shade of green. "Uh, yes, Ma'am, I've... I've heard it... it was a euphemism for a Captain's, uh, 'woman'..."

T'Varik had stopped as well, and raised an eyebrow at the cadet with mild derision. "Only in salacious fiction. It was in fact a Starfleet title popular in the previous century, for a junior officer, of either sex, who served as an administrative assistant to the Captain.

Advances in technology made such assistance, and such titles, obsolete, but we are re-introducing it onboard now, to provide you and the other Squad Leaders with an opportunity to see first-hand the day-to-day duties of a Captain. Let us proceed-"

"Commander," she started, unable to hold back any longer.

As the Vulcan stopped again, the young Orion woman approached her, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper despite there being no one in the corridor. "Commander, I was extremely appreciative, not only that you agreed to take on my friend, but that you included me as well--"

"I recall, Cadet."

"Yes, Ma'am. But at the time when you offered it to me, I had expressed my desire not to be posted to the Surefoot."

"I recall that as well, Cadet. Please get to the point."

"Well, Ma'am... why was my request ignored?"

"It was not ignored. It was refused."

"Oh. But... But I explained my reasons--"

"You did. And I consulted our Counselor for advice on the matter. She examined your psychological profile, and she believes that, whatever issues you have -- or believe you have -- they need to be addressed, not ignored, and that this is best done here. I agreed with her assessment." She regarded Zir. "Cadet, you have no reason to feel apprehensive. If you are expecting Captain Hrelle to look at you and only see an Orion, you are doing him a disservice. He will not hold your race against you."

"But- after the recent events, when he was almost killed- will he still want the likes of me around? What if he thinks I'm another threat?"

"Are you?"

"What? NO! I mean, No, Ma'am--"

"Then there is no further reason to discuss the matter. The Captain has fully recovered, and is back to his... normal self." T'Varik proceeded to the Ready Room door, entering without announcement, Zir quickly following, snapping to attention in time to see--

Captain Esek Hrelle sitting reading behind his desk, the large, mahogany-furred Caitian in full uniform, but also wearing a pair of baggy red underpants on his head like a shower cap, his sharp-tipped ears sticking out of the leg holes.

Beside him, his cub Misha sat colouring in a paper pad, like his father dressed in a Starfleet uniform in Command Red complete with Captain's pips -- and also, like his father, wearing underpants on his head, though his were smaller, white and were decorated with ducks.

Hrelle looked up and smiled. "Ah, there you two are! I was worried you got lost along the way! Morning, T'Varik! And welcome aboard, Cadet! I'm sorry I wasn't around to greet you when you first arrived, I was still convalescing. I hope you understand."

The Orion's mouth opened, but no words managed to escape.

Leaving T'Varik to respond. "Good morning, Captain. May one ask about the additions you two have made to the standard uniform?"

Hrelle frowned, then made a show of remembering what was on his head. "Oh, these!" He indicated his cub. "He said he got a Priority Message last night, and everyone has to wear them now."

Misha looked up and nodded solemnly in confirmation.

"Indeed?" the Vulcan replied deadpan. "And who sent this message to you, Captain Misha?"

"Admiral... Poophead," the cub replied... clamping his muzzle shut to keep from laughing.

T'Varik nodded. "Of course. He has been most prolific of late with radical orders." She looked to Zir. "I'll leave you now, Cadet. But I will expect a report from you tomorrow on what you have learned today."

"Uh, Commander--"

But T'Varik didn't tarry. As she departed, Hrelle called after her, "And make sure the rest of the crew is aware of the new orders from Admiral Poophead!" As Misha guffawed, Hrelle looked to Zir. "Did you want to go get some underpants for your head, too? I don't want you sitting here next to us looking stupid..."

*

There was an old Orion saying: The Serpent Will Strike. Maybe Not This Moment, Maybe Not This Hour. But It Will.

Orions weren't known for their optimism.

Misha didn't stay too long; her mother arrived to take him for a morning nap, staying and staring silently at Captain Hrelle until he finally took the underpants off his head and stuffed them in his desk drawer. The Counselor looked at Zir and smiled warmly. "Don't just sit there and accept everything he says. If you want to know the reasons behind everything he says and does, question. Make him do his job. You'll learn more, and anyway he loves talking, he's a regular little chatterbox--"

He reached back into the drawer, took the underpants back out, bundled them up and threw them at her. She caught them, her nose wrinkling. "You could at least have put clean ones on."

Misha laughed. "Stinky Pants!"

"Out! Both of you!"

Kami took her cub's hand and departed. Zir watched them leave, the image triggering a memory: seeing her mother walk back inside their house with her little brother Haikiv after waving her goodbye. They thought she was headed off to join her father at his shop to help out for the day.

They didn't know of her plans to leave off-world that very morning. And not return...

"He likes you," he informed her.

She looked up, drawn back to the here and now. "Sir?"

Hrelle chuckled, closing the desk drawer and picking up his PADD. "My son. You might end up one of his girlfriends. He says he has five. But don't expect a marriage proposal from him, he intends to stay single until he's very old. Fifteen, he says."

She stared. They were alone now, centimetres apart. This was it. He would reach out, grab her by the throat with that huge furred hand, squeeze, his claws popping out to pierce her skin...

"Cadet?" he asked.

She blinked.

He indicated his PADD. "This is linked to yours. We'll go through each of the daily reports you're expected to read, understand and acknowledge with an electronic signature; some will require additional DNA signatures from your thumbprint. It's a thousand mundane details, most of which will go in and be forgotten. But occasionally, there'll be something there that comes back to you at a crucial time.

First is the Incident Report from the Duty Officers on the previous two shifts..."

An hour later, he took her to the Bridge; she noticed how no one rose on his arrival, before he drew her attention back to him, indicating the various stations. "The design here is slightly different from the usual Sabres, as you can see; Mr Neheru finds it more comfortable to stand, so we moved Ops to share with the Tactical Display Board behind me, and we removed the second station next to the Helm. But everything else -- XO, Primary and Secondary Engineering and Sciences -- are in their usual places." He smiled, indicating the chair. "Take a seat."

She blinked. "Sir?"

He motioned with his hand. "Sit. See how it feels."

She looked around; a couple of the crew glanced at her and smiled, before resuming their duties. Tentatively she approached the chair, seeing the display stations on either side of it, blinking at her, beckoning her.

Wow. This was it. The moment she had hoped for... but not so soon.

Aware that Hrelle was watching her, she approached, finally, gently sitting down on the cushioned seat, acting like Kaldron did whenever he tried a new seat, in case it broke under her. It felt... comfy. There was a hole in the base of the chair, where the seat met the back, and it took a moment to realise it was for the Caitian tail, and she adjusted herself, resting her hands on the arms, and stared up at the viewscreen.

Wow. Just... wow.

"Cadet?" Hrelle prompted.

She looked up, her heart skipping. This was it. It had been a trap: he would say he'd never given her permission to sit there, everyone would back him up, of course, and she'd be sent home in disgrace. Except that she could never go home--

"Cadet," he continued, midway through speaking with an Engineering officer at the port rear station. "Did you want a drink? Tea? Coffee?"

"Uh... no thank you, Sir."

From the Ops station behind her, a crewman announced, "Sir, Sickbay reports an injury. Crewman Gentry. Plasma overload on Deck 4 Aft-Port Conduit behind the Morgue."

Zir watched Hrelle snap into action, approaching. "Status?"

"Initial reports indicate plasma burns to the face and left arm, they're treating him now."