Michael Sinclair strode into his office less than fifteen minutes later. His chief of staff, Lt. Commander Doreen Bradley, was seated at her desk, scanning mountains of reports to summarize for him. "Good morning, Admiral," she greeted him. "Good morning, Commander. I trust your weekend with Grandmother was pleasant?" "It was an old fashioned Vulcan Sunday dinner," she shot back. "Wish you could have come, Admiral. My Grandmother asked for you. She really enjoyed your visit last time." "See, you lose all your credibility when you use words like 'enjoy' when describing an elderly Vulcan," he warned her." Her smile was automatic and wide. "You'd be surprised, Admiral, how much Vulcans let their hair down whenever Humans aren't present." He strode through the double glass doors and into his own office. A moment later, Doreen's intercom chirped. "Join me, please, Commander," he said. She'd known this was coming. She stepped through those same doors to find him standing at the floor to ceiling viewports that made up the back wall of his office. Through that clearsteel they could see the bow end of the saucer section of the as-of-yet unnamed Courage class starship they had nearly completed. But that wasn't the focus of the Admiral's attention. He had his arms crossed, an index finger slowly tracing a line on his chin as he looked downwards into the lower reaches of Spacedock. Yep. He'd noticed. "There are no nacelles on the *Chimborazo*," he said. "That's right," she told him. "I was told, specifically, by Mr. Andersand at the Rigel Nacelle Consortium, that there would be nacelles on the *Chimborazo* this morning. I even told Dr. Brennan this." "I know, sir." "I am now a liar." "I don't think you should be so hard on yourself, sir," Doreen corrected him. "Because Mr. Andersand is a liar." "Now that I can't argue with," she agreed. "The nacelles are en route, I'm sure," he said. "They were held up by a plasma storm in the belt, no doubt." "Ahh, no, sir. I checked. The nacelles have not yet left Rigel." "I see." He stood silent a long time. Then, "Commander, call our pilot, have him prepare the scout for a trip to Rigel. I'll gather some work to do en route, and we'll head out within the hour." "The shuttle is warmed and ready to depart, sir," she told him, "and I've taken the liberty of packing your briefcase." He turned. "Have I become that predictable, Doreen?" he asked her, almost offended. "Only to me, sir." ****** The meeting had been a success. Face to face, Michael had pointed out that a contract was a contract, and although Starfleet had been more than gracious in not applying any of the penalty clauses to date, if the nacelles did not arrive by 0700 Spacedock time the next day, the five year contract for nacelles with the Rigel Consortium would be cancelled, just in time for the quarterly shareholders' meeting. Michael had no doubt there would be nacelles on the *Chimborazo* come the next afternoon. Michael had finished all the work Doreen had packed for him, and he'd listened to her briefings for the day. They'd then mapped out the next few weeks' construction. With all that done, he still had two hours left on the trip back to Terra, so he turned his attention to the last item in his briefcase. It was a book. An honest to goodness ink on paper book, given to him by his good friend and poker pal, Matthew T. Brennan. "Caring, when Curing Isn't Possible" the title proclaimed. Michael turned the book over to see Matthew 's smiling face on its back cover. Well, not Matthew's, the good doctor had assured him. Simply some oh-so-great grandfather from long, long ago. The Brennan family genes were obviously quite strong, though. The resemblance was much more than simply striking. Michael had told Matthew of his hours and hours spent researching possible names for the new ship. The folks that did this for a living, the consulting firm Starfleet paid way too much money to suggest names, were just pissing him off. There were names that had nothing to do with Courage. And by God, if it was a Courage class starship, then its name needed to imply courage. That didn't seem all that difficult a concept to Michael. Nothing was sounding right to him, however. There were some - many, actually - who wanted to simply name it the *USS Courage*. But that was incredibly boring and unimaginative, and there was no way that Michael Sinclair was going to put his signature on that asinine plan. The next day, Matthew had delivered the book, along with a bookmarked page. Michael opened the cover and read the words scrawled there in what was clearing a physician's handwriting. "What you need is a symbol of courage. Read Chapter 4. Just a suggestion. Matthew." So Michael settled back, slid his reading glasses onto his nose, and opened the book to chapter four. A half hour later he had finished reading it for the third time. He looked up, closed the book, and found Doreen's eyes. "Take a look at this, would you?" he asked her, handing her the book. She set aside the dilithium tracking PADD she'd been working on to take the book from him. Being careful with it given its obvious age, she gingerly opened it to the marked page and began to read. When she next looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "If you name that ship anything else," she said simply, "I will never work for you again." Michael was nodding. "We have a name," he told her. "We have a name," she agreed. Michael reached into his briefcase for his PADD and called up the incomplete memo that would establish the ship's name. It had been started several months ago, the only missing had been, well, the name. He rectified that and then electronically signed the memo. "The *USS Kimberly L. Havlicek,*" he said, trying it aloud for the first time. "Beats the hell out of the *USS Courage,*" she told him. ***** Anyone not familiar with Kimberly Havlicek, and wishing to become so, can learn about her by going to http://views.vcu.edu/medtoast/docshlfic.html and clicking on the link for Story #3: "Wonder: In the Company of Angels." rj
