OOC: The part of Admiral Michael Sinclair is playedy by Sam Neil The part of Commander Kimberly Wells is played by Calista Flockhart The part of Lt. Cmdr Doreen Bradley is played by Liv Tyler Damn, she was a big ship. She was a *really* big ship. Chief of the Spacedock Ship Construction Command, Admiral Michael Sinclair, had walked her halls from stem to stern, port to starboard, quarterdeck to keel more times than he could remember. And each and every time he had, again, realized that she was a very damn big ship. So big, that Starfleet had decided it would take 7500 crewmembers to make her work. A good many of those crewmembers would have grown up in towns that didn't boast 7500 beings. Could that many people inside one metal shell really be expected to get along with only a few homicides? By designation, she was NCC-5100(q), the very first of what would be at least five *Courage* class starships. Michael could never quite remember what the 'q' actually stood for, except that it denoted a ship that was classified as under construction or under repairs so extensive that she was officially out of commission. Michael's own theory about the 'q' was that it was a letter chosen as a 'this far and no further' sort of watermark, to prevent the fleet from making ship sequels out beyond the sixteenth generation. So far, only his chief of staff agreed with his theory. And that might just have been because she was supposed to, not because it was logical. On today's journey Michael had started on the flight deck, having taken the catwalk there from one of the many criss-crossing endoskeletons within Spacedock's cavernous center well. Two squadrons worth of F/A craft had already been delivered and stowed; the other two were expected tomorrow. He took a moment to admire the brand new craft, and even climbed up into the cockpit of one. It had been an awfully long time since he'd flown a single engine craft. He wondered if the new CAG might give him a chance to re-earn his wings. Probably not. Oh well. He continued his tour. He'd found the bridge to be coming along nicely. The consoles were all out of their crates now, and most were even installed. The carpet still wore its protective wrapping, and most of the upholstery had yet to be delivered, but it was starting to look like a bridge. In engineering, he'd run across the Chief of 5100, Commander Kimberly Wells. Short, slight, almost to the point of being petite (but Michael had learned, the hard way, *not* to call her petite) Kimberly nonetheless had a presence that made her completely noticeable. On this particular day she didn't pause when she saw Michael enter her domain. She, in fact, continued undeterred in her cussing out of a junior tech who had left a tool on the floor in the middle of engineering. Afterwards, when she did deign to spare Michael a few moments of her time, she even refrained from pissing in his ear about the slowness in getting parts she'd ordered. This could only mean that Kimberly was in an outstanding mood, and, hopefully, would remain that way for at least the next shift or two. Out into the corridors again, for another long walk, and then a ride in the turbolift. It stopped - because he'd commanded it to - on Deck Six. The lift doors opened, and he hesitated a moment, using that time to again take in the view as one stepped onto the deck. Directly ahead of him was the seal of Starfleet, with a '6' superimposed over top. The logo was large, colorful, and striking, and oh-so-professional. Beneath it sat a desk, already in place, with its computer and monitor already in place. This entire deck, since it consisted mostly of basic hardware interfaces and furniture, had been finished long ago. Michael stepped into the anteroom, larger than it truly had a right to be but it was, after all, the entrance to FleetOpsSix - Fleet Operations for Starfleet's Sixth Operational Fleet. It deserved to be at least a little ostentatious. After all, it was housed on a boat designed to carry a city. To his left stood a clearsteel pane that, when activated, would display the names, numbers, and operational status of every ship in the Sixth Fleet. Currently it stood transparent, waiting to fulfill its mission. Michael stepped into the anteroom, taking a moment to inhale deeply of the fresh carpet and fixture smell. It smelled clean, fresh, and eager to get to work. Those were adjectives that the current CiNC Sixth Fleet just seemed a bit incongruous with. Admiral Sinclair had known Admiral Booker for several years. Too many years, Michael sometime thought. Booker had once been his assistant, long ago, in a time and place further removed from Michael and Gary now than mere time and geography could account for. Thirteen years ago, Michael's ascendancy to the command of the Sixth fleet had been a foregone conclusion. Michael had cut his teeth in the Sixth Fleet's home, starting and then continuing his distinguished career on several different ships along the Romulan Neutral Zone. His first command had been of the *USS Pittsburgh*, a Hunter/Killer class cruiser built for clandestine ops. He'd excelled. In the years that followed he had continued to work in that one particular patch of space. He'd moved his family - his wife Therese, along with his young son Christopher and his daughter Celeste - to Starbase Melcoas in the Triangle region, where he could visit them as often as possible. He'd even commanded Melcoas for a time, as a prelude - a grooming, SFC had called it - to taking command of the Sixth Fleet. And then Therese had fallen ill. Despite aggressive medical care on Melcoas, she'd deteriorated, and the physician there had finally suggested that Michael return Therese to Terra, where the best neurologists would be. An hour later, his request had been sent to Starfleet. It had taken some begging, but they had finally accepted and granted his request. The only admiralty level posting in the Sol system, however, had been as Command of Shipbuilding at Spacedock. Without reservation (and without experience) Michael had graciously accepted. It had taken Therese nearly ten years to die of her illness. Ten long years of interminable suffering. Michael had buried her in the Sinclair family plot just outside Vancouver, just over three years ago now. He would never be able to bury his guilt, however. Surely, had they been closer to Terra when this all had started rather than out along the Neutral Zone, things would have gone better for Therese. But she'd never accused him of that. She'd never blamed his career for ending her life. Just like he'd never blamed her illness for ending his career. With Michael now, voluntarily, "off the line", the Sixth Fleet had fallen to the apparent next in line, Admiral Gary Booker. This, to Michael, had been a mistake from the beginning. Gary Booker was a good man, but he wasn't overly vigilant. He tended to trust too much in people he liked, as opposed to people who had proven themselves. He placed too much emphasis on personality, and not enough on ability. As a result, the Sixth Fleet was now well stocked with very likeable captains. It was not, however, well stocked with very competent captains. Knowing the Rihannsu as he did, Michael feared for the consequences. He slowly rounded the secretary's desk, and headed further into the suite. Next was the row of offices for the Fleet's logistical coordinators. As he passed those, he approached a set of frosted double doors. They swooshed open easily to allow him into the office of the Chief of Staff of CiNC Sixth Fleet. He liked to imagine this as Lt. Commander Doreen Bradley's office. If he squinted, he could almost see her behind the desk, looking up at him at that askance angle she used when she was about to say something teasing, the glint of humor in her green eyes looking very incongruous when laid against the points of her ears which came courtesy of her Vulcan grandmother. There was a viewport behind that desk, which looked out starboard. At the moment it overlooked the early construction of the USS Concordance. Another set of double doors, this set swooshing open to allow him into a large but not expansive office that looked directly astern, courtesy of floor to ceiling viewports. It was a spectacular view. Or would be, anyway. Looking aft, he could see the work crews working to balance that fourth nacelle. Below was the secondary hull, and slightly above was the flight deck. Damn, but she was not only a big ship, she was a good-looking ship. In a perfect world, Gary Booker would be building this ship for him, not the other way around. Which was why, he knew, after putting together and launching some one hundred and five starships in his thirteen years as Spacedock Construction Command, this one ship had captured his heart like none other. This one ship, still, without a name. He felt guilty, but he allowed himself to sink slowly into what would be Gary Booker's chair. He swiveled it a bit, and turned to look aft. This floor to ceiling clearsteel was very much like the back wall of his current office. Only in this office, the view would constantly change. The only time his changed was when a ship had completed its construction. With the ship in warp space, the view here would be awe-inspiring. Gary would never get any work done. Hell, Michael wasn't sure that *he* would be able to get any work done. As if he'd get the chance. He stood, before the chair became too comfortable. What was done was done. He didn't regret what he'd given up, because he'd gained so much time with Therese, when time had been oh-so-short. He was content to end his career as an admiral commanding ships that weren't capable of going anywhere, who then turned their command over to some other admiral once they had gained that capability. He didn't need the adventure anymore. He really didn't. He was sure he didn't. Very, very sure. Well, more or less, anyway. ...tbc.... ********************************************************* RJ Ferrance, DC, MD Combined Internal Medicine-Pediatrics Chief Resident Medical College of Virginia Hospitals Richmond, VA 23298 [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://views.vcu.edu/~medtoast/anvil.html
