Unforeseen Complications

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“Unforeseen Complications, Part I”

Anastasia Poldara

Stardate 9401.14

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“I'm coming, I'm coming!”

 

From within the house, the insistent beep of the comm panel penetrated each room, seeking an occupant, demanding an answer. From where she had been lounging on her deck outside, Anastasia Poldara leapt up from her chair and sprinted into the house. She was expecting a call from her sister or his husband any time now—they were expecting a baby any day. But when she arrived at the panel, she saw it was a Starfleet transmission.

 

Maybe they need me back at the lab, Anastasia thought. But I told them I was taking a couple of days off. They wouldn't call me unless it was an emergency. Uh-oh.

 

With apocalyptic, doomsday scenarios coalescing in her thoughts, Anastasia answered the call. The Starfleet commander who appeared on the screen was not her partner, Lieutenant Wyndam, nor her supervisor, the odious but brilliant Commander Zend. Yet the sense of relief that flooded through her body was quickly quenched by another urgent wave of dread—why was an unannounced commander calling her house? What was wrong?

 

“Lt. Poldara?” the woman asked in an authoritative voice.

 

Anastasia felt her hands become clammy. “Y-Yes—ma'am. ”

 

“Are you sitting down, Lieutenant?”

 

“No, ma'am.”

 

The woman's features shifted. A ripple of what might have been softness briefly flashed across her face before she regained her cold, detached demeanour. “You will want to sit down. That's an order.”

 

Anastasia sank into the living room's armchair, angling the display to better see the commander. “All right, ma'am.”

 

“Lt. Poldara, I'm Cdr. Asquith. Effective immediately, I'm offering you a transfer to the USS Challenger NCC-2457.”

 

The Challenger? Anastasia ransacked her brain for any details she knew about the ship. It was one of the new Excelsior models being rushed into production, she recalled. After the Enterprise-B fiasco, Starfleet had been more careful about starship production, but she had also heard something on the news about extra resources being allocated to make sure Challenger launched on time. . . .

 

“I see,” said Anastasia. “Um, in what capacity?”

 

“As chief science officer.”

 

Well that floored the young woman. Aside from her Academy training days, she had never set foot on a real Starfleet starship, let alone served on one for any length of time. Anastasia absently reached down and pinched her arm—too hard though. She winced.

 

The commander must have seen, for she said, “I assure you, Lieutenant, that this is not a dream.”

 

“Ma'am, you are aware that I've never served aboard a starship, right?”

 

“That fact does happen to be noted in your official service record, yes. Your point?” Asquith looked at her as if Anastasia had just said she was a world swimming champion. The armchair threatened to swallow her in a sea of irrelevance.

 

“Well, maybe you should choose someone more qualified,” said Anastasia. “I mean, I've barely used a starship sensor grid. I work in a lab, with a bunch of technicians all day. I have a family. I'm only a junior lieutenant—”

 

“Effective immediately upon your transfer you'll be promoted to full lieutenant, Lieutenant. As for your family and current work . . . this transfer is not compulsory.” Asquith leaned closer and reduced the calibre of steel in her voice. “We are aware of your gross inexperience, which means that if we have offered this position to you, then it must mean you have something very valuable to contribute.”

 

This was coming from the same Starfleet that had denied her at transfer to Starbase 2 several years ago, the first—and only—time Anastasia had really tried to leap into space. At the time, their reasoning had been that Starbase 2 had no ongoing cybernetics research, which was her main field of expertise, even though her doctorate was in astrophysics. Sick of the confines of Jupiter Station, Anastasia had moved back to Earth to work at its division of Starfleet cybernetics. Now here she was, tempted to move into an even more cramped vessel!

 

Asquith said, “You have a week to decide. I apologize for the short notice, but as you are aware, Starfleet wants no delays in the Challenger construction. If you don't respond in a week, we will assume you have declined this offer. While you would not be promoted at this time, your refusal would not adversely affect your future opportunities for promotion. They might, however, limit your future opportunities for advancement. The future only comes once, Lieutenant.”

 

She abruptly terminated the transmission, leaving Anastasia alone in her armchair to think. This was . . . an unexpected complication to her otherwise simple life. She had a very nice life too. Although certainly not heaped with fame, Anastasia's work on their cybernetics project was appreciated by her colleagues and peers. She was challenged, and she felt like she was making real discoveries.

 

But a starship posting! It had once been Anastasia's dream. Ever since childhood, she could remember staring up at the stars, wishing she could escape the smothering closeness of her large family. Somewhere along the way, Anastasia had changed—she knew that. She was not the same as that little dreamer. Cdr. Asquith was right, though—such an opportunity only came once.

 

But then, of course, there was Michael. A civilian doctor. Could she still join Challenger if it meant leaving her husband behind?

 

The front door's cautious squeak interrupted her thoughts. Familiar footfalls through the front hall told Anastasia that in mere moments, she would have to tackle this dilemma. The next seven days would be interesting indeed.

Edited January 14, 2008 by Tachyon

[Tachyon 0]

“Unforeseen Complications, Part II”

Anastasia Poldara

Stardate 9401.14

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Michael Sanders came into the living room to find his wife engulfed in their old teal armchair. The sides of the thickly-upholstered behemoth threatened to swallow her slender form whole. She slumped, staring at the computer on the table, her gaze a hundred million kilometres away. Michael recognized this look and knew she was deep in thought. He moved into the kitchen so as not to disturb her, but as he reached for the kettle, he heard her voice carry through the open door.

 

“Are you making tea?”

 

“Yes,” he replied, filling the kettle with water. “Would you like some?”

 

“Better make it strong.” Uh oh. Anastasia only liked her tea strong when something was wrong. Quickly, Michael reviewed his mental checklist for the day. He had picked up the clothes from the tailor, check. He had gotten the tickets to the next showing of King Lear, check. What was he forgetting? That's usually how it goes though—one forgets something until one's wife remembers it, often too late.

 

The kettle simmered thoughtfully while he contemplated what could be wrong. He couldn't just ask of course—that would make too much sense. Michael reentered the living room, taking a seat on the couch to Anastasia's left. He saw the UFP emblem on the screen, framed by the characteristic comm panel interface. So that's what had happened—someone in Starfleet had called for Anastasia! Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't too happy.

 

Michael reached out and took her hand in his own. She turned her head to look at him, but her eyes barely registered his presence. She smiled, though, and asked, “What's your dream, Michael?”

 

Was this some sort of test? Michael wondered if she had been reading one of those relationship magazines again. He replied, “Um . . . I'm living my dream, honey. Beautiful wife, beautiful house, comfortable career. . . . What more could I want?”

 

“What about kids, Michael? Three years ago, all we could talk about was starting a family. We should have a little one running around here right now. But the house is silent.”

 

The house was, in fact, not silent. The kettle was now rumbling furiously in the kitchen, which had in turn initiated a sympathetic vibration from the oven beneath it. This rattling created a similar tremor in the pots on the adjacent wall, which transmitted the sound to the waste recycling unit. What had started as a simple attempt to manufacture tea had become a discordant symphony of kitchen appliances.

 

Michael said, “We still have plenty of time.”

 

“Maybe.” The word hung there, still not a complete thought—Anastasia was holding something back. Michael sighed.

 

“What's wrong, Ana? What happened?”

 

Now her brown eyes focussed in on him. “I got a call from Starfleet. They . . . they want me to be the science officer on the Challenger.”

 

Michael's eyebrows shot up. “The science officer? The science officer? The chief science officer?” Anastasia nodded. “Well that's wonderful! That's—that's so excellent, unexpected. And the Challenger sounds like a fine ship—one of my patients just can't stop going on about how the Excelsior class is such a 'long needed update to Starfleet starship design'. But science officer . . . wow.”

 

“Maybe.” There was that word again.

 

The underlying complexity of the situation and its consequences suddenly dawned on Michael. Ah—now he understood. Challenger was first and foremost a military vessel, regardless of its exploratory mission. Long term employment for a civilian doctor with no unusual expertise would be unlikely. Plus, even if there were such a miracle position—well, Michael couldn't leave his position here so quickly. Which meant, ultimately, that if Anastasia took this wonderful opportunity . . . she would be doing it alone.

 

“It's a big decision,” Michael said.

 

“Yep.”

 

“What do you want? When we first met, you seemed so passionate about space travel. But you've changed since then, Ana—you and I both know that. All you can talk about these days are those machines you're making over at the lab. Can you walk away from that?” Can you walk away from me?

 

Anastasia said, “Believe me, Michael. I wish that it never came up this way. I love you.”

 

“But do you want to go to the stars?”

 

“It's not that simple, Mic—”

 

“Do you want to go?”

 

“Yes! Okay? Happy now?” screamed Anastasia. “I want to go. I want to explore strange new world, seek out new life and new civilizations, to go boldly where no one has gone before. I want that to be me on that starships, making those discoveries. I don't want to wake up one morning—even if it's next to you—and realize I missed the boat—literally! But . . . but if doing it means not seeing you for a year or more . . . I don't know how I can do that.”

 

Michael murmured, “To boldly go.”

 

“What?”

 

“It's 'to boldly go'. I mean, your version's grammatically correct, since 'to boldly go' is a split infinitive, but that's how the original quotation went.” He smiled meekly.

 

Oh, he could always do this to her. Michael always knew just how to defuse Anastasia's short temper before a situation got out of hand. He saw her face twitch, a smile just beginning to form. She came over to sit next to him on the couch and lay her head on his shoulder.

 

Michael said, “I love you too, Ana. Which is why I think you should go.”

 

“But—”

 

“You are right. If you don't do this, one day you'll wake up and regret it. And if you don't like it, if you miss me too much—well, Earth isn't going anywhere. You can always transfer back. Starfleet doesn't ask junior lieutenants to head up a brand new starship's science department every day, you know. You didn't just beat the odds—you've totally skewed them. You're always doing that, Ana.”

 

“I'm just lucky. I'm lucky to have you.”

 

“You deserve to have me.”

 

Anastasia smiled and just enjoyed the closeness of her touch. An unfamiliar scent wafted into the room. It was something burning . . . smoke. She frowned. “Do you smell that?”

 

“Yes, I—ohmygodthekettle!” Michael leaped up and ran out of the living room.

 

The kettle, which had long since boiled, was tired of being the ignored member of this relationship. It had decided to seize matters in its own hands, and had promptly caught fire, torching the stove in the process. The kitchen, once a picturesque example of 23rd century living, was now a blazing inferno.

 

Talk about omens.

[Tachyon 0]

“Unforeseen Complications, Part III”

Anastasia Poldara

Stardate 9401.16

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Anastasia closed her eyes and lay her head back. She felt the shuttle leave Earth's gravity as it carried her up, up, and away from her home. They would dart past McKinley Station, zip around the moon, and finally arrive at Utopia Planitia.

 

Mars. The stepping stone to the rest of the galaxy. In humanity's hundred and fifty years of warp flight, it had straddled star systems, formed an interstellar political entity, and become the cornerstone of diplomatic relations in the sector. Yet there was still so much left to explore, over 90% of the galaxy left uncharted. Suddenly, the vast potential for the Challenger's mission, and Anastasia's place as its science officer, overwhelmed her.

 

The gravity quickly adjusted back to Earth norm. The cabin was rather silent—the shuttle's only other occupants were a Vulcan couple, who appeared to be on some sort of diplomatic mission, and an elderly human civilian with a greying beard. Anastasia was not, by nature, a people watcher. She preferred stars and nebulae, equations and astronomical calculations. Hers was a world of data and numbers.

 

The pit that had formerly been Anastasia's stomach rumbled nervously. It knew where they were going. This was Anastasia's first trip into space in over six months. They were not just going to see the Challenger—she was here to meet its captain.

 

After Michael had urged Anastasia to accept the posting, she had continued to vacillate for another day. He was right, however: she had to go. So she had contacted Commander Asquith, who informed her that she would still need an interview with Captain Seiben, Challenger's commanding officer. The task of selecting the department heads would ultimately fall to him. Anastasia was just the number one recommendation on Starfleet's list.

 

She knew little of Captain Seiben. She had downloaded his biography to a PADD prior to the shuttle's launch. He was an experienced officer, she noted, having just finished a tour of duty as commanding officer of the Cherokee. Challenger would be a step up—Starfleet obviously thought highly of him. A knot formed in the pit. Anastasia hoped she would make a good first impression. It would be hard enough trying to be science officer amongst so many other experienced veterans without having a captain who hated you. Then again, if he hated her, he simply wouldn't assign her, right?

 

Also on the PADD was a list of the physical tests Anastasia had to complete before she could be assigned. Her last posting in space had been over two years ago. While Anastasia remained fit, she had little recent experience in space, and no experience in zero-g operations or starship emergency drills except for her sparse Academy training. With the construction on a deadline and the launch less than a month away, Anastasia realized her schedule would be completely filled right up until the launch hour—that is, if she got the position.

 

The feeling from the pit that had been her stomach told her all she needed to know, however. Anastasia wanted to go into space.