Seriously ... stop calling me 'sir'!

[Shalin 0]

Ensign Shalin finished his shift, once again without incident. He smiled to himself: a few hundred more of those and maybe the Captain would forget his gaffe … probably not, but maybe. Stopping by his quarters briefly, he saw that Madison had made his … or her … last move. It was the first spark of communication between them: Ensign Grey had set out a chess board. A day later, a piece had moved. Shan caught the hint, and they had been playing the same game ever since. It seemed to him that Madison had the same feeling that he did … it was kind of fun sharing a room with a ghost. Madison probably didn't want to meet him either - it would spoil the game.

 

Shan didn't stay in his quarters long, though. He had made arrangements with the fighter deck officer to get some simulator time while the fighter crews weren't using them. He had been waiting days for his next session, and finally he had the chance. He hadn't flown a fighter since the Academy when he was in 'Fargo' squadron - those pilots charged with getting fighters from wherever they were stored to wherever the real fighter squadrons needed them. It wasn't a glamorous position, but someone had to do it.

 

Within minutes the simulator was running, and Shan was maneuvering through Earth's asteroid belt. It really wasn't that treacherous, if one knew what he was doing. Such places were only hazardous if a pilot insisted on being reckless. Shan liked to keep things exciting, but as much as he often scared his shuttle passengers he was in fact a very careful person. A thrill wasn't much fun if you weren't around to enjoy it afterwards.

 

Warrant Officer Cassie Granger wove among the simulators, looking for an opening. Given the present need to conserve fuel and ammo, Black Sheep had first dibs, and doubly so with fighter quals due within the month. Outside each simulator capsule a console read out data much like an arcade game: occupant/player, simulation/game, level, and score. One difference in the "real thing" was a qualification rating, the pilot's stress level, and the projected success of the mission given the added stress of a real situation.

 

Spotting an open hatch, Cass wandered toward it but stopped short as she noticed the occupant next door: Ensign Shan Shalin. Out of curiosity, she stopped to watch.

 

The scenario was running well. Shan had managed to cross the belt without incident, and the simulator was moving on to the next challenge: entering Earth's atmosphere. Normally not much of an issue, except that an Orionids meteor shower that he would have to cross. The S.O.P. would be to head to Starbase and wait it out, only for the purposes of the simulation that wasn't an option. Like most simulations, no reason was given for this. That didn't bother Shan: the same was true for most military operations. Reason had nothing to do with it: you did what you were ordered to do … plain and simple.

 

This, unfortunately, had a predictable result. The shower in the program was particularly vicious, and despite navigational sensors, deflectors, and managing to find a relatively light portion of the shower to pass through, the simulator declared that he had a puncture in his canopy and several micro-fractures in his engine manifold. End result: he 'died' by asphyxiation shortly before the craft detonated spectacularly above Starfleet Academy, SF.

 

Shan sat back and grinned at the display, mumbling to himself. "Not a bad way to go, overall …"

 

Cassie paged back through the simulation record. It wasn't particularly challenging, but she had a gut feeling that, given a more challenging situation, the ensign would come out on top. He sure wasn't giving himself enough credit. It also seemed that whoever programmed the simulation was out to get him.

 

Puncture in the canopy? Micro-fractures? In a Fleet fighter? Outside the atmosphere?

 

Cass checked the area for onlookers and spied a group of enlisted huddled around the master console, laughing and applauding. On a hunch, she accessed the text portion of the ensign's console and interfaced with the master screen. "Having fun?"

 

It took a few seconds, but the group began to scan the room, finally catching sight of Cass standing -- arms crossed, deadly look in her eyes -- outside Shalin's simulator. They scattered, their expressions clearly oh sh*t.

 

Cass accessed the original simulation protocol, set programming to instructors and certified personnel only, reset the system, and moved on to her own capsule, all the while watching the gang of five leave the bay.

After cooling his heels a bit, Shan was ready to exit the simulator. He had no idea what was going on behind him, nor did he particularly care. It had been an intense run, which was all he was looking for. As he rose from his capsule, he spotted a hint of blonde hair ducking into a separate simulator. Sneaking about for a bit, he saw Cassie settling in behind the controls.

 

So … the Marine fancies herself as a pilot, too. Nothing much was surprising Shan today, and this was no exception. Marines were known for being multi-discipline trained, and most of them thought they could do anything. While a big part of him wanted to just leave her to whatever she was doing, another part wanted to know what his co-workers were capable of. Quietly moving back to the observation center Shan watched her simulation unfold, settling into an observer's chair while absent-mindedly mumbling an old Earth tune.

 

"... anything you can do - I can do better. I can do anything better than you."

 

Simulators aboard Comanche Creek were anything but ordinary, their on-the-rim Border Patrol tasking more than evident in the configuration of simulation systems and available programs, the best compact ATFS* flight simulators available. In addition to shuttle and fighter missions, they came fully rigged for atmo ejection training, centripetal fitness up to 5 Gs, and roll, pitch, and yaw gyro-spin capability.

 

Tomcat. Hell of a thing. Hornet, likewise.

 

As tempting as those programs were, Cass was also up for quals, though not on 'Creek. They'd come in conjunction with her other evals, and most likely would be vacuum and atmo -- emphasis on the atmo.

 

Trainers were down-and-dirty sadists, and they had a thing for atmo. Getting a benchmark was just an excuse for the rush they got when pushing a pilot to the limit. Favorite trick was cutting out IDS and stabilizers, guaranteed to fill the cockpit with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

 

Lacking a flight suit that would protect her from high-G blackout, Cass nixed the centripetal fitness program and strapped on the five-point harness for the gyro. Known to pilots as the "rock 'n' roll gyro," it tested and enhanced spatial orientation and vestibular stability by twirling the pilot every which way but up while spinning at speeds approaching 2 Gs, all the while demanding that the pilot execute certain maneuvers.

 

Cass engaged the medical monitor/readout and med-alarm, set the timer for five minutes, and let 'er rip.

 

Shan watched as Cassie scrolled through the options. He wished that he was surprised by her selection, but he wasn't. Marines were always over-achievers, and Warrant Officer Granger was no exception. He wondered if that was what caused the disruption on the bridge: her and the Science Lieutenant bantering back and forth about what to do while completely ignoring the dolt in the command chair. Not that he blamed them: if he was at the helm with some incompetent Ensign playing captain, his first duty would be to protect the ship from the acting CO's inability. They were just doing the same.

 

Two minutes in and the usual spinning-gyro disorientation shifted into full fighter battle mode.

 

Sh*t...

 

Dirt-bound in a spinning dive, no IDS, alarms screeching, lights flashing a strobe pattern....

 

Damn...

 

"Warning... impact... in... three... minutes."

 

No sh*t...

 

Three minutes. Each breath strained into the next with the pressure of 3 Gs as her head spun with the vehicle. She began to lose focus while every compensation she attempted met a solid wall....

Sonofa....

 

"Warning... impact... in.. one... minute."

 

Thoughts of murdering the programmer spiked her adrenaline. Slapping the console, she went full manual, pushed herself forward to wrap both hands firmly around the stick, her feet sliding forward onto the aileron stability controls, her teeth set into a low growl.

 

Four Gs and accelerating. Approaching 12,000 feet. A hefty pull on the stick and fancy footwork slowed the spin, but she continued the dive. Her timing came back. She counted spins. At five, she slammed the stick forward. Five Gs... six... seven... close to blackout at 2500 feet....

 

"Eject. Eject. Eject. Auto... eject... in... ten... seconds... nine... eight... seven... six..."

 

The simulator banked into a slow roll and shot back towards the black void.

 

"End... program."

 

Cass collapsed into her seat, soaked with sweat, her head lolling against the rest, eyes closed against the yellow medical alert glaring on the cockpit system medical readout, connected directly to the medical bay.

 

She was good … some would say exceptional. Most certainly she was better than he was, begging the question of why she was on the bridge and not in the tactical squadron. His reason was simple: he could fly well, just not in a tactical situation. He was a shuttle pilot or a Starship helmsman. He had no business behind the yoke of a fighter, except to transfer it from spacedock to the Academy, or the other way around.

 

Shan watched for a while, then stepped up to leave. He wasn't a flight test evaluator, or Cassie's superior officer. He was just another deck officer who was, at the moment, spying on W.O. Granger's practice. He knew how much that would bug him; he didn't want to do that to anyone else.

 

Cass hung for several minutes to catch her breath before releasing the sweat-soaked harness. Her hands ran through matted hair as she leaned forward to allow the blood to circulate freely to her brain. When her focus returned and her body stopped shaking she popped the hatch and stepped out. Ooo-rah, Master Chief....

 

"Well, hello Officer Granger …"

 

Oh boy. A witness to that debacle. "Evening, Ensign Shalin." She did her best to keep her tone light. It was the programmer she wanted to kill, not the helmsman.

 

Shan did his best to give the impression that he wasn't looking in on her practice. "Fancy meeting you here. I thought I was the only one outside of the fighter squadrons preparing for evaluations."

 

"Just keeping my licks in, Sir. Never know when you might need 'em." The simulation had jerked most of the formal Marine out of her; her steps slumped from one stair to the next as she tried her best not to stumble. She even managed a slight smile. "Got to show the vacuum jocks what we're made of." She ticked her head toward Shalin's simulator. "Did yourself proud in that regard."

 

He sighed inside. Oh great … first the Captain notes that I rolled the ship, now she sees me here. Pretty soon everyone in the ship will get the idea that I want to join the fighter corps. Nothing was further from the truth. While dedicated, Shan was also a sincere pacifist. He didn't like getting into combat, and certainly wasn't one to seek a fighter to fighter encounter. He was a master of transportation: big ships, small ships, or matter transmission. He was that and nothing more, and the sooner people got that into their heads, the better.

 

He shook his head slightly. "It's nothing like that - I'm not looking to prove anything to anyone. I just like vehicles, that's all." He waved a hand to the hangar bay. "Fighters, shuttlecraft, patrol ships, starships … it's all the same to me. They're just vehicles, and I like to be able to pilot them all. You never know when you might need to." Shan was quite serious about the matter. He had seen both historical records and literary works which suggested the need for versatility. Being a unit, a fighter squadron was vulnerable to contagious viruses or a really bad unit party. In either case, others would have to be called up in their stead in times of crisis. As much as Shan hated the idea of fighter combat, he hated the thought of letting his captain down even more.

 

The thought of the Captain re-awoke another thought in him. "And Marcie, by All The Gods That Be, will you please stop calling me 'sir'? My name is 'Shan', or 'Shalin', or 'Hey You', or even the Captain's beloved 'Death Wish'. 'DW' will do … almost anything will do - just stop calling me 'Sir'!"

 

Marcie? Cass was too worn out to ask. "Shalin it is, then." She gave a sigh, more from exhaustion than for comment. "Most folks call me Cass, Sunny, or Gunner.

 

"But if you'll do me a favor, Shalin?" She leaned wearily on the railing and cocked her head with a sheepish grin at his expression. "Next time I move in the direction of these simulators, will you slap me upside the head? And if the Doc says anything about a yellow simulator med alarm, could you help me look real innocent?"

Shan turned a shade of pale at Granger's last comment. "Um, they put those med alarms in there for a reason. If you tripped them, you really should be checked out by Sickbay. You could end up with an embolism, or an aneurysm, or any number of nasty 'isms." He was quite disturbed at the news. The last thing he needed would be for the navigator to stroke out on duty. It wasn't just about a co-worker being less than par. Shan cared about Cass just because she was a person. He had this way of caring about everyone he worked with; that extended to all the bridge staff, and Cass was no exception. "If you wanted me to cover you about some broken piece of equipment that's no big deal, but I can't help you on this one. You're going to Sickbay to report whatever happened and get properly checked. If you don't go voluntarily, I will rat on you for your own good."

 

"You giving me an order... Shalin?" A playful smirk tugged at her lips.

 

Shan gave Cass a disgusted look. Why did people always have to be difficult? "Orders are for superior officers; I'm giving you a choice. Either you speak to the doctor or I will." Shan scowled but his soft, almost comical face made it all but impossible for him to look imposing. He prepared for the worst: that he would have to go to the doctor on Cass' behalf. It would be an ugly thing to do, but somebody had to do it.

 

"Aye, aye... Shalin. On my way." In complete respect to his rank, her expression remained serious. It softened to a slight grin after exiting the bay on her way to medical.

Damn. Might make a leader of him yet.

_____________________________

*Advanced Tactical Fighting Systems

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Nice joint log Death Wish and Sundance!