Runner

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following log takes place during the One Hour TBS….

 

“Why’da run?”

 

The question was direct and Calestorm’s tone was steady. The captain stood leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed over her chest. Two Security guards a few paces behind her. She waited patiently for an answer.

 

With Commodore Decker in direct command of the Task Force, Crash had taken on assistant duties in the command line to deal with situations such as this to free up Decker…the Great Bird of the Galaxy had a warped sense of humor.

 

The boy in front of her was no more than nineteen years old, maybe twenty one if she was generous. His navigator - and sister - stood by his side. She was not much older and stood with hands on hips trying to maintain a tough façade which wasn’t working as Crash stared her down with a stern look.

 

The kids operated the Genie’s Lamp, a tramp freighter based in the outer territories and they’d caused a little bit of a stir when they suddenly bolted from the formation.

 

The hanger bay of the USS Comanche Creek was active with personnel going about their duties with a secondary CAP about to launch. The Outer Rim Task Force, aka Task Force 42, held position while civilian retainer and professional mercenary ships from the Black Kris mercenary faction joined up. When all was said and done the TF would number forty one ships total with scout vessels, support vessels, the USS Constitution and the FTR ships.

 

The kid shrugged bony shoulders and answered with a clear, “I just kinda felt…uh…uncomfortable. Captain. Sir? Erm…Ma’am? Y’know, with all the Starfleet ships around…”

 

Calestorm sighed. “Easy on the rank and titles before you bust a brain cell. Son, I’m gonna be real honest with you here and suggest you don’t try running again. Either you’re with the Task Force or you’re not, simple as that. You hear me now?”

 

The kid gave a nod of understanding and shared a sheepish look with his sister.

 

“And, if y’all were with a more, ah, trigger happy group? The Bozeman would’ve blown your ship outta the stars when you bolted like that instead of tractor beaming your asses. So be thankful Captain Dodge is an understanding kind of guy.”

 

The siblings exchanged worried looks as Crash continued speaking.

 

“You’re cargo jockeys. It’s not like Boss Mareena expects you to engage in combat with the Dragoons. She hired you to haul supplies among the TF ships and assist our search and rescue shuttles as needed with retrieval of any pilots that bail from their damaged rides or ships personnel in escape pods. You understand that?”

 

“Yeah…yes, Captain.” That was the sister.

 

“And don’t run again and I’ve a friendly bit of advice: It’s real hard to get work once you get bulls eyed as a coward, hear me?”

 

His sister and he both nodded their understanding and Crash sent them on their way to the shuttle that had ferried them over from the cargo hauler they called home.

 

As the older woman watched the tramp haulers’ retreating backs her emotions were caught between wanting to send them home and knowing their services could be of use at some point.

 

Crash ran a hand through her silver-white hair and muttered, “They’re just kids…”