Mutineer's Fate: TACTICAL LOSSES

episode 106

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                                          Advanced Tactical was one of the hardest courses to get admitted to. Only the highest ranked students from the third-year Tactical class would be considered for a referral to even get a berth in one of the Fleet Assault Squads. Those cadets that managed to survive the 3^rd year fleet exercises then faced evaluation and, if passed, could take the Advanced class.

              The course never had more than two dozen students enrolled in any year. Instruction took place in the saucer section of an old NX-class ship, hollowed out, retrofitted for training exercises and hovering just off the north tower.

              There were four students seated in the ATC briefing room on this day, located in the back of the old ships bridge where the conference table once sat. At the beginning of the training year, it had been standing room only, with just twenty available seats, forcing the bottom ranked students to sit along the viewport alcove. By the end of the year, however, the room was filled with mostly empty chairs that once were occupied with students who failed out of the class.

              Elisa Flores arrived at class early as was her habit, and walked to the front of the room. She abruptly stopped short when she found that the first seat, the one ranked highest, no longer bore her serial number.

              “What is this?” she demanded.

              Captain Chakotay entered from what used to be the captain’s ready room, leaning heavily on an ornate cane crafted from gear linkages and topped with the cybernetic skull of a Borg drone. Pointing a blocky cybernetic finger at a chair several ranks back, he addressed her sternly: “Did you think your failure in the Kobayashi Maru would not affect your standing? Take your place, cadet.”

              Flores turned and searched for her new placing, finding her number on the very last chair, “You dropped me ten ranks?!”

              The snap and flash startled her so bad she nearly fell. “Take your place!” Beneath the garish blood red tattoo that might have been a glyph of a birds talon or the claw of a lizard, the captains eye twitched. He’d slammed the cane down to punctuate his anger causing the electric discharge.

              “That was a Support Patrol Training Tour…not ATC!” she protested, nearly dropping her pad. “Dane was in command!”

              Chakotay raised the cane threateningly. “Then you should have relieved him of command when he failed to do his duty, Flores. Or maybe the fault didn’t lie with the cadet who killed a ferasan... took out THREE aliens in the bottom bouts to prove his worth. Maybe it was the crew that failed to execute his orders. Take your place or I can arrange another rotation in the cells.”

              The threat was effective. Elisa walked to the back of the class, took her new place and waited for the remainder of her classmates to show.

              Sweat ran down her back beneath her uniform, the trauma of her time in the cell was still fresh. In her previous three years at the academy Flores had never even come close to being thrown into one. So of course, just as she was on the precipice of graduating, she was given one of the worse sessions. Nearly four full years of excellence had been undone because she signed onto the Cadet patrol exercise with Dane. When they had discovered the Kobayoshi Maru’s distress call she had actually been excited for the opportunity to capture traitors… but Dane’s performance ruined that—and perhaps her career.

              Dropping in Advance Tactical in this way, not only meant the loss of a prestigious posting, but could mean she was to be commissioned as an ensign instead of a lieutenant or even a lieutenant junior grade as well. Surviving one’s first tour in the fleet often hinged on that rank; ensigns were usually the first to die on excursions.

              As the rest of the class filed in, Flores watched Chakotay at his desk terminal. It was obvious that he had already gotten notice of their postings, and was scrolling through them at that very moment, nodding at some, sneering at others and making notes.

              He was literally looking at their fates and making bets.

              The heat rose beneath her skin. Chakotay had surely submitted their rankings before the postings were finalized. Her fate had been sealed while she had been writhing in the cell. After they returned from their failed tour there had been a review and debriefing, both of which amounted to little more than a sentencing; telling her how long she would be punished. Yet there was no mention that she would lose her class ranking, though in hindsight, she realized she should have expected it.

              She could understand dropping from first to possibly fourth… not being dropped to the bottom of the class.

              And there was no “last place” at the Fleet Academy.

              The claw above his eye spread its talons when Chakotay cocked an eyebrow as he continued to read through the postings. Then he quickly but clearly glanced at her. She held her breath… but his expression was unreadable. Finally he stood and addressed the class.

              “I won’t waste time with the usual speech about how I expect you all to conduct yourselves on your first postings. I won’t waste time reminding you that you will be representing the Advance Tactical class in the fleet. I will tell you that your respective commanding officers will hold you to the highest expectations and those of you who do not meet those expectations will be summarily dismissed from their posts.”

              The threat was clear; dismissal from your first posting more often meant being forced onto a transporter pad and beamed into vacuum. Many of them had witnessed such brutal spectacles during their third and fourth year tours.

              Flores simmered. Dismissals were seldom leveled against officers.

              Chakotay stood and made his way toward the first row of cadets. Raising his pad he swiped across it’s screen, sending the cadets postings to their own devices. “Congratulations, Mr. Razkii,” he nodded to the red skinned saurian. “…you’ve been assigned to the Enterprise as a Lieutenant JG.”

              The rest of the class responded in vigor, pounding their fists in rhythm on their desks, cheering their fellow cadet. Flores, stunned, held her own fists over her desk, paused in shock. She had checked… more than once to see if there had been an available berth on the flagship of the Terran fleet and there had been none. Yet now, it seemed, not only had she lost a chance at getting an officer ranking but had lost out on being posted to the most dominant ship in fleet history.

              As Chakotay walked about the class giving out the rest of the postings, Flores drummed her fist on her desk robotically, dreading her fate. It got no better as the cadet ranked just ahead of her received his posting as an ensign. He was actually happy with it.

              When Chakotay reached her desk, looking down on her with a sneer that could have been a smile or a scowl. “Flores…” he held his pad up before her. “Seems there’s no ship in the fleet that wants the stink of your failure coming off their transporter pads.”

              She held her expression tight, aware that the rest of the class was looking at her. Chakotay swiped dismissively across his pad to hers. “Report to fleet personnel officer Ferra to see if he has anything left for you.”