Training Day

[Morgan Shackelford]

I

There are those rare, brief moments in time where the puzzles of the universe just seem to fall into place. Those moments where you are no longer pretending to be something. You are no longer fitting yourself into a role. You aren't trying to be a father, or a boss, a friend. You aren't trying to be something to fit what someone else thinks you should be. In those moments, you are who you were meant to be.

Time slows, and footfalls sound like whispers. You can almost feel the synapses connecting as you exhale and tighten the small group of muscles on your index finger.

*******

Morgan Shackelford could taste the smell of stale sweat mixed with recycled air. He could feel the hum of the ship’s core through the deck plates. The rifle wasn’t in his hands – it was his hands.

This was never what he wanted. He didn’t want to be in the middle of a god damned interstellar war. He didn’t want to have to fight for his life on a daily basis. He knew the odds. Most people in a war eventually end up dead, and he sure as hell didn’t want that. Mortal combat with other sentient beings was a long shot at best. Hell, back at the Academy, if a guy could do as well as just breaking even during simulated combat, he was a legend. Anything better than that made you a god. But eventually, everyone lost to someone. Eventually, everyone was dead – simulated, of course.

He knew the klaxons had to be blaring throughout the ship because there were red emergency lights flashing everywhere. He couldn’t hear them. His focus was singular, on a dark Klingon shape sighted down the barrel of his rifle, running towards him with a drawn blade…

*******

“Well, Mr. Shackelford, your orders have come through.”

Morgan remained stiff at attention, refusing to even blink. He waited through the Commandants silence, understanding that such a pause was not necessarily an invitation to engage in conversation.

“I have my concerns when it comes to your psychological stability, but fortunately for you someone seems to think you show some promise. Your solution to the Kobayashi Maru test has been done before, you know.”

Morgan locked eyes on his superior. No other part of his body moved. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

The Commandant stroked his beard and looked upwards, lost in a short moment of thought. “Granted.” His eyes focused back on Morgan.

“I didn’t like your fucking test, sir.”

“It’s not meant to be liked, Mister. You should know that approximately zero point four percent of candidates come up with similar solutions to the test as you. Of those, ninety three percent never make it past Lieutenant. Usually because they end up dead.”

“And the others, sir?”

“They make Admiral. Usually they shape the direction of Starfleet.”

The Commandant looked down at the electronic pad he had been holding in his hands during the conversation and stifled a sigh. “You have a choice to make, Cadet. Something else I don’t see too often in this office. You may either report to Deepspace 9 for deployment to the 12th Fleet, or you may report to Starbase 643 for deployment with the 7th.”

Morgan couldn’t hide the smirk slowly spreading across his face. He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take the 7th, sir.”

“Very well. Good luck, Ensign Shackelford. You’re going to need it. Dismissed.”

With a quick salute, Morgan made an about face and marched out of the Commandants office. The Commandant updated the newly christened Ensign’s file, and went back to work. Morgan was someone else’s problem now.

*******

He didn’t want to be in a war, but he knew enough to know he didn’t want to live in a galaxy ruled by Klingons, or Remans, or overrun by Borg. He wanted to be free, and in the pursuit of that desire, he had given up his freedom. Yet, in this moment, he felt more free than he ever had before.

The bolt left his rifle and floated towards his target almost as if he had willed it into place. Before his target fell, he was sighting a second. Time had slowed to a crawl, and as the second bolt left his weapon, he knew it would strike right where he needed it to. He lined up a third, and then a fourth, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough. The disruptor fire crackling through the air scant inches from his body barely registered his notice. Targets kept appearing; the whole ship knew he was here by now. If he failed, everyone he left behind would die. He would die, here, alone, among his enemies.

A memory recall from one of his combat instructors flashed through his brain. “Naked aggression can win the day when the odds are against you. I cannot tell you the number of times in history where a small, horribly outnumbered force defeated their enemy by charging down upon them with all guns blazing when it was least expected.” He stood and ran, firing, sighting, firing, sighting, firing, screaming at the top of his lungs the whole way. His targets stuttered, stopping their advance. Making themselves easier to kill. Fourteen meters to go. Nine. Four. He was almost there. His outstretched palm slapped down on the doors control console as the last Klingon in the bay crumpled to the ground at his feet.

The doors slammed shut, and suddenly all Morgan could hear was the thumping of his own heart inside his ears. It stopped him for a brief second, then he stepped back and put a phaser bolt into the doors control panel before someone could re-open it from the other side.

He dropped his rifle onto the deck and strode over to the nearest console, bringing up a small but incredibly useful program from his wristpad that he and some of his classmates had helped develop back at the Academy. It brought up a holographic display in front of his eyes that would translate the Klingon words on the console and overlay them with the English equivalent. Time to see how smart this Bird's Chief Engineer had been.

Life support. Emergency failsafes - set to off. He was never prompted for a code. Guess the Engineer hadn't been that smart after all. It was going to cost him, assuming he wasn't one of the Klingons already dead in the room. Initiate Plasma Fire protocol, all decks, level - severe, exception - Engineering. Again, no code. God, but you had to love the Klingons. They were so self assured of their superiority.

With a sound not unlike a hurricane ripping through a steel building, all the atmosphere vented from the rest of the ship. Morgan collapsed to the floor, the adrenaline coursing through his body with no more action required on his part to stay alive.

A few moments later he thought to hail the transport that had been shuttling him, among other things, to Starbase 643. "Shackelford to S.S. Hemingway, come in please."

A static filled transmission came back. "Shackelford, this is Hemingway. What is your situation, over?"

"Ship secure. Over."

There was a long pause. "Repeat last transmission, over?"

"Ship secure. Over."

"Solid copy, Shackelford. We've taken severe damage here. Power levels and life support are minimal, engines offline. We've also developed a few leaks. Are you able to transport us to Klingon vessel? Over."

"Affirmative, Hemingway. I'll start making preparations immediately." As he rose to his feet and started working the console, a devilish grin crept it's way across Morgan's face as he pondered how Starbase 643 might receive their cargo delivery from a Bird of Prey.