First Officer’s log, supplemental.

Day forty-two. Or is it forty-three? Days have started to merge together, hours passing in a blur.

It’s impossible to ignore the startling similarities between the place where I made my name and the one where I now reside, but something feels… different.

Ulysses was my home, a place where I made friends and forged bonds with family. We fought and died together; from the depths of the Delta Quadrant to the hazardous wastes of the Typhon Expanse. Ulysses was much more than a ship to serve. Wherever we went, legends were created. There, we signed treaties between implacable enemies and brought conflicts to an end. Klingon operas have been sung in her honour by warriors in the Great Halls of Qo’Nos; Cardassian Guls have fled at the very mention of her name; even Devore xenophobes were unable to confine our collective brilliance. She was an angel of mercy among a dark, terrifying galaxy.

Columbia may look the same; the same beige carpets, the same room layouts, the same pulsating warp core design, and even many of the same faces, but something feels different here. Something feels… off.

Perhaps it’s the growing sense of tedium as we enter our sixth week of layover at Starbase Bravo, or maybe it’s the continued absence of a commanding officer.

Or could it be the legacy her last crew left behind? A legacy of failure and distrust. A failed mission that saw them called home in disgrace, with only a handful of people privy to the circumstances of their dishonour.

The audacity. How can I judge the legacy of others? Stripped of my promotion in the cruellest of fashion, my ship and crew now under the care of another and the once proud Lakota Squadron disbanded. A failed defence of Zaran IV is all we have to show of our legacy, all of the good we did… forgotten.

Forgotten… An apt choice of phrase given the constant manner in which we are overlooked. As other commands come and go, people stop by only to quickly ship out again, all while we know we’re ready, but we are left to sit here…

…rotting away in Starbase purgatory.

Silence was a commodity on a starship the size of Columbia, but the silence that had engulfed the engineering bay was palpable. Almost a dozen people standing, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable? Waiting for the sweet release of death, perhaps? Or, worse… the opinion of the ship’s executive officer while she reviewed the various updates displayed on the pool table at the centre of the crowd.

Beside her, Chief Engineer Prida anxiously waited for her friend to respond to her updates, while across the way, as stoic and poised as usual, the Vulcan Ops Chief, T’Kir, waited almost as nervously. After six weeks of being held up in spacedock at Starbase Bravo, emotions were threatening to get the best of everyone, even the usually calm Vulcans among them.

Eventually, the Bajoran first officer, with arms folded across her chest and a deep sigh, looked up and made eye contact with several tense faces around the assembled group. Her eyes settled on one young man who was so visibly anxious that beads of sweat dribbled down his brow. It was then, that the Bajoran’s face softened.

“Well done, everyone,” she nodded approvingly, loosening her stance as she placed her hands on the table before her. Everyone around the table visibly relaxed, some falling back onto the stools behind them while others felt close to collapsing and had to grip onto the edge of the table to support themselves.

“What you’ve achieved over the last few weeks has been nothing short of outstanding,” Noli declared, swiping several reports off of the screen and leaving only the blueprint-style schematic of the ship for all to see. To say she was proud of their efforts was an understatement. Without much support from the yard engineers, the teams across Columbia had managed to complete her latest refit in under four weeks, if for no reason other than to give themselves something to do.

“You all deserve a long break,” Noli grinned, tapping the table with her right hand. “Your department heads will check your leave rotas and make sure you all get some time away,” she told the gathering, then looked at Prida and T’Kir. “Accompany me, if you will please,” she gave a single nod, and then moved away from the table, patting the young man from before on the shoulder approvingly as she made her way past.

Stopping in the doorway to ensure the two senior-most engineers on the ship were in pursuit, she couldn’t help but note the muted response from the team with regards to the offer of leave. Not that she could blame them, of course, because she felt very much the same. Everyone wanted to get away from Starbase Bravo and get back among the stars, even if it was only for a supply run or ferrying a diplomat somewhere. They just need a purpose again.

Once the massive bay doors closed, the Commander led the trio to one of the small corridor lounges nearby and took a seat, followed by her two yellow-clad subordinates.

“Tell it to me straight,” she instructed, right knee crossed over left and hands clasped to the chair arms.

Prida exchanged glances with her Vulcan colleague from Ops and let out a sigh, relaxing into her chair. “I can’t lie, morale is low. Even with trips to the station and beyond, they feel like they’ve got nothing to look forward to. And that’s not even the juniors that transferred here, expecting some extraordinary five-year mission of exploration,” the Bajassian explained, noting the deadpan expression on her best friend’s face.

“Command are doing this ship and crew a disservice,” T’Kir answered bluntly, as refreshingly honest as ever. Noli always appreciated that. “It is clear that we are capable of more than we are being asked, and sidelining a ship of this importance is entirely illogical.”

“I’ve tried to get more answers from Command, even those here at Bravo, but I keep getting the cold shoulder,” Noli told them both, relaxing a little in her chair. “Whatever their reasoning, they won’t tell me. We’re just expected to sit here and wait until someone gives us a change of order.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Prida shook her head slowly, pouting her ample lips in the process. “How can they expect us to be ready at a moment’s notice when they’ve kept us held up here for so long?”

Naturally, Noli could only agree with her friend, and she’d only admit that to them in private. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Lots of maintenance schedules, interdepartmental training opportunities and drills. We’ll do everything that we must to ensure that we’re ready…”

“…no matter how long it takes.”

Emerging from the port-side aft turbo lift, Noli was taken aback by the sound of chatter that hit her almost the instant the doors parted. Taking a few cautious steps into the command centre, it took a few moments before anyone noted her presence, but when he did, the young Andorian at the tactical rail drew everyone’s attention to the fact the Commander was present.

“Commander Noli,” he spoke loudly, to draw the attention of the relief staff on the bridge, “thank goodness you’re here.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” Noli asked quickly, instantly on the defensive, eyes darting between the Andorian and several rapidly approaching youngsters.

“We’re receiving a transmission,” Lieutenant Kiras revealed, having risen to her feet from the comfort of the command chair at the heart of the bridge.

“It’s from Fourth Fleet Command,” the Andorian grinned, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Calm yourself Ensign,” the Bajoran placed a hand on the youngster’s shoulder. “We’ve been here before and we don’t want to get our hopes up,” she warned him, then started to make her way down the ramp towards the set of doors at the opposite end of the bridge. “I’ll take it in the ready room,” she instructed without so much as another glance at any of the officers present.

When the doors to the private office usually reserved for the commanding officer (which, technically, was her at present) closed behind her, she sauntered to the desk and slipped into the leather chair behind it. She’d served on newer starships for much of the last few years, as sterile and clean as they were, meant that having the use of a ready room once again was a luxury.

Pressing a button on the desk’s surface, a large computer screen emerged from beneath, activating as it came to a halt and locked into position. Entering her security codes, the Bajoran pulled on the hem of her uniform jacket and waited for the face to appear. Who would it be this time, though? Captain Varro? Fleet Captain Vos? Maybe even one of the Admirals they were doing the bidding for?

Who would it be?