Simple Things

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

Second Officer's Log, Stardate 5008012.7

Cmdr JFarrington, MD

USS Manticore - NCC 5852

 

Simple Things

 

Given the promises of exploring strange new worlds, seeking out new civilizations, boldly going where no one has gone before, one would think a career in Starfleet would be the ultimate thrill of a lifetime.

 

The Few! The Proud!

Be All You Can Be!

Join Starfleet – See the Galaxy!

 

Recruiting posters and holovids painted a glorious picture of adventure to secondary school and college students on career days. There was no doubt in Jami’s mind that during her formative years she had absorbed a bit too much of Starfleet hype and that it may have clouded her judgment when it came to post-secondary planning and education. Of course, Great-uncle Jim Kirk had nothing whatsoever to do with her decision to join Starfleet – his stories of daring space escapades greatly embellished ad nauseum (according to her father) notwithstanding.

 

Truth be told, life in Starfleet could be dangerous and rife with political intrigue, but mostly it was just plain tedious and downright boring. Mapping of star system after star system, hacking through disease-infested jungles in the name of biology, trudging from dune to craggy peak in a blistering binary-star system, sinking deep in muck and mire on a godforsaken planet just to hunt an elusive microorganism – which may or may not be the answer to a plague – wasn’t exactly what Jami Farrington – or anyone, for that matter – signed up for. But it was their lot in life, so they dealt with it.

 

Of course they did experience occasional thrills, like Dr. Zwicky’s dark matter manipulation that trapped the ship and crew in a seemingly endless past-future-past circle of time travel. And she never thought she'd forget the black hole that, when evaded, caused a massive energy wave that destroyed all civilization on Earth. But she did forget, because when it was undone so Earth could be saved, it never happened; but that’s another story.

 

Things of that nature tended to alleviate their boredom. But there remained endless conferences on Federation procedure and protocol, tedious travel to and from wherever, window upon window of PADD work, and graveyard duty shifts that eventually caused one to question the aforementioned lot in life. It was during those times that Jami Farrington, Second Officer and Counselor of Manticore, reflected on the simple things that, no matter where she was in the universe or in time, made life worthwhile.

 

Simple things, like programming their quarters’ holowall to reflect the ambience of a snow-swept hutte high on a glacier overlooking Sognefjord, or snuggling into a down dyne by a crackling fire, Atragon’s comforting warmth draped around her, and a mournful wind outside lulling her to sleep.

 

Simple things.

 

Yet, when she awoke this particular morning, cold unmussed sheets met her outstretched arm. Atragon was in sickbay, recovering from . . . . She sighed and threw her legs over the side of the bed, not wanting to think about it. It was definitely not one of her most cherished memories. Today was another day to dwell on simple things, to be simply grateful that her husband was still alive.

 

Then came a chime at the door, a grab for her robe, and Escher standing meekly in the doorway. She turned, fresh coffee steaming from the cup in her hand, wondering what he could possibly want at this time of day. Atragon’s exoskeleton? Why was she not surprised. It meant one of two things: either the admiral had been released from sick bay – which she highly doubted – or he was planning an escape.

 

“Of course. Take your pick,” she readily offered, deftly hiding her suspicion of conspiracy.

 

With the closet minus one exoskeleton, Jami finished her coffee, casually washed and dressed, then strolled towards the turbolift and, ultimately, sick bay, confident that Dr. Kyle Mele’s contingency plans would impede their resident Houdini’s escape. An intense curiosity of A9’s current modus operandi quickened her pace a bit, as a surge of adrenaline at the thought of physician triumph overcame what sleepiness remained.

 

As Jami approached the door to sick bay she paused to listen for any hint of commotion. Since Kyle’s efforts – and hers when she was Chief Medical Officer – had been thwarted so many times before, she still had the tiniest bit of doubt that his plan would succeed. But everything seemed normal, so she entered to see her husband firmly ensconced in his private room and Dr. Mele calmly refreshing the contents of sickbay’s renowned coffeepot. Sheer bliss. She made a beeline to his office, savoring the prospect of rich coffee made with freshly-ground beans from Devron Prime, its potency derived from the copious fertilizing dung of a beetle known as the hopper.

 

Simple things.

 

A few minutes later, coffee cup warming her palms, the coffee’s incomparable aroma weaving its spell, Jami finally noticed the exoskeleton case that leaned a bit too lightly against the office wall. Empty? Of course. Kyle’s patented grin. “It's okay; I've noted the transporter activity. His private cubicle doors are now locked, and all transporter activity to Sickbay has been off-lined.”

 

Jami smiled. Simple things.

 

Shortly after that, Jami found herself sitting outside her husband’s private room leafing through the latest copy of The Journal of Starfleet Medical Division, her husband and his accomplice safely incarcerated in the private room.

 

A cup of joe,

A lock-ed door,

And Escher’s face pressed pleadingly against the observation window.

 

Simple things.