Chief, that’s what they used to call him. It wasn’t so long since some random Ensign came yelling through the office door about non-situation with a panic stricken face. They were usually all the same. Except for the favored few Kammus had trained himself, they were all the same. 

He slammed his finter against the docking hatch release, the hiss of atmosphere equalizing in the rear of the Type 9A cargo shuttle was a welcome change compared to the thrumming silence that had been his companion for the last week. Starbase Bravo, a familiar beacon in the Federation tapestry: It wasn’t the Ronin, that much was for certain; No creaking Jeffries tubes or flickering emergency lighting here. Just the sterile efficiency of a Starfleet starbase.

Corelli waited on the hatch. The Type 9A was spartan, filled only with the bio-canisters that held the last, sorry remnants of the whatever substance he’d been forced to haul out of the Badlands. The stench, a heady mix of fermented targ hide and regret clung to him.  Still, it was better than his last assignment. Yes, he had chosen that assignment, and yes, he had requested the transfer; mentally adding that to the list of things he regretted as number 2. 

Exiting the shuttle, several technicians appeared, the familiar colors of Starfleet uniforms bustled around him. Routine happened. No questions, just work.  With the Ronin’s crew as weary and beat up as the ship itself, Kammus was thankful for dull. He and the Captain didn’t get along, and in his mind, that particular Captain didn’t belong in the center seat. A curt nod towards the technicians unloading the cargo hoped it would make their day a little more pleasant.  Everyone liked to be noticed sometimes. 

Corelli scowled, the familiar ache in his left skull where the cybernetic implant sat provided a reminding throb against the backdrop of his simmering discontent. A week on Risa, maybe a rotation at the shipyards? Not another bureaucratic nightmare at Starbase Bravo, processing manifests and requisitions for random engineering supplies and backups. He drug his feet, heavy, tired, against the smooth floor of the starbase. 

He stalked towards the docking bay exit, the image of the Captains pursed lips, and ever-present scowl etched into his memory. “Lieutenant, you’re a good engineer,” the Captain had said, his voice clipped, “but this ship needs a diplomat, not a cowboy.” Corelli snorted. Diplomat? In the Badlands? You needed a miracle worker, not a hand-shaker. Kammus could be diplomatic, he thought to himself, with the right application of a phaser, any situation can be dealt with. 

He pushed through the automatic doors, the sterile white corridors of the docking complex showed a subtle contrast to the grey, lived-in feel of the Luna class that was his previous assignment. A wave of relief washed over him – he was done. Done with the Ronin, their commander; done with the Badlands, done with bio-hazardous waste. At least for now. No Chief, no staff, no clue. Now it was off to find his reassignment officer and figure out what he was doing on a starbase. 

He looked around for signs to direct him towards the personnel office, and several moments later found himself standing across from a Vulcan. She was seated, working, silently, and he stood, silently. Often his inner monologue escaped, and there were times he couldn’t tell if he was whistling out loud, or only in his own head. 

The doors hissed closed, and the din of the starbase faded away. He could hear air moving, and a blower motor which probably needed its induction coil rewound. Wasn’t his problem, wasn’t his starbase. 

“Mister Corelli”, the stern Vulcan voiced without looking up from the desk. Kammus raised one eyebrow, and shifted his gaze towards the desk. In the intervening moments of silence, he took to examining the surrounding office with an engineers eye. A shifted panel, loose security seal, failing power coupling, these were things he was trained to notice. 

He gave a curt nod to the Vulcan officer, and stood silently at attention. 

“Specialist, Engineering, reassignment” She continued, likely reading from a display on her desk. 

“This ‘engineering specialist’ role,” Kammus asked lightly, “It’s a demotion, isn’t it?”. He wasn’t upset by the notion, just uncertain about the clarity of his orders. Still the Captain had more diplomatic ties than he did, and very likely pulled a few strings thinking a fresh start would do an abrasive officer some good. 

Mentally adding that to the list of things to fix – rank. 

The Lieutenant’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. For a Vulcan, it was a pure outburst of joy. “A change in assignment. Your talents in dealing with… unconventional situations were duly noted.”

Corelli sharply exhaled through his nose. “Unconventional? You mean keeping that glorified bucket of bolts from falling apart in the middle of nowhere? I told them not to take it out; I told them not to take it directly into combat. It still needed weeks in spacedock… “

“Precisely.” She interjected, cutting him off mid rant, “Your resourcefulness is what Starbase Bravo requires. Here, however, those skills will be directed towards preventative maintenance, not emergency repairs.” 

Corelli opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. Here, at least, he wouldn’t be captive in a tritanium box with a man that filled him with a burning rage first thing in the morning. Rage so hot, iced coffee was the norm. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.