The lines on the charts shifted into the orderly mess she’d become accustomed to, and a smile broke her straight line lips. The windows in her quarters showed the stars streaming past, a common vision for the last few weeks. Ensign Marisol Tran finished the chart, judging it better than the average. She glanced around the spartan walls of her quarters, still trying to understand how she had come to this point. Her life had been a paradox. Discovering her love of flight and the science of it routinely confused her. Her family had been scientists for generations.

The voice of her captain broke her reflection, “Ensign Tran to the bridge.” She stood from her crowded desk and worked on cleaning her hands from the pencil and pen marks that had inevitably stained her fingers. There was something about using the old school materials that centered her.

It took her four minutes to find her way through the Olympic-class starship. She was getting better, she told herself. The doors to the bridge sprang open before her, and Marisol slipped into the small helm station at the front of the USS Cushing’s bridge as her junior officer slid out. She was still learning how to schedule her duty roster.

“Estimated time of arrival?” The tall shape of Captain Malcolm Thorne spoke as he loomed behind her. He was still a mystery to her. She had read of his time on the Cushing before stepping into the captain’s chair. It had not been an easy journey.

She tapped at her console. “Three minutes. Montana Station has acknowledged our docking request and confirms our staff changes.” She scanned the various displays on her console. The rimward truly was a vast expanse of the unknown. She’d spent her off time reading the reports and missions the Montana Station Squadron had cataloged. With each report, her wonder grew, quickly followed by worry. For being on the desolate end of the quadrant, they seemed to find a piece of the action around every corner.

As she thought, she worked on the deceleration plot to bring them into the Montana System near the station that bore its name. There was the simple way of having the computer do some of the heavy lifting, and there was the complex way that allowed her to put her skills to work. It was interesting to her that her life had been filled with the long way around, and the comfort that had lent her.

She keyed in the calculations and input the final commands. Moments later, the Cushing dropped effortlessly out of warp within the near-perfect range of the station. “Approaching docking port.” Her hands gently worked the helm console; her mind’s eye, together with the readings on her console, helped imagine where the Cushing fit against the starbase. A click, thump, and beeping from her console later, she announced, “Docking complete.”

Thorne spoke, his voice clipped and focused: “Good work, Ensign Tran. All crew are released to assignments.” He turned and walked with broad steps to his ready room. The door closed, and the ambient noise on the bridge was her only companion.

Train swallowed and whispered, “Well.”