The bridge of the USS Justice would intimidate anyone. Commander Augusto Vargas was not immune, and had taken his time walking the expansive command center of the Yorktown-class starship. His reassignment from the USS Zephyr and subsequent placement on Montana Station hadn’t helped his confidence. Yet, here he stood, one of two executive officers to oversee three thousand souls.
He monitored the forward viewscreen, listening to the ambient sounds and scattered conversations on the bridge. There was plenty to wonder and worry about, and discovering the lack of experience on his fellow executive officer’s dossier stood at the top of the list. Incredibly, they granted her command of a Plymouth-class starship. Whatever had happened, it had brought Lieutenant Commander Abigail Scott to the Justice. Vargas did his cursory rotation to glance across the bridge, his hands tightly clasped behind him. Attempting to ignore his feelings about her position and path was proving a challenge. Making commander was difficult. Doing so with a science background had proved even more so.
He fought back his inconclusive conclusions about her operations and engineering background. He’d shared time with some in the academy. They tended to be more talkative, more gregarious. Charisma seemed to come naturally to them. Vargas wasn’t any of those things, and he had learned recently that he was going to have to work on them if he intended to hold the second chair to the right.
There was another item on his list. Commander Milton Ford. His dossier was troubling. Tactical, Security, Counseling, and then Operations. But not qualified to be an executive officer on the flagship of the squadron? Or was he here for other reasons? Was he going to be Augusto’s shadow and mentor? Captain Dread hadn’t been clear when she’d taken command, and he’d met with her once in the last week.
Lower down on the list was Commodore Geronimo Fontana. Vargas and his classically trained scientific mind did not accept the explanation for his presence on the Justice. He was, ostensibly, there to command the larger squadron and represent Task Force 47 as they sallied forth. Vargas never took the story at face value, and while it had earned him his share of unpleasant experiences, it had served him well in others. Statistically, it worked.
To his right, Alayna Betrand turned from her station, a look of worry crossing her face as she reported, “Commander, we’re receiving a hail from a local colony. They’re asking for medical and engineering assistance.” Vargas turned to face her. He’d studied the command crew’s dossiers and begun the work of digging through the rest of the crew. Bertrand was young, bouncing around commands in the rimward. She had possibilities.
“Colony name and distance from our position,” he asked. Her quick glance at her screen told him she’d need work on having as much information ready for the officer on deck.
Her reply was crisp. “Chico Colony, one hour away. The colonial registration is current with Deep Space 47.” She put her right hand to her earpiece. “New message coming in, Commander. They’ve detected an unauthorized transport convoy inbound to their location. Designation is unknown.” He moved to ask, but a voice from the other side of the bridge interjected. It was Commander Milton Ford at the wall operations station. Vargas knew better than to chide that man on procedure and process.
Ford’s tightly narrowed eyes showed palpable concern as he spoke. “Commander, we’ve been building profiles of the colonies out this way with information from DS 47 and a few other sources. There’s some history there. Some are legitimate operations, while others are pirates trying to disguise a raiding party.”
Vargas filled in the lines. “And this could be any of those variables. Or something else entirely. How long until this unnamed convoy reaches the colony?”
Bertrand was quick at her console, hands dancing across the glass. “One hour, thirty minutes.” Augustus could see in her face the part she probably wanted to say, along with the others on the bridge. ‘And counting,’ was certainly a concern he’d slotted into the decision matrix being built in his mind. They’d taught in the academy that sitting in the center chair meant making decisions. Sometimes those decisions were small. Others could change the balance of the universe. And still others were unknown. You wouldn’t know until the next variable in the decision’s consequences forced you to make another one.
This was one he wasn’t sure about , but he knew without question that ignoring the information about the convoy would lead to something unforeseen. And he didn’t like that kind of consequence. “Helm, plot a new course. Chico Colony, maximum warp. Engage when ready.” He turned to Commander Ford, still unsure about a lot of variables on the Justice. Ford, at least on paper, could deliver. “Commander, please alert sickbay, engineering, and operations of the needs of the colony and have them ready on arrival.” He turned back to the center chair and sat down at last.
He felt, at least in this moment, that he’d made the right decision.
