“Solvang, this is the Captain – requesting permission to dock in Shuttlebay One.”

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Kincaid. Please redirect to Shuttlebay Two; Shuttlebay One is…occupied.”

“Occupied? Elaborate.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Captain. I’m under orders from Commander Thorne. You are to be redirected and are to report to him upon your return.”

“Lieutenant, where is Commander Thorne at present?”

“Shuttlebay One. He’ll be expecting you, sir.”

The door to Shuttlebay One whisked open, and Captain O’va was greeted by the expansive stern of an auxiliary craft. A narrow central cockpit and cabin section, flanked by two larger engine cowlings that trailed back to the stern. Thin, sleek wings jutted out from either side of the cowlings and flared gracefully from the bow to accentuate the craft’s aerodynamic profile. From above, the runabout resembled an arrow’s broad-head.

“Marcus…what is that?”

“Captain, you’re back! And just in time to see our new runabout!” He gestured emphatically toward the craft with both hands. “It’s an Arrow-class! She’s got a cruise speed of warp factor eight, regenerative shielding, eight Type-VIII phaser arrays, three micro torpedo launchers, a lounge, two replicators, transporters, and get this, a state-of-the-art high fidelity sound system!”

“Marcus…” she let out a long sigh as she massaged her neck. “…did you not measure?”

“Why would I need to? The yardmaster approved the requisition, of course he would know the dimensions and whether it would fit,” he stated, confidently.

“The yardmaster is one week away from retirement, Marcus. Stanley just approved a hot tub on the bridge of the Trenton.”

Something in her periphery had managed to draw her attention away. O’va walked beneath the port-side wing. A group of junior officers, awkwardly attempting to act casually, caught her attention. They had just finished moving a stack of crates in front of a portion of the bulkhead. As she drew nearer, she observed a poster placed upon the bulkhead, placed conspicuously amidst a one-meter gouge; “Starfleet Regulation 42-B: Proper Docking Procedures.”

TWO HOURS EARLIER…

“I’m telling you, there’s no way we can turn this thing around in here. It’s just not going to happen.” Ensign Jorim Pell harbingered.

Ensign Talla Vren countered, “Look, that’s the First Officer in that runabout. Of course he measured everything out, why wouldn’t he?”

The two ensigns watched as Commander Marcus Thorne proudly flew Solvang’s newest auxiliary craft into Shuttlebay One.

The Arrow-class runabout settled onto the deck with a hiss as she rested her weight on her landing gear. The central hatch lowered, and out stepped Commander Thorne, brimming with confidence and excitement.

“See? Perfect fit. Told you the specs would line up,” beamed the first officer as he walked down the ramp.

“Looks great, sir! Perfect fit!” Ensign Pell replied. He leaned to towards Talla and whispered, “they don’t line up.”

“It’s…snug. Very snug.” Ensign Vren replied quietly. “Good call playing it off, I mean, he’s the XO, after all.”

The shuttlebay doors whisked open and Chief Engineer Jiansheng Wu stepped through –  lean, composed, with deliberate movements. His eyes swept the room, taking in the runabout’s size, shape, and dimensions, along with the nervous ensigns, and Commander Thorne’s confident grin. The Arrow-class filled the bay like a whale in a koi pond: forty-five meters long, twenty meters wide, six meters tall. Shuttlebay One itself stood at sixty meters deep, forty-five meters wide, and spanning two decks tall.

He stopped dead in his tracks. “You flew it in nose first.”

“That’s right. Perfect fit!” Marcus replied.

“You won’t be able to turn it in here. Sure, there’s a…”  Wu paused for a span of two seconds, calculating, “five-meter clearance, but that’s only— ”

Before Wu could finish his sentence, Marcus sprung in to action.

“Five meters? That’s plenty of room,” he said, climbing into the pilot’s seat.

The Arrow-class thrummed to life, its impulse manifolds glowing faintly as the craft lifted a meter off the deck. The runabout’s sleek wings glistened under the internal lighting, casting long shadows across the shuttlebay floor. Marcus eased the lateral thrusters, attempting a gentle rotation.

There was nothing gentle about the events that followed.

The starboard side of the runabout’s nose kissed the bulkhead – then scraped along it with a metallic shriek that reverberated throughout the entire bay. A bright gash of exposed duranium carved along the wall.

One meter long.

Perfectly horizontal. Perfectly damning.

Ensign Pell inhaled sharply and winced. Ensign Vren shut her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Commander Thorne froze mid-maneuver, returned the Arrow-class to center, then set the runabout back down once more. He stepped out of the cockpit, trying to look casual – as though the gouge were a creative addition to the décor.

“Minor cosmetic adjustment,” he said. “Smooth seas never made a skilled sailor, eh?”

Wu stared at the gouge. Then at Thorne. Then at the runabout.

He walked toward the damage with slow, deliberate steps – the kind that made the ensigns instinctively stand straighter. Wu examined the gouge with the same scrutiny he’d give a plasma manifold.

“You have created a one-meter reminder,” Wu said, “that hubris can be measured, after all.”

Marcus opened his mouth, holding up a finger in protest, but then wisely closed it.

Wu turned to the ensigns without raising his voice. “Bring me a poster.”

Pell blinked. “A poster, sir?”

“Docking Regulations,” Wu clarified. “Section Forty-Two-Bravo. The one about proper approach vectors.”

The ensigns scrambled. Wu waited, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable. When the poster arrived, he took it with a single nod and placed it over the center of the gouge with surgical precision – perfectly leveled and centered.

He stepped back, assessing his work. “Now it is compliant.”

Marcus beamed, relieved. The ensigns exchanged looks of awe and terror. The poster’s width only covered two-thirds of the gouge’s entire length.

Wu turned to Thorne again. “You flew it in nose first,” he repeated. “As I was saying before, sir – it cannot be turned in here, unless you tilt the frame.”

Marcus blinked. “Tilt the frame?”

“Tilt the Solvang.”