Lieutenant Commander Nate Wilmer had a reputation for loving speed. At 44 years old he wasn’t a spring chicken in terms of age. He was seasoned with years of being a test pilot, and service to the fleet. There were previous starships under his belt, including being part of the flight development team for the Vesta Class starship.
The Sovereign class USS Venture was by no means a new ship. It too was a tried and true vessel with a history of service. In Nate’s opinion it was the new workhorse of the fleet. In the days he had served in the Dominion War, Starfleet officers couldn’t go from one corner of the Alpha Quadrant to the other without seeing a Miranda Class. So it was now, with the Sovereign. They might have been everywhere, but it in no way diminished the majesty the vessel commanded.
Nate, on the other hand, commanded no such sense of royalty. His once bright auburn colored hair, now faded, suggested a long lineage of genealogy leading back to old Earth Scotland and Ireland. He had deep roots in Europe, with fair skin and freckles to show for it. His eyes glinted with a hint of a devil may care attitude, and a goatee that was no longer in style – but was his style.
In his off duty hours, Nate was the exact opposite of his military bearing and his Starfleet uniform. Nate would unceremoniously wear blue jeans and a simple black t-shirt, and his favorite replicated pair of Converse all-stars.
However, reporting for duty today, it was all about looking his best.
Nate’s hair was combed, his uniform crisp, his pips adjusted just so, and adherent to Starfleet standards. Nate liked the uniforms of the period. He enjoyed the bright vivid colors, and the flash of red across shoulders and up the high collar of his neck. He looked good.
Nate had reached a point in his career where he had accepted the stall of the advancement of his career. He was 44 years old. If there were ambitions of command, they should have manifested by now. They had not. Nate was content as helmsman. “Everything” in his mind; was the entire summation of the meaning of his universe and it meant that he kept flying.
Nate had everything.
He was single, and he liked it that way. It was difficult to form relationships long-term or otherwise, when one was on detached service to the fleet. No one wanted to get married to a test pilot and wonder if they were coming home, or mangled in a wreck… or perhaps even dead. Nate was married to the ships that he lovingly cared for. He was the pilot and the ship his means of flight. That was his relationship, and that was all that mattered.
But then again… there was that blonde yeoman who was standing by the information kiosk by the entryway of Starbase 11…
Yes, the starship may have been his mistress, but the good thing about her was she didn’t get jealous. And there was always time to make new friends before reporting for duty.
“Well hello there,” Nate said with a charming smile and an outstretched hand, “Yeoman, I’m a bit lost, perhaps you can direct me towards the liaison office for the USS Venture?”
The yeoman smiled back, friendly and cordial, as was standard behavior for the yeoman’s of the fleet.
“So, where’s the fun at, at Starbase 11,” Nate said with a flirtatious smile, “…or am I looking at her?”