The Modesty Of Fearful Duty

Posted on Wed Jan 11th, 2023 @ 3:46am by Lieutenant JG Miraj Derani

Mission: Season 6 : Episode 1: Circinus
Location: Starfleet Headquarters
Timeline: MD06 0700
662 words - 1.3 OF Standard Post Measure

Captain Geraldine Hightower had, objectively, one of the worst jobs in Starfleet. She contemplated this as she ordered a new uniform from the replicator and waited for it to materialize. Its very existence felt like an admission of failure. It was mostly a role filled by humans and andorians. Betazoids and Deltans were largely kept out. Those who had tried didn't last long. There were a few Vulcans who did it, surprisingly, and those who got the central tenet were really good at it.

There are moments in life when emotion is logical. Greif is logical.

Hightower pulled the shirt and trousers on, and slipped her feet into the highly polished boots. She'd cleaned them this morning, a meditation that centered her thoughts. She was always surprised at how much she still went out to the field herself. Her rank implied that she should be taking a more hands off approach. But that was the antithesis of the job. There were somethings you didn't pass on to junior officers, even if 'junior' still included three pips on the collar.

But today needed all hands. Today she was just one of many drafted in for something that hadn't happened since Wolf 359.

A whole ship MIA. Two and a half thousand souls.

Her own mind boggled at the loss. That number would account for everyone she had ever known, ever met, ever loved, and still have room to spare. And there were whole families on ships that size. A lot of people were about to lose every person they'd ever loved too.

She lifted her chin in the mirror, and added her pips from the tray on her nightstand, the rounded studs solid and reassuring under her fingers, the magnets meeting with satisfying snaps to catch the thin fabric between them.

No-one ever planned to do this job. She hadn't. It just happened. She'd never been a counselor, never trained in mental health. She had had a gift for organization, ended up in OPM, and then had gone sideways into this. No one had wanted the job. She hadn't wanted it. But she'd seen a job that had to be done. It was thankless, lacked glory or praise, but it had to be done, and done well. So she'd stepped up. Normally she just coordinated for cases, made sure the right rank went to the right place. Trained others to do it well. But today was different. This was an all hands event, and the clock was running.

So she slipped her dress uniform jacket on, adjusted the hang and fastened the buttons. She checked the finished effect,. The red of her command trim always looked bloody to her, against the pristine white. The model of modern officer. Sharp and impeccably pressed. And either reassuringly, or frighteningly, formal, depending on your point of view. She always hoped for the former, but she knew that the reality was the latter.

She met Lieutenant Hallot in the transporter hall. Hallot was also in his dress whites, trimmed in medical and counselling teal. They nodded to each other in greeting, grim and mostly silent, and Hightower gave the ops officer on duty the co-ordinates.

They arrived a few moments later, and Hightower checked the padd details one last time, then jogged up the stairs of the old house to pull at the antique bell pull. A brass bell could be heard beyond, ringing.

A few moments later the door opened, and a woman in her seventies looked at Hightower expectantly. Then her expression changed, as she took in the two starfleet officers, and recognition and resignation came over her face.

"Mrs Linda Taylor?" Hightower didn't smile. it was not that sort of occasion. "I'm Captain Hightower from Starfleet Command. I have some news about your son, Gary. May I please come in?"

[OFF]

OOC - Thanks to Jeff, for permission to post ahead of the current MD, and reference his NPCs

 

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