Lieutenant Niquoeb's keratinous headcrest rattles as he turns his cheerful purple face towards me. "Indeed so, most valiant Captain! How gratified we should be that Starfleet entrusts us with this prestigious exemplar of its historic mission!"
I stare at him. But he is serious. The Jolciots of the planet Magamba have made many inventions and discoveries - flowery language, temperature-invariant metal alloys, outrageous fission-powered warp drives - but they have never discovered irony.
I sit down in the big, boxy command chair, and contemplate the antique's bridge. The USS Amphicyon is an Atlas-class battleship, based on designs from the twenty-third century... it resembles nothing so much as a Constitution-class cruiser that has let itself go and put on weight. I study the tactical repeater screen, on the chair's left armrest. It is almost too small to be readable.
The Atlas-class warships were a dead end, a design blind alley. Starfleet built them, but had no idea what to do with them. Apt, then, that they should give one to me. Starfleet frequently has no idea what to do with its few Klingon officers.
"The assignment orders from ESD are overdue," I mutter. "Comms." Lieutenant Bloxx turns to face me. She is Bolian, reasonably competent. "Any word from Admiral Kavanagh?"
"Nothing yet, sir. I'm listening out."
"Relax, boss, they've not forgotten you." The light, good-humoured voice is also Bolian; it belongs to my alleged executive officer, Commander Glathaw Thala. He is overweight and impossibly cheerful, a researcher with Science Division, appointed to counterbalance my Klingon martial instincts by some cretin at Personnel. He is poring over some tedious detail at the science station, accompanied by my science officer, a human named Kali Lillian. She is small and dark-skinned and timid in disposition. Kali, I am told, is a goddess of destruction in some human pantheon. It is rather like having a pet mouse named Slayer.
"We should already have been cleared for departure." I stand up, pace across the deck. The interior of ESD's docking bay shows on the main screen; the bay doors are open, ships are leaving, ships are arriving. My ship is going nowhere. "Comms. Signal command. Ask for confirmation of our assignment."
"Aye, aye, sir." Bloxx is as mousy-looking as Kali Lillian, in her way, but she can do her job. I must learn to be content with that. I have had to learn to be content with very little, over the years.
"I'm just getting a routine hold-station order, sir," Bloxx reports.
I am studying the weapons consoles. "Pulse phasers. Are those even in period, for this particular antique? - Never mind. We should have heard something by now. Alert the transporter room. I am beaming over to Command."
---
Normal custom is for personnel to go unarmed about ESD, but I am not comfortable with being unarmed. I cannot carry a full range of weapons without attracting undue comment, so I compromise by wearing an old phaser pistol. It is almost as old as the Amphicyon herself, but it is well-maintained, in perfect condition, and its weight at my hip is a comfort as Lieutenant Commander Pascoe sorts through her files.
"I'm a bit at a loss," she says, eventually. She is pale and red-haired and plump, the sort of person who sits behind a desk all day, losing captains' movement orders. Starfleet officers are not permitted to kill bureaucrats. Some KDF captains think Starfleet has it easy; they need to contemplate that fact.
"I've got assignment orders here for all our category K6 command officers," she says, "and your name just isn't on them. Bit of a stumper, really."
"What is category K6?" I ask, with a sinking feeling.
"Well, officers like you. You know, the KDF exchange programme. You're all in category K6."
"But I am not a part of any exchange programme," I say. "I am a Starfleet officer. An Academy graduate. I have never been a member of the KDF."
"Oh?" She looks more puzzled. "But you're - Well. Never mind. I mean, though, in that case, you'd be in one of the A categories, wouldn't you? There's a lot more of those." She purses her lips and types on her console. I try to control my face.
"Captain Surella," she says, after some minutes. "There we are. Category A17. USS Amphicyon, yes?" She frowns. "But I've no assignment orders for you at all. I'm not even sure you're here. Well, officially, that is. Obviously, you're here, it's just -"
"I was assigned to Task Group Origen," I say, "as part of Seventh Tactical Wing, under Admiral Kavanagh. James Kavanagh. Please check that." I remembered to say please. Obedience to duty brings honour to the House, however galling that duty may be.
"Task Group Origen." More typing. "Oh. Admiral Kavanagh reviewed your assignment himself...."
This is not going to be good news. "And?"
"He sent a security downcheck. You see, his task group is operating in a sensitive area, and it's not cleared for K6 category personnel."
"But I am not category K6. I am category A17." And I must control the urge to kill.
"Yes, it is a bit of a mix-up, isn't it? The Admiral must have thought you were K6. And when he downchecked you, you went back into the K6 pile for automated reassignment. Only, of course, you're not a K6, are you? So the system just ignored you, I'm afraid."
"Contact Kavanagh. Inform him of his - misapprehension. I will join his task group at the earliest opportunity -"
"Oh, no, that can't be done. Task Group Origen is out of the system already, and running subspace silent. Besides, the Admiral filled that tac slot with a replacement. No." She blinks at me. "I'm afraid you're out of luck there."
I can feel the expression on my face, and it is not a good one. "My ship is ready for action! I have an entire battleship with a highly trained crew! You cannot just lose me and my ship in the filing system!"
"Oh, you'd be amazed what we can lose." She has no shame. "Now, let's not worry, I'm sure we can turn up something suitable." More typing. Each keypress feels like a blow against my warrior soul. "USS Amphicyon. Atlas-class? My goodness, that's unusual." She frowns. "Experimental Engineering often has uses for unusual ships, but they don't have any big projects on hand right now. I think it's because Admiral Shohl is away on her honeymoon. Did you hear about that? So romantic."
"I would prefer not to wait for an assignment until the Andorians have finished f-" I get a grip on myself before I say something irretrievable. Pascoe looks at me in a meditative sort of way.
"There's always Public Relations Command," she says, eventually.
"What?"
"You know the sort of thing. Showing visiting dignitaries around, giving tours and so on. An unusual sort of ship like yours - I'm sure it would be very popular with the tourists."
"Tourists?"
She must see in my eyes how close she is to death. "Or there's one alternative. Admiral M'eioi is requesting tactical backup on a science survey mission. Admiral Stroffa's cleared it, so, well, the first ship that's available -"
"Will be mine. Please. I am available."
"Well, you seem to meet their mission criteria." She smiles at me. She dares to smile, and I must suffer it. Duty. Always duty. "I'll send a message to Admiral M'eioi, then. Don't worry, I'll make it quite clear you're category A17."
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