USS Malinche NCC-38997-A

<2381, Starfleet Academy, Academic 2nd Year>

"Do you see him?" whispered the first voice.

"Where did he go?" whispered the second.

Several Starfleet ensigns were dug in behind a typical row of cargo racks, all looking for something.

But the shattered nitrogen valve left the floor and some of the atmosphere flooded with the kind of fog you see when a warm swamp starts to cool off for the night. So none of them could see anything.

Then, someone noticed movement and fired. The other ensigns followed suit and lit up that corner of the cargo bay. No one had paid attention to their surroundings, anymore, they just wanted a kill.

Four Jem'Hadar came up from the rear and pointed their rifles to a few of the ensigns' backs.

"Computer, freeze program," came a very stolid but disappointed voice.

The 'ensigns' turned to face the voice with excited expressions on their faces which quickly faded. It was Commodore Wassley, in command of Starfleet Academy's Security and a guest speaker for the cadets' Security 502 Training class.

"I want everyone to lay down," the commodore said. "Go ahead, everyone just lay down right where you are."

As the cadets started slowly laying down their rifles and rolling to their backs, the commodore started to pace behind the four Jem'Hadar figures frozen in motion, their itchy trigger fingers clearly visible on the firing keys of their own rifles.

"I want you to see what its like, not quite being dead. Even if you'd been hit, and not instantly vaporized, you would have to watch the man next to you cease to exist." He went to who had first whispered, grabbed his boot and drug him behind the four enemies. "One..." he said, and grabbed another by the boot. "Two..."

His point had been made, yet Seryn, the second whispering voice, was forced to endure. He understood the mistake that was made, and he knew he had to endure the consequence of someone else's mistake. Someone had fired first and when everyone followed suit, so did Seryn. He knew he couldn't speak out against the commodore and risk being reprimanded.

He'd already changed his major to Communications and his minor to Navigation, both part of the Command Courses. That meant both fields were 'red shirt' classes, meaning they belonged to the Command Path. So even though he was going to be a Communications Officer on a ship or a Flight Control Officer, there were required classes that everyone in the Command Course had to take. But, one downfall was that a cadet involved in such classes couldn't risk being reprimanded. Everyone at the Academy talked about how much harder the classes were for 'red shirts', and so were the punishments. For a single reprimand, one could be reclassed into another division altogether. Meaning no Command Path, no Communications career and no flying.

Seryn sighed inwardly and endured the verbal abuse.

<>Later that year...

=/\= Okay, I want everyone to stay tight, when we they get into visual sensor range I want everyone to loosen up. Then break off into your groups as assigned. =/\=

That voice was known as Rear Admiral Schmidt, Fighter Combat Instructor. His career had started off at Wolf 359 in a runabout. His career ended at the Battle of the Chin'Toka System, the early stage of the Federation Retaliation against the Cardassians. It was all the experience he needed to be content with the risks his life had taken. And he was fond of sharing them with his students.

A transmission brought Seryn out of his recap of the Admiral's stories. =/\= I'm picking up neutrino fluctuations on my screen. =/\=

A second later, Seryn saw it. Not an object but a faint wave of movement against the backdrop of space. =/\= Cloaked ships ahead, I can see the distortions! =/\=

He maintained his focus and broke off the main group in his own four man fighter group, careful not to hit the other crafts' shields. Disruptor fire erupted all around the group and Seryn wondered how many fighters had already been lost.

Seryn felt his thoughts drifting and snapped his attention back to his cockpit controls. His group, designated Bravo Group, had broken off the main formation at full impulse, which meant the two squadrons had been moving toward each other at twice the speed of impulse. Effectively, Bravo Group dropped out of impulse behind the now decloaked Romulan Scorpion fighters. Seryn counted sixteen on his sensor screen.

His group followed the lead of the most arrogant and self-centered cadet in their class, Lee. His plan was to drop out of impulse behind the Romulan insurgents and surprise them. But when everyone had noticed the initial neutrino fluctuations of the cloaked ships, they immediately went into 'kill mode'. They didn't notice the second and third waves of neutrino fluctuations inbound.

Lee's ship was the first to combust in space, Seryn's was the last. Still part of a holographic training exercise, when 'death' was wrought upon a cadet his ship exploded but they were equipped with emergency transporters. No one dared unlock the safeties on the holodecks at the Academy, so when one was killed they materialized on the 'sideline', so to speak. Right next to where the Admiral watched his cadets get picked off, one by one.

The look on the Rear Admiral's face seemed cold, as if he expected everyone in his class to fail. For some cadets, that was the closest to death they had come. And the side affects could be devastating to their careers. Mental breakdowns, unhealthy eating habits, restless nights. One at a time, they were common and insignificant. But all of the symptoms... Granted you a ride home with discharge paperwork in your PADD.

Seryn watched the little 'bees' buzzing around in space, tuning out Lee's cursing and complaining. He wondered if they would ever be considered good enough to fly real fighter craft, from Spacedock. Outside of the Solar System, to the edge of the sector or beyond.

<2383, Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards, Academic 4th Year>

The Saber-class USS Lincoln shook violently under the infamous green disruptor poundings.

"Report!" shouted Marshall from the command chair.

"Sir," replied Blakemore from the Ops station, "fore shields at fifty-six percent and holding."

Rhone knew he had to report what he had received from remote communications stations throughout the ship. "Sir, three casualties reported from Sickbay, one in Engineering, and one in Avionics. Wounded reports are still coming in." This marked the first time that Rhone was actually afraid since his start at Starfleet Academy.

"Uh," came the unsure start of Russi's sentence at the helm, "I don't see what's causing this but our navigation system is slowly losing power despite my attempts to segregate it from other systems." His wrinkled and frustrated eyebrows met the high ridges on his bajoran nose that almost gave him a Ferengi look, without the ears.

Rhone looked to his left at the viewscreen while absent-mindedly listening to the audio requests for help across the small ship. He watched three of the Klingon Birds of Prey swoop in on the Reman Scimitar-class cruiser and spark out of existence via its disruptors. He looked to his right at the Tactical station curious to see what Soryl, part of the first group of Romulans accepted into the Starfleet Cadet Exchange Program, would do facing impending death.

Having a Romulan in his class didn't make Rhone nervous, it was the other cadets' reaction to the Romulan that did. It was proof that there were quite a few in Starfleet who could overcome language barriers, ecological barriers and ethical barriers, but not racial ones. The Federation had come so far only to be held back by a few who would lead the next generation of cadets into segregation. Rhone did what he could from time to time, taking more of a passive yet sympathetic role to the Romulans. More and more Klingons had showed up at the Academy, too, but they demanded their respect. Romulans, like the Vulcans, outwitted their adversaries time and time again. It was a matter of time before they turned the tables on their oppressors.

But Soryl didn't flinch. Instead, he looked Rhone in the eye and, without moving his mouth, said all Rhone needed to hear. There was no way to win.

Marshall, who was one of the 'oppressors' was clearly harder on Soryl for this simulation than on anyone else. Despite being just a simulation, the curriculum called for the whole nine yards; boarding, taking command of the bridge, leaving port, the two day journey to the neutral zone and then the combat. Even the customs and courtesies were being graded. Everyone on the 'mock bridge' was tired. And Marshall took it out on Soryl the whole mission.

From time to time, Rhone would get a screen text message, which in turn would have to be relayed to its respective station as what was called, an 'input', or exercise card. Once the card was presented, it had to be distributed to the appropriate station, and then reported as if it actually happened. One of Starfleet's biggest political concerns was the affect that integrating more species into itself was troubling on both sides. So, Soryl got the most input cards, to test him. Text message after test message was sent to Rhone's communications station which was to be forwarded to Soryl's tactical station. Their combined purpose was to judge Soryl's reaction and those of his acting commanding officer. Marshall.

"Engineering," Marshall addressed, "I want more power to phasers, I don't want Mister Soryl to have a reason not to leave at least a dent in their shields."

"Aye, Sir," replied the Vulcan Syllek, aware of the demeaning tone in Marshall's voice. He, too, knew there was no way to win. Still, he sent the appropriate permissions to Blakemore at Ops, and Blakemore directed twenty percent more power to the limited weapons of the Lincoln.

Soryl was clearly angry, but as long as he kept his face toward his station, he was fine.

Another text message. Rhone relayed it to Soryl, who reported what was on the input card. "Sir, the Reman bird is advancing, and no sight of the Klingon fleet."

"That isn't what I want to hear, Mister Soryl, I suggest you keep searching. Mister Rhone, keep hailing Command, see if there are any reinforcements on their way."

"Aye, Sir."

"Aye, Sir," came Rhone's reply. He blabbered the appropriate requests into his headset to Command.

Syllek spoke up from his engineering station. "Sir, I find it illogical to focus on the Klingon fleet while our Tactical Officer should be analyzing the Reman ship's flaws to find an exploitable weak-"

"I don't care what YOU find illogical, Mister Syllek, man your station and we'll let Mister Soryl worry about his." Marshall folded his arms, content with his insight into commanding a ship.

Blakemore turned from the Ops station and said, "Sir, as acting Executive Officer I'm inclined to agree with Mister Syllek. Soryl's time could be better spent."

The only reason Blakemore had been allowed so much time to speak was because he shared the same undershirt color as Marshall. Red. "You can man your station, too, Mister Blakemore. If you aren't comfortable with that, I can have you replaced. Fair?"

Blakemore sat back down at his station and played with his controls.

Rhone couldn't believe someone like this was going to graduate the Academy. People like this were the bane of Starfleet, and often found themselves in trouble early in their careers.

With the argument in place, no one had noticed the size of the Reman warbird getting bigger on the viewscreen as it advanced on the Lincoln's position. Abruptly, the bridge shuddered, and threw Rhone and Soryl into the middle of the bridge floor. Soryl had bumped his head on the base of the elevated command section which sat the captain's chair. Rhone was first to recover and moved almost instinctively for his station when he saw the last text message he was going to read for this mission.

'RHONE IS DEAD, SORYL IS CONSCIOUS BUT BARELY BREATHING. FORWARD SHIELDS AT 0%'

Rhone wanted to read the message aloud to the crew, but he knew he could only forward the message to its respective recipients; Marshall and Soryl. He did so, and returned to the position he'd been thrown to and laid himself down on the ground.

Marshall yelled, "What??!" He glared at Soryl for a moment before coming back to reality. "Soryl, transport a shield to our forward hull if you have to. I don't want excuses. Blakemore, reroute communications through your station and dispatch a medical team for Mister Rhone."

Blakemore did so, but when he rerouted the comm system to his station there was a message on the screen. Speaking up, he asked "Sir, what about Soryl? He doesn't look so good.."

"He's fine."

Just as Marshall finished his cold hearted reply, both doors to the bridge opened. Where there was usually two turbolifts stood two large groups of instructors and flag officers.

The cadets all turned toward the rear of the bridge to see more rank on every single officer than the entire bridge of cadets put together. Two faces stood out.

The first face was the Academy Commandant. The second, was Commodore Wassley, Academy Security Superintendent. The commodore moved to stand next to Marshall's command chair.

"Cadet Marshall, stand up," ordered the Commandant. He moved over to where Rhone still lay on the floor of the bridge. "You too, Cadet."

Rhone moved to his feet wondering if he'd done something wrong.

Marshall stood slowly, hardly understanding the interruption but knowing enough not to question the Admiral.

"Mister Marshall, your Tactical Officer could have had a concussion. You failed to seek treatment for him. You considered your Communications Officer more valuable. But you didn't even call for a med team to take a look at him while he worked. Your biased opinions are worn on your face, Mister Marshall."

"But Admiral, I-"

"Commodore Wassley has already drawn up a resignation for you. All you have to do is sign. If you don't, your court martial won't be pretty."

"Court martial?" Marshall's voice wavered.

"Starfleet has NO room for those of your racist nature, Cadet Marshall. You don't really have a defense seeing as everything you've done in class has been recorded. And everyone you've trained with just doesn't seem to share your distaste for other cultures. Get your face out of my sight, Cadet!"

Marshall cringed, by now in bindings. Wassley whipped the racist cadet around and walked him past the rest of the high ranking Starfleet officers standing in the 'turbolift' doors.

The Commandant turned and faced the crew, who had all at some point moved to stand at attention. "Your commanding officer was thrown from his command chair and fell unconscious. The medical team dispatched to the bridge found Cadet Rhone fit for duty after applying a stimulator. What do you do?" And with that, the admiral turned and left the bridge, the lift doors closing behind him. The simulation had to continue for the rest of the crew.

Everyone stood quiet for a moment, and Blakemore was the first to respond. "I have the bridge! Your seats, we have a warbird to delay!"

Everyone sat at their stations, the only one left unmanned being the ops station. Syllek noticed and took action to reroute its permissions to his own station. Soryl looked relieved and excitedly scanned his target for weaknesses, while simultaneously applying more power to the forward shields. Russi held the ship steady despite the oversized predator taking up the whole viewscreen.

Rhone continued to send moment-to-moment updates to 'Starfleet Command' while assessing damage reports and casualties still coming in from the initial attack. Rhone knew, as well as most of the bridge crew, that a Saber-class ship was just too small to take on a Reman Scimitar-class warbird. Even a Sovereign-class ship and two Romulan Warbirds were almost not enough. But they could make a dent, delay the warbird, allow Command to make preparations.

Even though the pseudo-bridge crew had made ready to die delaying the warbird, several blurred and mobile images made their way into the foreground of the scene on the viewscreen.

Rhone's eyes lit up. "Sir, word from the Klingon fleet, they have the Scimitar surrounded and are prepared to attack following our lead!"

Even though all hope had been lost, it was said in the curriculum that Klingons honored death in battle. Having almost witnessed a small ship like the Lincoln prepare to die for the sake of others inspired the Klingons to move in on the intruder.

The curriculum also said after the class was completed that the exercise was based on true events. Cadet Fourth Class Blakemore was awarded the Training Leadership award.