Chapter 2—2366

Cadet First Class Thomas Eugene Paris, commanding "officer" of Starfleet Academy Class of 2370, 2nd Fleet, Delta Company, glanced down at his PADD as it chirped, signaling that another one of his plebes had checked in, a Maxwell Burke. He rolled his eyes as he confirmed the message with a quick thumbprint. "What I wouldn't do to be on Titan right now," he muttered to himself.

"What was that, Paris?" Cadet First Class Sarah Markeson, another company commander, asked absently as she confirmed another one of her arrivals.

He sighed. "I was offered a chance to spend the summer at the Academy Flight Range, working on advanced evasive tactics as part of my honors thesis, but good old Dad convinced Admiral Janics to let me teach a beginning course on sublight navigation in the fall instead, so I can stay at the Academy and babysit a bunch of plebes for the summer."

Markeson chuckled as she began to quote Admiral Sorenson, who oversaw the plebe year curriculum and was the direct superior officer over the company commanders: "'It is an honor to be selected as a company commander for the incoming cadets. You should take your responsibilities very seriously, as you are vital toward the education of these young men and women.'"

"Right," Paris replied drolly. He rolled his eyes again. "This is just another one of Dad's attempts to get me groomed for command."

"You are in the flight program," Markeson pointed out. She was an exobotany major. "Conn is seen as a direct precedent to command."

"I'm not in the flight program to be on the command track," Paris replied indignantly. "I've been a pilot since I was a kid."

"We know," Markeson said with her own eye roll. "Your flight records are posted all over the Academy. Hey, I hear your cousin is going to be the navigator of Nova Squadron this year."

"Nick?" Paris asked with a frown, shaking his head. "No, he took some of his flight courses out of order, so he hasn't taken advanced navigational techniques yet. Seth's going to be navigator." He sighed. "He's probably out there right now, at the Flight Range, putting his techniques to good use. Lucky bastard." He sighed again as his PADD chirped, announcing another prospective cadet. "Oh, goody. Another 'outstanding young adult' has arrived, just waiting for me to 'mold into a fine Starfleet officer.'"

Markeson laughed. "May the gods have mercy on us all," she joked.

---

Cadets Paris and Markeson leaned against the Academy gates, barely halfway listening to Admiral Brandt's "welcome to the Starfleet Academy Preparatory Program" speech. "Aww, they're starting to look scared. It's cute," Markeson commented with a slight smirk.

Paris chuckled. "Sarah, you're evil."

She grinned and shrugged a shoulder, clearly not bothered by his comment. "Can you believe we're doing this? It seems like just yesterday we were the ones standing there at attention in our brand-new uniforms, hoping we'll pass the six-week prep program."

Now it was his turn to smirk. "Hoping we'll pass? I was hoping I wouldn't pass, just to see how The Admiral would respond."

Markeson laughed. "You would have been disowned for sure." They both laughed quietly for a minute, until they heard the low sound of someone quietly clearing her throat. Standing on the other side of Markeson was Cadet First Class Serata, looking as disapproving as a Vulcan could. The two human cadets stifled their laughter, even as Paris leaned down to whisper in Markeson's ear: "Imagine having Serata as your company commander."

Her shoulders shook in silent laughter. "Imagine having you," she shot back.

He grinned. "You think you're so much better?"

She raised an eyebrow to his challenge. "You want to make this interesting?" Before waiting for a response, she continued, "I bet you'll have a plebe drop or fail before I do."

"What're the stakes?"

She thought about that for a moment. "I happen to know you have a stash of some of the Federation's finest liquors in your room."

He put on a look of mock horror. "Alcohol is against Academy regulations," he said with false innocence.

"Right," she snorted. "And I grew up on a vineyard, so I have some fine wines. Loser owes winner a bottle of his or her choice."

He thought about it for a second. "You're on."

---

Cadet Paris was silent as he watched the plebes under his command, standing at attention with their eyes forward, not looking at the senior cadets who walked among their ranks, inspecting uniforms and giving instructions in a brusque, superior manner. That was a job Paris had never had, always spending his summers at flight training. Until now, he thought, a realization that still brought a bitter taste to his mouth. He hated it when his father make decisions for him, and couldn't help the nagging feeling that that wasn't going to change, for his entire career.

He glanced at the lines of cadets and frowned slightly, noticing that they weren't even. Pulling out the PADD that had been a constant companion since that morning, he noticed that there was still one prospective cadet not accounted for. He just hoped Markeson wouldn't hold that against him.

He straightened when he saw one of his junior officers, Cadet Second Class Michael Glass, cross formation, intercepting a teenaged girl heading toward them from the gate, dressed in a black jumpsuit, her dark hair in a tight braid, a duffle slung over one shoulder. After talking to her for a moment, Glass pointed her toward Paris.

"Plebe Torres," he drawled as she approached. "Your orders were to report at the Academy gates by 0900. You're more than three hours late."

She stared back at him for a minute, not responding, not reacting, but not backing down, letting him know that she wasn't going to be intimidated by anyone, superior officer or not. Judging by the Klingon ridges on her forehead, there probably wasn't much that would intimidate her. She looked even younger in person than in her Academy photo—and much more attractive, a thought he tried to quickly put out of his mind. "It was excused, sir," she finally said, sounding frustrated. "The transport from Kessik IV couldn't get here any faster."

He stared back at her, letting her know that he wasn't going to be intimidated by her, either. "You should have taken an earlier transport."

She snorted derisively. "There are two transports to Earth a month. I was on the first one to leave after graduation from secondary school. If you have any problems with that, sir, I'm sure Admiral Sorenson could explain the situation to you."

He didn't doubt her words, but he wasn't going to back down, either. He jerked a thumb toward the field house. "You can change into your uniform there, Plebe, and then report right back to formation. Cadet Glass will bring you up to speed once the other plebes have been released to the barracks, and we'll discuss appropriate punishments then."

She glared, angrily shifting the weight of her duffle. "I knew this was a mistake," she muttered darkly as she turned in the opposite direction that he pointed, back toward the gates.

Thinking only of his bet with Cadet Markeson, he reacted on impulse, grabbing the young plebe by the elbow. "Hey," he said. "Where do you think you're going?"

Her glare grew more deadly as her eyes went from his hand on her elbow back to his face. "Let go of my arm," she said, her tone low. Instinctively, he did as she said, and she turned back toward the gates.

"Torres," he said before she could even take a step. "You've made it this far. Might as well give it a few days before deciding it's not worth your time."

She turned back to him, her posture stiff. He could see the debate in her eyes—back down and change into uniform, or turn her back on the hard work it took her to get that far. Refusing to meet his eye, she stalked away, heading brusquely toward the field house.