"Who Mourns for Finnegan?"
His eyes drifted lazily over his various status displays, then came to focus on the Federation News Service feed, constantly running on the last display. It helped him pass the drudgery, and was occasionally informative.
Suddenly, he snapped to attention, and leaned forward, shaking off the cobwebs from a day of monitoring cargo intake at Starbase 13.
"Enterprise returns from 5 year mission!"
"Starfleet's finest continues it's tradition."
"Federation representatives prepare to 'Welcome Home!' the extraordinary crew!"
"...the knowledge, discovery, not to mention increased Federation security, is almost
beyond calculating…."
"Captain Kirk on track for the Admiralty…."
"PLEBE!", he seethed, fists balled up, eyes bulging, as the slightest spittle departed his lips.
"Sir?" inquired Ensign Davis nervously. Lieutenant Commander Sean Finnegan's eyes darted over to Ensign Davis, as he tried to calm himself.
"Nothing, Davis, carry on.", sighed Finnegan, as he slumped back in his chair, and thumbed the FNS feed off.
Davis' eyes were wide, as he kept his gaze on Finnegan. Finnegan's temper was well known, and Davis had more than once been on the receiving end. Davis slowly turned back to his console, and attempted to remember what it was he was just working on.
"Plebe!", thought Finnegan. "I'm surrounded by useless plebes."
He glanced back over his many status displays, as well as the now blank former FNS feed.
Six cargo bays, a few Ensigns just putting in their time, some civilian contractors, plus the useless plebe here with him in the Cargo Bay Command Center. The extent of his fiefdom.
He had it down to a science. His cargo bays were the most efficient in the whole sector, probably the whole quadrant! Apparently his gift at pattern recognition made him indispensable in such a role.
"I should be in Starfleet Intelligence, monitoring intel, prying apart the deepest secrets of our enemies!"
"Starfleet Command would certainly benefit from my prowess, I can easily as predict the best cargo layout, so could I predict the battles and strategies needed to protect the Federation!"
Finnegan's musings, which he thought were in his head, escaped as unintelligible mutterings, further stressing Davis' nerves.
Unfortunately for Finnegan, his habit of inflicting various sorts of odious duties and pranks on underclassmen at Starfleet Academy, as well as his own underlings, did not translate well into a Starfleet Officer. His gift of pattern recognition was the only thing that now kept him around.
Rounds of senior officers had attempted to calm his devious ways, which had only led him to transform into a temperamental man-child.
The only reason he was promoted at all was to attempt to transfer the problem to someone else.
The displays were now a blur to Finnegan, as though externally, his temper seemed to dissipate, internally, a storm continued to rage.
"Davis!", he spat, "take over, I'm going to do an in-person review of the manifests at each bay." Davis knew what that meant.
With an hour and 43 minutes left on shift, Finnegan would now be someone else problem.
He let an almost too audible sigh of relief, so Finnegan hip-checked his chair from behind as he passed by, punching the desk lip into his stomach, turning the sigh into a heavy cough.
"Sorry," smirked Finnegan, "you shouldn't be sitting out so far."
Even the doors seemed happy to be rid of Finnegan, and as they swooshed shut, Davis croaked, "Only 73 more days…."
Finnegan stalked down the main corridor of Starbase 13, still an athletic and formidable presence, and along with his well known ill nature, a path cleared before him.
Technically, he was 4th in command of the Starbase, but he knew he would never amount to anything more. In his mind, the conspiracy holding him back had come to fruition. Here he would while away his days overseeing cargo, until forced by the tedium of it all, he would retire unceremoniously.
He was still young, he had so much left to give Starfleet! Why wouldn't they let him?
His pace quickened, his vision blurred, and then he ran smack into Commodore Svan.
"Is there an emergency which requires such expeditious movement that I am unaware of, Lieutenant Commander?"
Svan's dry Vulcan tone, with its hint of superiority, almost broke Finnegan's remaining composure.
"Uh, no sir, just on my way to do an in-person review of the cargo manifests."
Svan's right eyebrow raised ever so slightly, as he too knew the probabilities of what that meant.
Even Svan's patience had grown thin, but had not yet found enough of a reason to rid himself of Finnegan.
He did have the most efficient cargo bay in the sector, after all, so a few human quirks could be easily dealt with. It was only logical. "Carry on, Lieutenant Commander."
Svan disappeared around the bend of the corridor and Finnegan slumped against the bulkhead as he watched him go.
His hands were shaking, his brow was wet, and his lips were dry. He continued on his way, dragging himself at a snail's pace with his shoulder's slumped.
Once he arrived at his quarters, he locked the door, dimmed the light, and surreptitiously slid open his desk drawer. Removing the extraneous pads and other minutiae, he came upon his only commendation, the Starfleet Operations Service Medal. He flipped over the case and read the back:
"This medal recognizes service by personnel in various career fields who have served in units involved with strategic consignment operations."
He bellowed a frustrated and angry cry, slung the case with the medal violently across the room, hearing a satisfying crack as disappeared behind his bed.
He then pried up the bottom of his drawer, revealing a hidden compartment. There lay his most prized possession, a sparkling blue liquid that would mend his wounds, at least for today.
As Finnegan lay half dressed, snoring and drooling, on the floor of his cabin, a sudden crash and twist lifted him off the floor and deposited him back down in a mangled mess. The silence which followed made him wonder if he had had too much Romulan Ale this time.
Suddenly, the Red Alert siren began to whoop and a pulsing red light filled his cabin. He cradled his head and cursed his birth.
"Medical assistance and Damage repair teams to Cargo Bay 4!", burst the voice of Commander Shy'rek Thlan over the intercom. "Lieutenant Commander Finnegan, report to Cargo Bay Control, on the double!"
The chronometer only read 23:40. "I'm not on duty for another 7 hours!", was the first thought through Finnegan's head.
His room shook again, and he began to think seriously about the situation. Perhaps this was his out. He'd just stay locked in his room and they'd finally have the excuse they needed.
The lights flickered and a strong gravity wave bounced him half a meter off the floor. He grabbed his uniform shirt, clumsily fitted it over his head and weaved toward the door.
As he made his way through the hallways, the flashing lights, screaming alarms and occasional shock wave made his ale-addled brain spin. At least all the others he passed were having similar issues, so he blended in nicely.
"Lieutenant Commander Finnegan, report to Cargo Bay Control, on the double!", screamed the overhead. 'Yeah, yeah', thought Finnegan, as he spotted an intercom. Mashing the activation button, he hoarsely belted, "On my way!" just to silence the other end.
Finally arriving at Cargo Bay Control, he staggered into the room, plopped into his chair and screamed, "STATUS REPORT!" to the two shadowy figures in the room.
Ensign Davis stuttered, "Th-there's a rotating gravity wave buildup emanating from Cargo Bay 4, waves increasing exponentially every 379 seconds!" "Ensign Lortak and two civilians a-are trapped in the bay" "Structural integrity of the bay is f-failing" "Structural stress of the surrounding area is increasing!"
"Shut up Davis!" Useless plebe and his useless details. "What's on the manifest for Cargo Bay 4?"
"He-Heavy duty anti-grav transpo units, Quadrotriticale, Invidium, Metaph.."
"What! What idiot plebe authorized storing Invidium with anti-grav units?"
"Uh, at the end of last shift, E-Ensign Lortak decided since the Invidium was shielded, and only on board til tomorrow's morning cargo run, we could store them on opposite sides of the bay and not have to redir…"
"MORONS! Even shielded, the low level isomorphic radiation given off by Invidium will degrade the AG control circuits. It needs to be stored 180 degrees opposite, at least 100 meters! It's on page 17 of my Cargo Control manual. Don't any of you plebes pay attention! Aaargh!"
"We need to get the situation under control, the AG waves are disrupting station stability and structural integrity, the cargo must be separated." The steely, calm and firm voice of Commander Thlan, the second shadow, quieted the room immediately.
"Well, well, Shy'! Welcome to Cargo Control. OF COURSE we need to separate the cargo. That's probably what stupid Lortak was trying to do when he snuck down there off hours after he realized his mistake." Finnegan's disdain for the straight-laced first officer dripped from his lips.
"BUT, with the AG waves and disruptions, there's NO WAY to move the cargo, the bay doors will have to be blown. Bye-bye!" Finnegan's cavalier attitude caused Thlan to grimace and grind her teeth in Finnegan's general direction.
"Lortak and the two civilians are trapped in the bay, we can't beam them out due to the distortion waves, and the remote bay door controls are non-functional." Thlan continued to state the obvious.
"Use the bay transporters, they're close and powerful, then blow the door from the emergency console in bay control. Am I the only one who knows how to do anything around here?!"
"Bay transporters were not meant for living beings, it would be irresponsible and illegal to use them in such a manner."
"Riiight! Better to have a Lortak/Civilian sandwich and wreck half the station. Just override the annular confinement beam, shrink it to standard personnel size, and increase the resolution to max. I do it all the time. Why do you think your ice civet always goes missing and shows up in the strangest places? How do you think he got out of your quarters?"
Thlan's mouth dropped, an expression that Finnegan didn't even think Andorians could pull off, and for once, was silent. Davis stared, eyes the size of transporter pads.
"Forget it. I'll do it myself." Finnegan burst from the room, leaving confused silence in his wake.
Finnegan raced down the corridor, twisted and thrown as the AG waves intensified. Good thing his adrenaline was running, or else the looming hangover would have stopped him in his tracks. Finnegan slid down ladder C4 three levels and staggered to Cargo Bay 4.
In the bay control room he found two medtechs crumpled in a heap. 'I'll help them later, if there is one.', thought Finnegan. He gazed through the transparent aluminum window at the bay and saw three similar heaps inside the bay, Lortak and his civies.
Finnegan started adjusting the bay transporter controls, overrode the safeties, shrunk the annular confinement beam, pushed the resolution to max, glanced at the 3 lifesigns on the scanner, inputted the coordinates, and energized.
Lortak and the two civies materialized half a meter above the techs and unceremoniously dropped on top of them. Finnegan smirked slightly at their tangled, but otherwise alive bodies, and thought about beaming off their clothes, until another AG wave threw him into the bulkhead. 'Oh right, the Invidium'.
Finnegan reset the transporter, and tried to lock on to the Invidium, then the AG units. Even the powerful cargo bay transporters couldn't get a lock on the affected material. "Oh well" He staggered to the bay door manual control panel, ripped it open, pumped the handle three times, pressed the big red button, and jerked his attention to the bay window.
Nothing happened, no explosive decompression, nothing. Two more tries, same result.
More AG waves, of higher intensity and frequency, assaulted him. The bay control panel alarms switched from red to black and blared even louder.
"Finnegan! What's your status? Structural integrity is down to 27% and falling rapidly! Did you get to Lortak? Finnegan! Status!"
Finnegan ignored Thlan's plaintive calls, smashed the comm mute button and considered his options. A restive calm came over him, he sighed deeply, and made his decision. 'Looks like Starfleet training actually won out.', he thought.
He wrenched open the storage locker, and pulled out a personal anti-grav belt. He popped open the back panel and crossed a few circuits. He clipped the belt around his waist and activated it. He felt the repulsive AG energy steady him a midst the waves pulsating from the cargo bay. He had used this same trick in his academy days to make himself seem tougher than he was in the frequent bouts he had. His little secret. 'Should've documented this, probably would be useful to landing parties, oh well.'
Finnegan overrode the bay access door controls, and strode surprisingly steadily toward the manual space door controls near the front of the bay.
Thlan's voice echoed through the bay, "Finnegan, we have you on the bay monitors. What are you doing? What's going on?"
Finnegan reached the space door controls, and opened the access panel. He turned around, smiled at the video scanner, and gave a causal two finger salute. He then pumped the manual release handle three times, mashed the big red button and disappeared out the space doors along with dozens of cargo containers.
Thlan and Davis stared in silent disbelief at the monitors. Neither moved. Davis waited for Thlan to do or say SOMETHING, but she was just staring, motionless, in silent shock. Davis pushed the comm button, "Transporter room, emergency! Man out Cargo Bay 4 space doors! Emergency beam out!" No answer, and then, "Too much AG interference, can't get a lock! Trying again, standby!"….."Can't do it, AG interference falling, maybe in a few minutes." A few minutes would be too long for Finnegan.
Jim Kirk stared wistfully out of the darkened observation lounge through the windows to the space-frame dock surrounding the Enterprise and the blue globe of home beyond. Worker bees buzzed around the Enterprise, while errant thoughts of the future buzzed around Jim's mind. 'Would they make me give up the Enterprise?' 'Do I really want a promotion?' 'Were Bones and Spock really going to leave Starfleet?' 'Will I ever serve with such a remarkable group of people again?' For the first time in many years, he was unsure of himself and it gnawed at him.
The door to the lounge swooshed open and light spilled in from the hallway. "Thought I'd find you here", drawled McCoy. "No rest for the wicked, eh?"
Kirk closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose and responded, "What is it, Bones?"
"Well, well, aren't you in a mood. Don't mind me, I'm just an old country doctor looking out for a friend. Saw something on FNS I thought you'd like to see." McCoy handed Jim a tablet.
"Another rousing story glorifying our historic five-year mission?", sighed Jim.
"Just read it." McCoy patted Jim on the shoulder and turned and left.
Jim lifted the tablet, and the screen came to life.
"Veteran Starfleet officer saves Starbase 13! Lt Cmdr Sean Finnegan gave his life earlier today, expelling a volatile mix of cargo at the cost of his own life. Hundreds of lives were saved. Another shining example of the self-sacrificing spirit of Starfleet."
A picture of Finnegan flashed up on the screen, aged, but handsome, with his customary smirk. His meager Starfleet service record displayed below.
Jim had not thought of Finnegan for years, since he had the opportunity to beat the tar out of the simulacrum they encountered on the holiday planet. Finnegan was dead. Finnegan was dead. Jim couldn't get his head around it. And gave his life in service to Starfleet, saving others in the process. Jim couldn't imagine. His previous experiences with Finnegan still ruled his mind up to this point. He had turned out to be a good Starfleet officer. Unremarkable career, from the looks of it, but a Starfleet officer till the end. His bouts with Finnegan raced through his head. Who would he be today without that bully to egg him on? Finnegan was a large part of his development, even if he hadn't admitted it to himself.
He gripped the tablet, and to his surprise, a solitary tear rolled down his check. Jim Kirk wiped it away, straightened his uniform, walked purposefully toward the door and whatever the future would hold for him.