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Necessary Evil

Captain Garcia closed his eyes, biting down on his first response. “In all of my
studies and research of Star Fleet history and protocols, I have never once heard of such a
stupendous blunder as the one you pulled, Lt.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Tuer protested.
“No,” Garcia corrected. “It was a hand-wash sink!”
“It looked like a urinal,” Tuer went on.
Kletsova laughed out loud. Garcia shot a ‘cross’ look at her.
“Shuttlecraft Mississippi Moon to New Constitution,” Undine said. “We’re on
final approach. Open hangar bay doors.”
Lt. Commander, and First Officer of the New Constitution, Kitara responded:
“Opening hangar bay doors. Is everything alright? You’re returning ahead of schedule.”
Undine looked to the Captain.
“We’re fine,” Captain Garcia said. His tone suggested otherwise.
“We haven’t received the supplies. Are you carrying them?” Kitara asked.
“No,” Garcia said.
“Captain?” Kitara asked.
“Tuer will file the report as soon as we’re on board,” Garcia said, reaching over to
close the channel.
Captain Garcia was the first one off the shuttle after it landed and he went straight
way to the Bridge. Kitara stood as the deck watch announced his arrival: “Captain on the
Bridge.” She saluted, right fist closed over her heart, and became instantly aware that he
was sporting a cut and a black eye. She knew first hand what a skilled fighter he was so
she suspected his apparent bad mood was due to the fact that someone had achieved a
lucky hit, or two, on him. Of course, it was also possible, she concluded, that he had had
taken on injuries in order to avoid causing another person injuries, which was one of
Garcia’s weaknesses, from her point of view. The quickest way to end a fight was to put
the enemy down.
“Captain?!” Kitara asked.
“Get me Star Fleet Command,” Garcia said without stopping to chat. “I’ll take it
in my Ready Room.”
“Captain?” Second Lt. Indira Sookanan’s voice was soft, almost pleading, as if
she had information to convey but would rather not interact with the Captain in his
present mood. Like all people of Trinidadian descent, she had her legal name, the one on
her birth certificate, and she had her street name, the one everyone called her. She
answered to, and preferred, Trini.
Garcia stopped. “What, Trini? Can you patch me through to Star Fleet or is there
some kind of spatial anomaly or misaligned zodiac signs causing interference?”
“No interference, Sir,” Trini said, remaining business like even in the face of
heavy sarcasm. “Star Fleet Command called us a few minutes ago and they want to
speak to you. I put them on hold, pending your arrival.”
Garcia turned without further ado to go take the call. As soon as the doors to his
Ready Room closed, he remote activated one of the wall monitors with his neural implant
and waited for Star Fleet Command to come on and berate him. To his surprise, and
dismay, it was retired Admiral Leonard H McCoy that had been assigned the task of
scolding him. Genetically speaking, McCoy was his biological father, and though their
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