Ain't it Fun...
Posted on Tue Sep 8th, 2026 @ 5:40pm by Lieutenant Thomas Fletcher
1,647 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
Preamble
Location: New Bajor
The final morning on the Kalen farm arrived beneath clear skies and the sort of sunshine that seemed almost custom-built to make departures more difficult.
Tom was awake before everyone else.
Years of Starfleet service had made sleeping late something of a lost art, regardless of how much free time circumstances occasionally provided. By the time the first hints of dawn had begun creeping across the fields, he was already sitting on the farmhouse porch with a mug of coffee balanced between both hands.
The farm was quiet.
Not silent.
Never silent.
Somewhere in the distance an irrigation pump hummed steadily away. Insects buzzed amongst the crops. A light breeze carried the scent of soil, growing things and the faintest trace of smoke from the previous evening's fire.
For a while he simply sat and watched the sunrise.
Three weeks earlier he had arrived intending to stay for perhaps a day.
Forty-eight hours at most.
Now he found himself mentally cataloguing everything he would miss.
The pump stations.
The fields.
The evening meals.
The endless stream of questions from Ralen.
The debates with Jera.
The way Lenara somehow knew exactly when somebody needed feeding.
The way Taran viewed every engineering problem as a personal insult.
The realization made him smile.
Then his combadge chirped.
The sound felt unusually loud in the morning stillness.
Tom glanced down.
For a moment he considered ignoring it.
Purely on principle.
Then he tapped the badge.
"Fletcher."
"Lieutenant Fletcher."
The voice of the transport coordinator carried all the enthusiasm of somebody who had been assigned an administrative task before breakfast.
"Transport shuttle will arrive within the hour."
Tom looked out across the fields.
The morning sun was beginning to paint everything gold.
For the briefest of moments he found himself wishing the message had been delayed one final time.
"Understood."
The channel closed.
Reality, it seemed, had finally caught up with him.
The shuttle appeared shortly thereafter.
Its engines echoed softly across the countryside as it descended through the clear morning sky.
The vessel was entirely unremarkable.
A standard Type-8 shuttlecraft performing a standard transport assignment.
Yet nobody on the farm seemed capable of looking away from it.
Tom certainly wasn't.
The shuttle settled gently onto a level stretch of ground beyond the farmhouse.
Dust swirled around the landing struts.
The engines wound down.
Silence followed.
Nobody moved.
Not immediately.
The shuttle was here.
That simple fact somehow made everything feel more real than the combadge message ever had.
For several seconds the entire family simply stood there watching it.
Then reality asserted itself.
Ralen was first.
Predictably.
The youngest Kalen launched himself forward with all the subtlety of a photon torpedo and wrapped both arms around Tom's waist.
"This is still a terrible idea."
Tom laughed despite himself.
"I'll make a note of your formal objection."
"You should."
"I will."
Only after Ralen finally released him did the rest of the family step forward.
There were handshakes.
Hugs.
Promises to keep in touch.
More than one warning from Lenara that he was not to wait another three weeks before visiting again.
Taran reminded him that several sections of irrigation infrastructure remained under unofficial Fletcher supervision and would require future inspections.
Pela maintained that Starfleet still owed the family compensation for stealing their engineer.
Tom accepted all of it with a smile.
One thing he consciously avoided, however, was saying goodbye.
Goodbyes felt too permanent.
He preferred:
"See you soon."
Because he fully intended to.
Jera was the last to step forward.
For a moment neither of them seemed entirely certain what to say.
The conversation beside the firepit lingered unspoken between them.
Starfleet Academy.
Recommendations.
Futures not yet written.
In the end, she solved the problem herself.
"I'm going to apply."
Tom smiled.
"I know."
"You don't know."
"I do."
That earned the smallest shake of her head.
"I haven't even started the application."
"You were going to start it before I left."
The guilty expression that followed confirmed everything.
Tom laughed.
"See?"
For the first time that morning she laughed as well.
Then she stepped forward and hugged him.
"Thank you."
The words were quiet.
Sincere.
Tom rested a hand briefly on her shoulder.
"Make me write the recommendation."
Jera stepped back.
The smile she wore afterward looked considerably more confident than the one she'd worn beside the firepit.
"I will."
Tom nodded.
He believed her.
When the shuttle finally opened its hatch, there was only one thing left to do.
Tom slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and began the slow walk toward the waiting craft.
The grass brushed softly against his boots.
The morning air carried the scent of fresh earth and growing crops.
Behind him, the Kalen family stood gathered beside the farmhouse.
A family that, through a bizarre combination of bureaucracy, hospitality and questionable engineering judgement, had somehow become part of his life.
He paused once at the foot of the boarding ramp.
Just long enough to glance back.
The farmhouse stood exactly as it always had.
The repaired fence.
The rebuilt shed door.
The fields beyond.
The irrigation system threading its way through the property.
A hundred small reminders that he'd left things better than he'd found them.
That thought felt good.
"Lieutenant Fletcher?"
The shuttle pilot glanced over his shoulder.
"That's me."
The engineer stepped aboard.
The pilot studied him for a moment.
"We've been looking for you."
Tom couldn't help but grin.
"I've been right here."
The pilot snorted.
The ramp retracted.
The doors closed.
A moment later the shuttle lifted smoothly from the ground.
---
Through the viewport, Tom watched the Kalen family grow smaller beneath him.
Taran raised a hand.
Lenara was waving enthusiastically enough for the entire colony.
Pela and Ralen looked thoroughly unconvinced that Starfleet had any legitimate reason to take their engineer away.
Only Jera stood still.
Watching.
Thinking.
Planning.
Tom understood.
He suspected she would be filling out Academy application forms before the week was out.
The thought made him smile.
The shuttle climbed steadily.
The farm disappeared first, swallowed amongst the patchwork of fields that stretched across the surrounding countryside. The farmhouse itself remained visible for a little longer, little more than a pale shape amongst the greens and golds, before distance finally claimed that as well.
Tom remained beside the viewport.
Watching.
Thinking.
Remembering.
The pilot wisely left him alone.
For the better part of three weeks, his eventual departure from New Bajor had occupied a strangely theoretical place in his mind. The Venture was always coming. His transport was always being arranged. His new assignment was always waiting somewhere just beyond the next delay.
Now, at last, he was actually moving.
Tom settled a little further into his seat and watched the horizon begin to curve beneath them.
Then the shuttle banked.
He frowned.
It was not a particularly dramatic manoeuvre. Barely enough to disturb the contents of his stomach or require any adjustment from the inertial dampeners.
It was, however, distinctly in the wrong direction.
Tom glanced toward the cockpit.
Then back through the viewport.
The shuttle continued its turn.
New Bajor remained stubbornly beneath them.
After several seconds, Tom leaned forward slightly.
"Everything all right?"
The pilot glanced back.
"Fine, sir."
"Right."
Tom settled back again.
Perhaps they were adjusting their departure vector.
Perfectly reasonable.
He had spent enough time around flight operations to know better than to second-guess a pilot simply because the stars weren't presently where he'd expected them to be.
Several minutes later they began descending.
Tom looked through the viewport.
Clouds rushed upward around them.
The blue-green surface of New Bajor gradually returned beneath the shuttle, followed by mountains, settlements and the unmistakable geometric patterns of developed land.
Tom watched all of this with growing suspicion.
"Are we picking somebody up?"
"No, sir."
"Supplies?"
"No."
Tom considered asking a third question.
Instead he decided to let events explain themselves.
They did.
Twenty-three minutes after leaving the Kalen farm, the shuttle touched down on another landing pad on New Bajor.
Tom stared through the viewport.
Beyond it stood a collection of functional, thoroughly uninspiring buildings surrounded by communications equipment, utility vehicles and the sort of temporary infrastructure that had become increasingly familiar during his stay on the colony.
A large Federation emblem decorated the nearest structure.
Beneath it, somewhat unnecessarily, were the words:
NEW BAJOR CIVILIAN OPERATIONS CENTRE
Tom looked at the building.
Then at the pilot.
Then back at the building.
"This isn't a Galaxy-class starship."
The pilot glanced over his shoulder.
"No, sir."
A beat passed.
"Just checking."
The hatch opened.
Tom collected his duffel and stepped outside.
After the warmth and familiarity of the Kalen farm, the operations centre felt almost aggressively administrative. Personnel crossed the landing area carrying PADDs and equipment cases. Utility transports came and went. Somewhere nearby, somebody was having a remarkably animated discussion about cargo allocations.
Tom stood amongst it all with his bag over one shoulder.
Three weeks.
Three weeks waiting for the Venture to arrive.
Three weeks of irrigation repairs, family dinners, aqueduct construction and increasingly vague assurances that his ship was somewhere on its way to him.
And when Starfleet finally came to collect him, they had moved him to another part of the same planet.
He couldn't even bring himself to be surprised.
"Lieutenant Fletcher?"
Tom turned.
An officer had emerged from the operations centre and was approaching him with a PADD tucked beneath one arm.
"That's me."
"Good. We've been expecting you."
Tom glanced briefly toward the sky.
The Venture remained conspicuously absent.
"So I've been told."
The officer either missed the humour or had spent sufficiently long working in colonial logistics to no longer possess any.
"Your belongings can be stored inside. There's a holo-communication scheduled with the Venture."
Of course there was.
Tom adjusted the strap of his duffel.
"Lead the way."
RSS Feed