So, this is it.

The USS West Covina—a California-class ship, my first command, and hopefully, not my last. Floating just beyond the viewport of Starbase 53, she's like the old Toyota Corolla I drove back on Earth. A little beat up around the edges, not exactly built for speed, but reliable. The kind of ship you'd take to the stars, but maybe not into a space battle—unless you're feeling lucky or have shields at full power. But hey, it's a ship. My ship.

I press my forehead against the transparent aluminum window of the station and sigh. Space: the final frontier. Boldly going where countless others have gone before. The Federation's been doing this for centuries. Warp drives, phasers, Klingons complaining—nothing new. Yet here I am, still excited about exploring all the vast nothingness and dodging space anomalies. A part of me wants to run out there and touch the stars. Another part wants to lock myself in my quarters, fire up the holodeck, and finally get through the stack of 21st-century video games I've missed. Priorities, right?

But there's this nervous, gnawing feeling at the back of my head. And it's not just the looming captaincy. No, it's the fact that the last captain of this ship resigned a week into the job. A week. That's barely enough time to memorize which deck the bathrooms are on. And the first officer? He quit on the first day. One transporter mishap later, and poof—he was out of Starfleet. I still don't know the details, but I have a lot of questions.

They didn't even bother cleaning out the ready room.

"Slovan, Captain Martin Slovan," I mutter to myself. It sounds good on paper. It sounds okay in front of a mirror. But in front of a crew? It feels... off. Maybe it's the whole "war hero" thing from the Dominion War. People keep throwing that around like it's a badge of honor. I still don't know why I got promoted; it wasn't exactly a picnic out there. Being called a hero for basically staying alive—well, that's a heavy label to carry.

There's something about being frozen in a stasis pod and waking up hundreds of years later that really messes with your sense of purpose. One minute you're binge-watching Modern Family, and the next, you're fighting space battles in a future you barely understand. And sure, I saved some people. But all I really wanted was to not die.

Thirty-three years old and the galaxy is still a mess. The Klingons are still cranky, the Romulans are still mysterious, and I'm… still single. Now, with the West Covina, I'm responsible for a crew. A crew that, by some twisted cosmic joke, I decided not to replace. It's not that I trust them. It's more that the thought of doing Starfleet HR paperwork for a new team sounded like torture.

So, I've got the same crew, the same ship, and—let's face it—the same Starfleet-issued uniform that always itches in the same spot, no matter how many "new fabrics" they claim to have used.

I take one last look at the ship. It's just sitting there, hanging like it's waiting for something. Waiting for me to step onboard and... do what, exactly? Explore strange new worlds? Seek out new life and new civilizations? Or just make sure the replicator doesn't serve us sentient yogurt again?

I start walking toward the docking bay, bracing myself for the inevitable "Welcome aboard, Captain" speech from the crew. I'm not ready for it. At all.

USS. WEST COVINA

"Captain on the ship!" shouts some eager ensign as I step aboard the West Covina as I exited the shuttle. Great. I nod like I'm supposed to, trying to keep my face from betraying how much I'd rather be anywhere but here. Maybe I could have been a bartender, or a IT Department head. But no, I had to join Starfleet, because apparently, frozen cavemen with vague war hero credentials get fast-tracked to leadership roles these days.

Walking through the corridors, I realize the ship is about as functional as a rusty bicycle on Mars. It's not that the systems don't work—they work fine. It's just that everything feels...tired. Maybe it's me projecting, but even the replicators seem to whirr slower, like they know they're not pumping out fresh raktajino for Captain Picard.

And then there's my First Officer, Dave. Now, Dave is something special. Not in the "I'm glad you're on my team" kind of way, but more like the "I can't believe they let you run anything" kind of way. Dave is a transporter clone. Not an evil transporter clone, mind you—he's the "nice" one, if you can call any copy of a person "nice" without it getting awkward. We've been through a lot together, so I trust him. Mostly.

I find him standing in the transporter room, fiddling with the console. His back is to me, but he knows I'm here.

"Welcome aboard, Captain," Dave says without turning around, his voice as flat as a piece of replicated toast.

"Yeah, thanks. Ready for this?" I ask.

He finally turns to face me, that same familiar smirk on his face. "Absolutely not. But let's do it anyway."

"That's the spirit."

We stand there for a moment, just taking in the silence of the empty transporter room. He knows what I'm thinking, and I know what he's thinking: This is going to be a disaster. But hey, at least we'll go down with a smile.

And thus begins my tenure as captain of the USS West Covina. What could possibly go wrong?

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THE CONFERENCE ROOM

I can't lie. I've met all kinds of strange, interesting, and downright terrifying individuals since joining Starfleet. You get used to a certain level of...eccentricity. But nothing quite prepares you for the moment when you step into the conference room and face the collection of personalities that will, in theory, keep your ship from falling apart.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

First things first, Dave is standing right next to me, his usual deadpan expression fixed firmly in place. He looks as excited as a Vulcan at a comedy club. "Ready for this?" I whisper.

He gives me a slow nod. "Absolutely not."

We step inside the room, and I'm greeted by a collection of faces that range from "mildly confused" to "actively dangerous." I can already feel the headache forming. They're sitting around the long table, waiting for their new captain—me—to dazzle them with charisma and leadership. Unfortunately, what they're about to get is me trying to remember everyone's name and not make a fool of myself.

"Good morning, everyone," I start. "I'm Captain Martin Slovan, and I'm... well, I'm your new captain. Let's go around the table and get introductions out of the way." I gesture vaguely, hoping that someone will jump in and save me from myself.

Of course, it's the Klingon who speaks up first.

"I am Lieutenant Krag, Son of K'Rokh," he rumbles, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "Chief Science Officer."

Klingon. Science officer. You don't see that every day. It's like discovering a peaceful Romulan, or a Ferengi that offers refunds.

"Nice to meet you, Krag," I say. "Looking forward to seeing what you bring to the table. Science-wise."

He grunts, clearly uninterested in pleasantries. "I have already prepared several hypotheses regarding the spatial anomalies in the sector." A Klingon with a PowerPoint presentation in the works. What a time to be alive.

The Helmsperson sits next to Krag, staring blankly into space. They're an ex-Borg, which means they're probably already smarter than everyone else in the room combined. But also, they look like they're about to ask me what day it is.

"I am Seventeen, I pilot the ship." they say, their voice soft, neutral. No gender identifiers there, but that's normal for someone who doesn't even remember their life before the Borg. Poor kid.

"Nice to meet you Seventeen." I say with a smile. They don't smile back but nod.

Then there was Tu'Pari, the Vulcan security officer. Tall, stiff, expressionless—as you'd expect from a Vulcan. We actually met before albeit briefly before the war but never talked except for that one time we were on Holodeck Cleaning Duty. Ugh. Anyway, she probably doesn't remember me. "Captain. My Name is Tu'Pari. I am your Security Officer." Yep she either doesn't remember or just doesn't think it's worth mentioning. Well, whatever.

Then there's the half-Andorian Chief Engineer. He's got the blue skin and antennae, but it's the human half of him that concerns me. The man looks like he's one bad plasma conduit away from a full-on breakdown. He's sitting with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in what I can only describe as permanent irritation.

"Grok, Chief Engineer," he mutters through clenched teeth. "Don't ask me about the engines unless you want to hear a lot of screaming."

"Noted," I reply, making a mental note to avoid the engine room unless absolutely necessary.

Then we get to the doctor. Oh, I've heard the stories about this guy. His bedside manner makes the Doctor on the Cerritos look like a model of compassion. He's good at his job, sure, but from what I've heard, patients leave his sickbay more scarred mentally than they arrived physically.

"Captain," he says flatly, barely looking up from his PADD. "Doctor Cyrphrus, reporting for duty. If you die on my watch, don't worry—I'll figure out how you managed to screw up a perfectly functional heart."

I stare at him, unsure if he's joking. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

He shrugs. "Hope's not really in my skill set, but I'll see what I can do."

I scan the room and notice one crucial absence. "Where's the ship's counselor?" I ask, because this crew seems like it might need some serious emotional support.

"Probably nursing a hangover," Doctor Cyrphrus mutters. The room goes silent. I wait for someone to laugh, but no one does.

"Oh god, you're not joking," I sigh, feeling the weight of a migraine already forming. "Alright, we'll deal with that later."

I take my seat, trying to compose myself as the crew watches, each of them silently sizing me up. No pressure. I activate the console, and a hologram of a planet pops up above the table.

"Alright, let's get down to business. Our mission is to conduct second contact with the planet Selornia, which the Enterprise discovered last month." I tap the console again, zooming in on the planet's atmosphere. "We don't have much information on the inhabitants—some humanoid species. Apparently, they don't believe in pants."

Seventeen, still staring off into space, raises a hand. "Pants, Captain?"

"Yeah," I reply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "They don't wear them. Full-on 'shirt, no pants' planet. So, just... be prepared for that."

The room is silent for a moment before Cyrphrus leans forward, smirking. "I like these guys already."

Tu'Pari raises an eyebrow, classic Vulcan style. "Fascinating."

"That's one way to put it," I mutter. "Our objective is to establish diplomatic relations, share some basic Federation tech, and do a cultural survey. Nothing too complicated. Except—there's a catch. During the data transfer from the Enterprise, a certain 'someone'"—I don't even need to say who—"decided to crash the system, corrupting most of the information. So we're flying in a bit blind."

Grok grunts. "So, just a typical day in Starfleet, then."

"Exactly," I say with a sigh.

"What could possibly go wrong?" Dave joked.

"You just HAD to say that." I mutter before facepalming.