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Utopia Planetia
Research and Development, Advanced Fighter Development Program Fascility

Stardate: 59001.02

Commodore Shirt B Red’s patience was wearing thin.

He had spent the better part of an hour walking this way and that, al over the three decks that housed R&D’s fighter department, looking for a Lieutenant Junior Grade, after he had learned the Lt. Jg in question was not where his comm-badge was the hard way.

The tracking system in the comm-badge had obediently reported it’s location, the home of the van Hulftoids on Mars’s surface, and so that’s where Shirt had himself transported. Finding that the badge was home but it’s owner was not had been an annoying experience for Shirt to begin with, but the runaround he’d gotten through the facilities of the Advanced Fighter Development program was really getting to Shirt.

It wasn’t the physical exertion or the facilities that bothered him of course but the fact that he had passed several low ranking officers three times already. A Commodore, lost in a starfleet facility while looking for a mere Lt.jg. Who he could have had summoned to come to him was a gossip story spreading around his back that made him cringe even thinking about it.



“No good deed goes unpunished” he mumbled to himself, while mentally coming to the descision that when Shrit was not at the location he was now walking to he would abandon this fools errand and have the Lt. Jg. Report to his office at Earth’s Starfleet Headquarters first thing in the morning. Shirt rounded a corner and found himself entering a spacious area the was filled with 2 rows of 8 simulator pods.

A quick glance told him only two were active, but a bit of a crowd had formed around the view screen in the back. Young ensigns mostly were following the two active simulator’s performance on that view screen, and most were sporting an expression of amazement or even awe. Rather conspicuously not among the spectators however was Schrit van Hulftoids, Lieutenant Junior Grade.



Not wanting to disturb a gathering of this sort which were virtual steroid moral injections for men like the Ensigns that were focused on the two sim’s one v one dogfight that unfolded before them on the view screen. A few seconds of watching the feed told him it was a Defender and Attacker scenario where one fighter’s mission was to defend an object while the other fighter had the orders to destroy that same object.


For a few minutes the dog fight was indeed incredibly impressive to watch. Both fighters seemed to have decided they would destory the other and ignore the object that was the primary mission objective for both. Both pilots seemed to be exceptionally skilled pilots, pulling in, up and out from their vectors in maddeningly tight turns in attempts to het their opponent inside their firing arcs , careful not to wind up inside their opponent’s arcs in the process.


An itch at the back of his neck told the Commodore, himself a former pilot of considerable skill, there was something….. off…. About the whole twirling and twisting dance that that two fighters were engaged in. It took Shirt almost a minute before understanding blossomed into conscious thought to provide the answer. The attacking fighter pilot was holding back.

It was almost imperceptible but he had missed at least 4 opportunities to get his phasers lined up with the other fighter's tail. This meant nothing of course in its self, but all the 4 occasions it happened it did so in the exact same way; A thruster shot that was just enough to add a roll to left round the axis of the vessel to the craft’s motion on other axis that was going to bring the target vessel into the gun sights in the first place. Once, twice okay. Three times is already cause for scrutiny but four times left no doubt that the pilot was doing it consciously and with intent..



The rising excitement among the young officers watching told Shirt that they hadn’t noticed, witch stroked his ego a little bit, still having a sharper eye and instinct for such things than men and women at least 15 years his junior. When the attacking fighter launched a missile thad sped across the distance that separated the two fighters the crowd watching exclaimed confusion and looked to their peers for understanding.

“How could he have gotten tone going through those maneuvers? Impossible” one of them voiced their confusion. Commodore Shirt smiled, as he knew the answer and was not in the least confused. As the second fighter screamed up and backwards while twisting its self around the axis in a maneuver intended to break any missile’s lock the missile that was supposedly locked onto it went straight on, ignoring the fighter completely.



Three seconds later a bright flash preceded the announcement from the simulation computer’s emotionless voice. “Primary target destroyed. Attacker wins” it stated matter of factly and proceeded to gently return the simulation pods to their idle positions, ending the simulation and opening the pod’s hatches. “THAT WASN”T FAIR! YOU DIDN'T”T GET ME!” shouted an oddly young voice from the defender’s pod, as soon as it had opened wide enough to allow sound waves to get through. From the attacker pod came no reply to that, just the emergence of a human man who Commodore Shirt recognized at once as the man he had been looking for the past few hours, Lieutenant Junior grade Schrit van Hulftoids.

Turning back to see who had been his opponent he commodore had to do a double take when he realized what he was looking at. A human boy no older than 12, if even that, hopped out of the simmpod onto the ground pouting and stomping his foot twice to show how angry he was pretending to be.



Only as the Commodore came closer to the Lt. Jg.and what most probably was his son did he notice that there was a kind of greenish tint to their skins. It was visually the only hint that they were actually not fully human. Just before the Lt. Jg. Noticed the Commander he could hear him say to his son.

“Hope you’ve learned today that a fighter pilot ‘s instinct and desire to prove he is better than another fighter pilot can never, ever, interfere with the mission objective. For a fighter pilot there are almost always lives depending on the outcome of the mission they’re sent on. Not completing the mission will get people killed. Do you understand that Danre?”



Before the kid could reply though Schrit noticed the Commodore and shot up, snapping into a salute, at full attention. “Commodore on deck! Atteeeeention!” he shouted, his rumbling voice startling the kid but not half as much as it did the other officers. Mentally giving credit to Starfleet training and discipline though the Commodore noted that within a second each and every one of them stood at some semblance of attention and salute as proper decorum demanded of them. He also noted that it was exactly things like decorum that Schrit van Hulftoids was infamous for hating with a passion.



“At ease, as you were” the Commodore ordered as he returned the salute loosely. Then he turned to face Schrit with a stern expression. “Unless Starfleet’s recruitment requirements have changed this young man is too young to be in the service mr. Van Hultoids. Can you explain to me what was is doing at the controls of a Simulation Podd, the hatch of which clearly states AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY?:”



Schrit didn’t even flinch though, standing at what was known as parade attention, and answered without hesitation. “This is my son sir. I have requested and received permission from Commander Simboss, our department head, for bringing my son here and enjoy some quality family time with my son. SIR”


To be continued.