DL | CDR Stacker | "Life On A Frontier Station"

Posted on Wed Jul 30th, 2025 @ 12:59pm by Commander James Stacker

Mission: A Frontier Station
Location: Stacker Quarters | Intelligence Section | Deck 805 | Cold Station Theta
Timeline: SD 242507.30

Four years after the death of Commodore Aksel Ravnsson.

The explosion of breath rang out abruptly in the darkened quarters. This by itself represented a sudden and jarring change from the past few hours. From routine monotony to abrupt activity. From calm to a near-storm. All underscored and punctuated by the shadowed figure lurching upright in the bed, sheets spilling away as an arm cast them back.

The figure proceeded to swing their legs around, feet planting themselves on the slippers left beside the bedframe. The fabric was old, worn even. It offered only token resistance before buckling underfoot. Leaving the figure to sit there on the edge of the bed, poised in their newfound position, hunched over, hands on thighs, every breath an affirmation of life.

Time passed. Outside the darkened window stars moved as the starbase slowly rotated. Fast enough to be efficient. Slow enough to avoid motion sickness. Give unto maintenance and janitorial services as ye would want to be rendered unto.

Eventually, the owner of the voice spoke to the darkened quarters.

“Computer.”

A soft chime met this sole word, the herald of new activity. On the far wall a panel came to life. Darkened plastic turned to soft amber with agonizing slowness. It branched out to other circuits and electrical pathways, stirring them from their own slumber.

The increasing light was soon enough to cast only the dimmest view upon the L-shaped desk tucked there against the wall, poised as if providing an entrenchment to a soldier on some past battlefield. It was an ugly thing; all metal and faux wood, rounded corners clashing with a natural desire to be imposing.

“Time.”

Another chime from the panel on the wall. “The time is zero-four-twenty-seven.”

The bed creaked. There came a cracking sound of a joint popping. The figure leaned to one side, prompting a fresh pop. He sighed.

“Guess it’ll have to do.”

=/\=

From his quarters to the mighty ensemble of Station Operations was 735 decks. For lesser mortals, the time to traverse this was sufficient to get a coffee and read the morning news. For senior officers, the computer-controlled cars were routed like an expressway. Never stopping, always on the go. A city unto themselves. A city buried within a city, all alone in the night.

Night it was not in Station Operations. This was confirmed when he flicked back his wrist, exposing the antiquated watch that faced inwards, as the car began to slow. The sound made in response was not one of displeasure, nor one of satisfaction. It was … ordinary. A single and impassive sound that conveyed nothing beyond precisely what its owner apparently meant.

There were still roles to perform, jobs to handle, assignments waiting and pending. He squared his shoulders as the doors began to open.

On the other side was a waiting Ensign, PADD in hand.

“Good morning, sir.”

All trace of monotony was gone as the Ghost gave a time-worn and well-honored nod. Lines around his aging eyes deepened in the low lighting of the morning hours, station time. “Good morning, Ensign. What do I need to know about?”

=/\= End Log =/\=

Commander James Stacker
Executive Officer
Cold Station Theta (Starbase 1170)