Red Means Dead

Bad Penny

I check my tricorder again and pat my toolkit strapped to my thigh one more time to make certain it's secure. I know it is, I can feel the PALS grid against my leg as I walk just like the phaser strapped to my other leg and my communicator to my hip but I want to make absolute certain. The extra gear feels clunky and foreign but I'm sure I'll get used to it soon.

I've read all the reports, been to the briefing and know the threat assessment but my muscles are excited and my bones are weary and my unease is strong. McCoy jokingly said he'd give me something for the nerves but they haven't created something strong enough for my needs.

The mission briefing had been short. We needed to get in, gather data, and get out. The design of the ship is remarkable but beyond that, there's nothing extraordinary about it. We're not certain which alien race has built it and with no evidence of the lifeforms that once inhabited it, that is our top priority. We're not to repair the ship, we're just to collect data on the species and any research they may have left.

That's why I find myself the only red shirt on the mission: two command ensigns are going to check the navigation systems and make certain that it's not on a collision course with any of the surrounding planets; three science officers are tasked with checking the data banks; and me. My specific task is to make sure that the life support stays supporting life so our crew can do its job. It's not a bad mission but it's a good first mission to get my feet wet again. I kind of wonder in the back of my mind if McCoy orchestrated this plan with the Captain for that reason but surely not.

I can't keep excitement and dread from warring with each other inside my head.

Walking into the transporter room, I'm not surprised to find I'm the first one here. It gives me a moment to take a few steadying breaths and gather my wits. Admittedly, it's McCoy's confidence in me that does me the most good and I latch onto that fact as the doors open and the science personnel enter, talking excitedly about what secrets they may uncover.

I know them only in passing. D'Amico and Bristow are these sort of wonder-twins that feed off of one another's intelligence. They speak so quickly and softly to each other, unless you're looking at them, you don't even realize they're communicating. I think they're sweet on each other but neither wants to admit it. Schmidt is a little more subdue but still looks like a hummingbird ready to take flight. She's eager to get the data and start integrating it into our own banks.

"Hey there, Schmidt. All good?"

She looks up, surprised to hear her name, and flutters over to me, her brown eyes as big as the saucer section.

"Indeed! I'm formulating a hypothesis that these aliens, based on vessel structure and lack of historical data, are very similar to the Tholians. I'm hoping there will be genetic residue of some sort to see if they, too, have an exoskeleton." She dances her fingers along her chin and her smile grows. She looks like a child on Christmas morning.

I chortle, caught up in her enthusiasm. "Well, then, I hope you get your residue."

"Thank you! I hope--," her words tapper off as the door slides open and the command ensigns walk in. She straightens and her cheeks turn a bit rosy. She, like me, must get apprehensive showing off her excitement to just anyone. She excuses herself and walks over the D'Amico and Bristow and the three start chattering away.

Keene and Lincoln are from command division and they walk in, no nonsense, ready to take charge. They aren't as excited as the blue shirts but when Lincoln addresses me, he's talking a bit faster than he did in the briefing.

"Walker," he says, his deep rumbling voice rattling around in my ears. He's a good third of a meter taller than me and has no real sense of personal space so I have to crane my head back to address him.