Quince Morgan sat in the aft compartment of his runabout sipping coffee and reading all the latest bulletins from Deep Space Four. Starbase 901 was located in a potentially lethal zone should the shit ever hit the fan. Well, thought Morgan to himself, that's why they pay me the big bucks and don't promote me after four years of service.
To say that Quincy Adams Morgan was bitter was to describe the Dominion War as a skirmish. Morgan's life had been dotted with devastating losses and personal setbacks that would have killed a lesser man. Shortly after his birth in Sheffield, England, his natural parents abandoned him inside a spoon factory for reasons unknown. The infant would have died if a kindly widow of a slain Starfleet officer named Elliott hadn't heard the baby crying. The widow took in the infant and named him Quincy Adams Morgan. The widow, Mrs. Josephina Elliott, eventually became an ambassador in the Starfleet Diplomatic Corps. Morgan lost Mrs. Elliott in a classified diplomatic mission to the Cardassian Empire, but didn't let the loss slow him down. four years later, Morgan was in the Academy studying to be a fighter pilot. A visit from a Starfleet captain in Intelligence convinced Morgan to switch his specialty to the Intelligence division.
"Lt. Morgan, we are within 300,000 kilometers of Starbase 901," the computer announced, jarring Morgan from his reverie.
"Slow to full impulse. I'll be at the helm shortly." Morgan ordered as he rose to his feet. A small whine of servo actuators accompanied his movements. Quince Morgan's limbs had been burned from his body aboard the USS Delaware during the early stages of the Dominion War. Morgan had spent over a year learning how to walk and do simple tasks with his prosthetic limbs. Of course, when Intelligence had learned that Morgan had artificial arms and legs, they had quickly devised state-of-the-art prostheses for Morgan to use in the field.
Morgan walked into the command section of the runabout and sat down at the helmsman's console. The starbase loomed dead ahead of the Washita. Morgan tapped the ship's subspace radio and opened a channel. "This is Lt Quince Morgan aboard the USS Washita. I believe I am expected. Requesting permission to dock."
"Starbase Control to Washita, you are cleared to dock in Bay 6. Control out." Morgan grinned and closed the channel. Somebody on that station obviously remembered him from the early days.
The doors to Docking Bay 6 slid open to admit the Washita. Morgan took control of the landing sequence and set the runabout down gently on the assigned pad. The ground crew immediately began to post-flight the ship. Morgan went aft and gathered up his bags and orders for Captain Mallory.
Morgan had just exited his runabout when a crewman rushed up to him. "Lt. Morgan, sir! I am Chief Crewman Goss, and I have orders to get you settled in and up to speed as soon as possible."
"Where is Captain Mallory?" Morgan asked.
"She's up to her armpits in personal troubles, sir." Goss seemed hostile as he bit off his reply.
"What's with the attitude, chief?" Morgan demanded as the pair strolled out of the docking bay.
"Sorry, lieutenant, but aboard this starbase we are all one big family and then a new guy comes in trying to disrupt the flow of things. Captain Mallory is having some personal problems that, with all due respect to you, is none of your goddamned business!" Goss didn't bat an eye as he glared at Franklin. Chief Goss wasn't the kind of crewdog that bristled then mewed for forgiveness. Morgan immdeitately liked him.
"No apologies necessary, chief. I'm not exactly socially adept and I apologize if I stuck my nose in where it didn't belong." Morgan extended his hand, which Goss took with a nod. The pair entered a turbolift.
"Crew quarters, officer level." Goss barked. The lift slid into motion. "Noticed you was a Marine officer, sir. How does it feel knowing that you can earn your living as a moving target?" Goss looked at Morgan with an impudent grin.
Morgan smiled back. "Hey you know our new motto, 'you call, we haul ass and get shot up!"
The lift opened and the pair walked out. Goss began to talk about the starbase. "She's a Buckingham-class station and smack dab in the middle of one of the most interesting spotsin the galaxy. The personal viewer is all set up with the info you need. I have your orders an..."
"Wait a minute!" Morgan exclaimed, clapping a hand to his rear uniform pocket. "How did you....?"
"I wasn't always a Starfleet chief that nursemaids newbie officers, sir!" Goss grinned again. Goss held up the iso-chip and smiled. "I learned to be a pickpocket in the Maquis while undercover." Goss turned to leave, then turned back to face Morgan. "Sir, if you don't mind my asking, why in hell are you only a second lieutenant? I 've read most of your record and you should have been promoted to at least Major for you time in service alone. What did you do, piss in a punch bowl at some general's hoopty-do?"
Morgan's eyes immediately clouded over. "It's a long story, chief, and you aren't cleared for it. Dismissed." Goss left and Morgan set his bag down on the floor and began to examine his quarters. Standard quarters for a Buckingham-class station. Probably as secure as my crib in England before Mama Elliott found me, Morgan thought grimly. The thought of Josephina Elliott sent a spasm of pain through Morgan that hadn't lost its intensity over the years. Morgan always held beings at arm's length in order to keep himself from getting hurt should they be yanked out of his life. Morgan was basically a loner by choice and by the dictates of his chosen career.
"Commander Nadira to Lieutenant Morgan" the ICS announced rather loudly.
"Morgan here, sir."
"Report to my office immediately. Nadira out."
"See the galaxy, make new friends, discover new worlds! All this can be yours if you join Starfleet today!" Morgan snorted sarcastically as he rose to leave.