It was a typical morning on SB 901. New Canada still orbited beneath them, the fires of the Briar Patch still burned in space around them, the highly choreographed chaos of the station's inner workings still seethed, and the Banshees were having breakfast at the El Taco in their usual booth.
Plastic trays and empty paper wrappers littered the tabletop, but there was not a drop of schplict to be seen. They'd learned that lesson. Max and Kim were sipping their coffees, Sam was trying to watch the manager without him noticing, while Jo sat reading the morning news feed scrolling across her PADD.
"Hey, check this out," said Jo. "The Bank of Bolius has been robbed again."
Kim giggled. "I wonder if it was Lee's friend Morn again," she said, then looked around, having just realized that Lee wasn't with them this morning. "Hey. Where is Lee anyway?"
"You mean you haven't heard?" asked Max.
Kim shook her head. "No one ever tells me anything around here."
"Maybe if you paid more attention instead of goofing around with Garek...," teased Jo. Kim kicked her under the table.
Max pretended to ignore their little round and explained to Kim, "While Captain Wallace and the senior staff are away on Earth, Lee's in charge of the station."
Kim was dumbstruck. She looked sideways at Jo. Reading each other's thoughts, they said in perfect unison, "We're doomed!"
I'm doomed, thought Carter to herself hopelessly. How would she ever cope with all this? How did the Captain do it? He was going to kill her when he got back and her career would be over and she'd have to go back to Earth and ferry tourists around on in-system shuttles! Dejected, she slouched back in the big chair behind the big desk in the Station Commander's office and stared out the big window. She'd never imagined that a CO had so much paperwork to do!
As much as she appreciated and valued the trust the Captain showed in giving her command of his station while he was gone, this was not why she had joined Starfleet. She belonged in her plane, not behind a desk covered with paperwork. So when the door chime rang, it was with some measure of trepidation that she called, "Enter."
In blustered a young man in grimy work coveralls. "Captain!" he exclaimed, but then saw who was sitting in the chair and quickly amended that to, "I mean Commander Carter."
"What's wrong?" asked Carter.
"It's the septic system, ma'am. It took damage during the fight with the Son'a and now it's threatening to overflow. If it does it'll contaminate the fusion core, and if that happens...."
"If that happens we'll have radioactive waste spread from here all the way to the Klingon Empire," finished Carter for him. "I suggest you fix it, crewman."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "But the commanding officer must authorize the transfer of personnel from other repair jobs to this one," explained the crewman.
"Fine! You're authorized!" exclaimed Carter. "Use as many people as you need. Just fix the thing before we're up to our armpits in sewage!"
"Aye-aye, ma'am," snapped the crewman as he turned on his heel and dashed from the office.
"I have better things to do than worry about backed up toilets," grumbled Carter to the cosmos. But the cosmos wasn't through with her yet. Seconds after the crewman left, the intercom whistled and the thickest Scottish burr Carter had ever heard came over the speakers.
"MacDonnell's ta Commanderrr Carrrterrr."
It took a moment for Carter to place the source of the call, to remember that MacDonnell's was the newest restaurant on the Station and that the person on the intercom must be the manager, she couldn't remember his name. "What can I do for you, Mister ...uhh...?"
"Connor MacCloud of the Clan MacCloud," the manager answered proudly. "From the Highlands." He got right to the point: "Ma wee bairn hae been stoolen!"
"Your what?"
"Och, ma bairn, ya daft lass! Our cloon's missin' agin!"
"Your 'cloon'?" Carter shook her head. Was this character speaking English? In a quiet aside, she queried the computer for a translation. It came back with, <My baby has been stolen. Expletive, my baby, you crazy woman. Our clown is missing again.>
So that's what he's in a huff about, thought Carter. That silly yellow clown statue out in front of his store. Ever since MacDonnell's opened, that clown had been a favorite target of station pranksters. She sighed in resignation, but tried to sound reassuring for the upset manager. She said, "I'll do what I can to find your missing property, Mr. MacCloud."
"Aye, lass...," began MacCloud, but Carter cut the connection. A quick call to station security put them on the alert to keep an eye out for a wandering, yellow, kilt-wearing, bagpipe-playing, plastic clown.
That taken care of, she dove back into the mass of paperwork on the desk before her, but before she could get more than halfway through the first report, a loud banging noise from the direction of the office's window almost gave her a heart attack.
She spun around in her chair to see what could possible knock on the window from the cold, airless space outside the station. When she saw, she just hung her head and sighed. This wasn't what she'd signed up for.
Outside the station, nudged gently back and forth by small gas exhalations from SB 901's station-keeping thrusters, a yellow clown floated peacefully, bumping into the occasional window.