Solo by Ezekiel Pride
USS Potemkin/Quarters
623 words

Ezekiel Pride rolled over in his bed and looked at the chrono. He closed his eyes and groaned. Why was he still awake at 0200? He hadn’t had coffee for weeks since they ran out on the planet when they were stranded. He was looking forward to that first cup in the morning.

Pride got up and went to the lavatory. He looked at himself in the mirror, scratching at his now full beard. That was coming off in the morning, too. After using the facilities, Zeke pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and grabbed his comm before wandering out of his quarters.

Zeke had no real destination in mind, just to wander and work out what was troubling him. Maybe he would hit the gym. But then he realized he was walking into the shuttle bay, the doors sliding closed behind him. He blinked in surprise and glanced around.

The lights were down low, just enough to be able to see. The place had been put in order after the battle with the old Romulan ship, and the night crew were holed up in their ready room. Footsteps sounded behind Pride, and he turned to see an attractive Chief Petty Officer approaching.

“Natazha Dubrovna, my favorite deck chief,” Pride greeted the raven-haired, green eyed former gymnast. “Sorry I missed a couple games these last few weeks. I was unavoidably detained.”

Natazha smiled. “If your Closed Sicilian is still as bad as it was before, it would not matter,” she said, with a Russian accent.

Zeke laughed. “But I’ve been practicing my Ruy Lopez,” he told her.

Dubrovna still looked at him skeptically. “What can do for you, Commander?”

“The new ship, the alien one. Any problems?” Zeke asked, turning to walk down the rows with Natazha.

“No problems. Seems working order, best we can tell. And we can’t tell much. The engineering is too alien, though it seems to have adapted to Starfleet interfaces.”

They stopped at the new ship, and Zeke frowned. “Is it just me, or is it more…white than blue-grey, like the shuttles and runabouts? And that wasn’t there before.” He indicated the name USS Atalanta on the side. “You put that there?”

Natazha shook her head, looking just as surprised. “No, Commander.”

“Interesting,” Pride mused. As he approached, the hatch opened, and he stopped, raising an eyebrow and looking to the deck chief.

Natazha just shrugged. “You need anything, Commander?”

“No,” Zeke said absently, staring into the alien ship. “I think I’m good. Enjoy your evening.”

Dubrovna yawned. “Would be better with vodka and good opponent. None of these idioty can play a decent endgame.”

Pride smiled. “Tomorrow night, if I’m free,” he promised Natazha. “Bring your best Nimzo-Indian.”

Natazha snorted. “We shall see,” the deck chief said as she turned and walked off.

Pride took a moment to admire her retreating figure before his attention was inexorably pulled back to the Atalanta. He headed up into the ship.

“How you doing, girl?” Zeke asked, running his hand along the bulkhead as he moved toward the cockpit. “Can’t sleep either?” He gave a loud yawn. “Well, maybe I spoke too soon.”

Pride stopped at a storage hatch. The deck crew had apparently stocked the Atalanta with standard supplies. He pulled out a blanket and pillow, along with a PADD, got an Old Fashioned from the replicator, and settled into the pilot’s chair. On the PADD, he called up some John Coltrane to fill the cabin with some soothing jazz, and opened up the novel Shane that he had been reading.

Soon enough, his head lolled back on the seat and he was out.