Academy Awards SD230206

Personal Log - Ensign Lacy Underall - SD230206

 

I was born in Chicago, Illinois, on planet Earth.  Chicago is a fantastic place with a rich history, starting when it became a city in 1837.  Known for deep dish pizza, Wriggling Field, and Prohibition, I spent my formative years there. In 1871, Mrs. O’Leary kicked over a cow and caused a massive fire that burned most of it to the ground, but we Chicagoans are a hearty bunch, and now it features historical homes from Frank Lloyd Wright.  He and his brother, Wilbur, went on to invent the first airplane.  But I digress.  

 

At the end of my teenage years, I was unsettled.  I was bored and had no idea what I would do with the rest of my life. Then one day, I saw a video. Join Starfleet. See the Galaxy. Meet interesting Aliens. That sounded right up my alley, so on a whim, I joined up.  I would return a Captain, chest covered in medals and dripping glory. 

 

The next few years were interesting. I moved to San Francisco and attended Starfleet Academy, where I suppose the best thing you could say was, “someone has to be in the bottom third of the class”.  I was not a resounding success as a cadet. I am pretty sure, looking back, that if Starfleet had not lost so many personnel to the Dominion War, I might not have squeaked by. But hey, if you’re in the bottom third of the class at medical school, you still get called Doctor.

 

As I was starting my third year at the Academy, it was time for me to pick my branch - to establish where my training would be focused, and so I was required to meet with my Career Councillor, Lieutenant Commander Philbin.

 

I entered his office and paused.

 

“Have a seat, Cadet Underall.” He gestured to a chair.

 

“Thank you, Sir.” I sat down and waited as he studied his PADD.

 

“You have a checkered history here at the Academy, Underall.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean, Sir.” I smiled at him, non-committal.

 

“You blew out an EPS conduit in the barracks with your hair dryer. No power for two days.” He read without looking up.

 

“That was never proven, Sir,” I replied. “It could have been anyone.”

 

“Do you recall your class escape room simulation, Underall? When your team was placed in a simulated Romulan bioweapons lab? Your team had to work together to solve a series of puzzles to prevent a plague from being released.”

 

“Oh, yes, Sir.  My team did well on that one.” I smiled at him brightly.

 

“Underall, you smashed a beaker, held a piece of jagged glass to the instructor’s throat, and told him if he didn’t open the door, you would kill him.”

 

“Yes, Sir. They told us to think outside the box. Set a new Academy record too. Eight point two seconds.”

 

Commander Philbin closed his eyes, almost as if he was in pain, then tapped his PADD to scroll the page. “Did you really reply to the question `Who are the Cardassian Union’ on your alien culture final with “They are the people who make sure Cardassian workers get safe working conditions, a pension plan, and paid extra when they work overtime?”

 

“Seems self-evident, Sir.” I wasn’t sure what the problem was.

 

Philbin set down the PADD. “We are here to discuss your future Lacy, to select your career path in Starfleet, and to help you be a successful officer.

 

“Yes, Sir.” I agreed.

 

“Have you thought about what branch you would like to be in, Lacy?”

 

“I thought science, Sir,” I offered.

 

“I don’t think so, Lacy.  You failed theoretical calculus. Three times.”

 

I bit my lower lip. “Mathing is really hard, Sir.”  I paused. “Maybe medical?” I always liked playing doctor.

 

Commander Philbin sighed and looked at his PADD again. “In your first aid course, you put a tourniquet on a Ferengi cadet’s ear. He had to go to sick bay for treatment.”

 

“So no medical then?” I replied, sulking.

 

“I think not.” Philbin glanced at his PADD again.

 

“Engineering?” I suggested.

 

“EPS conduit. Hair dryer.” Was his reply.  “I don’t think so.” He looked up and made eye contact. “How about marines?”

 

“Oh, hell no!” I replied to that suggestion loudly.

 

The vigour of my response seemed to stir his interest. “Why not?” He asked curiously.

 

“Look, I wouldn’t mind the screaming booyah all the time, but they march everywhere. And when they are not marching, they are running. I want to join part of Starfleet, which gets to ride around. I am not built for running.” I complained.

 

Philbin glanced over, taking in my tight-fitting cadet uniform without comment.

 

“Okay, Lacy, how do you feel about handcuffs?” He finally asked.

 

I looked at him suspiciously. “I can take them or leave them. Usually, I get drinks and dinner.” Was he asking me out?  He was a little old for me, but hey, it could work. I glanced at his hand, looking for a ring.

 

“How would you feel about joining the Starfleet Security branch?”

 

It was my turn to blink. “Security?”

 

“Yes,” he said enthusiastically, “I think you might be very well suited to being a security officer. Security is full of opportunities for a young officer such as yourself. There is lots of potential for advancement.”

 

"When other security officers are turned into jelly, dismembered, or otherwise die horribly it leaves a vacancy, you mean?" I asked him. I watch the news. I know stuff.

 

"They don't all die horribly," He snapped at me. "I don't know where people get these ideas."  He paused. "Some get pensioned off with missing limbs or permanent brain damage."

 

“You are not reassuring me, Sir.” I chewed on my lip again.

 

Commander Philbin shrugged, “It’s either this or the marching while yelling booyah, Lacy. You don’t have many options.” He brightened, “You can resign and go back to Chicago.” For some reason, he seemed to find that a great idea.

 

I sighed, “Security it is, Sir.” At least they got to ride in ships, I rationalized. “Sign me up.”  I fancied I might look good in an eye patch or wearing one of those visor things.

 

And so I joined Starfleet Security and graduated as an Ensign, ready to explore the galaxy and meet interesting aliens. I discovered it was theoretically possible that someday I could be Captain of a Federation Starship.  It turns out that the Starfleet officer who flies the radioactive waste ship is called Captain. Who knew?

 

And so, the adventure begins.

 

End Personal Log