Z.A. Mackic

Alathea stared at the distant wall of a cargo bay, her fists clenched in frustration. The Captain had burned through precious time and resources to get the scoop the Doctor needed to treat Tuvok. Alathea couldn’t fathom why they were bending over backward for him. Other competent crew members could take over his duties, leaving him to his culinary escapades. Besides, he was a better cook than Neelix, and that was saying something. Taking a deep breath, Alathea tried to quell her anger. This was the Captain in all her glory, always ready to sacrifice the entire crew for strangers, including Tuvok. The notion of someone caring so deeply for her was foreign, given Bene Gesserit had drilled into her that she was nothing more than a disposable tool since the age of five. A lifetime of being treated as a mere instrument had left its mark. Seven, noticing Alathea’s distress, inquired, “What happened?” “Nothing,” Alathea replied, wiping away a stray tear. “You are crying. That’s not nothing.” ...

Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage that Alathea hastily wound around her hand. Utterly daft, she couldn’t bear to wait for Seven to tinker with some finicky component, and now she had a nasty gash on her arm. Stupid. The med bay door swung open, revealing B’Lana propped on one bed, surrounded by the Captain, Tom, and the ever-present Doctor. “What happened to her?” All three swiveled their heads to regard her. “Tom, could you lend a hand here?” the Doctor inquired, his attention firmly tethered to B’Lana. Tom shifted his gaze from B’Lana to Alathea, pursed his lips, and snagged the medical tricorder. He brandished the sensor around Alathea’s injured hand, and she instinctively leaned in closer. “What’s the scoop with B’Lana? Can you fill me in?” Alathea inquired. “She’s aiding her mother.” “What on Rakis are you talking about?” “During her minor mishap, she slipped into a coma, took a detour to the Barge of the Dead, had a chat with her late mother, and now she’s returned, all ...

The captain plopped down at the doorstep of Alathea’s ship. Alathea attempted to ignore her for some time, but it proved futile. The unmistakable gaze bore into her. Eventually, she looked up, meeting the Captain’s eyes. “Captain, how can I help you?” “Oh, I did not mean to interrupt. Please finish what you’re doing.” Alathea raised an eyebrow. This was the epitome of passive-aggressiveness. Setting down her tools, she sat next to the captain, eyeing her intently. The captain glanced at her impromptu worktable and then back at her. “Really, you did not need to stop?” “While you’re here, sitting, and obviously demanding attention?” “Fair enough. I will try to be short. I’m bringing you news.” The captain offered one of the ship’s tablets to her. Alatea took it and switched it on. It started playing a video feed, showing a black hole getting smaller and disappearing in a flash. “What is this?” “That’s the wormhole you came through. We left a probe there to monitor it, in case someone els...

Alathea took a sip of champagne, her eyes scanning the crew gathered in the mess hall. Neelix had graciously invited her, claiming it was a special soirée in honor of the captain. She joined in, thinking it’s always wise to be visible when the higher-ups are throwing a party—loyalty points and all. Smiles were plastered on everyone’s faces, and the chatter revolved around ancestral pride. It was a head-scratcher; this bunch usually championed individualism, showing about as much interest in tradition as a cat does in water. Yet here they were, making a hullabaloo about the captain’s ancestors... She took another sip, observing the chaos erupting as the Doctor prepared to take a photo. “Come on, you should be in the picture too,” he insisted, beckoning her with a smile. “It’s not every day we immortalize ourselves in the great tapestry of Starfleet history!” Alathea shrugged. “I’m not a card-carrying member of the crew, and in all honesty, I do not have ancestors.” The words slipped out...

Someone to watch over me Alathea took a sip of the bland, warm liquid and offered a smile to Abbot. She found solace in this society, a comforting reminder of her home. It mirrored the highly structured environment she was accustomed to, with clearly defined rules and roles for everyone. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic unpredictability aboard Voyager, where the captain veered the primary mission off course at least once a week. Here, everyone knew what to expect, everyone adhered to a goal. It was a relief, providing a sense of certainty about one’s role and how to fulfill it. “Thank you for showing us the magnificent cathedral today, Abbot. Might we know what you have in store for us tomorrow?” Captain said. “Oh, I plan to take you to a few miraculous places where our Lord appeared to our most devout monks.” “Would it be possible to visit a school or hospital?” Tuvok inquired. “Absolutely. We’ll get to that. But first, let me show you the best,” Abbot replied. “You’re very kind...

“I don’t need your help,” Alathea asserted, plopping the scorched gizmo on the makeshift table in front of her ship. The darn training was meddling with her prime repair time. Was she condemned to linger here forever? Seven stood and eyeballed her. “Captain’s orders. You’ve got to carve out time for the training.” “You don’t know a thing about our tech.” “Tech is tech. There’s nothing much there to figure it out.” Alathea fixed Seven with a skeptical gaze, struggling to fathom what she’d just heard. “Borg never had and never will have a Holzman drive!” “Good morning.” The captain sauntered into the cargo bay, a massive grin on her face, clutching a cup of coffee. “Captain, she’s resisting assistance,” Seven reported. “Oh?” The captain took a leisurely sip of her coffee. “She’s clueless about our technology. I’ll waste even more time trying to teach her how our gadgets work,” Alathea grumbled. Captain serenely took another sip. “Seven came to us from a different culture. Much like yours...