Pathways - Jeri Taylor [232]
Nonetheless, he accepted the assignment without protest, and applied his skill and intelligence to it, working diligently and thoroughly, to the delight of his Starfleet superiors. They were so enthusiastic about his performance, in fact, that he wondered if they would elect to keep him here, on Terra, at the same redundant task, until he retired.
Most of the reviews he conducted were routine. Starfleet captains didn’t get to their positions by ignoring regulations, and Tuvok examined scores of logs that were models of precision and flawless performance. In general, he had only to mark “approved” on the padd and his job was done.
His immediate superior was Admiral McGeorge Finnegan, a generous, expansive man in his fifties with a thatch of red hair graying in spots, and a ready smile. As Tuvok sat in his office one gray November afternoon, methodically studying a set of logs from the U.S.S. Appalachia, which had just returned from a mission to the Barnard’s Star system, Admiral Finnegan rapped casually on the doorjamb and leaned in, padd in hand.
“You’ll have to put the Appalacia aside for the moment,” he announced. “We have a first-mission review that Owen Paris has personally asked to be put at the top of the list.”
The Vulcan’s eyebrow lifted automatically at this news. It was unusual for Admiral Paris to make such a request, and Tuvok was curious as to the reason.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Finnegan with a smile. “This particular captain seems to be one of Owen’s pet projects. He’s been like a nervous father for the last few days.”
Tuvok frowned. He felt this attitude was unsuitable, and he was reminded, as he was every day, of the willingness among humans to allow emotional involvement to determine procedure. But he had long ago stopped thinking he could change their nature. All he could do was to perform his own duties with as much intellectual rigor as possible.
When he reviewed the tactical logs of this particular captain, one Kathryn Janeway, he was appalled. For the first time, he felt his position was justified, and was gratified that the many months of studying logs had given him the experience necessary to ascertain that these particular records were abominable. Captain Janeway had taken her ship, the Bonestell, into the Beta Quadrant and gathered information on microsecond pulsars, and he hoped her scientific methodology was more precise than her attention to tactical matters would seem to indicate. He was somewhat amazed that a captain would dare to submit an accounting that made her look so inept.
Tuvok began taking notes on all the transgressions, and stayed in his office long into the night in order to write as thorough a report as possible. In all, he cited forty-one violations of tactical procedures, including an absence of test firings and battle drills, with only two weapons reviews during the entire six-month mission. He found it hard to imagine that a Starfleet officer would pay such lax attention to details.
When he left his office that night, he noticed lights burning in several offices of Starfleet Headquarters. Curious, he stopped to see if Admiral Finnegan were there, and found his superior in his office looking wan and haggard.
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” he said to Tuvok. “Owen’s son, Thomas, and three other cadets were in the Vega system, practicing asteroid deflection. There was a collision. The three cadets were killed.”
“That is regrettable,” said Tuvok sincerely, thinking of his own children and allowing himself a flickering twinge of relief that they had chosen to remain on Vulcan and eschew the sometimes dangerous path of joining Starfleet. Although it was true that no one could predict the vagaries of life, it was unlikely that he would get a message similar to the one three sets of parents had received that day, and for that he was grateful.
Disliking these unusual thoughts, he turned his attention once more to his task. “I am sorry to inform you, sir, that