One of the first things I found different when I moved in with my dad is that I was permitted to take showers. That’s not to say that I didn’t bathe. Of course I did. But for 95% of the time I lived with my mom and stepfather, I took baths, and it was not a pleasant experience.
Because we saved money in any and every way possible, all of us kids took baths in the same bathwater. I went first, and then my brother and sister would be bathed at the same time. When my stepfather ran the bathwater, it was scalding hot. And I had to get in before it cooled off. It was very uncomfortable, and I got back out just as quickly as I could. I had to wash my hair while in the bath, and instead of rinsing my hair under running water, I had to submerge my head in the bathwater, again, still scalding hot.
There were no toys allowed in the tub. No bubble bath. Just Ivory dish soap, 99 44/100 percent pure. For how uncomfortable the bath was, I wouldn’t have wanted a toy in there with me anyway. It was all business, in and out. And if I was judged not clean enough, as happened more and more frequently as puberty began to set in? Well, the following bath would be given to me by my stepfather, who was, shall we say, not gentle with the washcloth. I might as well throw a trigger warning in right here.
Not only would he practically scrub the epidermis off me, but as dandruff was becoming a problem for me, instead of using a shampoo to treat it, I was given additional rinse time. He would grab me around the neck and the back of my skull and hold my head under water. And hold it. And hold it. He would hold my head submerged until I had to literally fight for breath. These struggles were probably part of what made my mom give me to my dad. She told me much later, when I was 29, that she thought that Steve was going to eventually kill me, and I have to admit, that as an 11-year-old, I thought that, too. There were some occasions where I was close to passing out or drowning. This process continued until the first pubic hair appeared. And from that point on, my baths were my own.
I was also given deodorant to use to combat the effects of puberty: Secret. “Strong enough for man, but made for a woman,” the slogan went. My mother had tried Secret, but it didn’t agree with her body chemistry, so I had to use the rest of the roll-on. Nothing like going to a sixth grade classroom smelling like your mom. It was humiliating to say the least.
When I went to live with my dad, though, everything changed. I was able to take showers without worrying how long I was in there. I was given Speed Stick to use as a deodorant, the same as my dad used. No one in my new family had ever used an anti-perspirant before, so I still pitted out my shirts regularly, but at least I didn’t smell bad. I wore a baseball cap to cover my always-greasy hair. Puberty was a rough go from the beginning for me. It didn’t matter when I showered, night or morning, my hair would be oily in just a few hours. I even wore that cap to school, despite school rules. This is probably another reason why Mr. Hunter was an incredible teacher. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. That’s the kind of man he was. When I think about him and the teachers I had later in junior high and high school, is it any wonder I became one myself?
As a growing 12-year-old boy, I was pretty nearly always hungry. It became a thing. We would have a cookout, grilling hot dogs, and Dad would buy two eight-packs. Dad, Peggy, and my step-sisters Debbie and Barb would split an eight-pack of hot dogs. The other eight-pack of hot dogs was for me. That’s no joke. I would eat eight hot dogs, with buns, with no difficulty. And I would eat dessert afterward.
It was a joke to them, and I laughed too, but I had just spent several years not being able to eat as much as I wanted at dinner. I was called a pig, and was accused of gluttony. Remember the McDonald’s story with the Happy Meal? It was my job to clean up after dinner every night back then. I would literally sneak a last big serving spoon full of whatever was left as I put away the leftovers and loaded the dishwasher. It was so bad at one point when I was in sixth grade (before I went to live with my dad), that my blood sugar crashed one night and I almost passed out. I spent an entire day away from school, in a doctor’s office, getting my blood drawn every half hour. Four times in the right arm, and three times in the left. I also had to drink some nasty orange stuff. I’m guessing now that it was for a glucose tolerance test? There’s no one left alive to ask, so we’re going to go with that explanation. Anyway, the cure for the condition was simple: feed your child. Unbelievable. There was one upside to spending a half a day at the clinic. They had comic books to read! The one that stands out in my memory was Superboy #205. One hundred pages! And I read it over and over again.
Superboy #205, cover by Nick Cardy
In “The Legion of Super-Executioners” story, Ultra Boy has reportedly gone insane, and is set to be executed by the Legion. Superboy, visiting with his girlfriend Lana Lang on her birthday, tries to get through to Ultra Boy but is overcome by his friend, who ties him up in his own cape. When Superboy discovers the secret that only Ultra Boy, who can use only one ultra-power at a time, is actually the only one not under the control of The Master, he and Lana are set to be executed as well. The story, written by Cary Bates and drawn by one of my all-time favorite artists, Mike Grell, remains a key reason why Ultra Boy is my favorite Legionnaire. The fact that he has to think about how to use his powers makes him a more interesting and compelling character to me than Superboy or Mon-El.
The nurses there were so nice, that since they saw me reading this comic over and over again the whole time I was there, they let me keep it! I hid it away so that Steve wouldn’t take it away and burn it like he had all my others. When I moved in with my dad in January, it came out of hiding and was stored with the others that I rescued from my grandma and grandpa’s house.
Now that I was free to eat as much as I wanted, I did. They started teaching me to cook as well, which allowed me to experiment with different food. The only rule was that I had to eat what I made, even if I didn’t like it. And I did. One of the things I already knew how to make was pancakes. My dad’s second wife had mad chocolate chip pancakes one time when I was visiting, and I really liked them. But when we were out of chocolate chips? I opened a can of sweet corn and added kernels of corn to the batter. Topped with butter and sugar instead of syrup, I thought they were delicious. No one else did, but that just meant more for me.
Another of my inventions was inspired by candy. I loved Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups when I tried them. It became one of my favorites, as they already were one of my dad’s. So, when we had chocolate sundaes one night, I added a big scoop of Jif creamy peanut butter to my sundae. All the women acted like they were grossed out, but my dad liked it too. He got what I was trying to do and he joined me. It became a loving moment that I never experienced with my mother or stepfather. That simple gesture meant the world to me, and cemented the bond between us.
The next day, my dad started teaching me to drive. He had a 1976 Ford E-150 Econoline van that he planned to customize, as so many people back in those days did.
A 1976 Ford E-150 Econoline Van
It has one sliding door with a window on the passenger side, but the driver’s side was just a blank panel behind the driver’s door. There were only two seats in the front, and none in the back. We put an old swivel living room chair in the back for when we drove up to Mesick to visit my grandparents. Seat belts? What for?
The van had a three-speed standard transmission with the gear shift on the steering column, so when I learned to drive, it was with a clutch. Since we lived on a dirt road in the country, it was fairly safe. And within an hour or so, I was shifting through all three gears and driving smoothly. I was never so proud of myself in my whole life at that point. Twelve years old, and I could drive a stick! I couldn’t wait to tell my friends at school. Having grown up for five years being told I was stupid and irresponsible and would never amount to anything, this was like heaven on Earth.
To this day, I think of my dad kindly whenever I eat ice cream with chocolate syrup and peanut butter.
I’ve said before that my teacher at Tustin Elementary, Mr. Hunter, was excellent, and I’ll say it again. Tustin being a small town, Mr. Hunter thought it important that we engage with the larger world outside, and widen our reading choices. He took it upon himself to drive us kids, three at a time, to nearby Cadillac, so we could get library cards at the much, much larger Cadillac Public Library. When it was my turn to go, I couldn’t have been more excited. Not just because I was going to be able to see more books, but also because of the random selection of my travel companions. One was my friend, David Horan, but the other was my crush, Janet Johnson.
When we got to the library, I signed up for my card and selected a biography of Harry Houdini. I had just seen a TV movie called The Great Houdinis, and I wanted to know more about him. And what a treat. We got to stop at McDonald’s for dinner, and I used some of my gift certificates from Christmas!
On our way back, we dropped David Horan off at his house, and then I got to talk to Janet all by myself. I thought she was gorgeous with her dark hair and eyes. Unfortunately, she was going with Ron Bianchi. Still, I asked for and got her phone number, figuring nothing would ever come of it, but you know, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And the following Saturday, I summoned the courage to actually call her. It was the first time I ever called a girl on the phone. I was so nervous. I have no memory whatsoever about what we talked about, but I’m sure it was innocent and sweet.
Don’t worry, Janet gave me this photo from the 6th grade yearbook.
The next day, Sunday, I bought Justice League of America #144.
JLA #144, with the classic giant villain/tiny hero theme
Following the events of World’s Finest #245, this issue of JLA had another appearance of J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter! I had remembered him being part of the Justice League back when I was a little kid, but he seemed to be making a comeback with two appearances in consecutive months. He had also appeared in three recent issues of Adventure Comics, according to the blurbs in World’s Finest. They even made him a cool logo:
Manhunter from Mars logo, designer unknown
In this particular issue, though, Green Arrow bursts in on Green Lantern and Superman, who were playing cards, demanding to know why the JLA’s records were apparently a lie and that the League had been formed before Hal Jordan had even become Green Lantern. As the story unfolds, taking place in 1959 (!) the true story of how the JLA got together. This kind of comic was my favorite back then. The more heroes, the better, and this one featured 30 superheroes!
This began the back-and-forth battle in my life between geek stuff and my interest in girls. We now know that it’s not an either/or proposition, but in 1977, it sure seemed to be, particularly in the rural areas. It would have been interesting to find out if it was a dealbreaker for Janet Johnson, but I never found out. She was still going with Ron Bianchi even at the end of the school year, and I never saw her again…until I did, 36 years later!
One of the best parts of living in our time is remaining in touch with our childhood friends. Janet and I eventually reconnected, having found each other on Facebook back in 2012. Ten years ago, we both happened to be in northern Michigan at the same time and we met for lunch in Cadillac. I was up north on my usual camping trip, and she was home from Florida, taking care of her mom.
Janet and me, summer 2013
Janet’s been helping me with my 1977 project, since she’s the only one I’m still in contact with from Tustin Elementary. She’s a wonderful friend, even now!
I took the day off on Friday and went to the movies. This isn’t something I do often, but I was feeling really tired after teaching for eight days in a row. I mean, actually teaching, not the usual babysitting duty I perform as a retired teacher substituting. Going to the movies by myself isn’t a new activity for me. It’s something I did all through the 1990s, when I was working in Gary, Indiana. In the summer of 1996, I lived in Michigan City, Indiana. I had nothing to do in the afternoon after summer school got out, so I spent my time in the dollar movie theater. I would go to two, sometimes three movies a day until I had seen virtually every movie the theater was showing. I would buy however many tickets I needed and take advantage of their free refills on soda and popcorn and have a great old time for about 10 bucks. One of the best movies I saw that summer was That Thing You Do!, a wonderful movie directed by Tom Hanks. To this day, it remains one of my favorites.
I was much younger then, all of 31 years old. I’d hardly see anyone at the theater until late afternoon. Sometimes, I’d be sitting in the theater by myself, which I did not mind. Tom Hanks, who also played a supporting role in the movie, looked young too. That was not the case for either of us when I went to see A Man Called Otto. Who goes to the movies at 12:45 PM? Old people. You know, like me? And like Tom Hanks, who plays recent retiree Otto Anderson, a widower whose disposition is, shall we say, grumpy…also, like me. I loved the movie and its message. I walked out of the theater fully entertained and satisfied, something I haven’t been able to say very many times over the past several years of moviegoing.
Then last night, I watched A Man Called Ove on Amazon Prime. It was the film that A Man Called Otto was based on. Of course, both of those movies were based on a book by Fredrik Backman. Ove and Otto both follow the retirement of the widowered protagonist, who is embittered by the circumstances of his life. I don’t want to spoil anything for you, but his becoming a curmudgeon is somewhat earned. He has had a rough time of it, especially since the passing of his wife, and that story unfolds throughout both movies. He’s reached the point where he wants to join his wife in death and contemplates suicide, but not without making almost everyone around him miserable first, and for a long time. His suicide is put off by forced interactions with his new neighbors, a young couple with two children, with whom Otto/Ove feels uncomfortable at first. Despite his interminable crankiness, he softens somewhat when he’s around them, and their mother, only to have the crusty veneer drop back down again when he returns home. Spoiler alert: Ove/Otto eventually finds new joy in life.
This movie hit me where I live. I’m not contemplating suicide, but I have been struggling to find my place in the world as a retiree, and as anyone who knows me would tell you, I am slow to change. It’s taken me some time to find out who I am, now that my identity is not 90% defined as being a teacher. Otto/Ove’s time in the cemetery, talking to his wife, also brought to mind the mortality that I’ve been thinking about lately. Death took two of my friends in late 2022, both unexpectedly, one only a year and a half older than I, the other younger than I am. It’s hard watching the people you’ve known for decades pass before you. It’s also hard watching people who’ve entertained you for decades passing before you.
For a while, there was a local radio station that I would listen to, called The Stream, when I wasn’t in the middle of a podcast, that played music from the 70s and 80s. And I would spend my short, eight-minute commute playing “Dead or Alive,” identifying the artist of each song as either dead or alive. And on some days, all three or four artists would be dead. It was shocking at times, how many of my contemporaries in that business were gone. There go George Michael, Robert Palmer, and Laura Branigan, all dead. That’s depressing. Now that station plays 80s and 90s music and has rebranded itself The Throwback. You would think it would get better, but no. Here comes The Beastie Boys, Stone Temple Pilots, and Nirvana. Well, crap. Yes, only one of the Beastie Boys is dead, but still. So, what are you to do, watching the world that you’ve known, begin to crumble and die off?
Yesterday, I found a box of my old Magic the Gathering cards in my daughter’s old room, which I’m cleaning out to make a new office. I sold off the good cards in my considerable collection years ago. This was just a box of the most common cards, land cards. Mountains, Swamps, Islands, Forests, and Plains. There were a couple of worthless generic cards in the box, too. Nothing to write home about, or so I thought. As it turns out, even the formerly worthless land cards from the first sets can be valuable. There was one particular land card that I had four of that were worth $25 each! What the heck? And the one “rare” card in the box that no one cared about 30 years ago, Nevinyrral’s Disk, from the Unlimited set, was worth $236! I traded the entire box of cards that I didn’t care about at our local game store for a video game console, and once I got the console home, much to my wife’s amusement, I spent the better part of an hour playing Gauntlet. When Gauntlet came out in 1985, I was a college student, dependent on scholarships, grants, and loans to pay for school. My parents contributed nothing to my education beyond high school. My dad even made me pay a share of the rent if I returned home in the summer. So I spent four years as a pauper and was only able to enjoy video games on rare occasions. That hour I spent playing Gauntlet yesterday was an hour spent with a smile on my face. A few weeks ago, I got a Star Wars console game, and each day I spend about a half hour playing all I want. I understand the idea of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) that goes around these days. I understand it all too well because I felt it 40 years ago. The difference is that now, I have the time and resources to do and experience the things I missed out on. I have the time to create, to write, to draw, to read, and to play.
I’m grateful to be able to write about my experiences here on the blog, and I’m going to continue sharing all the things I’ve done and haven’t had time or money to fully develop. Because now I have both, for however long I have left.
“Captain’s log, stardate 7409.2. The starship Challenger, under my command, is to launch in just a few hours. But my operations officer, Lt. Hal Bichel, is holding me at phaserpoint with a serious accusation.”
“My tricorder is picking up Starfleet equipment not registered to this ship.”
“Oh, damn. You’re right.” Chamberlain walked back to the security station and opened his bag. He noticed that Hal hadn’t lowered the weapon. “You’re not relaxing.”
“No, sir. This is one of those situations you trained me specifically to watch out for. Android doppelganger, body switching, you know the drill.”
“I do,” said Chamberlain. “Color me impressed. Here you go.” He handed over his engineering tricorder. Hal inspected it with her left hand.
“Is this–?”
“Yes. It’s from Lexington. Commodore Wesley gave it to me when he promoted me.”
“When my–?”
“Yes, Hal, the day after your father died and I took over as Chief Engineer. Now do you see why I didn’t declare it?”
“I do, sir, and I thank you. But respectfully, it was three years ago, and I don’t need protection. I’m proud of my father’s service, and of his…sacrifice.” The last word came out as an epithet rather than a tribute. Hal’s father had been the chief engineer onboard the Lexington when the Daystrom M-5 computer had taken over Enterprise and fired its phasers at full power on an unsuspecting battle group of four starships during a training exercise. Fifty-three Lexington crewmen had died in the initial volley, mostly in the engineering section. Harold Bichel was killed by an exploding console while trying to stabilize the anti-matter reaction in the warp core. Lieutenant Commander Jeff Chamberlain, the assistant chief engineer, took over for the fallen man and saved the ship. Chamberlain lost his best friend that day, but Hal Bichel lost her father.
“I know that, Hal. I apologize for the oversight. Are we good to go?”
“Aye, sir.” Bichel’s reattached the phaser to her belt and held her tricorder up to Chamberlain’s device, tapping a few buttons. “I’ve reassigned your tricorder for use aboard Challenger, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Please see that my gear gets to my quarters.” Chamberlain winked at his operations officer and started again toward the turbolift. But then he paused and took a hard right. He wanted to check in at engineering before heading to the bridge.
When Chamberlain arrived in engineering, the section was buzzing with activity.
Main Engineering, USS Challenger
The captain found his chief engineer, directing his officers in five different directions at once. Commander Chad “Woody” Wooderson turned to meet Chamberlain’s eyes and rolled his own as a reaction. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Commander Chad “Woody” Wooderson
“That’s ‘Look what the cat dragged in, Captain.’”, Chamberlain laughed.
“As you wish, Captain, sir.” Wooderson was not impressed by rank, but by skill, and the two had been rivals in skill since their days at Starfleet Academy. “You have the braid, Captain, sir. Now what do you want?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I checked the hood over the secondary hull again to make sure that it was sufficient to prevent the deflector from—”
“–from interfering with the planetary sensor array,” Wooderson interrupted. “Haven’t we been over this about a googol times? It’s fine.”
“I know, but I wanted to be sure,” Chamberlain said, sheepishly. “Hey, why is everyone running around like their hair is on fire?” Wooderson grabbed Chamberlain by the sleeve and led him into the corridor.
“Because I told them that a planet killer was on its way into this sector and that we were the only ship available to handle it.”
It was Chamberlain’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re still doing that old routine? And they actually fell for it?”
“Oh yeah, I uploaded the simulation while they were at lunch. This one’s just a test for me to get a sense of who will perform under pressure. Be grateful I didn’t simulate a coolant leak. We wouldn’t get the stench out for a week, and I want to keep that new starship smell for as long as I can,” Wooderson chuckled.
Chamberlain laughed along with his old friend. “Can I help?”
“No…sir.” This time, the honorific was sincere. “I appreciate the thought, but they need to be able to trust you as their commanding officer. They already know I’m a jerk.”
“That’s true,” Chamberlain cracked. “Carry on then, Commander. And thanks for looking out for me.”
“Aye aye, Captain. We’ll be ready for launch in about an hour…even though we’re not scheduled for departure for another six.” Wooderson grinned, clapped Chamberlain on the shoulder, then vanished around the corner, shouting orders again. Chamberlain looked on his shoulder to check to see what Wooderson had put there but found nothing but a grease-stained handprint. He expected nothing less. Now he’d have to stop at his cabin on his way to sick bay.
As Chamberlain entered the turbolift, he prepared for horizontal movement by grasping one of the handles that encircled the lift. “Captain’s quarters,” he instructed the computer.
Challenger turbolift interior
The turbolift sped laterally along its track until it reached a point just below the stubby support pylon connecting the secondary hull with the saucer section. It then shifted seamlessly to vertical propulsion, rose one deck, and stopped. The door opened. Shhkkt. Chamberlain exited, turned left, and stopped at the very first door, straight ahead. The sign on the door read, “Captain Jeffery J. Chamberlain,” and as soon as he saw it, Chamberlain rolled his eyes. At least it didn’t say ‘Jeffery Joshua,’ he thought. Chamberlain’s middle name was in honor of the American Civil War Colonel from the 20th Maine Infantry Regiment who had successfully fought off a superior Confederate force at Little Round Top during the Battle of Gettysburg, a story that Jeff hoped he would never have to tell again. And he wouldn’t have to if he acted quickly.
He punched an intercom button on the wall in the corridor.
“Chamberlain to Bichel.”
“Bichel here, Captain.”
“I thought I had requested a different sign for my quarters door.”
“You did, sir. Has it still not been changed?”
“No, Lieutenant. That’s why I’m calling.” Chamberlain was irritated now.
Suddenly, a voice came from directly behind Chamberlain, not on the intercom. “Well, sir, if you had taken just a minute or two more, I would have had it changed before you arrived. I had a few more crew to check in before I brought your things up. But I see Woody has left his mark.” Bichel snapped her communicator shut, stowing it on her belt, and handed Jeff his gear bag. Then she started stripping the sign from the door, a small tool appearing in her hand from out of nowhere. She then took the adhesive strip off the enamel door plate and attached it to the door in place of the old one. It read, “Captain Jeff Chamberlain.” “Is that better, sir?”
Chamberlain nodded. “Much, thank you. ‘Jeffery’ has always sounded to me like a mother scolding a child.“
Hal smiled. She already knew the real story. “You don’t have to tell me, sir.”
Chamberlain smiled and stepped forward, the door whisking open ahead of him. He walked through. “How is your mother?” Bichel stood outside, every attention being paid to her duty as an officer, rather than a privileged near-relative.
“For crying out loud, Hal, come in,” Chamberlain gestured.
“Thank you, sir.” She stepped into Chamberlain’s quarters, but only just inside far enough to keep the sensor from closing the door behind her. She was protecting his reputation as much as her own. Chamberlain retrieved a fresh, gold triple-braided uniform shirt from his gear bag and stepped around the corner to his privy. “Mom’s fine,” she continued, “A little nervous about this mission, especially considering what happened to Dad.”
Chamberlain returned to the main living area, wearing an unblemished uniform. “Well, she’s not alone there.” Jeff looked out the transparent aluminum window of his cabin. Chamberlain was generally not one for pulling strings, but he had called in a fairly big favor to have his quarters located in the pylon just above the secondary hull instead of in the saucer on decks, three, four, or five, where most of the rest of his 247 officers bunked. Future starship designs would use this part of the ship for torpedo storage, but Challenger’s main torpedo bay was still in the forward section of the saucer. Chamberlain only wanted two things: An actual window that faced out from the port, or planet side of the ship when she was in standard orbit, and to be close to engineering. For some reason, the thrum of a properly tuned warp engine helped him sleep.
“Will that be all, Captain?” Hal’s voice brought Chamberlain back to reality.
“Yes, Lieutenant. And tell Maya for me that I will bring you home safely.”
“Aye, sir. But you should know, she’s just as worried about you.”
Chamberlain blushed. “I’m afraid that ship sailed a long time ago— when she chose your dad over me,” he chuckled. “I’m not saying it was the wrong choice. After all, you are a direct result of that choice. But I have to admit, it still stings a little.”
“Yes, sir.” Hal turned to leave, then paused. “But everyone deserves a second chance, sir. Don’t you think?”
Chamberlain thought for a moment and chose his words carefully. “Maybe we’ll see in two years, when this mission is over. Dismissed.” He winked at his security officer for what he decided would be the last time on this mission. He couldn’t show favoritism toward her despite his paternal feelings. Deep space missions were dangerous, especially for those wearing red.
Jeff turned away as the door whooshed shut, and put away the rest of his gear, stowing his bag. After he grabbed a quick protein supplement to silence his rumbling stomach, he started making his way to the aft section of the saucer via a short series of zig zag movements in the turbolift. Sick bay was on deck seven. It was massive, easily three times the size of the medical facilities on other starships. Challenger’s sick bay even had its own transporter room. There was a flurry of activity here, too, like there had been in engineering. No one even noticed the captain standing at the entrance for several seconds.
Sick Bay, USS Challenger
“Attention! Captain on deck!” an attentive nurse shouted, his deep voice resonating.
“As you were, everyone,” Chamberlain countermanded. The flurry resumed.
“Captain! We weren’t expecting you for a few hours yet,” Chief Medical Officer Jennifer Carmichael appeared out of nowhere.
“No worries, Lieutenant Commander; I just wanted to make sure that your last-minute personnel requests had been filled and you had everyone you needed.”
Carmichael may have been small of stature compared to Chamberlain, who stood a shade under two meters tall, but Jeff had known by her reputation alone that she was a force to be reckoned with. It was confirmed after just a few weeks of working with her. She was ambitious, achieving her position in her early thirties. Carmichael’s dark eyes flashed triumphantly. “Yes, Captain. Hickerson and Hoyle are just beaming aboard now. There was apparently a problem with the shuttlepod. Someone was holding it up, joyriding around the deflector dish.” She tried to stifle a smirk, but failed.
Dr. Jenn Carmichael in Sick Bay
“Uh, ahem, yes, I’ll have to have a word with Chief Nelson about that,” Chamberlain said sharply. He didn’t like being humiliated by an officer on his ship. He already had Wooderson to contend with in that regard. As Chamberlain turned to leave, he paused a moment, and looked back at Carmichael, all humor vanishing from his face. “Tell me, Doctor, in your years in Starfleet, have you ever lost a patient whose death could have been saved by someone taking extraordinary precautionary measures? But who, instead, died because of carelessness or miscalculation?”
“Why yes, of course, Captain. I didn’t mea—”
“That won’t happen on my ship, Doctor. Understood?”
“Underst—” Carmichael’s confirmation was cut off by the sound of the door to sick bay whooshing shut behind the captain.
Jenn Carmichael knew she’d just made a big mistake and had misjudged Captain Chamberlain. She resigned herself to making up for it in the performance of her duties.
Chamberlain seethed as he strode to the turbolift. Didn’t she understand the lengths he had gone to, to protect the crew of his ship? He had gone to the Starfleet engineers with a tactical study of starship damage compiled from the last five years of ship-to-ship combat and had found that the aft section behind the lower saucer was the safest place on the ship. With the widened support pylon protecting it from the rear, there was almost no way a phaser or torpedo strike would hit sick bay directly, and the hood over the deflector dish only added to that safety factor. As the elevator slowed, though, so did Chamberlain’s breathing. Jeff Chamberlain didn’t know how she had gotten under his skin, but he was sure he didn’t like it.
