Mission from Mars, Part 2 of 4
Posted on Mon Mar 31st, 2025 @ 9:41pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Staff Warrant Officer Oliver Sylver
3,893 words; about a 19 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Shuttlebay 2, Deck 6, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 12
[ON - Continued from Part 1]
Oliver had gestured to the co-pilot's seat. Might as well have the company. "You just don't have enough experience to avoid being tracked," he said playfully. He reached to patch through to the bridge. "This is the Jörmungandr, ready to depart," he said, smiling when he got the response back.
The shuttle left the Fenrir's shuttle bay smoothly and he put in the course, his eyes going to the stars for a moment. "You've got the explorer's bug. It's good, I don't know many young members of Starfleet who actually want to be planet bound. If they are, I always think they're not made for life on a starship."
Mateo slid into the co-pilot’s seat, leaning back as he adjusted his position. As the shuttle thrummed to life beneath them, he drew one long leg up onto the chair, resting an arm loosely over his knee. He wasn’t entirely sure what the etiquette was for co-pilots who weren’t actually piloting, but Oliver had gestured him forward—so that was permission enough.
At the playful jab about his lack of experience avoiding being tracked, Mateo huffed lightly through his nose. "You say that like it’s a skill I should be developing." The corner of his mouth quirked, his tone dry but not dismissive.
His gaze flicked toward the viewport as the Jörmungandr cleared the Fenrir’s shuttlebay, the vastness of space stretching out before them. He watched as Oliver keyed in their course, the gentle hum of navigation controls filling the quiet. At the mention of the explorer’s bug, Mateo didn’t answer right away. His fingers idly tapped against his PADD, considering the sentiment.
"Not sure ‘explorer’ is the right word for it," he said finally, his voice even. "I just don’t like being stuck."
"Good enough reason to enlist," Oliver said as he looked over at him with a smile. With the traffic around, he kept an eye on the controls, making sure he had a good awareness of what was going on. It was their home system though, so not like he could expect Klingons incoming. "Getting away, finding yourself, wanting a career, believing in what the Federation and Starfleet stand for and wanting to give back...all very valid reasons."
He let out a breath with a small smile, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. He let the silent stretch as a silent invitation for the crewman to talk, if he wished. Oliver had ferried a lot of people who just wanted silence, usually officers though, it had made him more adaptive though. And he had long learned not to be offended.
Mateo let the silence stretch, considering Oliver’s words. Valid reasons, sure—but none of them were his.
"Guess I was just looking for something different," he said, echoing his earlier response. Not a lie, but not the full truth either.
He leaned his head slightly against the seat, gaze drifting toward the viewport as the stars stretched beyond them. "Some people enlist because they believe in the mission. I just believe in the work."
After a beat, his eyes flicked sidelong toward Oliver, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me guess—lifelong dream of flying, Federation ideals, and an unshakable desire to wear the same uniform every day?”
The humor was subtle but deliberate, teasing without being pointed. He let the words settle before adding, “Or did you just want to get as far from home as possible?”
"A bit of all of the above," Oliver admitted with a smile as he reached out to adjust their course slightly give more space to one of the larger civilian vessels. He didn't need to, it was just polite the way he saw it. "Flying looked fun, I was desperate to get off Earth and...find somewhere to fit in. So I went for the Marines because back then they took anyone," he added the last with a playful smile.
Mateo turned in his seat, the movement deliberate, a silent shift from passive observer to engaged participant. His PADD—previously a half-hearted distraction—was set aside, forgotten entirely. It wasn’t often that he granted someone his full attention, but Oliver had managed to earn it without even trying.
As the shuttle hummed around them, Mateo dragged his fingers through his still-damp hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. The strands, heavy with moisture, settled neatly into place rather than curling or sticking up. The movement wasn’t self-conscious, just habitual—a tell of quiet contemplation as he studied Oliver’s ease at the controls.
His gaze flicked over the pilot’s movements, noting the way his hands moved across the controls—unhurried, precise, the kind of ease that only came from repetition measured in years, not months. There was no excess, no wasted motion. Even the slight course correction, a shift to accommodate a civilian vessel, felt like second nature. Mateo didn’t know the intricacies of piloting, but he recognized efficiency when he saw it. More than that, he recognized when someone was wholly at ease in their element.
At Oliver’s remark about the Marines taking anyone, Mateo huffed lightly through his nose, a ghost of a smirk forming. “Good to know they had standards.” His voice was dry, teasing, but the way his fingers absently tapped against his knee betrayed an underlying curiosity.
He let the quiet settle before tilting his head, reaching up to adjust his lip ring, rolling the cool metal between his fingertips before speaking. “Were you a pilot in the Marines, too?”
It wasn’t just polite conversation. This was the second former Marine he’d met since reporting aboard, and they weren’t exactly a common breed in Starfleet. The Dominion War had made sure of that.
He didn’t push for more, didn’t frame it as an interrogation, but the question lingered—an open door if Oliver chose to walk through it.
Oliver glanced at him for a moment before a small smirk came to him. There was humour in his eyes though, as if he knew how it looked. "I was," he finally said, looking back at their course. "I was a fighter pilot."
Which was different from a shuttle pilot, or a starship pilot. He had found the adjustment interesting, not due to the controls which weren't massively different, but because of the size adjustment. A fighter back when he flew them were sleek, one person thing. At least that was what he had flown. Built to be fast and deadly, they were stripped down of things that others would consider necessary. They had been designed for one person doing the job of three. And when the Dominion War got dirtier and resources scarce, more things were cut back. If you survived being a fighter pilot, you could safely say you'd used up your lives.
Mateo’s brows lifted slightly—not in disbelief, exactly, but in the way someone processes an unexpected detail they hadn’t accounted for. He turned that information over in his head, gaze flicking toward Oliver’s hands on the controls.
"A fighter pilot," he echoed, his tone even, but there was a quiet note of appraisal beneath it. He didn’t know much about flying, but he understood risk, survival, and the kind of mindset it took to walk away from something like that.
His fingers absently rolled his lip ring between his teeth before he exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "And now you fly supply runs and shuttle scientists around." The contrast wasn’t lost on him.
He could have left it there, but after a brief pause, he added, "That an easy adjustment?"
The words weren’t idle curiosity—Mateo wasn’t one to ask pointless questions. It was a genuine attempt to understand what that shift must have been like.
"I took some time out between that and coming back, so...for me, yes," Oliver said with a warm smile, chuckling with good humour. "I actually like flying starships. And shuttle. Not...going out to kill people, that's good too in my book. Flying is what matters," he said as he looked ahead, as the Earth came closer to them. "The freedom of it. The...tranquillity," the last was said quietly, almost shyly, even as he sent over to Starfleet HQ Air Traffic Control their codes and landing request.
"Shuttle Jörmungandr, this is Starfleet HQ Air Traffic Control. You're cleared to enter the atmosphere in our airspace. Please initialise re-entry and maintain holding pattern delta-niner-seven."
"This is Jörmungandr, copy that, initialising atmosphere re-entry and going to holding pattern delta-niner-seven," Oliver said, almost automatically. This was the difference for him, the true difference, from being a fighter pilot. He now knew these patterns by heart. He glanced at Mateo and smiled, playfully. "I promise to make this smooth. No one likes to throw up their lunch."
Mateo shifted in his seat, straightening his posture as the shuttle adjusted course. He wasn’t tense—just aware, settling in now that they were breaking atmosphere.
His gaze flicked to Oliver as he spoke, registering the way he described flying—freedom, tranquility. It wasn’t a perspective Mateo shared, but he understood it in his own way. Science, for him, had always been that. The work. The research. The pursuit of something bigger than himself.
His eyes trailed toward the viewport, where Earth loomed large, a blue-white sprawl swallowing the darkness of space. It should have meant something, seeing home from this vantage point. Maybe it did, in some small, unspoken way. Buenos Aires was down there. Renata. Benji. The only real ties he had left.
At Oliver’s playful assurance about a smooth descent, Mateo smirked faintly, his fingers absently rolling his lip ring. “Wouldn’t be an issue.” He tilted his head slightly, dry amusement flickering across his expression. “Haven’t eaten yet.”
Oliver glanced at him when he sat the last. "You need to eat," he said, with a small smile, even as he input their flight pattern ready for when they got to 50,000 feet. "Can't have you faint due to low blood sugar, Mateo. Then I've have to explain to medical here or on the Fenrir why you fainted. Not sure if you've actually met anyone there yet, but those doctors look fierce. Wouldn't want to get in their bad books before we've even left spacedock..." he chuckled warmly and sat back. "I can call ahead, make sure they have something ready for us when we land. Or I got my emergency stash bag in here too, there's some stuff there should you need it. Chocolate bars, that sort."
It had been a habit since he went regular Fleet. Every shuttle he might fly had a bag in it with things that wasn't exactly considered emergency rations, but you'd be grateful for them if you were drifting. Mostly sweet things. Sugary things. Some not even replicated. He blamed Verity for that, for him appreciating things made by craftspeople.
Mateo’s brows lifted slightly at Oliver’s concern, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between amusement and mild skepticism.
"I’ll survive," he said dryly, dragging a hand down his face before pushing his fingers back through his hair. The movement was casual, almost absentminded, a silent way of shaking off the conversation’s unexpected shift toward concern. He wasn’t used to people fussing over him.
But chocolate? That, he wouldn’t turn down.
"If you’ve got chocolate in there..." The words slipped out before he could stop them, softer than intended, lacking their usual bite. His expression flickered—just for a second—something unguarded, almost child-like anticipation. He caught himself a beat too late, clearing his throat as if to smooth over the moment. "I won’t say no."
His gaze flicked toward the stash bag, curiosity creeping in. Every shuttle had a standard-issue Starfleet rations kit—efficient, bland, and entirely uninspiring. This? This was something else. And that intrigued Mateo. When the offer came through, he accepted it without hesitation, inspecting the item in his hands with mild curiosity that quickly turned to amusement.
"So that’s the secret to pilot preparedness?" he mused, tearing open the wrapper with practiced ease. The scent hit him first—deep, rich, unmistakably real. The first bite snapped clean between his teeth, velvety smooth as it melted on his tongue. A slow exhale left him, a quiet concession to how much better this was than the processed stuff from the replicators.
After a beat, he exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking toward the viewport as Earth loomed closer.
"You know, I take back what I said earlier," he remarked, dry humor laced in his voice. "If I do pass out mid-landing, at least I’ll go out with no regrets."
He popped another piece into his mouth, shooting Oliver a sidelong glance as he chewed, the smirk still lingering.
Oliver watched him with warmth at the way he seemed to have lit up. And he had been happy to hand him over a bar from the stash. "You always prepare for the worst. The worst isn't getting blown up in a shuttle. The worst is being adrift, or crashed. Not sure about much, I just know I'd like to go out with some chocolate in my hand... " he teased, his eyes going to the view as they started the holding pattern. All blue skies and clouds, with Starfleet HQ underneath.
"It's also handy when you encounter...civilians," he added in a soft voice. "I always make sure that one or two are friendly for any species that can ingest food. In case...well, in case there's someone who needs cheering up."
Mateo hummed, low in his throat, as he rolled the remaining piece of chocolate between his fingers. The idea of dying with chocolate in hand wasn’t the worst philosophy he’d heard.
"Could be worse," he mused, finally popping the last bite into his mouth. "Better than going out with ration bars and regret."
The words were dry, but not dismissive. If anything, there was a quiet note of agreement beneath them.
His gaze flicked toward the viewport, watching the clouds peel away as they held their pattern over Starfleet HQ. The sight wasn’t unfamiliar, but it never stirred anything in him. It wasn’t home. That was thousands of kilometers south, in a city where the streets hummed with life, where Renata’s sharp wit filled every silence, where Benji’s godawful music played far too loud at the worst hours.
This? This was the Federation. The machine he worked within, but never truly belonged to.
At Oliver’s softer admission, Mateo’s fingers stilled. He turned his head slightly, studying the pilot out of the corner of his eye.
"You stockpile chocolate in case someone needs cheering up?"
There was something unreadable in his expression—not quite teasing, not quite skepticism. Just… consideration.
His lips parted, as if he had more to say, but he hesitated. Instead, he exhaled softly and tapped his fingers against his knee.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice quieter than before. "I get that."
Oliver nodded as he looked at him, studying the other man for a brief moment. "What can I say...sometimes, everyone needs something sweet to make them feel better," he said and looked back at their instruments. "I hope you don't mind me stepping out of the shuttle when I'm down there. I'm expecting a delivery too...it should be waiting for me when we arrive. Don't worry though...it's very small and light." He paused, clearly suddenly considering something. "You're not allergic to flowers, are you?"
Mateo’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watched the shifting landscape of Earth as it loomed closer. The thought of needing something sweet felt a little foreign to him. He didn’t often indulge in sentiment.
But he could see the appeal of the chocolate—a small pleasure, in the grand scheme of things.
The question landed, breaking his thoughts. He blinked, brow furrowing slightly before his gaze flicked toward Oliver. Flowers? The inquiry struck him as odd. Had he ever even been around flowers long enough to know if he had a reaction? Severe allergic reactions had been all but eradicated by modern medicine—sensitivities, sure, but nothing life-threatening. If he’d ever had an issue with pollen or plant life, it had been corrected before he was old enough to remember.
Still, he considered it for a beat longer than necessary, as if searching for some buried knowledge about himself. Then, he shrugged.
"Not that I know of."
A pause.
His smirk deepened, something dry and knowing sparking behind his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, the barest flicker of amusement crossing his features. "Would be one hell of a way to go—taken out by an overzealous bouquet."
Oliver laughed at that, clearly finding the thought amusing. "Hay fever can be unpleasant and some people don't bother to get rid of it," he said as he shook his head, the smile still there. "And besides...I've read The Day of the Triffids." It had been a long time ago and of course, the ancient book had nothing up against what was on different plants. The universe was full of things that could kill a human, while a Vulcan could happily walk away. Well...Happily wasn't something he'd attribute to Vulcans. More logically walk away then. "Ah, here we go..." he smiled as he saw the familiar Starfleet logo on the ground, getting their landing set up with the computer.
Mateo’s smirk lingered as Oliver mentioned The Day of the Triffids, but he didn’t take the bait. He wasn’t about to get dragged into a debate about ancient Earth literature—not when they were seconds away from breaking through the clouds.
Instead, he let his gaze shift toward the viewport, watching as the blue-white sprawl of Earth expanded beneath them. The transition from space to atmosphere was seamless, the shuttle’s inertial dampeners compensating for the sudden shift in velocity. Still, he could feel it—the subtle pull of gravity reasserting itself, pressing him just slightly deeper into his seat.
The approach vector was clean, Starfleet HQ’s sprawling complex growing sharper as they descended. The gleaming insignia, emblazoned across the landing zone, caught the sunlight in a way that felt almost deliberate—like a beacon, a reminder.
Mateo inhaled slowly, controlled, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his knee. He knew this place well enough, but it never stirred anything in him.
A city without a home. A world that was his, but not.
He could make out the shuttle pads now, lined with precision, each designated for arrivals like theirs. The landing sequence unfolded smoothly, Oliver’s hands moving over the controls with the same measured ease that had marked their entire flight. No wasted motion, no unnecessary corrections.
Textbook.
The shuttle touched down with the barest whisper of contact, the inertial dampeners smoothing out any jolt of impact. No fanfare. No theatrics. Just precise, practiced execution.
Mateo exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking toward Oliver for a fraction of a second before he unbuckled his harness with an easy, practiced motion.
"Well. That was disappointingly smooth," he mused, dry but not unappreciative.
The shuttle systems powered down in stages, the faint hum of the engines winding into silence. Outside, the bright, sterile efficiency of Starfleet HQ stretched before them, crisp against the cloudless sky.
Mateo reached for his PADD, already shifting gears in his mind. The sooner he secured the specimens, the sooner he could get back to the Fenrir.
Home, or whatever passed for it these days.
As soon as the shuttle's hatch opened, an Efrosian female Petty Officer came running over with a PADD. "Crewman Gardel?" she asked, looking down at her PADD and then at him. "Ah, you at least look like you. Not everyone does from their staff photo..." she smiled and motioned for him to follow her. "We got your crate all ready to go. I know, I know, it's all pain and agony coming down here, I secretly just like having people visit before they go travelling into deep space."
Oliver looked at Mateo before chuckling, getting out and moving to pick up his own...cargo for the journey.
Mateo barely had time to step off the shuttle before movement caught his attention—a Petty Officer, Efrosian, already making a beeline toward him, eyes flicking between her PADD and his face in quick succession. She spoke his name more as confirmation than a question, checking him against whatever information she had on file.
His brows lifted slightly as she noted—almost approvingly—that he at least looked like his staff photo. A rare achievement, apparently.
He exhaled softly, shifting his PADD under one arm as he fell into step beside her. "Glad I could meet expectations." His tone was dry but not dismissive, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that might have been amusement.
As they moved, she continued, waving off the inconvenience of his trip with an easy, conversational air. The hassle of traveling all this way, the paperwork, the regulations—sure, it was a pain, but she liked seeing people in person before they disappeared into deep space.
"Good to know someone’s enjoying this," he muttered, though there was no real bite to the words. If anything, the sentiment almost made him smirk.
The air shifted as they exited the shuttle’s shadow, warm sunlight spilling over them, bright against the tarmac. A breeze swept inland from the bay, cool but not cold, carrying the briny tang of seawater and the faintest trace of flowering jasmine from the manicured pathways beyond the landing pads.
The sky stretched overhead in a cloudless, endless blue, too pristine to feel entirely real. San Francisco had its share of fog-choked mornings, but today, the weather was flawless, the kind of picturesque late-spring warmth that felt carefully curated, as if someone had programmed it into a holodeck.
Mateo’s gaze flicked over the grounds as they walked, catching vibrant flower beds bursting with color, neatly trimmed hedges, and pathways winding through impossibly green lawns. The contrast between the clean, orderly perfection of Starfleet Command and the chaotic, overcrowded streets of Buenos Aires struck him more than usual.
Too precise. Too clean.
A little unreal.
From the corner of his eye, Oliver had already broken off, chuckling as he moved toward whatever ‘cargo’ he’d come to collect. Mateo barely spared him a glance before focusing ahead.
One crate. One retrieval. Then he was done.
Shaking his head faintly, he followed the Petty Officer deeper into the complex, where the shipment that had caused this entire logistical mess was supposedly waiting.
[OFF - To be continued in Part 3]
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
&
Staff Warrant Officer Oliver Sylver
Flight Control Officer
USS Fenrir
[PNPC - Hanlon]
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