Mission from Mars, Part 3 of 4
Posted on Mon Mar 31st, 2025 @ 9:42pm by Crewman Mateo Gardel & Staff Warrant Officer Oliver Sylver
2,074 words; about a 10 minute read
Mission:
To Boldly Go
Location: Shuttlebay 2, Deck 6, USS Fenrir
Timeline: Day 12
[ON - Continued from Part 2]
She smiled as she walked him past crates labelled for various ships. And various projects too. "You must be excited," she said and looked at him, the light catching the lenses over her eyes. Clearly, she was using technology to improve her eyesight, a common feature of a people where many were blind. "New ship, fresh samples...all that. Your uniform even..." she breathed deeply. "Smells new. Or more, of a new ship. Here, you are more likely to get the smells of whatever street food the cadets and admirals pick up. Have you noticed that the higher the rank, the more people revert to the cadet grub?" she laughed and led him through another area stacked with crates.
Mateo followed, his gaze drifting across the stacked cargo crates, each one stamped with its destination—some bound for deep-space stations, others marked for ongoing research projects. It was easy to get lost in the sheer scale of it all, to imagine the sheer volume of specimens, equipment, and classified materials passing through Starfleet Command’s logistics channels every day.
The Petty Officer smiled as they walked, glancing at him before making an easy assumption. New ship, fresh samples—he must be excited.
He didn’t answer immediately, instead letting the words settle. Excited wasn’t quite the word he’d use. Relieved, maybe. Resigned, definitely. The Fenrir was his last shot, not some grand new beginning.
As she continued, her voice taking on a more casual lilt, he finally glanced at her, catching the way the light reflected off the sleek, metallic surface of her ocular implants. The augmentation was subtle, but unmistakable—a seamless integration of technology into her natural physiology.
Then she noted his uniform—how it still carried the crispness of a new ship, untouched by the lingering scents of street food that clung to cadets and admirals alike.
Mateo hummed lightly in response, neither confirming nor denying her assumption, though the comment itself made his fingers twitch against his PADD.
New.
That wasn’t the right word.
There was nothing new about his uniform—not in the way she meant. It wasn’t some freshly replicated standard-issue jumpsuit, stiff with first wear and barely broken in. Every aspect of it—from the sleek, tailored fit to the carefully selected materials—was deliberate. A garment chosen not just for function but as a precise extension of himself.
The deep teal fabric, subtly textured and matte against the light, never wrinkled. The elasticized cuffs sat perfectly at his ankles, ensuring zero excess fabric, zero risk of anything feeling loose or out of place. It moved with him, breathed with him, sharp yet unobtrusive, built for the clinical precision of laboratory work. The V-neck exposed just enough of the black undershirt beneath—a secondary layer, just as meticulously selected as the uniform itself.
Even his boots were chosen with intention, sleek and lightweight, polished without being flashy, supportive without sacrificing movement.
His uniform didn’t feel new because it wasn’t. It was just pristine—as it should be.
He let out a quiet exhale, shaking the thought away as she carried on, commenting on how high-ranking officers often reverted to cadet food despite their elevated status.
A short breath of amusement escaped him. Not quite a laugh, but something close.
"Hard to say. I try to avoid watching them eat." His tone was dry, but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
Another turn, another set of stacked crates, all meticulously labeled. Somewhere in this maze, his shipment was waiting.
His fingers curled slightly around his PADD, his focus sharpening. Time to get what he came for.
She chuckled as she led him down, scanning the crates. "Well, better for you. I smell them though," she said and tapped her own nose before she stopped. "And here we are. As you can see, it's perfectly intact..." she handed the PADD to him so he could verify. "Do you want me to open it up for inspection?"
Mateo took the PADD without hesitation, his fingers skimming the surface as his eyes flicked over the manifest. Tissue samples, blood cultures, microbial specimens—all accounted for, all sealed within the regulation bio-secure containment. Everything read as it should, but reading and seeing weren’t the same thing.
His grip on the device tightened slightly as his gaze flicked toward the crate, its exterior pristine, the shipment markings crisp and precise. Perfectly intact—on the surface.
“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Better safe than sorry.”
He didn’t expect anything to be wrong. But expecting wasn’t verifying, and trusting wasn’t knowing.
Lifting his chin, Mateo took a small step back, gesturing toward the crate. “Go ahead.”
His voice was even, unhurried, but there was a sharpness to the way he watched—the kind of quiet intensity that made it clear he wasn’t just ticking a box.
The Petty Officer nodded and keyed in the access code, triggering the crate’s hissing depressurization as its locking mechanisms disengaged. The airtight seal broke with a quiet exhale of controlled atmosphere, ensuring that whatever was inside had been kept at precise environmental conditions.
Mateo stepped forward, setting his PADD on the edge of the crate as he reached inside. Cool air curled around his fingertips, still clinging to the residual chill of cryogenic preservation. The temperature-controlled storage unit within was lined with black polymer insulation, its interior divided into meticulously arranged compartments.
His gaze swept over the contents, quick but thorough, his hands moving with the same precise efficiency that governed everything he did.
The first layer held cellular sample vials—small, cylindrical containment tubes nestled in snug recesses, each one labeled in stark white against the deep blue casing. He thumbed over a label, the printed text sharp beneath his touch. Polaron-radiated blood cultures, two specimens. His eyes flicked to the biohazard marking beneath—Class-2 xenopathogen risk.
He made a small note on his PADD before moving to the next compartment.
Tissue grafts. Sealed within transparent stasis packs, the preserved biopsies rested in suspension, their cellular integrity maintained by an electrostatic field. Mateo lifted one carefully, tilting it slightly under the lighting. The samples remained uncompromised—no discoloration, no unexpected condensation buildup. Good.
Lowering it back into place, he shifted to the final section.
Microbial cultures.
These were the ones that mattered most.
The thin-walled cryo-canisters were securely fastened in their slots, each one containing strains of extraterrestrial bacteria, viral structures, and fungal specimens. Some were Federation-collected, flagged for controlled research and bioassay studies. Others bore the distinctive orange-red striping of Starfleet Medical’s restricted division—pathogens with undocumented mutagenic properties, biological anomalies yet to be fully understood.
Mateo’s gaze lingered on those longer than the others.
He skimmed through the serials, cross-referencing the manifest against the physical contents. No discrepancies, no missing vials. The temperature logs on the PADD displayed no deviations during transit.
Everything was here.
And everything was in order.
Still, he hesitated for half a second before sealing the crate again. It wasn’t distrust—it was diligence.
With a final confirmation tap to his PADD, he exhaled slowly through his nose and straightened.
"Looks good," he said at last, his tone edged with quiet satisfaction.
He lifted the PADD and turned to the Petty Officer, nodding once. "I’ll sign off on it."
"Good," she said and gave a firm nod, her eyes going over to a lowly crewman who was using a PADD to direct three different small flat hover robots to move the smaller crates, rather than to push them himself. "Teghan, can I borrow one of the triplets for this? Crate's not heavy."
The Crewman looked at her before he sighed, nodding, his reddish hair falling into his face at that. "Sure thing, take Louie," he said and transferred something to her PADD.
"Alrighty...." she nodded and went to the create, using a small anti-grav device to let it float up before sliding the hover robot under it. She looked over at Mateo with a small smile. "I know, I know, it looks like it is overcomplicating the stew, we just find it easier to keep track. The amount of times someone's slapped on an anti-grav on a crate and then accidentally pushed them too hard..." her voice held until stories of that happening.
She started walking, using the PADD to have the crate follow them as she made her way back to the shuttle.
Mateo watched as the anti-grav device activated, lifting the crate with effortless precision before settling it onto the hover bot’s platform. Controlled. Efficient. Measured. The hum of the anti-grav field resonated softly, barely registering beneath the ambient noise of the loading bay. His gaze drifted to the hover bot now carrying his samples—a compact, quadrupedal unit built for precision handling, its matte duranium frame polished from use but still pristine. Its four stabilizing legs, no thicker than a human wrist, adjusted subtly as it calculated weight distribution, each shift in movement precise to the micron. A faint blue glow pulsed beneath its chassis, indicating active load-balancing, while a series of micro-thrusters along its underside allowed for seamless, near-silent maneuvering. It was an older model, judging by the slight hesitations in its recalibrations, but still leagues ahead of the bulkier anti-grav lifters he’d worked with in previous labs.
Mateo’s focus flicked toward the crewman managing the other units—three hover bots, all moving in sync. The way he operated them with nothing but a PADD and a few well-timed adjustments suggested either extensive practice or a deep reluctance to move crates manually. Maybe both. His lips pressed into a neutral line as he fell into step beside the Petty Officer, hands slipping into his pockets. The crate hovered smoothly behind them, following her lead with the ease of a well-rehearsed system. He could picture the alternative—an older anti-grav sled, a momentary lapse in attention, and suddenly, his entire shipment careening into a bulkhead. He’d seen worse happen for dumber reasons.
He exhaled through his nose, gaze lingering on the hover bot’s calculated movements. Practicality wasn’t overcomplication. It was just another way of making sure things ended up exactly where they were supposed to be. As they navigated the bay’s labyrinth of cargo, his thoughts lingered on the bot. It was a solid system. Not just because of its stabilizing features or automated load-balancing—but because it removed human error.
“It’s a solid system,” he remarked, voice even but edged with something contemplative. “Self-stabilizing, load-balancing—practically idiot-proof.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wish I had one in my lab.” His sample library was meticulously organized, a controlled ecosystem of classified biological specimens. But Starfleet’s standard-issue cargo handlers? Functional, sure. Precise? Not so much. There was only so much trust he could put in whoever was on duty to move delicate biological samples without cracking open something hazardous. He exhaled lightly through his nose, watching the bot’s calculated movements.
“Might make life easier,” he added, more to himself than anyone else. The bot hummed softly, adjusting its course as they approached the shuttle. The air shifted subtly as they neared the open hatch, the faint scent of warmed duranium and shuttle-grade coolant filling his senses. Mateo stepped aside as the hover bot maneuvered up the ramp, its built-in sensors aligning the crate perfectly within the shuttle’s cargo hold before releasing it with a soft hydraulic hiss. The unit remained still for a fraction of a second—almost as if ensuring its job was truly finished—before backing away with quiet efficiency.
He arched a brow, watching as it retreated with the same careful precision. “Think I’d have to requisition one,” he mused, half to himself. “Or steal it.” A dry, fleeting smirk pulled at his lips before he shifted, stepping toward the crate to verify its placement. Everything was secured. No unexpected shifts. No unnecessary risks. Satisfied, he let out a quiet breath and finally turned back toward the shuttle’s interior. Time to get the hell off this planet.
[OFF - To be concluded in Part 4]
Crewman Mateo Gardel
Medical Science Specialist
USS Fenrir
&
Staff Warrant Officer Oliver Sylver
Flight Control Officer
USS Fenrir
[PNPC - Hanlon]
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