Subspace Transmission to Jalay Halyn

Posted on Mon Jun 23rd, 2025 @ 3:21pm by Lieutenant Commander Jalay Prinnet

769 words; about a 4 minute read

Encoded Subspace Transmission
Recipient: Jalay Halyn, Talumna, Musilla Province, Bajor
Sender: Jalay Prinnet, Runabout Mordred, approaching U.S.S. Guinevere

Hello Halyn:

Well, it’s a start. That’s about as much as I can say about this ship, the Guinevere. The Federation has always talked a big game about their superior technology, dangling it in front of our Bajoran noses like it would make up for them moving into our neighborhood as soon as the Cardassians left. But this is not one of their finest vessels, at least judging by how it looks through the front viewport of this shuttle. The nacelles are just… well, like I said, it’s a start.

Okay, fine. I’ll say it. Sure, she’s big by Bajoran standards, but come on–their empire spans 8,000 lightyears, and this is the best they can do? It can barely make warp 9.6 according to the technical documents I’ve reviewed. They conquer half the quadrant with their smiles and their replicators and their treaties, and they don’t even build their starships fast enough to cross their space in less than two years! When I was aboard that patrol frigate, we could reach anywhere in Bajoran space in a day, maximum, and that hunk of junk was held together with equipment manufactured before the Cardassians ever arrived on our soil.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m honored–Humans are big on honor, I’ve learned–that they decided to make me a Chief Engineer on my very first Starfleet assignment. I probably would have felt more confident about it if I hadn’t been the only real adult in my Starfleet retraining course. It’s not easy to move to a Human world and take classes with the best of their best. I tried to explain it to my classmates once–that it’s easy to be the best when you know your replicator will never run out of power, when your home computer can connect to a central database of all the knowledge in the known universe, when you’ve had holographic tutors at your beck and call. They looked at me with pity. Oh, they’d never admit it, but you know how it is. As soon as someone younger than you calls you “brave,” you’re not a person in their eyes anymore, you’re an idea.

I’m trying. I am. These Humans are–and I have no other way to say it–they’re too perky. They have every faith that when they go out into the deep reaches of uncharted space, they’ll find friends. That’s absurd. Forget Bajor and Cardassia–they don’t have to look far beyond their own smooth noses to realize that space is NOT friendly. The Borg? The Dominion? Their own Synthetics? When I’m alone, and I can give them the benefit of the doubt, I feel that I have a lot to learn from this… deeply ingrained genetic optimism that they seem to have. I wish I could be that hopeful, anymore. But when yet another capital-letter Perky ensign tells me where to find my shuttle, or the transporter room, or gently corrects me when I don’t know the Starfleet term for a tool I’ve used since before they were born… well, let’s just say that I envy you having retired.

I know that Sirte doesn’t want to speak with me, and I respect her choice, but if you can find a tactful way to slip in a little “hello” from me, or just let them know that I’ve finally received my first Starfleet posting, I’d appreciate it. Maybe learning more about what I’m doing will help her move past this stony silence. If she can’t understand “why,” then maybe at least she can appreciate “what.” Or maybe she’ll be one of those young adults whose mom doesn’t hear from for years at a time. I’m sure you will rub my nose in it, and I’ll deserve every moment of it.

Ensign Perky in the cockpit just let me know that we’ll be landing shortly. I’ll try to get this letter to you as soon as I can. If you want to write back but can’t find me by name, you could try asking about “Commodore Elias McEntyre,” the captain of the ship I’ll be on. I’m pretty sure he’s a Human man based on the name.

Love you. Both. (Hello Sirte, if you’re reading over your grandmother’s shoulder).
Prinett

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