Blindfold & Dartboard
Posted on Sat Aug 9th, 2025 @ 5:56pm by Commander Gil’an Tyris
1,205 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Prologue
Location: Astrometrics Lab
Timeline: Six days ago.
|| ON ||
The Astrometrics Lab was a sanctuary of precision. Its air was cool and dry, the quiet hum of processors underlining the room’s calm. The curved display wall dominated the far bulkhead, bathing the space in blue-white light from sprawling starmaps layered with spectral scans, gravitational overlays, and particle density grids.
At the central holotable stood Commander Gil Tyris. Hands folded lightly behind his back, posture relaxed yet exact, he studied the data with an expression that gave nothing away. His blue eyes moved in a slow, methodical sweep from one plotted anomaly to another, each point of light evaluated with the quiet rigor of a craftsman inspecting his work.
On the starboard side, Lieutenant Gor Chim Zorr worked like a man wrestling his console into submission. The Tellarite’s stocky frame hunched forward, thick fingers hammering the keys with audible force. His bristled beard twitched with every muttered curse, and each tap of his nail on the interface was sharp enough to make the station’s display flicker. Every so often, he snorted through flared nostrils, glaring at the figures as though sheer will might force them into compliance.
At a side alcove, Ensign T’Lira sat at her own station, cataloging long-range scan logs. Her posture was a perfect, Vulcan straight line, hands moving economically over her console. Though her eyes stayed on her work, the slow, precise rotation of her right ear toward Zorr suggested her attention was already split between her own task and the inevitable collision building across the room.
“There,” Zorr barked suddenly, his voice booming against the lab’s calm. He slapped the side of his console, making its holo-display ripple. “Spectral filters recalibrated, anomaly in sector delta-three-one corrected, and complete charts in three hours. That’s less than half the time you estimated, Commander.”
T’Lira’s left eyebrow lifted by exactly two millimeters—a Vulcan equivalent of a sharp double-take—before settling again.
Gil turned his head slowly toward the wall display. His gaze lingered on the readings for several seconds before he spoke. “You’ve ‘corrected’ the anomaly,” he said, his voice level and cool, “by introducing an error band of twenty-two percent. That’s equivalent to plotting a course with a blindfold and a dartboard.”
Zorr twisted in his chair, tusks catching the lab light. “It’s a workable margin. Starfleet’s run on worse when the clock’s ticking. You think the Klingons waste time counting decimal points while their enemies gain ground?”
Gil took one step forward, boots whispering against the deck plating. “The Klingons also have an average operational lifespan for their ships of five years. Half ours. Would you like to match that figure as well?”
T’Lira’s eyelids lowered a fraction—a subtle Vulcan gesture of skepticism—before she resumed typing.
The Tellarite’s eyes narrowed. “You treat science like sacred scripture—every number carved into stone. I treat it like the battlefield it is. You move fast, take risks, and win.”
“Science,” Gil replied without raising his voice, “is not a battlefield. It’s the means by which we ensure we don’t destroy the battlefield and ourselves.”
Zorr shoved himself up from his chair, tusked jaw jutting forward. He closed the distance until he was nearly chest-to-chest with Gil, his breath carrying the faint tang of Tellarite bloodwine from the previous evening.
T’Lira’s right ear angled fully toward them now, though her gaze never left her console. The slow tap of her fingers paused for less than a second before resuming—enough for a trained eye to know she was listening.
“You’re a pompous, preening number-counter who thinks precision makes him better than the rest of us,” Zorr growled. “You hide behind your equations because you’re afraid to trust your gut like a real scientist.”
Gil’s eyes stayed locked on his. “I trust my instincts every time I decide which facts to accept and which nonsense to discard. This—” he gestured toward the projection “—is nonsense. Creative fiction with a statistical aftertaste.”
“You’re one sarcastic remark away from a grievance on the Captain’s desk,” Zorr snapped, jabbing a finger toward Gil’s chest.
Gil’s voice dropped to a near whisper, so controlled it seemed to slice through the air. “Do it. Captain McEntyre will be interested to see your navigational solution into the gravitational throat of a pulsar.”
A brief silence fell over the lab. T’Lira’s eyebrow rose again—fractionally higher this time—and then lowered as she resumed her steady, precise input.
Without waiting for a response, Gil stepped past Zorr, taking the console. His fingers moved with fluid certainty—filter coefficients adjusted, algorithmic weighting recalculated, sensor arrays brought into tighter sync. The main wall display sharpened instantly, the noise evaporating until only crisp, unambiguous readings remained.
Gil straightened, stepping back from the console. “There. Same turnaround time you wanted. Reliable. Reproducible. And survivable.”
Zorr gave a rapid-fire string of Tellarite curses, each one sharp and guttural, before slamming back into his chair hard enough to make the deck plates vibrate.
At her station, T’Lira finished her scan review and, without looking up, added a final notation to the day’s log in her precise, looping Vulcan script:
Interpersonal conflict observed between Commander Tyris and Lieutenant Zorr. Resolution: Commander Tyris’s methodology adopted. Probability of recurrence: 94.7 percent.
Gil had already turned back to the holotable, his focus entirely on the flawless starfield now projected before him—unchallenged, undeniable, and utterly indifferent to wounded egos.
After a long moment, Gil picked up his personal PADD and silently exited the Lab.
The lab doors parted with a soft hiss as Commander Gil Tyris stepped into the corridor, PADD in hand. He was halfway through reviewing the clean anomaly data when light footfalls matched his pace.
Ensign T’Lira emerged behind him, her own PADD held in the precise Vulcan grip of thumb and forefinger. “Commander,” she said evenly, “I have forwarded the finalized scan log to Science Command.”
Gil nodded without looking up. “Good.”
They walked in silence for several steps before she spoke again, tone still measured but edged with a trace of observation. “I anticipated Lieutenant Zorr’s emotional escalation within a margin of error of point-three percent.”
Gil’s lips curved faintly—less than a smile, more the acknowledgment of a well-played hand. “Did you now?”
“Yes,” T’Lira replied. “In my experience, Tellarites respond predictably to what they perceive as methodological criticism. You provided three such criticisms in rapid sequence. Statistically, his outburst was inevitable.”
Gil glanced at her sidelong. “And yet, you remained silent.”
“It was… instructive,” she said, the barest lift of her eyebrow betraying the closest thing to Vulcan amusement. “I rarely have opportunity to observe two officers conducting scientific debate at… close range.”
Gil returned his gaze to his PADD, but the faint ghost of that not-quite-smile lingered. “Remind me never to argue with you, Ensign.”
“Agreed,” she said simply, and the doors to the turbolift closed behind them.
|| OFF ||
Commander Dr. Gil’an Tyris
Chief Science Officer
USS Guinevere
Lieutenant Gor Chim Zorr
Staff Science Officer
USS Guinevere
Ensign T’Lira
Staff Science Officer
USS Guinevere
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