Starfleet Academy | Thursday FT
The communications officer's tone was more than bored: Uhura sounded almost resentful. "We are receiving a distress signal from the U.S.S. Kobayashi Maru. The ship has lost power and is stranded. Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them."
Whipping around in the command chair, James T. Kirk hastened to correct her. "Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them, Captain."
She glared at him sharply, then turned back to her console. From another station, McCoy recited in a resigned monotone, "Klingon vessels have entered the Neutral Zone and they are firing upon us."
At this point in the simulation cadet responses varied from panicked, to confused, to nonexistent.
On this occasion Jim succeeded in providing one that, insofar as any present could recall, was entirely original. Not necessarily sensible, not even wholly coherent, but original.
"That's okay."
His fellow cadets gawked at him. Even Uhura turned from the communications station. It was left to McCoy to comment.
"It's okay?"
From the command chair, Jim waved diffidently. "Yeah, don't worry about it."
Above and to one side of the simulation bridge, puzzled test administrators and technicians exchanged a number of profoundly bemused looks.
"Did he just say ‘Don't worry about it'?" one administrator asked his colleague.
Turning back to the simulation chamber, his cohort's eyes narrowed as they focused tightly on the cadet presently occupying the command chair.
"What's he doing…?"
"Three more Klingon warbirds decloaking and targeting our ship," McCoy reported from his position. He glanced toward the command chair, occupied by a friend who possibly had lost his mind. "I don't suppose that's a problem either?"
Jim let himself slide a little lower in the chair. "Nah."
The cadet manning tactical reported in. "They're firing, Captain. All of them."
Jim nodded in understanding. "Alert medical bay to prepare to receive all crew members from the damaged ship."
"And how do you expect us to rescue them," Uhura pointed out sharply, "when we're surrounded and under attack by the Klingons?"
Briefly, he sounded like someone in command. "Alert medical."
Visibly annoyed, she complied.
"We're being hit," McCoy reported. "Shields at sixty percent."
"I understand," Jim replied blithely.
"Should we at least, oh, I dunno-fire back?"
Jim's brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought. "Mmm...no," he finally replied.
"Of course not," McCoy muttered under his breath. "What an absurd notion. Forgive me for bringing it up."
Above and outside the perfectly replicated command deck, a number of technicians busied themselves at their consoles fine-tuning simulation variables according to the responses propagated by the crew training in the room below them. Computer programs could be learned, predicted, and defeated. Computer programs undergoing continuous modification by live participants possessed critical aspects of ongoing variability that could not be memorized. In other words, the simulation technicians supplied the real-life responses no program could provide.
As they followed the progress of the simulation, the test administrators and technicians were careful not to get too close to the tech seated slightly off to the left at the main console. With her bright green skin she was immediately identifiable as an Orion humanoid. Since it was both visually and chemically unavoidable, admiration of such beings was permitted, so long as the admirer did not linger in the vicinity. It was recognized that extended proximity to an Orion female was distracting to other humanoids. In fact, it could be downright dangerous.
Anyone who happened to be looking in her direction suddenly found themselves wrenched back to reality.
Instrument consoles suddenly went berserk and died. Information that should have been transmitted was not. Commands to the simulation consoles below died aborning. Perplexed monitors and baffled instructors struggled to redirect, reassign, and reboot important instrumentation, all to no avail.
Then, as abruptly and inexplicably as every monitor had gone blank and every console had died, lights came back on, monitors winked back to life, and telltales resumed spitting out information.
Below, Jim continued to relax in the command chair, waiting. The report he anticipated was not long in coming.
"The Kobayashi Maru is still in distress," Uhura reported, "but-the Klingons have stopped firing. They are dropping shields and powering down their weapons!" The astonishment in her voice verged on the childlike.
"Imagine that." Jim finally straightened in the chair. "Then I guess we might as well respond. Arm photons. Prepare to fire on the Klingon warbirds."
"Jim," McCoy reported, "their shields are up."
Jim turned innocent eyes on his friend. "Are they?"
McCoy looked back at his console. Blinking, he leaned as close to it as he could without losing focus. "Uh no," he finally admitted.
Jim nodded with satisfaction. "Fire on all enemy ships. One photon each should do. No reason to waste munitions."
"Yes-yes sir." The tactical officer complied. Unable to resist turning from their own instruments, every one of the cadets on deck momentarily put aside their individual assignments as they looked toward the forward screen. Unimpeded by shields, five photon torpedoes struck five Klingon warships head on. Each warbird exploded with satisfying brilliance. As the resulting fragments filled the monitor, McCoy once more looked toward the command chair.
Only this time he was smiling.
The simulation was not quite over. Jim turned toward the communications station. "Signal the Kobayashi Maru. Tell them they are now safe and their rescue is assured. Begin rescue of the stranded crew." He glanced toward the helmsman. "Bring us in close and arrange for shuttle transfer at leisure, beginning with the most seriously wounded." As he let his eyes rove around the simulation room, his gaze was met by a succession of flabbergasted stares.
"So. We've eliminated all enemy ships, no one on board was injured, and the successful rescue of the Kobayashi Maru crew is under way." For the first time he let his attention wander upward to the windows of the administration room. "Anything else?"
*-*-*
The stunned silence among the administrators was no less profound than that which had settled over the simulation chamber below. Finally one turned to the figure standing ramrod straight alongside him.
"How'd that kid beat your test?" the administrator inquired in disbelief.
Spock's gaze did not swerve from the simulation bridge. In particular, it was locked on one participant: the grinning cadet who occupied the command chair. The test designer's tone was in no way properly reflective of what was going through his mind.
"I do not know."
NFB, NFI, OOC is fine. Taken from the ST1 novelization. Nothing objectionable in this part!]
Whipping around in the command chair, James T. Kirk hastened to correct her. "Starfleet Command has ordered us to rescue them, Captain."
She glared at him sharply, then turned back to her console. From another station, McCoy recited in a resigned monotone, "Klingon vessels have entered the Neutral Zone and they are firing upon us."
At this point in the simulation cadet responses varied from panicked, to confused, to nonexistent.
On this occasion Jim succeeded in providing one that, insofar as any present could recall, was entirely original. Not necessarily sensible, not even wholly coherent, but original.
"That's okay."
His fellow cadets gawked at him. Even Uhura turned from the communications station. It was left to McCoy to comment.
"It's okay?"
From the command chair, Jim waved diffidently. "Yeah, don't worry about it."
Above and to one side of the simulation bridge, puzzled test administrators and technicians exchanged a number of profoundly bemused looks.
"Did he just say ‘Don't worry about it'?" one administrator asked his colleague.
Turning back to the simulation chamber, his cohort's eyes narrowed as they focused tightly on the cadet presently occupying the command chair.
"What's he doing…?"
"Three more Klingon warbirds decloaking and targeting our ship," McCoy reported from his position. He glanced toward the command chair, occupied by a friend who possibly had lost his mind. "I don't suppose that's a problem either?"
Jim let himself slide a little lower in the chair. "Nah."
The cadet manning tactical reported in. "They're firing, Captain. All of them."
Jim nodded in understanding. "Alert medical bay to prepare to receive all crew members from the damaged ship."
"And how do you expect us to rescue them," Uhura pointed out sharply, "when we're surrounded and under attack by the Klingons?"
Briefly, he sounded like someone in command. "Alert medical."
Visibly annoyed, she complied.
"We're being hit," McCoy reported. "Shields at sixty percent."
"I understand," Jim replied blithely.
"Should we at least, oh, I dunno-fire back?"
Jim's brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought. "Mmm...no," he finally replied.
"Of course not," McCoy muttered under his breath. "What an absurd notion. Forgive me for bringing it up."
Above and outside the perfectly replicated command deck, a number of technicians busied themselves at their consoles fine-tuning simulation variables according to the responses propagated by the crew training in the room below them. Computer programs could be learned, predicted, and defeated. Computer programs undergoing continuous modification by live participants possessed critical aspects of ongoing variability that could not be memorized. In other words, the simulation technicians supplied the real-life responses no program could provide.
As they followed the progress of the simulation, the test administrators and technicians were careful not to get too close to the tech seated slightly off to the left at the main console. With her bright green skin she was immediately identifiable as an Orion humanoid. Since it was both visually and chemically unavoidable, admiration of such beings was permitted, so long as the admirer did not linger in the vicinity. It was recognized that extended proximity to an Orion female was distracting to other humanoids. In fact, it could be downright dangerous.
Anyone who happened to be looking in her direction suddenly found themselves wrenched back to reality.
Instrument consoles suddenly went berserk and died. Information that should have been transmitted was not. Commands to the simulation consoles below died aborning. Perplexed monitors and baffled instructors struggled to redirect, reassign, and reboot important instrumentation, all to no avail.
Then, as abruptly and inexplicably as every monitor had gone blank and every console had died, lights came back on, monitors winked back to life, and telltales resumed spitting out information.
Below, Jim continued to relax in the command chair, waiting. The report he anticipated was not long in coming.
"The Kobayashi Maru is still in distress," Uhura reported, "but-the Klingons have stopped firing. They are dropping shields and powering down their weapons!" The astonishment in her voice verged on the childlike.
"Imagine that." Jim finally straightened in the chair. "Then I guess we might as well respond. Arm photons. Prepare to fire on the Klingon warbirds."
"Jim," McCoy reported, "their shields are up."
Jim turned innocent eyes on his friend. "Are they?"
McCoy looked back at his console. Blinking, he leaned as close to it as he could without losing focus. "Uh no," he finally admitted.
Jim nodded with satisfaction. "Fire on all enemy ships. One photon each should do. No reason to waste munitions."
"Yes-yes sir." The tactical officer complied. Unable to resist turning from their own instruments, every one of the cadets on deck momentarily put aside their individual assignments as they looked toward the forward screen. Unimpeded by shields, five photon torpedoes struck five Klingon warships head on. Each warbird exploded with satisfying brilliance. As the resulting fragments filled the monitor, McCoy once more looked toward the command chair.
Only this time he was smiling.
The simulation was not quite over. Jim turned toward the communications station. "Signal the Kobayashi Maru. Tell them they are now safe and their rescue is assured. Begin rescue of the stranded crew." He glanced toward the helmsman. "Bring us in close and arrange for shuttle transfer at leisure, beginning with the most seriously wounded." As he let his eyes rove around the simulation room, his gaze was met by a succession of flabbergasted stares.
"So. We've eliminated all enemy ships, no one on board was injured, and the successful rescue of the Kobayashi Maru crew is under way." For the first time he let his attention wander upward to the windows of the administration room. "Anything else?"
*-*-*
The stunned silence among the administrators was no less profound than that which had settled over the simulation chamber below. Finally one turned to the figure standing ramrod straight alongside him.
"How'd that kid beat your test?" the administrator inquired in disbelief.
Spock's gaze did not swerve from the simulation bridge. In particular, it was locked on one participant: the grinning cadet who occupied the command chair. The test designer's tone was in no way properly reflective of what was going through his mind.
"I do not know."
NFB, NFI, OOC is fine. Taken from the ST1 novelization. Nothing objectionable in this part!]