Arrival Checks

Posted on Mon Nov 10th, 2025 @ 8:19pm by Lieutenant Alexander Beckett

863 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Prelude: The Gathering
Location: Deep Space Lambda 2; USS Proxima Airlock
Timeline: Mission Day 1 at 0000

Deep Space Station Lambda-2 was alive with motion — the kind of organized chaos that always accompanied a ship taking on crew. Cargo drones drifted overhead, hissing through clouds of vapor. The air smelled faintly of coolant, coffee, and fresh paint.

Lieutenant Alexander Beckett walked the docking concourse at an easy pace, duffel over his shoulder, eyes everywhere. He didn’t look like he was inspecting anything, but he was. It was a habit — and an old one.

Ahead, the airlock to USS Proxima gleamed with a fresh coat of Starfleet gray, her registry stenciled neatly above it. Beside the hatch sat a portable console and two small security banners. It looked tidy, official, and by all appearances… useless.

The officer at the post — Ensign Darnell Price, gold-collar and posture far too relaxed — was leaning against the console, deep in conversation with a Denobulan woman in blue. Her wide, easy grin flashed in the corridor lights as she gestured animatedly, her three ridged cheekbones rising and falling as she laughed. Price laughed back, clearly enjoying himself.

Every so often, someone approached. Price glanced vaguely in their direction, gave a perfunctory wave, and the person passed through the hatch without so much as a scan or a glance at their orders.

Beckett stopped a few meters short and set his duffel down beside his boot. He didn’t speak. He just watched.

Three crew went through. Then four. One of them was clearly a civilian technician from the station.

Beckett’s brow furrowed just slightly.

When a lull finally came in the chatter, he picked up his duffel, walked forward, and stopped right in front of them.

Price didn’t notice him until the Denobulan woman’s expression shifted — her smile fading as her eyes tracked the new arrival’s rank pins.

“Lieutenant— oh, uh, sir—” Price stammered, standing up straighter. “Can I help you?”

Beckett let his tone stay level. “Are you Proxima security or station security, Ensign?”

“Proxima, sir,” Price said quickly. “Ensign Darnell Price. Uh— just manning the access point until—”

“And your friend?” Beckett asked, turning his attention toward the woman.

She smiled politely, folding her hands behind her back. “Doctor Reska. Station medical staff. I was just welcoming your officer aboard.”

“While he was on duty,” Beckett said. “At an airlock. Guarding a Constitution-class starship.”

Reska blinked, cheeks dimpling faintly as her smile returned in that careful Denobulan way — embarrassed, but never offended. “Ah. Yes. Well, I’ll let you get back to… guarding.”

Price didn’t even have time to look grateful before she’d excused herself and vanished into the flow of the corridor.

Beckett folded his arms. “All right, Ensign. Let’s start again. Who are you?”

“Ensign Darnell Price, Proxima Security, sir.”

“And where are you?”

“Docking Arm C, Lambda-2 Station, guarding the airlock to—”

“Good. You know the words.” Beckett’s tone was even. “Now — what’s your job here?”

“To… check credentials, control access, and log personnel transfers, sir.”

“Excellent.” Beckett tilted his head. “So explain to me why, in the past two minutes, I’ve watched you let eight people walk through that hatch without a scan or a question.”

Price swallowed hard. “Sir, they were all Starfleet— I just— I thought—”

“You assumed,” Beckett said. “And assuming is how people end up dead. Or worse — embarrassed in front of their new department chief.”

That landed. Price’s posture stiffened.

Beckett leaned one hand on the console, lowering his voice just enough that only Price could hear. “If I were carrying a disruptor in this bag, Ensign, and an attitude problem, I’d be in your ship’s main corridor right now. You’d be the last person to realize something was wrong.”

Price shut his mouth, nodding mutely.

“Right,” Beckett said, standing again. “So here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to start a fresh access log — timestamp, new file. Everyone from this moment forward gets scanned and verified. No exceptions. You don’t wave. You don’t guess. You check.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Beckett nodded toward the console. “Now, let’s run it again.”

He stepped back, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and approached the airlock as if he were a new arrival.

Price snapped to it instantly. “Hold there, sir. May I see your orders and ID?”

Beckett handed over the padd without a word.

Price read it carefully this time, even scanned the duffel. “Lieutenant Alexander Beckett. Chief of Security, USS Proxima. All in order, sir. Welcome aboard.”

Beckett met his eyes. “Better,” he said. “Keep it that way.”

“Yes, sir. You can count on it.”

Beckett gave a faint nod and stepped through the airlock. The hiss of the pressure door closing behind him felt like punctuation — the end of the station, the beginning of the ship.

As the inner hatch cycled open onto Proxima’s deck, he heard Price’s voice, firmer now:

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’ll need to see your clearance before you proceed.”

Good.

Beckett adjusted his tunic, eyes flicking briefly over the polished bulkheads ahead. First impression: room for improvement. Second: fixable.

He could work with that.

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