Elbow Room

Posted on Fri May 30th, 2025 @ 10:33pm by Lieutenant Ánderijá "Rija" Rautajärvi

1,829 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Cead Mile Failte
Location: Main Shuttlebay, USS Washington
Timeline: 1300 Hours

The clatter of boots on metallic decking echoed.

Lieutenant Rija Rautajärvi stepped off the transport vessel onto the polished deck of the USS Washington's main shuttlebay, his duffle bag slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. Nearly forty officers and enlisted personnel formed loose ranks, shuffling into something approximating a line as a harried-looking lieutenant and stocky non-comm called them to attention for orientation. The air held that mix of drafty, recycled sterility and engine-warmth that always seemed to linger near small spacecraft. Sovereign-class, Rija thought, eyeing the curved bulkheads and recessed lighting. Roomy, powerful, if not a little too polished to feel real.

He was here. Again.

His Starfleet career had become a series of arrivals and departures.

Six years, half a dozen postings, and more planets than he could remember without checking a log. His most recent assignment had been aboard the Mare Tranquillitatis, a modified California-class whose age and size belied her solid crew and camaraderie. He'd liked the team there. They were honest, funny, and a little too fond of telling stories over syntheholic beverages at 0200, but they'd felt real.

Before that, it was the short assignment at Beta Antares Ship Yard where it seemed most of his work involved ship inspections and thousands of hours of chair-time in an office. Not an exciting posting, but a very interesting one. However, Beta Antares had so many engineers and technicians upon hundreds of support personnel--one would believe it impossible to feel lonely. But Rija had been very much a lonely young man there.

Prior to that, the Tohlaar, an upgraded Nova-class cutter on long-range survey missions close to Cardassian space. Quiet work, good data, long shifts spent calibrating thermal sensors in crawlspaces. The Tohlaar had been a good assignment, however, Rija found himself on the outside-looking-inside--scientists were the top dogs there. Engineers were simply the drones that kept the lights on and the engines at peak efficiency.

There was also that brief stint on Starbase 271 not too far from Ferengi space. At the time, he'd thought his posting there was Starfleet Personnel's way of keeping him busy while trying to find a real assignment for him. It hadn't been bad at all--he'd learned a great deal about logistics and priority management. The senior staff had been kind but... distant. It wasn't exactly the place to make friends.

And before that...

Qo'noS.

His first assignment had been as part of a diplomatic security team on the Klingon homeworld. A trial by fire--literal and cultural. The barbs of it still lingered, some in his mind, others in the scars beneath his collarbone. He had learned very quickly not to speak too much, not to back down, and not to look too long at a drunken Klingon unless he was prepared to defend his very life. It was also the last time he had worn command red.

The lieutenant at the front droned on, launching into the ship's layout and systems with bureaucratic precision. The NCO, arms crossed, occasionally grunted in agreement. Rija listened with only half an ear. Around him, others murmured, shifted, passed glances. He caught one--deliberately. A woman with coiled brown hair that spilled like ringlets from beneath her bun, her face pale and expressive. She smiled at him, wide-eyed, then gave an exaggerated eye-roll toward the lieutenant, as if to say: Here we go again.

Rija's mouth twitched--almost a smile.

The speech finally ended. Names were called, PADDs distributed. Each crew member received directions to their quarters, a reminder about physicals,, and the name of their reporting officer. Rija accepted his with a nod, scanning the header. Quarters on Deck 6. Report to Lieutenant Aidan O'Connor in Engineering. Mandatory medical check-in within seven days. Psychological workup within fourteen.

A personal note: appointment with the Executive Officer, Commander Grayson, scheduled for 0900 the next morning.

And of course, the boilerplate welcome from the Captain. He skipped that.

* * *

Location: Corridor, Deck 6
Timeline: 1346 Hours


The corridor outside his assigned quarters gleamed like most others--brushed metal, subtle lighting, and the almost imperceptible hum of a ship with systems constantly running. Rija stepped up to the door, keyed in the authorization, and heard a familiar chirp as it opened.

The room was small. Functional. A single space with a narrow divan beneath a viewport, a compact workstation, a replicator nestled between storage compartments, and a two-person dining table that looked as though standing up while eating might be the more natural choice. A doorway led to what he assumed was the half-bath.

Not much. But his own.

He stepped inside and dropped his duffle bag onto the divan. A flicker of surprise registered when he noticed that a few of his personal items had already arrived--his woodcarving kit, the small box of old bound books, and the polished black case of his accordion. All stacked neatly beside the desk.

Rija's fingers brushed the woodcarving case, unlatching it. The tools inside gleamed--kept sharp, oiled, wrapped in cloth to preserve super-sharp edges. He picked up the smallest chisel, turning it slowly between his fingers.

His father's tools.

The memory of his father's hands--wide, rough, steady--flashed through his mind. Holding this very same chisel. Carving a herding figure for the seasonal festival. Teaching Rija and Sussu how to gauge by feel. He hadn't seen or spoken to the man in ten years, and yet here he was, caught off-guard by the sharpness of it. Respect warred with old anger. His father had refused to leave the ancestral village, refused to consider seismic stabilization efforts when the tremors had started. "We are not subjects of the stars," he'd said. "We are stewards of the land."

And so the land had cracked. And so had they.

He closed the case gently and set it aside.

The PADD from earlier buzzed softly with unread content. Rija keyed it open again. Orientation material, mostly--protocols, maps, expectations. His reporting officer was Aidan O'Connor, a name he didn't know. There was still no Chief Engineer listed. The usual mess. A note reminded him to schedule his physical. He flagged it for later.

He thought about his upcoming meeting with the XO. Curious, he asked, "Computer, what can you tell me about Commander Grayson?"

The reply was immediate. [Commander Jonathan Thomas Grayson. Executive Officer. USS Washington. Human. Born in New York City on Earth. Married. Previous postings include Chief of Security, USS Serling. Assistant Security Chief, USS Constitution, and--]

"That's enough," Rija said. He preferred to form his impression in person.

His stomach rumbled.

He scanned the orientation packet for the Mess Hall location and headed out.

* * *

Location: Mess Hall, Deck 4
Timeline: 1411 Hours


The mess hall buzzed with activity.

Officers and enlisted in various states of uniformity moved in, out, and around food lines and replicators, carrying trays, laughing, talking, even arguing softly. The smell hit him like a rogue wave--curried vegetables, stewed meats, steamed grains, and something quite... stinky.

He ordered quickly at an open replicator: Greek salad, Bolian-style pea soup, and a sweetened matcha tea. Balanced, bright, and very familiar. He took the tray, turned, and found the room nearly full.

Except for a two-seat table near the viewport. One seat was already occupied.

It was her.

The woman from orientation. Her hair was down now, more relaxed in its ringlets, and she was halfway though a mug of something steaming while skimming her own data PADD. A club sandwich--or what remained of one--sat on her plate. She looked up, saw him, and smiled again--this time with a beckoning gesture.

Rija approached. "May I?"

"Of course," she said brightly. "Nobody should eat alone if they don't have to."

He slid into the seat opposite her, his tray settling lightly. "Thank you. I thought I might end up eating in the corridor."

She laughed. "The corridor's no place for soup. Too many uniform disasters." She extended a hand. "Clementine Vidamour. But everyone calls me Clemmie."

He took the offered hand. "Rija Rautajärvi."

"Rautajärvi. That sounds Finnish."

"Sort of. I was born on Ruoktu VI. A Federation colony near Tholian space. My ancestors were Sami, from northern Scandinavia on Earth."

Her eyes lit up. "I've never heard of it--Ruoktu, I mean. What's it like?"

"Cold. Quiet. Very... blue, in winter. Our skies never turn entirely black."

She nodded, sipping her coffee. "Sounds beautiful."

He hesitated, then said, "Clementine is a very pretty name. Very fitting."

She barked a laugh, then blushed slightly. "Oh, you smooth devil. Do you say flattering things to every woman you meet?"

Rija blinked. "No. Should I not have said that?"

She grinned. "Don't worry. I can tell you're not trying to to be charming. Which actually makes it all the more dangerous. You've got weapons, Rautajärvi. Someday, you'll learn to use them."

He frowned thoughtfully, unsure whether to thank her or apologize.

Clemmie rescued him. "Anyway--what department are you in?"

"Engineering. You?"

"Operations. But I suspect I'll be neck-deep in EPS relays and damage reports, same as you. What was your last posting?"

"Mare Tranquillitatis. Before that, the Tohlaar."

Clemmie gave an impressed nod. "Both small ships. You'll enjoy the elbow room here."

They spoke between mouthfuls, Rija carefully navigating soup and salad. She told him she'd grown up on Alderney, one of the Channel Islands on Earth, though she hadn't lived there in years. "Too small, too rocky, too windy. But the fish is divine." Her accent was clipped, old-sounding, full of round vowels and coastal lilts. A voice from another time.

"On Ruoktu VI, did you ever happen upon a Tholian?" she asked suddenly.

"I saw one. Once. When I was twelve. A trader, I think. He came to New Utsjoki in a thermal suit."

"How strange. I've only seen holos. Like glass statues with fire inside."

Rija gave a small nod. "That's accurate."

Before he could speak further, she looked over his shoulder and waved off several more crewmembers scanning the Mess Hall for open seats.

"I should let someone else have this," she said, standing and collecting her tray. "It was lovely to meet you, Rija."

He gave a small bow of his head. "And you, Clemmie."

She winked. "See you around."

As she moved away, a stern-looking Rigelian in command red slipped into the seat she'd vacated. He nodded once to Rija, then set to eating some sort of seasoned cylindrical black piece of meat while reading his own data PADD.

"I'm Lieutenant Rija Rautajärvi," Rija said, attempting to initiate conversation.

"Lieutenant Ghoorlan," he said gruffly, eyes firmly on the PADD.

And with that, communications were ended. The Rigelian continued eating without looking up.

Rija returned to his food, chewing slowly, lost in thought. He hoped, quietly and genuinely, that his time aboard the Washington would be more like that conversation with Clemmie--and less like this silent, dutiful meal beside someone who had already disappeared back into his duties.

* * *

 

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