Begin captain’s log, USS Minoru, NCC-64306. Ashton Griffith, commanding.

Commanding. It sounds strange even though I got the transfer orders weeks ago. There’s part of me that still thinks that Starfleet Command has lost its collective mind. I’ve taken all the requisite courses and tests, and Starfleet has a fine tradition of taking engineers and scientists and turning them into captains, but I’m still a bit uncomfortable. The last time I was in command, it was of a makeshift infantry platoon, and we spent more time running away than accomplishing anything really useful. About all I can say is that we were annoying enough to keep Skrit-Captain thoroughly occupied with chasing us rather than eating the civilians, and that I got almost everyone else out. Almost didn’t cut it for Kalshan or Dalby, though, and I know too damned well that the only thing separating us from Commander Thorne’s team is luck.

Thinking about it, I suppose that experience might be one reason I was selected over other candidates. A lot of officers my age would have just missed the end of the Dominion War and only seen it on news vids and holodramas. Stories and simulations can’t always compare to first-hand experience with what combat is a really like. Maybe they’d rather have someone they know can handle it in command, even if the war I fought in was a hundred years ago and so small that it’s barely a footnote in today’s history textbooks.

In any case, I’m hoping that it won’t be necessary to put those old skills to use again, at least no more often than average for a starship. It’d be good to finally get out there and explore again after so long stuck behind a desk or at dock. Minoru may be designed primarily as a ship of war, but she’s not a slouch in the sciences. Well, I don’t think so, at least, even if the captains of the big exploratory cruisers or dedicated science ships might disagree. All I can say is that if a Connie can manage to explore strange new worlds, a ship six times bigger should be able to do a decent job, too. The scientists will just have to learn to make do with what they’ve got. Maybe with a little creative engineering we can turn our sword into a plowshare - after all, with all these torpedoes and fighters, God knows we can spare a sword or two. Part of me thinks our weapons load is tiny bit excessive. The other part of me wants to shoot off all the launchers in rapid-fire mode just to see it happen. Looking at the specs we could dump the magazines in a matter of minutes. Maybe we’ll run into some sort of horrible planet-covering space fungus and in order to save the Federation from its rocket spores we’ll have to bombard it from space, petals of flame and waves of NDF effect spreading across entire continents...

Ah, if you’re a historian listening to this log, please rest assured that I’m not some kind of pyromaniac throwback to the 22nd Century. If I run into an evil space fungus, I’ll be sure to try fungicide first, or maybe have a Vulcan mind-meld with it or something. I’m just saying that from an engineering standpoint modern photon and quantum torpedoes are pretty amazing pieces of technology and detonations inside an atmosphere are really interesting compared to those in vacuum. Although that doesn’t really sound better, does it?

Speaking engineering, it’s time for me to head down there and observe the final power-up test of the intermix system. Warp core. Whatever you want to call it. I’m trying not to hover around too much, since I don’t want the chief engineer to strangle me, but I think any captain would want to keep an eye on important steps to getting out of spacedock. Right?

Thought for the day: Any problem can be solved with sufficient quantities of duct tape or antimatter.

[Mission 1, 1050 MD-1]

Personal log - text entry.

We're not even two weeks out of port, but it looks like someone's decided to see whether or not I'm really cut out for this job. It's almost the same situation as last time, ironically enough - invaders pouncing down on a border colony while we rush to hold them off, with backup days away. It's strange to say it, but I think I was more at ease back then. Somehow not knowing what to expect is a lot less comforting than seeing the attack squadrons crossing the border and hearing similar reports from all the other patrol ships and stations. This time it's been eerily silent and so my imagination is helpfully conjuring up cloaked Romulan battle fleets behind every star we pass. It's everything I can do to keep a calm and steady appearance and not jump every time a sensor beeps.

It's a bit strange, now that I think about it. I never had these kinds of jitters on Greenwald. Is it because I've lost my nerve in the last two years, or is it because I never had the time or energy to worry about how utterly screwed we were until after the Yorktown and her battle group arrived in orbit? Probably the latter, given how I spent most of those months wacked out stimm use and sleep deprivation. I bet Lieutenant Doctor Conway could help me figure it out. Maybe I should let her use the mission advisor chair like some COs do so I can discuss my feelings with her.

I really shouldn't write things like that if I can't keep myself from laughing. From the look my helmsman just gave me, he probably thinks I've cracked.

Well, whatever's waiting for me, I'm confident we can handle it. Nerves or not, I've got a good crew and a lot of torpedoes. Even if we do all die horribly, at least we'll go down with a fireworks show.

Thought for the day: Hard work conquers everything.