Board her

“Lieutenant Uhura, have Doctor McCoy and a security team meet us in transporter room 2.” You tell the dark communications officer.

“Captain,” Spock starts. You hold up a hand and turn to the engineering station.

“Lieutenant Winters, you have the conn.” you tell the red shirted engineer, “Have Scotty join us in the transporter room with Ensign Duncan.” You motion for Spock to follow. The two of you pause by the turbolift. “Lieutenant?”

“Coming Sir,” Uhura answers. She reaches under the console and pulls out a tricorder that has been modified to specialize in languages and communications. She slings it over her shoulder and hurries to where you and Spock stand. You can’t help noticing the way the strap rests between her bouncing breasts. You quickly suppress the lascivious thoughts that come to mind at the sight. You are surprised to see that Spock is looking at Uhura’s chest as well.

“Captain,” Spock starts the moment the turbolift doors close, “Given the uncertainty of the situation, it would be unwise for both of us to be absent from the Enterprise at the same time.”

“Which is why you’re staying on board.” you counter.

“Captain!” Spock protests. You scowl at him as the doors open. He says nothing and follows you out of the turbolift. Uhura is a step behind you. You walk the short distance to transporter room in silence.

You pause as the doors of the transporter room open with a soft hiss. The rest of the landing party is already in the room. Dr McCoy is looking over the shoulders of Commander Scott and Chief Kyle as they manipulate the controls of the transporter. You can’t tell who is more nervous…your Chief Medical Officer or your Chief Engineer.

To either side of the door of the transporter room is a red shirted security guard. Both are tall and muscular. They both bear Type II pistol-like phasers on their right hips. You take the smaller Type I from Yeoman John Hoars with your right hand and hook it on the back of your belt under your shirt. At six foot six, two hundred fifty pounds, the bald guard is the biggest, most formidable member of the landing party.

You reach out with your left hand and take the communicator that Yeoman Ellen Wilson offers you. You look over the second guard as you hook the communicator on your belt next to the phaser. Her five foot ten inch frame is topped by blonde curls that are cut short. The way her tunic is stretched across that frame not only emphasizes her muscular physique, but her femininity as well as it shows every bit of the double D’s that adorn her 36-24-36 curves.

“How’s that?” a throaty contralto calls out from your right. You peer around Yeoman Hoars. You see a pair of shapely legs sticking out of the side of the transporter’s auxiliary console.

“Nae good lass.” Scotty answers in his thick brogue, “I still kenna git any reading.”

“I don’t know sir,” the voice says, “There’s nothing wrong with the equipment.” The legs wiggle back and forth as they emerge from the panel. You smile when a pair of black panties comes into sight. The short red skirt of her uniform is bunched up about her waist as it emerges. Finally the lovely face of the Ensign Sheila Duncan appears. She blushes and smiles as her green eyes follow your gaze to her crotch. None-the-less, she takes the hand you offer. The panties disappear as you help the engineer to her feet.

“Sorry Sir,” Sheila says. She pulls her wild red hair back with one hand and a band with the other. By the time she reaches the main console her shoulder-length hair is back in its regulation pony-tail. You follow her to the main console.

“What’s the problem?” you ask.

“I kenna git a reading on that ship.” Scotty tells you as he points to the screen. The transporter’s sensors screen is blank. “I think I can transport you in, but I’d be doin’ it blind.” Dr. McCoy blanches. The transporter sends its cargo to a specific distance in a specific direction with a specific orientation. Normally it will make minor adjustments to those directions in order to prevent someone from materializing inside another solid object. Transporting blind prevents the transporter from making those minor adjustments. It is a risky proposition.

Eight sets of eyes turn to you. Everyone is looking to you to for direction. You sigh.