The Warp 5 Chronicles
Chapter 3 : Baby Steps

Copyright© 2016 by The Slim Rhino

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 3 : Baby Steps - This is my attempt at a prequel of Startrek:Enterprise starting about 10 years before the TV series. It will eventually blend into "Enterprise: The Rediscovered Logs", but that's a great many chapters in the future...

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Fan Fiction   Science Fiction   Space   Aliens   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Workplace  

I had to give it to the guy, he was good. Granted he was some sort of upper class British snot, and therefore quite annoying in his attitude, but when it came to the ring business he could play with the big boys. Light Heavyweight boxing was a matter of speed and agility, and that was a bit of an Achilles' heel for me.

If I went on a strict diet I could dip below the limit and fight in Middleweight like three years ago, but I had barely any fat on me as it was, so I'd have had to bleed off muscle mass. Instead I'd used the last six weeks to bulk up quite a bit, improving my hook to 7.500 Newton and the straight punch to 3.800N. I'd have to rely on punching power and the fact that the greater relative muscle mass would allow me to take a few more jabs than those who had to trade muscles for weight.

"Break!"

The Coach stepped in after I'd landed a slightly hard upper cut on the Brit's chin and he was staggering a bit. His eyes were glazed over by force of the blow, and I could see the annoyance in his face after he'd shaken his senses back into order. We bumped our right fists and turned to listen to the coach.

"Reed, you aren't Muhammad Ali. Agility is good, but you haven't shaken your opponent a single time. You rely too much on your stamina and point wins. Ring officials make mistakes."

The Brit nodded acknowledgment, and the coach turned to me.

"Tucker, have you taken root or something? You're moving less than a 250-pound washed-up heavyweight fighter. More agility, and try to control your punch. It's only a week to the tournament. You're not supposed to put his lights out."

We bumped fists again and went on with the sparring.


I could hear the humming of ground cars outside as I was busy with my evening training. It mixed with the whirr of the speed rope as it circled at full chat. I was switching between speed steps and double under exercises. Sweat ran down my face and torso by the bucketload and collected in the hem of my shorts. Finally I stopped the exercise and drank a hefty load of water. Two to three liters would go down my throat in a ninety minute session.

Continuing my exercise, I had time to reminisce on the first six weeks back in San Francisco. On the all-encompassing topic of meeting Erika again, there were some mixed messages.

Life with Lizzie was going without a hitch. The household chores were evenly split, and I sure couldn't complain about the cooking. Lizzie's food was second only to mom's, in fact I'd have to make sure that I never, ever let slip my tongue and let our maternal ancestor know that Lizzie's pecan pie and Jambalaya were actually even better than hers.

Leave it to my sister to scout the area until she found out where she could go swimming without a pesky swimsuit. She'd found an officially designated nude beach at Point Reyes, but it was quite a ride down there so we'd only been there twice on a weekend; and unlike back home in Panama City, out here there was actually something vaguely resembling winter, so October meant pretty much 'game over' as far as swimming in the ocean was concerned.

Commodore Jeffries hadn't exaggerated when he told me that not everybody would be happy with my visits to the R&D team. Quite a few people, in fact pretty much all of them, were suspicious of me, and I was left to my own devices trying to work out the simulations for my 120 V-design. But then, the cold shoulder was something I was quite familiar with in my interaction with Erika.

I stopped my exercise when the door was opened.

"Phoo, it stinks like man in here," Lizzie mocked me with a grin as she walked past and opened the second window as well. The draught engulfed my body and made me shiver slightly. My sister was walking around me with an appraising glance.

"You've bulked up quite a bit. I don't think you had those muscles three years ago."

She squeezed my right bicep and made mock-mooning eyes at me.

"Yeah," I said. "But now I'm agile like a gazelle, or what's that grey animal with a trunk called?"

She laughed softly and sat down on a chair. She was wearing a pair of tight fitting pants and a rather unremarkable yellow shirt. The sight of my sister holding a beer bottle was still rather strange. Granted, she was quite responsible about it and never drank more than one or two bottles every few days, but mom would probably still demand my head on a stake, which was ridiculous, as Lizzie could just hop on a shuttle to Europe and buy the stuff legally there. It was only our 'enlightened' American society which clung stubbornly to the ridiculous 21-year age limit.

"It's been four weeks, did she react to your message?" she asked out of the blue.

I put the rope aside and sat down on the ground. Upon my signal Lizzie chucked me a beer and I caught it mid-air. My reflexes were definitely improving.

"She never mentioned it. But I think she's read it. For the last two weeks we're at least able to say 'Good mornin''. and she doesn't ignore me in class anymore. It's all strictly business though."

Lizzie shook her head. "That's good, but not important. She couldn't ignore you indefinitely in class. That'd be trouble for her. What about her body language, her eyes? Take it from a girl – what we say and what we want are sometimes two completely different things."

I chuckled. "Mrs. Zelenkova said the same the other day, when I – again – repaired her stove. Seriously, I'm ready to buy her a new one."

"Don't change the topic," Lizzie insisted gently. "What about Erika's eyes?"

The question made me sigh. "I think she doesn't hurt as much anymore, but then I never get to look her in the eyes much. She immediately looks away. If I was any good at readin' women, I wouldn't have fucked up so badly three years ago. I'd say she looks at me – doubtful, indifferent – something like that."

"How about 'insecure'?" Lizzie suggested. "She's more than ten years older than you. She sleeps with a young guy and then he drops her like a hot potato. Suddenly three years later she gets a message from him. How's she to believe that you're not just after another night with a woman who knows how to please a guy? Imagine some older guy bedded me and then ran off, and then three years on he suddenly gets in touch again out of the blue. I'd think he just wanted to have a young chick again. Same for her, only other way round."

The implicit reproach hurt, in fact quite a bit, but then I really deserved to hurt. In all the six weeks of racking my brain I'd never realized something so blatantly obvious. I'd marveled so much at my not giving a hoot how much older or not she was that I'd never even considered that she might be insecure about it, and how my messed-up reaction might have hurt her. Sometimes I really was an insensitive ape.

"Don't rush it, Trip," Lizzie said. "It's baby steps. If she couldn't be in the same room as you, she'd have asked for a transfer. But it will take time."

"Thanks, Lizzie."

I put my back against the wall, drinking my beer, sunk in thought.


Any non-engineering inclined person would probably go insane among all the blinking lights, beeps, whistles and grinding noises by a myriad of computers around, but this was the cacophony of progress. I liked working in the R&D lab, as I believed that every hour spent in here was one hour closer to my ultimate goal of making ChiefEng one day.

The intermediate goal was to get on the Warp 3 program, and the people for that would be recruited from this very team, so even if I was a sort of alien element within it, technically I was in the pool for the selection. It was like tomorrow's qualification tournament. I was literally boxing above my weight, so I didn't have much expectation, but I was in it; and from then on, depending on my performance – everything could happen.

As I was firing up my simulation framework, I heard the squeak of someone sitting down in a chair next to me. Some guy, probably around forty, had settled himself down there and fixed me with in inquisitive glance. He was a sturdy guy with hair that was interspersed with grey strains. His face was weathered. It was easy to see that he'd been around the block a few times. The rank insignia of Command Master Chief Petty Officer on his uniform gave me an inkling of his identity.

"Master Chief?" I asked, just in case he had some important business with a lowly cadet.

"Don't panic, young'un," he said. "I just dropped by to ask how you're doing. The team's not really going out of their way to welcome you."

Putting down my tools, I faced him with an inquisitive look. "Can't say I blame them. They've all graduated in gold and had to make Lieutenant to get on the team. Suddenly they have a Cadet plonked in front of them."

"Bollocks," the Chief growled. "Nobody put you in here for your good looks. You're not that cute sweetheart. You must have some serious talent. And one thing you need to learn – Engineering is a meritocracy. You're good enough to be put in as a cadet. That makes some people around here shit bricks. Because we all have the same ambition – Warp 3 program and then the Warp 5 ship – and most realize that if you're half as good as Jeffries thinks you are, one of them's gonna lose out."

"I take it you never tried out for the Diplomatic Corps, Chief?" I couldn't help crack a wise one about the man's ripe selection of words.

He just laughed. "I'm called Rant Varley for a reason," he said and held out his hand.

I took it. "Trip Tucker."

But I had a feeling he already knew that.


The day did start quite well. Lizzie had accompanied me to the reconfigured assembly hall, but had then left me there, heading off towards the city on her own. She'd never been good at seeing her big brother getting beaten up, even in the process of beating some other guy even harder. A look at the draft brought more good news. The Brit and I were both drawn into group C, so even if we both made it out of the group stage we couldn't be matched up again before the final, in which case we'd both be qualified for the Finals Tournament in November.

The system was pretty simple. The sixteen quarter-finalists from last year were set for the finals, and there were four qualification tournaments in 'Frisco, Anchorage, Bilbao and Singapore – of which the finalists qualified for the finals here in Fog City. Looking around in the warm-up area, I reckoned there were only three with a realistic chance of making it: myself, the limey, and some massive steam-hammer of a guy from Argentina – only 1.69m but he had muscles on top of his muscles.

The other contenders were mainly guys who'd missed the proper weight class. Either they were tall with good range, but they'd had to starve off too much weight, and two or three blokes who were definitely too short for their weight, a condition also known as 'being fat'.

Having gone through my warm-up, I walked to the exit and craned my neck to get a look at the main hall. The Ring was naturally situated in the center, and the whole place was filled with a hideous cacophony comprised of blaring music with way too much bass, and people talking over each other. Unfortunately I couldn't get a clear look at the first rows, so I couldn't make out if she'd come or an empty seat signaled that she'd just thrown the ticket in the digital recycle bin.

The uncertainty was driving me crazier than the upcoming fights. My thoughts were drowned out by a loud voice though.

"Hey, Trip!"

I looked around and saw Chief Varley sitting in one of the bleachers. I gave him a grin and raised my already gloved hand in salute.

"Knock 'em dead, kiddo!"

I answered by bumping my two gloves together in front of my chest. The chief gave me a thumbs-up and directed his attention back at the ring, where the introductions were starting. Since my first fight was number four on the list I still had up to forty-five minutes to wait, so I went back to some light warm-up training.

Since this event was sanctioned by Starfleet's own sporting organization, the rules differed slightly from the normal amateur rules. We were requested to wear head protectors like in amateur competitions, but we were allowed to fight bare-chested like professionals. As far as I could tell, only Limey and I had chosen to ditch the shirt.

My decision to do so was as opportunistic as it was macho. Seven weeks of grueling training had burned the last bit of fat off my frame, and I was looking quite bulky, with muscles well defined. In fact I'd discovered that I could do the 'jiggle my man boobs' trick that Bruce Lee and Bolo Yeung used to do in those ancient movies by flexing the pectoralis minor. And I was just asshole enough to use it to intimidate some of the more insecure guys. Looking at Limey's frame, which was more strongly built than you'd expect for a guy of his relatively modest height, I was sure he was planning a similar strategy.

The call came for my first fight and my entrance music started playing – the finale of Guns 'n Roses' 'November Rain', a one-hundred-fifty-year-old piece of good ol' guitar molestation that beat the pants of all the electronically enhanced crap people were listening to these days. I had the hood of my silken robe drawn deep into my face, which made me look a bit more badass, but in reality I just didn't want people to notice how I was frantically scanning the rows round the edge of it.

I was just about to enter the ring, resigning myself to the fact that she'd canned the ticket, when my heart skipped a beat and I nearly got tangled in the ropes. There she was, second row behind the officials' table. Her face was unreadable, but for the first time since we'd met again, she didn't look away when our glances met. Her dark eyes seemed to challenge me. She held my gaze as if to say 'show me that fighter again'.

I chucked off the robe and got a bit of an annoyed look from the coach when they had to pick it up from the ring floor. I couldn't give a damn. Right now I felt in full badass mode. I flexed my muscles, sending my opponent an arrogant look of superiority.

The guy in the other corner was a chubby Asian man who frankly looked afraid of his own shadow. I flared my nostrils slightly and skipped on the balls of my feet as the ring announcer read out the blurb. After the customary instructions and the fist bump we started testing each other out.

The guy was even slower than I, but after the first few jabs I'd pretty much worked out what his tactic was. With quite a bit of fatty layer to protect his bulk he could take quite a few punches, and he was waiting for the chance to land a lucky punch of his own in return.

I unsettled him with a left jab and when he prepared for the punch from the right, I just put in two more left jabs through his neglected defense instead. He stumbled backwards into the ropes and I waited for him to be deflected forward. When he came back toward me I thumped a straight right in between his two raised gloves and he sunk to his knees, as boneless as a wet sack of potatoes, nose bleeding and his brain too foggy from the impact to get back up in time.

I raised my fist in recognition of the ten count and my first glance went over to her. She wore a similar dress to the one she'd worn that fateful day three years ago, which I took for an encouraging sign, but her face still sported an ever so slight frown and her eyes still had that challenging look in them.

 
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