The viewport of the Type-11 shuttlecraft was entirely consumed by a wall of polished duranium and white starship hull.
​To a civilian, the USS Ark Angel was a breathtaking testament to Federation utopian ambition. To Lieutenant Junior Grade Charlotte Fliehr, it was a massive, highly complex biological system made of tritanium and warp plasma. As a Mythology-class Explorer, Mark II, the vessel was an apex predator of deep-space cartography and tactical deterrence. Its dual-neck design swept forward like a striking bird of prey, and its elongated saucer section hummed with the latent energy of a pristine, uprated deflector array.
​Charlotte did not marvel at it. She assessed it. Her hazel eyes scanned the exterior hull, noting the precise placement of the Type-XII phaser arrays and the seamless seal of the auxiliary cargo hatches.
​”Arriving at Main Hangar Bay Three, Doctor,” the automated voice of the shuttle’s computer chimed. “Pre-登記 internal atmosphere alignment complete.”
​Charlotte stood up before the shuttle had even fully crossed the magnetic atmospheric barrier. She smoothed the front of her Starfleet uniform—the deep medical teal across her shoulders was stark, immaculate, and entirely devoid of wrinkles. Her blonde hair was locked tightly against her skull in regulation-secure braids, pinned with a precision that bordered on the fanatical. In her right hand, she gripped the heavy strap of her specialized trauma gear kit.
​The shuttle touched down with a faint, hydraulic hiss. The rear boarding ramp groaned as it broke its vacuum seal and lowered onto the deck of Hangar Bay Three.
​The hangar of a Mythology-class Mark II was a cavernous, multi-level hive of activity, but the moment Charlotte’s boots struck the deck plating, her presence seemed to cut right through the ambient roar of plasma micro-filters and diagnostic thruster whines. She stood at an unbroken, rigid attention—a physical echo of the upbringing drilled into her by Admiral Richard Fliehr.
​A young Starfleet operations crewman, wearing the gold stripes of an Ensign, hurried toward her with a digital PADD clutched nervously against his chest. He stopped two paces away, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer, unyielding posture of the junior grade lieutenant standing before him.
​”Dr. Fliehr?” the Ensign asked, checking the PADD. “Welcome aboard the Ark Angel. I’m Ensign Miller. I was assigned to escort you to the Chief Medical Officer’s office on Deck 12, and then to your quarters on—”
​”Belay the quarters, Ensign,” Charlotte interrupted. Her voice was cool, level, and possessed an innate, quiet volume that brooked absolutely no debate. “My personal gear has already been logged by the automated transport grid. We are currently operating at seventy percent hangar efficiency; two of your Type-9 shuttle maintenance bays are blocked by uncalibrated diagnostic rigs. That is a triage hazard should this ship drop out of warp under fire.”
​Miller blinked, his mouth opening slightly. “Ma’am? We’re just running routine mid-route checks…”
​”Routine is the precursor to complacency,” Charlotte said smoothly, her eyes locked onto his until the junior officer adjusted his posture. “Lead the way to Sickbay, Ensign. Let us see if the medical department matches the flight deck’s lack of discipline.”
​She stepped past him without waiting for a reply, her coat snapping cleanly behind her. The “Queenie” had arrived aboard the Ark Angel, and her reign in Main Sickbay was already underway.

Lieutenant Junior Grade
Dr. Charlotte Fliehr-Medical
USS Ark Angel (NCC-98729)