"Miles McClelland," the officer said, giving him a glance before returning to the PADD in his hands. "Chief Engineer, assigned to the USS Tucker. You have immediate transit orders, report to Transporter Room three within thirty minutes."

"USS Tucker, transporter room three, thirty minutes," Miles repeated back with a nod, a Gaelic lilt to his voice. "Aye aye, sir."

Immediate transit orders meant Star Fleet Command already considered him late. He strode away, shaking his head. He as already older than most of them, gathering many a curious look by his classmates, and was leaned on in the engineering classes to demonstrate. Of course, Miles knew the other reason was the instructors hoped to catch him in a mistake, so they could point out the dangers of lax familiarity. 

He smirked slightly. Any "lax familiarity" was beaten out of him by the CHENG of the USS Wolf, a Kremlin-class survey ship under Captain Schuster. No, Lee Killough had taught him well, including how to anticipate.

He pressed his thumb into the panel and heard the click of the locker door. Behind it, his travel bag was ready to go. Pulling it out, he headed towards the transporters.