Archer steels every scene he's in.
Star Trek Edison Episode One:A Muddled Reawakening
- Thread starter Bynar0110
- Start date
Archer is getting on Claire's nerves.
Stardate 38686.94 (September 9, 2361) U.S.S. Edison –
Deck 3- Commander Kathryn Janeway Quarters
The soft glow of the evening lights in Kathryn Janeway's quarters cast a warm, intimate ambiance that felt decidedly at odds with the storm of emotions swirling inside her. She stood by the viewport, staring out at the stars streaming past, her mind a labyrinth of second-guesses and regrets.
Inviting Ensign Claire McCallister to dinner had seemed like a good idea at the time—a way to continue their earlier discussion about the mysterious object that had destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV. But now, with the hour of their meeting drawing closer, Janeway couldn't shake the feeling that she had overstepped.
Janeway moved to the replicator, cancelling the broth order she'd placed a few minutes ago. It felt too… domestic? She wasn’t even sure what she was aiming for when she’d impulsively extended the dinner invitation earlier in the day.
Their conversation about the Delphi system had been genuinely stimulating. Ensign McCallister possessed a sharp, analytical mind, readily grasping the complexities of the Zeta Reticuli IV debris field.
Janeway had enjoyed their intellectual sparring, the way Claire’s eyes had sparkled with each new hypothesis. Inviting her to dinner had seemed like a natural extension of that engagement, a chance to continue their discussion in a more relaxed setting.
Now, staring at her reflection in the darkened viewport, Janeway saw not a seasoned Starfleet Commander, but a slightly flustered woman who had completely miscalculated. Inviting a junior officer, especially one fresh out of the Academy, to her quarters for dinner?
It felt… predatory. The power imbalance, so obvious now in the quiet solitude of her quarters, was stark. She was Commander Janeway, Chief of Operations. Claire was Ensign McCallister. There was inherent pressure, implied or not.
A sigh escaped her lips. She truly wished her sister, Phoebe, were here. She would know what to say, how to untangle this knot of self-doubt and regret. Phoebe always had a knack for cutting through the noise and seeing things clearly.
“Damn it, Kathryn,” she muttered to herself, turning away from the viewport. She’d allowed impulse to override good judgment. The last thing she needed was to compromise her professional integrity, or worse, make Claire uncomfortable.
Appearances mattered. In Starfleet, they mattered a great deal. An intimate relationship, however innocent her intentions, could be misconstrued, especially with someone under her command, even if indirectly.
The ghost of Mark Johnson flickered through her mind. Their relationship had been a beautiful mess, a casualty of long deployments and conflicting priorities. The pain of that failure was a buried ache, one she hadn’t consciously considered when she'd invited Claire. Had she been trying to… replace something? No. That was unfair to Claire, and to herself. She was simply drawn to Claire’s intelligence and vibrant energy.
By the time the chime at her door sounded, Janeway had resolved to be upfront and professional. She would explain to Claire that while she valued their intellectual connection, she needed to be mindful of professional boundaries and the potential for misinterpretation. It was the right thing to do, the Starfleet thing to do.
Taking a deep breath, Janeway straightened her uniform and activated the door chime. “Come.”
The door slid open, and Claire stood there, a small smile playing on her lips. She was even more striking up close. Her uniform fit impeccably, highlighting her graceful posture, and her eyes held that same intelligent spark Janeway had noticed earlier.
“Commander,” Claire greeted, stepping inside with a confidence that belied her Ensign rank. She held a small data PADD in her hand. “I brought some additional schematics of the debris field, based on our conversation. I thought they might be useful.”
“Ensign McCallister,” Janeway replied, managing a polite, professional smile. “Please, come in.” She gestured towards the small dining table, set for two with simple, elegant place settings. “Thank you for bringing those. Perhaps we can review them after… after we’ve spoken for a moment.”
Claire’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of concern clouding her bright eyes. “Spoken, Commander?” She glanced at the table, then back at Janeway. The air in the quarters seemed to thicken with unspoken tension.
Janeway gestured for Claire to sit at the table. “Ensign, please. I… I believe I may have been too presumptuous in inviting you to dinner tonight.”
Claire sat gracefully, placing the PADD on the table beside her. “Presumptuous? I’m not sure I understand, Commander.” Her voice was calm, even, inviting Janeway to elaborate.
“Our discussion earlier today was… engaging,” Janeway began, pacing slightly as she spoke. “And I confess, I enjoyed your insights. However, in retrospect, inviting you here to my quarters, especially so soon after we’ve both joined the Edison… it creates a certain… impression.”
Claire leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady and direct. “An impression, Commander?” she prompted gently.
“Yes. An impression of… impropriety,” Janeway admitted, the word feeling heavy in the air. “Given our respective ranks, my invitation could be seen as… coercive. As if I were using my position to… to pressure you into something. That was certainly not my intention, but I realize now how it might appear.” She avoided Claire’s eyes, focusing instead on a point on the opposite wall. “My primary concern is upholding Starfleet regulations and maintaining the highest standards of professional conduct.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by the low hum of the ship. Then, Claire spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “Commander, with all due respect, are you suggesting that I am here against my will?”
Janeway met Claire’s gaze then, seeing the unwavering confidence in those emerald depths. “No, of course not, Ensign. That’s not what I meant.” She paused, taking another deep breath. “It’s about appearances, Ensign. About maintaining professional distance. And frankly,” she added, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice, “about my own… perhaps overzealous enthusiasm. I value your intellectual contribution, but I need to ensure that any interaction between us is perceived as entirely professional and appropriate.”
Claire nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “I understand the point you’re making, Commander. Power dynamics are… relevant, in any hierarchical structure. But are you also suggesting that you believe I am incapable of discerning my own desires and motivations?”
Janeway blinked, slightly taken aback by the directness of Claire’s question. “No, absolutely not. That's not what I meant at all.”
Claire’s lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile. “Then perhaps, Commander, you’re underestimating both of us. You assume your rank dictates the entirety of this situation, but perhaps you’re forgetting something rather fundamental.”
Before Janeway could inquire further, the door chime sounded again. Janeway frowned, glancing at the chronometer. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Enter,” she called out, slightly irritated by the interruption.
The door slid open to reveal Captain Grace McCallister, her beagle, Archer, trotting happily at her heels. Grace’s eyes twinkled with amusement as she took in the scene – Janeway standing stiffly, Claire seated at the dining table, the unspoken tension practically crackling in the air.
“Kathryn, Claire! Hope I’m not interrupting anything… important,” Grace drawled, feigning innocence, but her tone was laced with playful knowingness. Archer, meanwhile, decided Janeway’s quarters were ripe for exploration, sniffing at the furniture and wagging his tail enthusiastically.
“Captain McCallister,” Janeway said, surprised. “No, not at all. We were just… discussing the Delphi system.”
Grace raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smile playing on her lips. “Right. Delphi system. Sounds… intense for a pre-dinner chat. Archer, heel!” The beagle reluctantly obeyed, sitting at Grace’s side but keeping a watchful eye on the room. “Admiral Nechayev mentioned you two hit it off at Starbase One. Didn’t realize ‘hitting it off’ meant warp speed romance, though. Impressive, considering you’ve known each other all of… what? Five days?”
Janeway felt her cheeks flush. “Captain, I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort.” She glanced at Claire, who remained composed, a faint amusement playing around her mouth.
Grace chuckled, a warm, hearty sound. “Relax, Kathryn. I’m teasing. Though,” she added, her tone becoming more sincere, “Figured I’d pop in, make sure Archer here didn’t try to eat your replicator rations.”
“He’s been having… adventures in the botanical gardens again, Captain?” Claire asked, a genuine smile finally breaking through.
Grace groaned. “Don’t remind me. He’s got a nose for trouble, that one. Anyway,” she turned back to Janeway, her expression becoming more serious. “Kathryn, Alynna and I… we’ve talked about you, naturally. We’re both very pleased to have you on the Edison. And,” she lowered her voice slightly, “if you’re asking for my Captain’s opinion on… whatever’s going on here… I say seize the moment.”
Janeway stared at Grace, stunned. “Captain?”
Grace shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the weight of her words. “Look, Kathryn, you’re a brilliant officer. But you’re also human. And sometimes, rules are… guidelines. Especially when it comes to personal happiness.” Grace’s eyes flickered towards Claire and back to Janeway.
“And frankly, this whole power dynamic thing? It went out the airlock the moment Claire stepped onto my ship, she was making her own choices. She’s not some naive cadet. She’s Ensign Claire McCallister. Brilliant, capable, and… from what I’ve observed, perfectly capable of navigating any perceived power imbalance.”
Grace paused, then added with a touch of maternal warmth, “Besides, Kathryn, trust me, Claire handles power dynamics just fine. She’s been dealing with mine for years.”
Claire chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Mom, please.”
Grace winked at Claire then turned back to Janeway. “My point is, Kathryn, if there’s something here, don’t let Starfleet regulations become an excuse for playing it safe. Especially not when you clearly have… mutual interests.” She grinned again, a flash of the rule-bending Captain. “The Edison crew is all about seizing opportunities. Right, people?”
Grace’s words hung in the air, unexpected and surprisingly liberating. Janeway felt a weight lift from her shoulders, a tension she hadn't even realized she was carrying. She looked at Claire, who was watching her with an open, encouraging expression.
“Captain…” Janeway began, still slightly bewildered.
“Grace, please, Kathryn. We’re off-duty. And call me Grace,” Grace corrected with a warm smile. “Besides,” she added, glancing at the table, “that replicator food is going to get cold. Archer and I will leave you two to your ‘Delphi system discussion’. Archer, say goodnight.” The beagle let out a soft woof.
Grace winked again and turned to leave, Archer trotting happily behind her. As the door slid shut, Janeway found herself alone with Claire, the air now charged with a different kind of energy.
Claire stood up from the table and took a step towards Janeway, her eyes sparkling with amusement and something else… something deeper. “So, Commander… or should I call you Kathryn now?”
Janeway felt a smile tug at her lips. “Kathryn is fine, Claire.”
Claire closed the remaining distance between them and reached out, gently placing her hand on Janeway’s arm. “Good. Because I think ‘Kathryn’ is far more interesting than ‘Commander’ when we’re discussing… well, anything, really.” And then, before Janeway could fully process the shift, Claire leaned in and kissed her.
It was a soft, exploratory kiss, warm and surprisingly confident. Janeway’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she simply froze, caught off guard. Then, something inside her loosened, and she found herself responding, her hand instinctively rising to cup Claire’s cheek.
When they broke apart, breathless, Claire smiled again, that same confident, knowing smile. “So,” Claire said softly, “about those schematics… and perhaps a slightly less professional… conversation?”
Janeway returned the smile, a genuine, radiant smile that reached her eyes. “Perhaps,” she murmured, her voice a little shaky. “But… nothing official yet, Claire. We’re going to need… several ‘casual’ dates to see how things play out.”
Claire laughed, a light, melodious sound. “Casual dates with a Starfleet Commander? I’m intrigued, Kathryn. Intrigued indeed.”
As Janeway looked at Claire, she really saw her for the first time without the filter of rank and preconceived notions, a warmth spread through her chest. A feeling she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Hope. And maybe, just maybe, something more. The future, for the first time in a long while, felt bright, full of possibility. And perhaps, just perhaps, Ensign Claire McCallister was the reason why.
END
Deck 3- Commander Kathryn Janeway Quarters
The soft glow of the evening lights in Kathryn Janeway's quarters cast a warm, intimate ambiance that felt decidedly at odds with the storm of emotions swirling inside her. She stood by the viewport, staring out at the stars streaming past, her mind a labyrinth of second-guesses and regrets.
Inviting Ensign Claire McCallister to dinner had seemed like a good idea at the time—a way to continue their earlier discussion about the mysterious object that had destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV. But now, with the hour of their meeting drawing closer, Janeway couldn't shake the feeling that she had overstepped.
Janeway moved to the replicator, cancelling the broth order she'd placed a few minutes ago. It felt too… domestic? She wasn’t even sure what she was aiming for when she’d impulsively extended the dinner invitation earlier in the day.
Their conversation about the Delphi system had been genuinely stimulating. Ensign McCallister possessed a sharp, analytical mind, readily grasping the complexities of the Zeta Reticuli IV debris field.
Janeway had enjoyed their intellectual sparring, the way Claire’s eyes had sparkled with each new hypothesis. Inviting her to dinner had seemed like a natural extension of that engagement, a chance to continue their discussion in a more relaxed setting.
Now, staring at her reflection in the darkened viewport, Janeway saw not a seasoned Starfleet Commander, but a slightly flustered woman who had completely miscalculated. Inviting a junior officer, especially one fresh out of the Academy, to her quarters for dinner?
It felt… predatory. The power imbalance, so obvious now in the quiet solitude of her quarters, was stark. She was Commander Janeway, Chief of Operations. Claire was Ensign McCallister. There was inherent pressure, implied or not.
A sigh escaped her lips. She truly wished her sister, Phoebe, were here. She would know what to say, how to untangle this knot of self-doubt and regret. Phoebe always had a knack for cutting through the noise and seeing things clearly.
“Damn it, Kathryn,” she muttered to herself, turning away from the viewport. She’d allowed impulse to override good judgment. The last thing she needed was to compromise her professional integrity, or worse, make Claire uncomfortable.
Appearances mattered. In Starfleet, they mattered a great deal. An intimate relationship, however innocent her intentions, could be misconstrued, especially with someone under her command, even if indirectly.
The ghost of Mark Johnson flickered through her mind. Their relationship had been a beautiful mess, a casualty of long deployments and conflicting priorities. The pain of that failure was a buried ache, one she hadn’t consciously considered when she'd invited Claire. Had she been trying to… replace something? No. That was unfair to Claire, and to herself. She was simply drawn to Claire’s intelligence and vibrant energy.
By the time the chime at her door sounded, Janeway had resolved to be upfront and professional. She would explain to Claire that while she valued their intellectual connection, she needed to be mindful of professional boundaries and the potential for misinterpretation. It was the right thing to do, the Starfleet thing to do.
Taking a deep breath, Janeway straightened her uniform and activated the door chime. “Come.”
The door slid open, and Claire stood there, a small smile playing on her lips. She was even more striking up close. Her uniform fit impeccably, highlighting her graceful posture, and her eyes held that same intelligent spark Janeway had noticed earlier.
“Commander,” Claire greeted, stepping inside with a confidence that belied her Ensign rank. She held a small data PADD in her hand. “I brought some additional schematics of the debris field, based on our conversation. I thought they might be useful.”
“Ensign McCallister,” Janeway replied, managing a polite, professional smile. “Please, come in.” She gestured towards the small dining table, set for two with simple, elegant place settings. “Thank you for bringing those. Perhaps we can review them after… after we’ve spoken for a moment.”
Claire’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of concern clouding her bright eyes. “Spoken, Commander?” She glanced at the table, then back at Janeway. The air in the quarters seemed to thicken with unspoken tension.
Janeway gestured for Claire to sit at the table. “Ensign, please. I… I believe I may have been too presumptuous in inviting you to dinner tonight.”
Claire sat gracefully, placing the PADD on the table beside her. “Presumptuous? I’m not sure I understand, Commander.” Her voice was calm, even, inviting Janeway to elaborate.
“Our discussion earlier today was… engaging,” Janeway began, pacing slightly as she spoke. “And I confess, I enjoyed your insights. However, in retrospect, inviting you here to my quarters, especially so soon after we’ve both joined the Edison… it creates a certain… impression.”
Claire leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady and direct. “An impression, Commander?” she prompted gently.
“Yes. An impression of… impropriety,” Janeway admitted, the word feeling heavy in the air. “Given our respective ranks, my invitation could be seen as… coercive. As if I were using my position to… to pressure you into something. That was certainly not my intention, but I realize now how it might appear.” She avoided Claire’s eyes, focusing instead on a point on the opposite wall. “My primary concern is upholding Starfleet regulations and maintaining the highest standards of professional conduct.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by the low hum of the ship. Then, Claire spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “Commander, with all due respect, are you suggesting that I am here against my will?”
Janeway met Claire’s gaze then, seeing the unwavering confidence in those emerald depths. “No, of course not, Ensign. That’s not what I meant.” She paused, taking another deep breath. “It’s about appearances, Ensign. About maintaining professional distance. And frankly,” she added, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice, “about my own… perhaps overzealous enthusiasm. I value your intellectual contribution, but I need to ensure that any interaction between us is perceived as entirely professional and appropriate.”
Claire nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “I understand the point you’re making, Commander. Power dynamics are… relevant, in any hierarchical structure. But are you also suggesting that you believe I am incapable of discerning my own desires and motivations?”
Janeway blinked, slightly taken aback by the directness of Claire’s question. “No, absolutely not. That's not what I meant at all.”
Claire’s lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile. “Then perhaps, Commander, you’re underestimating both of us. You assume your rank dictates the entirety of this situation, but perhaps you’re forgetting something rather fundamental.”
Before Janeway could inquire further, the door chime sounded again. Janeway frowned, glancing at the chronometer. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Enter,” she called out, slightly irritated by the interruption.
The door slid open to reveal Captain Grace McCallister, her beagle, Archer, trotting happily at her heels. Grace’s eyes twinkled with amusement as she took in the scene – Janeway standing stiffly, Claire seated at the dining table, the unspoken tension practically crackling in the air.
“Kathryn, Claire! Hope I’m not interrupting anything… important,” Grace drawled, feigning innocence, but her tone was laced with playful knowingness. Archer, meanwhile, decided Janeway’s quarters were ripe for exploration, sniffing at the furniture and wagging his tail enthusiastically.
“Captain McCallister,” Janeway said, surprised. “No, not at all. We were just… discussing the Delphi system.”
Grace raised an eyebrow, a skeptical smile playing on her lips. “Right. Delphi system. Sounds… intense for a pre-dinner chat. Archer, heel!” The beagle reluctantly obeyed, sitting at Grace’s side but keeping a watchful eye on the room. “Admiral Nechayev mentioned you two hit it off at Starbase One. Didn’t realize ‘hitting it off’ meant warp speed romance, though. Impressive, considering you’ve known each other all of… what? Five days?”
Janeway felt her cheeks flush. “Captain, I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort.” She glanced at Claire, who remained composed, a faint amusement playing around her mouth.
Grace chuckled, a warm, hearty sound. “Relax, Kathryn. I’m teasing. Though,” she added, her tone becoming more sincere, “Figured I’d pop in, make sure Archer here didn’t try to eat your replicator rations.”
“He’s been having… adventures in the botanical gardens again, Captain?” Claire asked, a genuine smile finally breaking through.
Grace groaned. “Don’t remind me. He’s got a nose for trouble, that one. Anyway,” she turned back to Janeway, her expression becoming more serious. “Kathryn, Alynna and I… we’ve talked about you, naturally. We’re both very pleased to have you on the Edison. And,” she lowered her voice slightly, “if you’re asking for my Captain’s opinion on… whatever’s going on here… I say seize the moment.”
Janeway stared at Grace, stunned. “Captain?”
Grace shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the weight of her words. “Look, Kathryn, you’re a brilliant officer. But you’re also human. And sometimes, rules are… guidelines. Especially when it comes to personal happiness.” Grace’s eyes flickered towards Claire and back to Janeway.
“And frankly, this whole power dynamic thing? It went out the airlock the moment Claire stepped onto my ship, she was making her own choices. She’s not some naive cadet. She’s Ensign Claire McCallister. Brilliant, capable, and… from what I’ve observed, perfectly capable of navigating any perceived power imbalance.”
Grace paused, then added with a touch of maternal warmth, “Besides, Kathryn, trust me, Claire handles power dynamics just fine. She’s been dealing with mine for years.”
Claire chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Mom, please.”
Grace winked at Claire then turned back to Janeway. “My point is, Kathryn, if there’s something here, don’t let Starfleet regulations become an excuse for playing it safe. Especially not when you clearly have… mutual interests.” She grinned again, a flash of the rule-bending Captain. “The Edison crew is all about seizing opportunities. Right, people?”
Grace’s words hung in the air, unexpected and surprisingly liberating. Janeway felt a weight lift from her shoulders, a tension she hadn't even realized she was carrying. She looked at Claire, who was watching her with an open, encouraging expression.
“Captain…” Janeway began, still slightly bewildered.
“Grace, please, Kathryn. We’re off-duty. And call me Grace,” Grace corrected with a warm smile. “Besides,” she added, glancing at the table, “that replicator food is going to get cold. Archer and I will leave you two to your ‘Delphi system discussion’. Archer, say goodnight.” The beagle let out a soft woof.
Grace winked again and turned to leave, Archer trotting happily behind her. As the door slid shut, Janeway found herself alone with Claire, the air now charged with a different kind of energy.
Claire stood up from the table and took a step towards Janeway, her eyes sparkling with amusement and something else… something deeper. “So, Commander… or should I call you Kathryn now?”
Janeway felt a smile tug at her lips. “Kathryn is fine, Claire.”
Claire closed the remaining distance between them and reached out, gently placing her hand on Janeway’s arm. “Good. Because I think ‘Kathryn’ is far more interesting than ‘Commander’ when we’re discussing… well, anything, really.” And then, before Janeway could fully process the shift, Claire leaned in and kissed her.
It was a soft, exploratory kiss, warm and surprisingly confident. Janeway’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she simply froze, caught off guard. Then, something inside her loosened, and she found herself responding, her hand instinctively rising to cup Claire’s cheek.
When they broke apart, breathless, Claire smiled again, that same confident, knowing smile. “So,” Claire said softly, “about those schematics… and perhaps a slightly less professional… conversation?”
Janeway returned the smile, a genuine, radiant smile that reached her eyes. “Perhaps,” she murmured, her voice a little shaky. “But… nothing official yet, Claire. We’re going to need… several ‘casual’ dates to see how things play out.”
Claire laughed, a light, melodious sound. “Casual dates with a Starfleet Commander? I’m intrigued, Kathryn. Intrigued indeed.”
As Janeway looked at Claire, she really saw her for the first time without the filter of rank and preconceived notions, a warmth spread through her chest. A feeling she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Hope. And maybe, just maybe, something more. The future, for the first time in a long while, felt bright, full of possibility. And perhaps, just perhaps, Ensign Claire McCallister was the reason why.
END
Talk about a hell of a first date... Meeting the parents right away.
"Gonna take my daughter out? That's fine. Just remember that I have the power to end you..."
Thanks!! rbs
"Gonna take my daughter out? That's fine. Just remember that I have the power to end you..."
Thanks!! rbs
Archer even showed up.
Very nicely handled. Janeway has integrity and Claire has poise and confidence. Great way to provide balance.
-Will
-Will
The next chapter is going to be a really good one.
All caught up. 
Developing into a really fun story. Like the contrast between this dark mysterious threat they're heading to confront and Claire's naive spacebound optimism (though maybe, based on that last chapter, not so naive 
).
Looking forward to reading more!
Developing into a really fun story. Like the contrast between this dark mysterious threat they're heading to confront and Claire's naive spacebound optimism (though maybe, based on that last chapter, not so naive ).Looking forward to reading more!
More to Come. I have already finished several chapters. Just needs proofreading.All caught up.
Looking forward to reading more!
Personal Log, Stardate 38689.30, Lieutenant Jo-Marie Bennett, Medical Officer.
Sickbay rotation continues. It promises to be a typical day, I suspect. I'll be checking in on Lieutenant Commander Glenn, our Chief Flight Officer, and an old academy friend. She's nearing the end of her pregnancy, officially grounded by Doc Greer – a situation she finds quite amusing, much to Lieutenant Commander Gillis’s rather evident anxiety. Commander Drak remains in isolation, battling that unusual strain of influenza. Dr. Kiraid assures me he’s stable, but with Drak, "stable" is a relative term. It could mean anything from profound cosmic contemplation to scribbling warp drive schematics on his bio-monitor. And today, adding another layer to the Sickbay experience, my aunt, Captain Grace McCallister, and her daughter, Ensign Claire McCallister, are scheduled to visit. I haven't seen Claire, my brilliant cousin, in years. It should be…interesting.
Stardate 38689.43 (September 9, 2361) U.S.S. Edison – Sickbay(Deck11)
Doctor Jo-Marie Bennett’s tricorder beeped softly as she scanned Lieutenant Commander Adora Glenn's abdomen. Adora was propped up against the pillows of her biobed, a picture of radiant motherhood despite her current confinement.
Beside her, Lieutenant Commander Menard Gillis, Adora's fiancee, was a bundle of nervous energy. He kept pacing, running a hand through his hair, a concerned frown etched on his face. His anxiety had only increased after his encounter with the new Chief of Operations Commander Kathryn Janeway.
"Menard, darling, please," Adora said, her voice a soothing balm against his agitation. "You're making me spacesick!"
"Sorry, love," Menard mumbled, finally taking a seat beside her. "It's just... Janeway... she's… intense. And the implications of that object that destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV are making me uneasy. But, it's nothing compared to what you’re going through. Are you sure you’re alright?"
Before Adora could answer, a formidable figure bustled into view. Commander Kelly "Dix" Dixon, Head Nurse, her dark eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, pointed a finger at Menard.
"Gillis, back away from the biobed. You're hovering, and you know Doctor Greer's orders. Rest is paramount for our expectant mother." Dix smiled kindly at Adora and then turned her stern gaze back to Menard. “Now, why don’t you go get some coffee and let us do our jobs?"
Menard, chastened, mumbled an apology and retreated towards the replicator.
Doctor Bennett chuckled at Menard's antics while adjusting the readings on her tricorder. "Vitals are good, Adora. Everything's progressing as it should. Doctor Kiraid will be by later, but I think you can be released from Sickbay. The paperwork awaits and plenty of rest."
The automatic doors to Sickbay hissed open and in walked Captain Grace McCallister, brisk and efficient as always, followed by a young woman with bright, intelligent eyes and a hint of the Captain’s determination set to her jaw.
“Captain,” Dix acknowledged with a nod. Dr. Kiraid straightened, giving a slight dip of his ridged head in greeting to the Captain.
Grace returned the nod. “Doctor Kiraid, Nurse Dixon, Doctor Bennett. I trust Sickbay is running smoothly?”
“Affirmative, Captain,” Kiraid responded, his voice a low, melodious rumble, each word carefully considered. “Commander Drak remains stable in quarantine, showing signs of improvement. Doctor Greer is… diligently pursuing a solution to the influenza variant.”
“Good, good,” Grace said, her gaze flicking towards the quarantine section, visible through thick transparent walls at the far end of Sickbay. Commander Fester Drak, Edison’s Chief Science Officer, was indeed in isolation, his cheerful Bolian blue skin looking a little less vibrant than usual. He waved weakly as he saw the Captain, a faint smile flickering across his face.
“Commander Drak is concerned about being out of action, Captain,” Kiraid added. “Particularly with the… anomalous object.”
Grace sighed, running a hand through her auburn hair. The mysterious object that had destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV and the USS Samson going missing had been the talk of the ship for days, a chilling reminder of the vastness of the unknown and its potential dangers.
“I understand his frustration. Tell him Lieutenant Commander Tai-Anna is capably handling things on the bridge in his absence.”
Kiraid offered a nod of understanding. "I will relay the message, Captain."
Knowing Drak was in capable hands helped ease Grace's anxieties, even if only a little. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the next conversation. The ship needed to function, even with key personnel sidelined.
Stepping further into Sickbay, Grace approached the biobed where Lt. Commander Glenn lay. Adora was propped up against the headrest. Despite the circumstances, her face held a cheerful, yet professional, demeanor.
“Lt. Commander Glenn, how are you holding up?” Grace asked, her expression warm and genuine. “I wanted to discuss potential replacements for you while you’re on restrictive duty.”
Adora looked up, a bright smile gracing her features.
"Feeling much better, Captain! Glad to see things haven't fallen apart without me," she chuckled lightly, then her expression turning serious.“ I recommend Lieutenant Andrei Kamarov as Lead Flight Controller. He’s steady, reliable, and as Deputy Flight Controller, he knows the procedures inside and out.”
“Kamarov is a Solid choice,” Grace agreed. “And for the second position?”
Adora hesitated. “There’s Larsen, Lieutenant Saffi Larsen. She’s by the book—too much so, perhaps. Her strict adherence to protocol could be a weakness.
Grace nodded, listening intently.
“Or… Lieutenant Denise Blodgett,” Adora continued thoughtfully. “Duty Officer. She’s incredibly sharp and very rational. Maybe a bit less…experienced than Larsen in that specific role, but she has… potential, Captain.”
Grace considered for a moment. “Blodgett… yes, I’ve seen her in action reports. Rational, quick-thinking. Potential indeed. Let’s go with Kamarov and Blodgett for the temporary assignments. Prepare the orders, and I’ll sign off.”
Grace turned to Menard. "And you, Lt. Commander Gillis? How are you holding up?"
Menard straightened, his nervousness somewhat abated by the captain's kind tone. "I'm doing my best, Captain. Just a bit overwhelmed with everything."
Grace patted his shoulder. "I understand. You're doing a great job in Operations under the circumstances with Adora."
Claire, who had been quietly observing, stepped forward, her confidence returning. "Hello, everyone. I'm Ensign Claire McCallister. It’s good to finally meet you, Lt. Commander Glenn and Lt. Commander Gillis. And you as well, Nurse Dixon and Doctor..."
"Kiraid, Assistant Chief Medical Officer." Doctor Kiraid finished. His green, ridged mouth curved into a slow smile. The faint scent of damp earth and riverstone emanated from him. His spiked shell glinted under the Sickbay lights. "Ensign McCallister. Welcome aboard the Edison."
"Thank you, Doctor," Claire replied, extending a hand. "It’s an honor."
Dr. Kiraid’s scaled hand met hers, the grip was surprisingly firm. "The honor is all mine, Ensign. I trust your journey was uneventful?" He released her hand, the faintest hiss of air escaping his nostrils as he did. Claire retracted her hand, a little surprised by the texture of his skin. Definitely unlike anyone she’d met before.
As Doctor Kiraid turned to address a nearby medical technician, she subtly shifted closer to Jo-Marie. "So, uh, what's Dr. Kiraid's species like? He… doesn't look like anyone I've met before.
"Jo-Marie leaned in, lowering her voice. "He's from the second moon of Planet Cornelia. His people are… unique. They have a deep connection to their environment, and they're known for their wisdom and longevity. Kiraid's species the Turtleloids they’re also known for their storytelling traditions. They pass down knowledge and history through generations of oral storytelling."
"Wow," Claire said, genuinely intrigued. "That sounds amazing."
Jo-Marie nodded. "It is. And Kiraid's one of the best doctors I've ever met. He's got a way of understanding people that's… hard to explain."
She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. "He sees beyond the symptoms, you know? Almost like he can sense what's going on inside someone, both physically and emotionally." She glanced towards Kiraid, who was still speaking with the technician, then back at Claire.
Jo-Marie gently nudged Claire, guiding her towards a biobed bathed in soft blue light. "And, of course, cousin, you need to meet my old friend from the academy, Lieutenant Commander Adora Glenn."
Adora rested against the gentle incline of the biobed, a soft glow illuminating her face. Despite being confined, she didn’t appear unwell. One hand curved protectively over the gentle roundness beneath her tunic. As Claire approached, Adora’s lips parted in a genuine smile.
"It's great to finally meet you, Claire. I've heard so much about you," Adora said, her voice a calming balm, each word imbued with warmth.
“The same goes for you, Lieutenant Commander,” Claire responded smiling. “And congratulations on the baby.” With a subtle shift of her gaze, she indicated Adora’s abdomen. “I understand you’re expecting.”
A soft chuckle rumbled from Adora, her hand instinctively stroking her belly. “Indeed. Just a few more weeks, if all goes well. Though, lately,” a light laugh punctuated her words, “I’ve been feeling like it could be any day now. Jo-Marie’s been keeping me company and trying to keep me from going stir-crazy.”
Purposeful footsteps echoed on the deck. Dix approached, her back straight, her presence radiating an almost tangible authority. The air around her seemed to sharpen.
“Ensign McCallister,” Dix stated, her voice precise and clear, cutting through the soft murmur of the sickbay. “It’s good to have you aboard. I’m Commander Kelly Dixon, Head Nurse, but everyone calls me Dix.”
A bright, immediate smile bloomed on Claire’s face. She nodded firmly. “Thank you, Dix,”
Claire replied, her voice echoing Dix’s directness, yet inflected with an obvious eagerness to please. “I’m eager to learn and assist wherever I can.”
Jo-Marie’s lips quirked into a teasing smile. “Speaking of honors, Claire, I hear congratulations are in order. Dinner with Commander Janeway sounded intriguing.”
Warmth flooded Claire’s cheeks, a delicate blush rising on her neck. She leaned slightly closer to Jo-Marie, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Jo-Marie,” she began, drawing in a sharp, quick breath, “It was a dinner to discuss… Zeta Reticuli IV. The object, remember?”
Grace’s warm gaze cooled, sharpening as it locked onto Jo-Marie. Her posture subtly shifted, her lips thinning almost imperceptibly into a firm line. A silent warning hung in the air before she spoke. “Jo,” Grace’s voice remained calm, but a clear edge of steel underlay the soft tone.
“Enough. Claire is part of the science team investigating this. Claire’s’ personal life is her business.”
Jo-Marie’s grin widened, her hands rising in mock surrender, palms facing outwards. “Okay, okay,” she conceded, still sending a mischievous glance Claire’s way. “Sorry, Aunt Grace.” The apology was directed at Grace, but her gaze flickered back to Claire, the playful spark in her eyes undiminished.
Grace turned to address the room, her expression softening into a warm smile again. “As many of you know, Claire is a science officer, and she has a particular… aptitude across several disciplines relevant to our work.”
Grace’s emphasis on “aptitude” was almost imperceptible, a slight drawl stretching the word, a subtle deflection from something more significant. “And,” Grace added as if the thought just occurred to her, “she’s also had some medical training. That might prove useful here in sickbay if… circumstances require.”
Dix’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of professional interest sparking in her eyes. “Medically trained as well?”
“Basic technician training,” Claire clarified quickly, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing compared to Doctor Bennett or Doctor Kiraid, of course.”
“Humility,” Grace commented, her voice dry, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. “A rare and valuable trait, Claire, don’t lose it.”
Doctor Quincy Greer emerged from the lab, and strode in, a tall, imposing figure with a gruff exterior that only partially concealed his deep compassion, carried the weariness of long hours in the lab.
Fatigue etched lines into his dark skin, but his eyes remained sharp and focused. As Chief Medical Officer on the Edison, he was known for his dedication, his gruff exterior, and a surprisingly gentle touch—equally effective on human, alien, and animal patients. Caring for the ship’s diverse menagerie of pets earned him the ironically affectionate nickname "Doc," a nod to both his medical expertise and, as some cheekily noted, his uncanny way with animals – the "dog whisperer" of the Edison.
“Captain,” he greeted his voice gruff. He then turned to Claire, his gaze softening slightly. "You must be Ensign McCallister. Welcome aboard. I hear you have quite an aptitude for science and medicine. We could use someone like you in sickbay."
He held out his hand, and she shook it firmly. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm eager to contribute in any way I can."
“Kiraid,” Greer greeted his voice rough, but with a hint of relief. “How’s Commander Drak doing?”
"Everything's stable, Doc," Doctor Kiraid reported smoothly. " Commander Drak is still in isolation, but showing improvement. I expect to see the fever break completely within the next day or so."
From behind the closed doors of the quarantine ward, a muffled voice called, "How is everyone? Any news on the mystery object?" It was Commander Fester Drak, Edison's Bolian Chief Science Officer, his normally cheerful voice tinged with frustration.
Grace approached the door of the isolation ward. " Commander Drak, you need to rest. Tai-Anna has everything under control on the bridge."
Claire, who had been quietly observing, “Commander Drak,” Claire spoke, her voice surprisingly clear and confident for someone so young. “I understand you have theories about the object that destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV?”
Drak’s eyes focused on her with interest. “Ensign McCallister, is it? Yes, I do. It’s… unsettling. The energy signature… unlike anything I’ve encountered.”
“Indeed,” Kiraid interjected. “The destructive capabilities are… unprecedented.”
“I’ve been reviewing the sensor logs, Commander,” Claire continued, her youthful enthusiasm barely contained. “And… forgive me if I’m overstepping, but have you considered… non-corporeal entities? Or perhaps… extradimensional incursions?”
Drak’s eyes widened slightly. “Extra dimensional… interesting. I had considered projections from another plane, but… non-corporeal?”The energy signature… it’s unlike anything we’ve encountered before. And the complete lack of debris… it’s almost as if the planet … was… unmade.”
Claire hesitated for a moment and then took a breath. “Based on the available data, and the… unconventional nature of the destruction, I’ve been considering… unconventional origins. Perhaps even… Lovecraftian.”
The word hung in the air, causing a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Menard, who had been listening quietly, gasped, his eyes widening in alarm, clutching at Adora’s hand.
Menard screamed. "Lovecraftian? Oh, no, no, no…” He cried, pale as a ghost. " What… what does that mean? Like… tentacles? Space Cthulhu?” His voice rose in pitch, bordering on hysteria. “Please tell me we're not dealing with interdimensional elder gods!"
Dix rounded on him, her patience finally snapping. “Gillis! Pull yourself together! You’re upsetting your fiancé and making a fool of yourself! And Ensign,” she turned to Claire, a warning tone in her voice. “Perhaps a less… evocative… vocabulary in Sickbay, Ensign McCallister. Some patients are more… sensitive than others.”
Claire, mortified, stammered, "I... I didn't mean to alarm anyone. It's just a theory, based on the… unsettling nature of the anomaly."
Drak, however, sounded intrigued, his voice sharper now, the illness momentarily forgotten. “Lovecraftian, Ensign McCallister? Explain.”
Claire took a breath, encouraged by Drak’s reaction. “Well, sir, the energy readings are… almost organic. And the way it moved… it wasn’t like any conventional weapon or natural phenomenon. It was… almost purposeful, but… alien. In a way that transcends even what we normally consider ‘alien.’ It’s… indescribable, almost incomprehensible, like the entities in Lovecraft's stories.”
Drak was silent for a moment, then, “Fascinating… indescribable… organic energy signature… Ensign, you might be onto something.”
Even Kiraid, whose usual calm was rarely ruffled, looked slightly taken aback. “Lovecraftian… an interesting, if… ominous, analogy.”
Drak chuckled weakly. “Humor me, Kiraid. Consider the complete lack of identifiable technology, the sheer scale of destruction… It’s as if… it’s not operating on principles we understand. More… conceptual. Extradimensional, perhaps.”
Claire nodded slowly. “Extradimensional… You think it could be something… from outside our reality?”
“Possible, Ensign. Highly speculative, of course,” Drak conceded. “But worth considering. We must expand our theoretical horizons beyond the purely technological when facing something this… unprecedented.”
Grace, however, was watching Claire with a thoughtful expression, her mind turning over the implications. “Lovecraftian… An interesting perspective, Claire. Let’s discuss this later.” She smiled, a hint of pride in her eyes
Menard utterly overwhelmed sunk into a nearby chair, and burying his face in his hands, muffled sobs wracking his frame. The word “Lovecraftian” seemed to have cracked something within him, unleashing a torrent of suppressed anxiety.
“Come on, Claire. Let’s leave Sickbay to its healers. Time to see the Bridge next.” She placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder, guiding her towards the doors.
As they walked, Captain McCallister turned back to Adora. “Get some rest, Adora. And congratulations again.”
“Thank you, Captain and it was nice meeting you, Claire,” Adora replied, smiling warmly.
END
Sickbay rotation continues. It promises to be a typical day, I suspect. I'll be checking in on Lieutenant Commander Glenn, our Chief Flight Officer, and an old academy friend. She's nearing the end of her pregnancy, officially grounded by Doc Greer – a situation she finds quite amusing, much to Lieutenant Commander Gillis’s rather evident anxiety. Commander Drak remains in isolation, battling that unusual strain of influenza. Dr. Kiraid assures me he’s stable, but with Drak, "stable" is a relative term. It could mean anything from profound cosmic contemplation to scribbling warp drive schematics on his bio-monitor. And today, adding another layer to the Sickbay experience, my aunt, Captain Grace McCallister, and her daughter, Ensign Claire McCallister, are scheduled to visit. I haven't seen Claire, my brilliant cousin, in years. It should be…interesting.
Stardate 38689.43 (September 9, 2361) U.S.S. Edison – Sickbay(Deck11)
Doctor Jo-Marie Bennett’s tricorder beeped softly as she scanned Lieutenant Commander Adora Glenn's abdomen. Adora was propped up against the pillows of her biobed, a picture of radiant motherhood despite her current confinement.
Beside her, Lieutenant Commander Menard Gillis, Adora's fiancee, was a bundle of nervous energy. He kept pacing, running a hand through his hair, a concerned frown etched on his face. His anxiety had only increased after his encounter with the new Chief of Operations Commander Kathryn Janeway.
"Menard, darling, please," Adora said, her voice a soothing balm against his agitation. "You're making me spacesick!"
"Sorry, love," Menard mumbled, finally taking a seat beside her. "It's just... Janeway... she's… intense. And the implications of that object that destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV are making me uneasy. But, it's nothing compared to what you’re going through. Are you sure you’re alright?"
Before Adora could answer, a formidable figure bustled into view. Commander Kelly "Dix" Dixon, Head Nurse, her dark eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, pointed a finger at Menard.
"Gillis, back away from the biobed. You're hovering, and you know Doctor Greer's orders. Rest is paramount for our expectant mother." Dix smiled kindly at Adora and then turned her stern gaze back to Menard. “Now, why don’t you go get some coffee and let us do our jobs?"
Menard, chastened, mumbled an apology and retreated towards the replicator.
Doctor Bennett chuckled at Menard's antics while adjusting the readings on her tricorder. "Vitals are good, Adora. Everything's progressing as it should. Doctor Kiraid will be by later, but I think you can be released from Sickbay. The paperwork awaits and plenty of rest."
The automatic doors to Sickbay hissed open and in walked Captain Grace McCallister, brisk and efficient as always, followed by a young woman with bright, intelligent eyes and a hint of the Captain’s determination set to her jaw.
“Captain,” Dix acknowledged with a nod. Dr. Kiraid straightened, giving a slight dip of his ridged head in greeting to the Captain.
Grace returned the nod. “Doctor Kiraid, Nurse Dixon, Doctor Bennett. I trust Sickbay is running smoothly?”
“Affirmative, Captain,” Kiraid responded, his voice a low, melodious rumble, each word carefully considered. “Commander Drak remains stable in quarantine, showing signs of improvement. Doctor Greer is… diligently pursuing a solution to the influenza variant.”
“Good, good,” Grace said, her gaze flicking towards the quarantine section, visible through thick transparent walls at the far end of Sickbay. Commander Fester Drak, Edison’s Chief Science Officer, was indeed in isolation, his cheerful Bolian blue skin looking a little less vibrant than usual. He waved weakly as he saw the Captain, a faint smile flickering across his face.
“Commander Drak is concerned about being out of action, Captain,” Kiraid added. “Particularly with the… anomalous object.”
Grace sighed, running a hand through her auburn hair. The mysterious object that had destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV and the USS Samson going missing had been the talk of the ship for days, a chilling reminder of the vastness of the unknown and its potential dangers.
“I understand his frustration. Tell him Lieutenant Commander Tai-Anna is capably handling things on the bridge in his absence.”
Kiraid offered a nod of understanding. "I will relay the message, Captain."
Knowing Drak was in capable hands helped ease Grace's anxieties, even if only a little. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the next conversation. The ship needed to function, even with key personnel sidelined.
Stepping further into Sickbay, Grace approached the biobed where Lt. Commander Glenn lay. Adora was propped up against the headrest. Despite the circumstances, her face held a cheerful, yet professional, demeanor.
“Lt. Commander Glenn, how are you holding up?” Grace asked, her expression warm and genuine. “I wanted to discuss potential replacements for you while you’re on restrictive duty.”
Adora looked up, a bright smile gracing her features.
"Feeling much better, Captain! Glad to see things haven't fallen apart without me," she chuckled lightly, then her expression turning serious.“ I recommend Lieutenant Andrei Kamarov as Lead Flight Controller. He’s steady, reliable, and as Deputy Flight Controller, he knows the procedures inside and out.”
“Kamarov is a Solid choice,” Grace agreed. “And for the second position?”
Adora hesitated. “There’s Larsen, Lieutenant Saffi Larsen. She’s by the book—too much so, perhaps. Her strict adherence to protocol could be a weakness.
Grace nodded, listening intently.
“Or… Lieutenant Denise Blodgett,” Adora continued thoughtfully. “Duty Officer. She’s incredibly sharp and very rational. Maybe a bit less…experienced than Larsen in that specific role, but she has… potential, Captain.”
Grace considered for a moment. “Blodgett… yes, I’ve seen her in action reports. Rational, quick-thinking. Potential indeed. Let’s go with Kamarov and Blodgett for the temporary assignments. Prepare the orders, and I’ll sign off.”
Grace turned to Menard. "And you, Lt. Commander Gillis? How are you holding up?"
Menard straightened, his nervousness somewhat abated by the captain's kind tone. "I'm doing my best, Captain. Just a bit overwhelmed with everything."
Grace patted his shoulder. "I understand. You're doing a great job in Operations under the circumstances with Adora."
Claire, who had been quietly observing, stepped forward, her confidence returning. "Hello, everyone. I'm Ensign Claire McCallister. It’s good to finally meet you, Lt. Commander Glenn and Lt. Commander Gillis. And you as well, Nurse Dixon and Doctor..."
"Kiraid, Assistant Chief Medical Officer." Doctor Kiraid finished. His green, ridged mouth curved into a slow smile. The faint scent of damp earth and riverstone emanated from him. His spiked shell glinted under the Sickbay lights. "Ensign McCallister. Welcome aboard the Edison."
"Thank you, Doctor," Claire replied, extending a hand. "It’s an honor."
Dr. Kiraid’s scaled hand met hers, the grip was surprisingly firm. "The honor is all mine, Ensign. I trust your journey was uneventful?" He released her hand, the faintest hiss of air escaping his nostrils as he did. Claire retracted her hand, a little surprised by the texture of his skin. Definitely unlike anyone she’d met before.
As Doctor Kiraid turned to address a nearby medical technician, she subtly shifted closer to Jo-Marie. "So, uh, what's Dr. Kiraid's species like? He… doesn't look like anyone I've met before.
"Jo-Marie leaned in, lowering her voice. "He's from the second moon of Planet Cornelia. His people are… unique. They have a deep connection to their environment, and they're known for their wisdom and longevity. Kiraid's species the Turtleloids they’re also known for their storytelling traditions. They pass down knowledge and history through generations of oral storytelling."
"Wow," Claire said, genuinely intrigued. "That sounds amazing."
Jo-Marie nodded. "It is. And Kiraid's one of the best doctors I've ever met. He's got a way of understanding people that's… hard to explain."
She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. "He sees beyond the symptoms, you know? Almost like he can sense what's going on inside someone, both physically and emotionally." She glanced towards Kiraid, who was still speaking with the technician, then back at Claire.
Jo-Marie gently nudged Claire, guiding her towards a biobed bathed in soft blue light. "And, of course, cousin, you need to meet my old friend from the academy, Lieutenant Commander Adora Glenn."
Adora rested against the gentle incline of the biobed, a soft glow illuminating her face. Despite being confined, she didn’t appear unwell. One hand curved protectively over the gentle roundness beneath her tunic. As Claire approached, Adora’s lips parted in a genuine smile.
"It's great to finally meet you, Claire. I've heard so much about you," Adora said, her voice a calming balm, each word imbued with warmth.
“The same goes for you, Lieutenant Commander,” Claire responded smiling. “And congratulations on the baby.” With a subtle shift of her gaze, she indicated Adora’s abdomen. “I understand you’re expecting.”
A soft chuckle rumbled from Adora, her hand instinctively stroking her belly. “Indeed. Just a few more weeks, if all goes well. Though, lately,” a light laugh punctuated her words, “I’ve been feeling like it could be any day now. Jo-Marie’s been keeping me company and trying to keep me from going stir-crazy.”
Purposeful footsteps echoed on the deck. Dix approached, her back straight, her presence radiating an almost tangible authority. The air around her seemed to sharpen.
“Ensign McCallister,” Dix stated, her voice precise and clear, cutting through the soft murmur of the sickbay. “It’s good to have you aboard. I’m Commander Kelly Dixon, Head Nurse, but everyone calls me Dix.”
A bright, immediate smile bloomed on Claire’s face. She nodded firmly. “Thank you, Dix,”
Claire replied, her voice echoing Dix’s directness, yet inflected with an obvious eagerness to please. “I’m eager to learn and assist wherever I can.”
Jo-Marie’s lips quirked into a teasing smile. “Speaking of honors, Claire, I hear congratulations are in order. Dinner with Commander Janeway sounded intriguing.”
Warmth flooded Claire’s cheeks, a delicate blush rising on her neck. She leaned slightly closer to Jo-Marie, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Jo-Marie,” she began, drawing in a sharp, quick breath, “It was a dinner to discuss… Zeta Reticuli IV. The object, remember?”
Grace’s warm gaze cooled, sharpening as it locked onto Jo-Marie. Her posture subtly shifted, her lips thinning almost imperceptibly into a firm line. A silent warning hung in the air before she spoke. “Jo,” Grace’s voice remained calm, but a clear edge of steel underlay the soft tone.
“Enough. Claire is part of the science team investigating this. Claire’s’ personal life is her business.”
Jo-Marie’s grin widened, her hands rising in mock surrender, palms facing outwards. “Okay, okay,” she conceded, still sending a mischievous glance Claire’s way. “Sorry, Aunt Grace.” The apology was directed at Grace, but her gaze flickered back to Claire, the playful spark in her eyes undiminished.
Grace turned to address the room, her expression softening into a warm smile again. “As many of you know, Claire is a science officer, and she has a particular… aptitude across several disciplines relevant to our work.”
Grace’s emphasis on “aptitude” was almost imperceptible, a slight drawl stretching the word, a subtle deflection from something more significant. “And,” Grace added as if the thought just occurred to her, “she’s also had some medical training. That might prove useful here in sickbay if… circumstances require.”
Dix’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of professional interest sparking in her eyes. “Medically trained as well?”
“Basic technician training,” Claire clarified quickly, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing compared to Doctor Bennett or Doctor Kiraid, of course.”
“Humility,” Grace commented, her voice dry, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips. “A rare and valuable trait, Claire, don’t lose it.”
Doctor Quincy Greer emerged from the lab, and strode in, a tall, imposing figure with a gruff exterior that only partially concealed his deep compassion, carried the weariness of long hours in the lab.
Fatigue etched lines into his dark skin, but his eyes remained sharp and focused. As Chief Medical Officer on the Edison, he was known for his dedication, his gruff exterior, and a surprisingly gentle touch—equally effective on human, alien, and animal patients. Caring for the ship’s diverse menagerie of pets earned him the ironically affectionate nickname "Doc," a nod to both his medical expertise and, as some cheekily noted, his uncanny way with animals – the "dog whisperer" of the Edison.
“Captain,” he greeted his voice gruff. He then turned to Claire, his gaze softening slightly. "You must be Ensign McCallister. Welcome aboard. I hear you have quite an aptitude for science and medicine. We could use someone like you in sickbay."
He held out his hand, and she shook it firmly. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm eager to contribute in any way I can."
“Kiraid,” Greer greeted his voice rough, but with a hint of relief. “How’s Commander Drak doing?”
"Everything's stable, Doc," Doctor Kiraid reported smoothly. " Commander Drak is still in isolation, but showing improvement. I expect to see the fever break completely within the next day or so."
From behind the closed doors of the quarantine ward, a muffled voice called, "How is everyone? Any news on the mystery object?" It was Commander Fester Drak, Edison's Bolian Chief Science Officer, his normally cheerful voice tinged with frustration.
Grace approached the door of the isolation ward. " Commander Drak, you need to rest. Tai-Anna has everything under control on the bridge."
Claire, who had been quietly observing, “Commander Drak,” Claire spoke, her voice surprisingly clear and confident for someone so young. “I understand you have theories about the object that destroyed Zeta Reticuli IV?”
Drak’s eyes focused on her with interest. “Ensign McCallister, is it? Yes, I do. It’s… unsettling. The energy signature… unlike anything I’ve encountered.”
“Indeed,” Kiraid interjected. “The destructive capabilities are… unprecedented.”
“I’ve been reviewing the sensor logs, Commander,” Claire continued, her youthful enthusiasm barely contained. “And… forgive me if I’m overstepping, but have you considered… non-corporeal entities? Or perhaps… extradimensional incursions?”
Drak’s eyes widened slightly. “Extra dimensional… interesting. I had considered projections from another plane, but… non-corporeal?”The energy signature… it’s unlike anything we’ve encountered before. And the complete lack of debris… it’s almost as if the planet … was… unmade.”
Claire hesitated for a moment and then took a breath. “Based on the available data, and the… unconventional nature of the destruction, I’ve been considering… unconventional origins. Perhaps even… Lovecraftian.”
The word hung in the air, causing a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Menard, who had been listening quietly, gasped, his eyes widening in alarm, clutching at Adora’s hand.
Menard screamed. "Lovecraftian? Oh, no, no, no…” He cried, pale as a ghost. " What… what does that mean? Like… tentacles? Space Cthulhu?” His voice rose in pitch, bordering on hysteria. “Please tell me we're not dealing with interdimensional elder gods!"
Dix rounded on him, her patience finally snapping. “Gillis! Pull yourself together! You’re upsetting your fiancé and making a fool of yourself! And Ensign,” she turned to Claire, a warning tone in her voice. “Perhaps a less… evocative… vocabulary in Sickbay, Ensign McCallister. Some patients are more… sensitive than others.”
Claire, mortified, stammered, "I... I didn't mean to alarm anyone. It's just a theory, based on the… unsettling nature of the anomaly."
Drak, however, sounded intrigued, his voice sharper now, the illness momentarily forgotten. “Lovecraftian, Ensign McCallister? Explain.”
Claire took a breath, encouraged by Drak’s reaction. “Well, sir, the energy readings are… almost organic. And the way it moved… it wasn’t like any conventional weapon or natural phenomenon. It was… almost purposeful, but… alien. In a way that transcends even what we normally consider ‘alien.’ It’s… indescribable, almost incomprehensible, like the entities in Lovecraft's stories.”
Drak was silent for a moment, then, “Fascinating… indescribable… organic energy signature… Ensign, you might be onto something.”
Even Kiraid, whose usual calm was rarely ruffled, looked slightly taken aback. “Lovecraftian… an interesting, if… ominous, analogy.”
Drak chuckled weakly. “Humor me, Kiraid. Consider the complete lack of identifiable technology, the sheer scale of destruction… It’s as if… it’s not operating on principles we understand. More… conceptual. Extradimensional, perhaps.”
Claire nodded slowly. “Extradimensional… You think it could be something… from outside our reality?”
“Possible, Ensign. Highly speculative, of course,” Drak conceded. “But worth considering. We must expand our theoretical horizons beyond the purely technological when facing something this… unprecedented.”
Grace, however, was watching Claire with a thoughtful expression, her mind turning over the implications. “Lovecraftian… An interesting perspective, Claire. Let’s discuss this later.” She smiled, a hint of pride in her eyes
Menard utterly overwhelmed sunk into a nearby chair, and burying his face in his hands, muffled sobs wracking his frame. The word “Lovecraftian” seemed to have cracked something within him, unleashing a torrent of suppressed anxiety.
“Come on, Claire. Let’s leave Sickbay to its healers. Time to see the Bridge next.” She placed a hand on Claire’s shoulder, guiding her towards the doors.
As they walked, Captain McCallister turned back to Adora. “Get some rest, Adora. And congratulations again.”
“Thank you, Captain and it was nice meeting you, Claire,” Adora replied, smiling warmly.
END
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H.P. Lovecraft seems to have an unusual following in sickbay. But then, this is a seriously family ship. Very interesting doctor. Nice critter and culture design.
Thanks!! rbs
Thanks!! rbs
Yeah, the Edison is not your normal ship. I tried to be realistic with the Doctors by focusing on specialty. As for the critter, it has inspirations from other shows I liked as a kid. Lots of Easter eggs in this chapter from shows outside Star Trek.
Stardate 38689.43 (September 9, 2361) U.S.S. Edison – Trubolift
The turbolift hummed softly as it ascended away from Sickbay, carrying Captain Grace McCallister and her daughter, Ensign Claire McCallister, to the bridge of the USS Edison. The familiar gentle vibrations of the ship were a comforting constant, a stark contrast to the disquiet that had settled in Grace’s stomach since the Edison received word – filtered through Deep Space K-7 – about the USS Samson failing to respond to hails.
The subtle chime of Grace’s comm badge broke the quiet hum of the turbolift. She tapped the control on her uniform. Commander Icid Ghaila’s voice, composed and steady, filled the turbolift. “Captain,” Icid began, her tone carrying a weight that Grace instantly recognized. “Preliminary probe scans of the Delphi system are complete.”
Grace’s breath hitched. Starfleet had tasked the Samson to investigate Zeta Reticuli IV, a planet on the fringes of Federation space near the Klingon Border where strange energy signatures had been detected. After days of silence from the Samson following their entry into the Delphi system, and repeated failed attempts by Deep Space K-7 to re-establish contact, concerns had escalated rapidly. The Samson, under the command of Captain Lara Kanisky, had been dispatched to ascertain the nature of the potential threat emanating from Zeta Reticuli IV, and now, the silence was deafening.
“Report, Commander,” Grace instructed, her voice firm, masking the tremor of dread crawling up her spine.
“Captain,” Icid continued, her voice measured and devoid of any inflection that might betray emotion, a hallmark of her Bajoran discipline. “The USS Samson is lost. There are no survivors.”
The turbolift seemed to sway imperceptibly. Claire, standing beside her mother, subtly stiffened. Grace’s grip on the handrail tightened. “Lost? What happened? Debris field?” Grace asked, her mind racing, desperately hoping for a salvageable explanation, a malfunction, anything but…
Icid’s explanation was chilling in its clinical delivery. “Negative, Captain. No debris field. Deep Space Probe scans reveal only energy residue, consistent with a… complete disintegration. We have confirmed the Samson was within range of the dead zone of Zeta Reticuli IV when contact was lost. The destruction signature matches the energy readings the probe recorded in the Delphi system at the time of the planet’s loss. It is… highly probable that the same entity responsible for the catastrophic destruction of Zeta Reticuli IV is also responsible for the loss of the Samson.”
“Thank you, Commander,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. “Assemble the senior staff in one hour. We’ll discuss our next steps.”
“Aye, Captain,” Icid replied softly before the comm signal ceased, leaving Grace and Claire in the echoing silence of the ascending turbolift, the weight of the news sinking heavily into the confined space.
Claire looked at her mother, her brow furrowed with concern. “Mom? What’s wrong? What happened with the Samson?”
Grace leaned against the turbolift wall, the strength visibly draining from her posture. She looked up, as if the news was still hanging there in the air between them. “They’re gone, Claire. The Samson… destroyed. No survivors.”
Claire’s eyes widened, the youthful light dimming. “Destroyed? Like… Zeta Reticuli IV destroyed?”
Grace nodded slowly, her voice rough. “It seems so. Same energy signature. It was… fast. Icid said no debris, just residue. Whatever this thing is, it’s efficient. Thorough.”
Claire was silent for a moment, processing the enormity of it. Then, softly, “Who was the Captain of the Samson?”
Grace closed her eyes briefly, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “Lara. Captain Lara Kanisky.”
Claire’s brow furrowed again. “Lara Kanisky… Did you know her?”
Grace opened her eyes, her gaze distant, unfocused. “Know her? Claire, Lara and I… we served together. On the Enterprise-C.”
Claire’s breath hitched. “The Enterprise-C? Really?” Her eyes widened, pupils dilating in the turbolift’s soft glow. “You were on the Enterprise-C? With… Captain Garrett?” The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken reverence, a legend whispered in Starfleet Academy hallways, especially potent for someone like Claire, raised on tales of the ship's sacrifice.
Grace’s lips curved into a sad smile, the corners crinkling with a weariness that seemed to settle deeper into her face. “Yes, sweetheart.” A sigh escaped her, barely audible above the turbolift’s gentle hum. “Lieutenant McCallister then, engineering. Lara too. Security, I think, when we met. Not long, though.”
Claire leaned forward, her earlier quietude replaced by a spark of eagerness. “Not long? Why?”
Grace shifted her weight, the subtle movement betraying a weariness that settled in her shoulders. “Captain Marta Batanides” – she said the name with a slight but clear emphasis, then added in an aside – “Now Admiral, of course,” before continuing, “specifically requested me for the Tiberius.” Even saying the name seemed to drain a bit more energy from her.
“Aunt Marty!” Claire’s face broke into a grin, erasing the somber cast that had lingered moments before. “Mom, you served under Aunt Marty? And she requested you?” Excitement vibrated in her tone.
A soft chuckle escaped Grace, a brief flicker of amusement chasing away some of the shadow in her eyes. “Yes, Claire.” Her voice softened further, carrying a thread of pride. “Captain Batanides… Aunt Marty to you. Brilliant captain. She mentored me on the Tiberius. Kept me sharp.”
Claire bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. “We lived on the Tiberius! I remember… blurry. Running around, getting into trouble.” A giggle escaped her. “You were pregnant with me then, right?”
Grace nodded, a fond smile softening the lines around her mouth. “Yes, Claire. Born on the Tiberius. Chaotic, beautiful mess of a time.”
Claire’s smile faltered, a touch of guilt shadowing her features. “Mom, sorry, Aunt Marty… this is about Lara. And Captain Garrett.”
Grace reached out, her hand finding Claire’s cheek, a gentle stroke of her thumb. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Proud you admire Marta. But yes… Lara.” Her gaze turned inwards, focusing on something distant.
“Captain Garrett…” Grace’s voice became hushed, reverent. “Magnificent. True leader.” She paused, searching for words. “A presence. Command in her bones. Trust. Everyone… we’d have followed her into a black hole.”
“And Lara?” Claire prompted softly, sensing the shift in her mother's tone.
Grace’s breath hitched. “Lara…” Her voice became thick, strained. “Different. Tougher skin maybe. But underneath…” A flicker of a wry smile touched her lips. “Fiercely loyal. Brilliant too. Wicked humor.” She paused again, memories swirling in her eyes. “Friends quickly. Engineering, security… incidents.” The word hung, unspoken weight dragging it down.
“Incidents?” Claire pressed, her voice barely a whisper, sensing the shift in her mother’s mood, the undercurrent of something deeper.
Grace inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting towards the turbolift doors. “Enterprise-C stuff. Romulans sniffing around, boarders… temporal hiccups. Always something. Intense.” She let out a small, shaky breath. “Good crew, though. Looked out for each other.”
Silence descended for a moment, broken only by the soft hum of the turbolift. Grace’s gaze seemed fixed on some point beyond the metal walls. “Three years… on the Enterprise-C. Funny thing…” A soft chuckle escaped her, tinged with irony. “Around the time Marty grabbed me for the Tiberius, Lara transferred too. Command track. Always climbing.”
Her smile turned bittersweet. “Leaving the C… blessing in disguise. What happened… to Rachel…” Grace shook her head, voice trailing off. “Don’t think I could have…” She swallowed, unable to finish the thought. “Lara though… kept rising. Samson command a few years back. Same time I got the Edison.” A sad smile touched her lips. “Laughed about it, can you believe? Two old Enterprise-C hands, Captains.”
Claire’s eyes widened, absorbing the cascade of revelations. “You… kept in touch? With Captain Kanisky?”
Grace nodded, a soft smile flickering again then fading, replaced by a deeper shadow. “Lara, yes. Often.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Rachel… duty allowed. Even after…” Her voice wavered, composure beginning to crack. “Never forgot them. Both.”
Claire watched her mother, sympathy mixing with a burgeoning, unsettling curiosity. “You never… mentioned me,” she ventured cautiously, a slight furrow appearing between her brows. “To Lara, I mean. Never said you had a daughter?”
Grace blinked, momentarily pulled back from the edge. Surprise flickered across her face, then a wounded look. “Never mentioned you?” she repeated softly, a breath of disbelief in her voice. “Claire, darling…” Warmth seeped back into her tone amidst the sorrow. “Lara knew everything about you.” A tremor entered her voice. “From the moment you were born… my miracle… Starfleet Academy… Edison posting…” A fragile, proud smile touched her lips despite the gathering tears. “My brilliant, headstrong daughter… stars in her blood.”
Claire’s eyes widened further, a flush rising to her cheeks. “She… knew about the Edison?” she repeated, awe coloring her voice.
Grace nodded again, the tears finally breaking free, tracing glistening paths down her cheeks. “Everything, Claire. Everything.” The raw emotion in her voice was undeniable. A mother's grief, tangled with the shared history of friendship, loss, and the unwavering bond with her daughter. A choked sob escaped her lips, her hand clenching into a tight fist, knuckles white. The carefully constructed composure crumbled, the weight of her loss finally crushing her.
“And now…” Grace’s voice cracked, a raw edge tearing through the forced calm. “Lara is gone.” The words were barely a whisper, choked with emotion. “Just… vanished. Like Rachel.” The facade shattered completely. A gasping breath escaped her lips, tears blurring her vision, the cool steel of the turbolift walls swimming out of focus. Grace swallowed hard, her hand trembling violently.
Suddenly, a guttural cry tore from Grace’s throat, raw and primal. Her fist shot out, slamming against the turbolift wall with a dull thud. “Dammit!” she roared, the sound echoing in the confined space, making Claire jump. She struck the wall again, harder this time, the metal vibrating. “Dammit!” Another blow landed, knuckles white against the grey metal. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” Each strike was punctuated by a choked sob, a desperate, physical release of unbearable pain.
Claire recoiled, eyes wide with shock and a dawning horror. She had never seen her mother like this. Grace, always the pillar of strength, the composed Starfleet officer, was… broken. And in that moment, Claire understood with chilling clarity: this wasn’t just about Captain Kanisky. It was about the Samson, the planet, the unseen threat looming in the vast emptiness of space. But it was also so much more.
“It’s not fair!” Grace cried out, her voice thick with tears, raw with anguish. “It’s not fair!” Her voice rose, almost a scream. “First Dracus…” The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken loss. “Then Rachel… and now Lara!” Her body shook with the force of her sobs. “How many more?” Her voice was laced with terror. “Are you safe, Claire?” She grabbed Claire’s arm, her grip tight, desperate. “Jo-Marie? Archer?” Her gaze darted wildly around the turbolift, as if the walls themselves were closing in. “The Edison crew… my family…” She choked on a sob. “Marta… Kathryn… Alynna…” Her voice fractured. “Is anyone safe? Is this… this abomination…” She couldn’t bring herself to name whatever it was, the source of this terror. “Is it going to destroy everything?”
Grace’s chest heaved, her breath ragged. Then, her voice, though still thick with tears, hardened with a newfound resolve. “No.” The word was low, dangerous. “That damn abomination… it’s going to be stopped.” Her jaw clenched, her eyes, though still wet with tears, now burned with a fierce, unwavering determination. “And it will pay.”
Claire reached out hesitantly, her hand hovering inches from her mother's shaking arm. This raw outpouring, this torrent of grief, was terrifying, unfamiliar. The strength she had always relied on, the unwavering core of her mother, had fractured, revealing a depth of pain she hadn't imagined. And in that shattered strength,
Claire saw not just the loss of Captain Kanisky, but the weight of years, of lives lost, of wounds that had never healed. Dracus. Her father’s name hung unspoken in the air, a phantom limb aching in both their hearts. The turbolift doors hissed open, but neither woman moved, trapped in the confines of their grief, the unspoken terror of the unknown pressing down around them.
--
Grace McCallister stepped onto the bridge. Claire a step behind her. The air crackled, thick with a nervous energy that predated even the blaring red alert klaxons that now erupted. Conversations mid-sentence died, heads snapped to attention, and the low hum of the ship seemed to vibrate with a different, more urgent frequency.
Grace’s gaze swept over the bridge, taking in the tense set of Lieutenant Kamarov’s jaw at Flight Control, the focused intensity in Commander Janeway’s stance at the Ops station, where Ensign Zh’Nann, her Ktarian scales paling slightly, frantically rerouted power conduits. Even the ever-stoic Vulcan, Lieutenant Commander Tai’Anna, at the science station, held a stillness that spoke of heightened awareness, her dark eyes fixed on her console.
“Double Red alert!” Grace’s voice, amplified and commanding, sliced through the sudden hush that had fallen. “Maximum warp. Delphi system. Now.” She didn’t need to elaborate. The urgency in her tone, the unyielding steel in her eyes, spoke volumes. “Briefing room in one hour for senior staff. Ensign McCallister, you’re with me.”
Claire, ever professional, merely nodded crisply, her own face tightening with concern, and moved to stand a step behind her mother, her eyes already scanning the science readouts flickering across nearby displays.
“Commander Icid, status report!” Grace’s voice snapped out again, her attention already shifting to the tactical display where Lieutenant Commander Thess, the Andorian, was rapidly bringing weapon systems online.
“Aye, Captain!” Commander Icid, moved with brisk efficiency from her position near the command chairs. “Preliminary reports indicate all stations responding to Red Alert. Engineering reports warp drive spooling up, anticipating maximum warp engagement on your mark. Tactical sensors are calibrating long-range scan for Delphi. Ensign Zh’Nann, report Operations status!”
At the Ops station, Chell Zh’Nann swallowed visibly, fingers flying across the controls. “Operations… nominal, Commander! Rerouting auxiliary power to shields and weapons. Navigation is plotting maximum warp trajectory to Delphi system. Weapons systems online, awaiting tactical input from Lieutenant Commander Thess.” Her voice, though still laced with nervous energy, was clear and professional.
Kamarov’s voice, flat and controlled as always, cut in from Flight Control. “Course plotted and locked on Delphi, Captain. Warp drive at ninety percent… ninety-five… Warp drive at maximum capacity. Ready to engage on your command.” There was a barely perceptible tremor in the deck plating as the Edison strained against the invisible forces holding it back, eager to unleash its warp core.
Grace turned her attention to Thess. “Tactical, Thess. Run a full diagnostic on the Samson’s last known coordinates in Delphi. Anything. Energy readings, sensor ghosts, anything at all.”
The Andorian’s antennae twitched, his brow furrowed in focused concentration. “Aye, Captain. Sensors are sweeping the area now. Retrieving Samson’s logs… fragmented, corrupted… barely readable. But… yes, I am detecting… unusual energy signatures in the vicinity of their last known location. Unidentifiable and… fluctuating wildly, Captain. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”
From the back of the bridge, a voice, smooth and laced with a familiar dry wit, drawled, “Well, that’s just delightful, isn’t it?” Commander Wes Hamil, Senior Intel Officer, strolled onto the bridge, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by a sharp, professional alertness. He moved directly to stand beside Grace, his gaze fixed on the main viewscreen where stars blurred into streaked lines as the Edison lurched into warp.
“Wes,” Grace acknowledged, her voice clipped. “Give me everything you have on the Samson situation. I understand Ambassador Archer isn’t joining us?”
Hamil nodded, his expression grim. “Negative, Captain. Admiral Nechayev made the call personally. Too risky. Apparently, threats to the Ambassador’s safety have escalated significantly since the Samson’s… incident. Alynna believed it prudent for her to remain planetside.” His eyes flickered to where Admiral Nechayev herself now stood near the command chairs, her usual commanding presence radiating an undercurrent of deep concern.
Alynna Nechayev stepped forward, her gaze locking with Grace’s. “Grace,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering, yet laced with a palpable gravity that Grace rarely heard from her. “We are moving to maximum warp towards the Delphi system. Intel suggests whatever destroyed the Samson… is still there. Or something related to it.” She paused, her eyes flicking briefly to Claire, then back to Grace. “This is not a standard mission anymore, Grace. This is… something else entirely. We need to be prepared for anything.”
Grace’s jaw tightened. She could feel the weight of Alynna’s words, the unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air. This wasn’t just about a lost starship. It was about something far more profound, something inherently threatening that had shaken even the unflappable Admiral Nechayev.
She drew a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, her gaze sweeping over her bridge crew, each face etched with a mixture of apprehension and unwavering resolve. “Understood, Admiral,” Grace said, her voice resonating with newfound steel. “Edison to maximum warp. All hands, stand by for potential combat situation. We are going to find out exactly what happened to the Samson. And we are going to be ready for whatever we find in Delphi.” Her gaze met Claire’s for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of understanding and shared purpose passing between mother and daughter in the heart of the ordered chaos of the bridge. The red alert klaxons continued to blare, the ship screamed through warp space, and a chilling sense of the unknown settled over the USS Edison as it raced towards the shadows lurking in the Delphi system.
END
The turbolift hummed softly as it ascended away from Sickbay, carrying Captain Grace McCallister and her daughter, Ensign Claire McCallister, to the bridge of the USS Edison. The familiar gentle vibrations of the ship were a comforting constant, a stark contrast to the disquiet that had settled in Grace’s stomach since the Edison received word – filtered through Deep Space K-7 – about the USS Samson failing to respond to hails.
The subtle chime of Grace’s comm badge broke the quiet hum of the turbolift. She tapped the control on her uniform. Commander Icid Ghaila’s voice, composed and steady, filled the turbolift. “Captain,” Icid began, her tone carrying a weight that Grace instantly recognized. “Preliminary probe scans of the Delphi system are complete.”
Grace’s breath hitched. Starfleet had tasked the Samson to investigate Zeta Reticuli IV, a planet on the fringes of Federation space near the Klingon Border where strange energy signatures had been detected. After days of silence from the Samson following their entry into the Delphi system, and repeated failed attempts by Deep Space K-7 to re-establish contact, concerns had escalated rapidly. The Samson, under the command of Captain Lara Kanisky, had been dispatched to ascertain the nature of the potential threat emanating from Zeta Reticuli IV, and now, the silence was deafening.
“Report, Commander,” Grace instructed, her voice firm, masking the tremor of dread crawling up her spine.
“Captain,” Icid continued, her voice measured and devoid of any inflection that might betray emotion, a hallmark of her Bajoran discipline. “The USS Samson is lost. There are no survivors.”
The turbolift seemed to sway imperceptibly. Claire, standing beside her mother, subtly stiffened. Grace’s grip on the handrail tightened. “Lost? What happened? Debris field?” Grace asked, her mind racing, desperately hoping for a salvageable explanation, a malfunction, anything but…
Icid’s explanation was chilling in its clinical delivery. “Negative, Captain. No debris field. Deep Space Probe scans reveal only energy residue, consistent with a… complete disintegration. We have confirmed the Samson was within range of the dead zone of Zeta Reticuli IV when contact was lost. The destruction signature matches the energy readings the probe recorded in the Delphi system at the time of the planet’s loss. It is… highly probable that the same entity responsible for the catastrophic destruction of Zeta Reticuli IV is also responsible for the loss of the Samson.”
“Thank you, Commander,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. “Assemble the senior staff in one hour. We’ll discuss our next steps.”
“Aye, Captain,” Icid replied softly before the comm signal ceased, leaving Grace and Claire in the echoing silence of the ascending turbolift, the weight of the news sinking heavily into the confined space.
Claire looked at her mother, her brow furrowed with concern. “Mom? What’s wrong? What happened with the Samson?”
Grace leaned against the turbolift wall, the strength visibly draining from her posture. She looked up, as if the news was still hanging there in the air between them. “They’re gone, Claire. The Samson… destroyed. No survivors.”
Claire’s eyes widened, the youthful light dimming. “Destroyed? Like… Zeta Reticuli IV destroyed?”
Grace nodded slowly, her voice rough. “It seems so. Same energy signature. It was… fast. Icid said no debris, just residue. Whatever this thing is, it’s efficient. Thorough.”
Claire was silent for a moment, processing the enormity of it. Then, softly, “Who was the Captain of the Samson?”
Grace closed her eyes briefly, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “Lara. Captain Lara Kanisky.”
Claire’s brow furrowed again. “Lara Kanisky… Did you know her?”
Grace opened her eyes, her gaze distant, unfocused. “Know her? Claire, Lara and I… we served together. On the Enterprise-C.”
Claire’s breath hitched. “The Enterprise-C? Really?” Her eyes widened, pupils dilating in the turbolift’s soft glow. “You were on the Enterprise-C? With… Captain Garrett?” The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken reverence, a legend whispered in Starfleet Academy hallways, especially potent for someone like Claire, raised on tales of the ship's sacrifice.
Grace’s lips curved into a sad smile, the corners crinkling with a weariness that seemed to settle deeper into her face. “Yes, sweetheart.” A sigh escaped her, barely audible above the turbolift’s gentle hum. “Lieutenant McCallister then, engineering. Lara too. Security, I think, when we met. Not long, though.”
Claire leaned forward, her earlier quietude replaced by a spark of eagerness. “Not long? Why?”
Grace shifted her weight, the subtle movement betraying a weariness that settled in her shoulders. “Captain Marta Batanides” – she said the name with a slight but clear emphasis, then added in an aside – “Now Admiral, of course,” before continuing, “specifically requested me for the Tiberius.” Even saying the name seemed to drain a bit more energy from her.
“Aunt Marty!” Claire’s face broke into a grin, erasing the somber cast that had lingered moments before. “Mom, you served under Aunt Marty? And she requested you?” Excitement vibrated in her tone.
A soft chuckle escaped Grace, a brief flicker of amusement chasing away some of the shadow in her eyes. “Yes, Claire.” Her voice softened further, carrying a thread of pride. “Captain Batanides… Aunt Marty to you. Brilliant captain. She mentored me on the Tiberius. Kept me sharp.”
Claire bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. “We lived on the Tiberius! I remember… blurry. Running around, getting into trouble.” A giggle escaped her. “You were pregnant with me then, right?”
Grace nodded, a fond smile softening the lines around her mouth. “Yes, Claire. Born on the Tiberius. Chaotic, beautiful mess of a time.”
Claire’s smile faltered, a touch of guilt shadowing her features. “Mom, sorry, Aunt Marty… this is about Lara. And Captain Garrett.”
Grace reached out, her hand finding Claire’s cheek, a gentle stroke of her thumb. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Proud you admire Marta. But yes… Lara.” Her gaze turned inwards, focusing on something distant.
“Captain Garrett…” Grace’s voice became hushed, reverent. “Magnificent. True leader.” She paused, searching for words. “A presence. Command in her bones. Trust. Everyone… we’d have followed her into a black hole.”
“And Lara?” Claire prompted softly, sensing the shift in her mother's tone.
Grace’s breath hitched. “Lara…” Her voice became thick, strained. “Different. Tougher skin maybe. But underneath…” A flicker of a wry smile touched her lips. “Fiercely loyal. Brilliant too. Wicked humor.” She paused again, memories swirling in her eyes. “Friends quickly. Engineering, security… incidents.” The word hung, unspoken weight dragging it down.
“Incidents?” Claire pressed, her voice barely a whisper, sensing the shift in her mother’s mood, the undercurrent of something deeper.
Grace inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting towards the turbolift doors. “Enterprise-C stuff. Romulans sniffing around, boarders… temporal hiccups. Always something. Intense.” She let out a small, shaky breath. “Good crew, though. Looked out for each other.”
Silence descended for a moment, broken only by the soft hum of the turbolift. Grace’s gaze seemed fixed on some point beyond the metal walls. “Three years… on the Enterprise-C. Funny thing…” A soft chuckle escaped her, tinged with irony. “Around the time Marty grabbed me for the Tiberius, Lara transferred too. Command track. Always climbing.”
Her smile turned bittersweet. “Leaving the C… blessing in disguise. What happened… to Rachel…” Grace shook her head, voice trailing off. “Don’t think I could have…” She swallowed, unable to finish the thought. “Lara though… kept rising. Samson command a few years back. Same time I got the Edison.” A sad smile touched her lips. “Laughed about it, can you believe? Two old Enterprise-C hands, Captains.”
Claire’s eyes widened, absorbing the cascade of revelations. “You… kept in touch? With Captain Kanisky?”
Grace nodded, a soft smile flickering again then fading, replaced by a deeper shadow. “Lara, yes. Often.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “Rachel… duty allowed. Even after…” Her voice wavered, composure beginning to crack. “Never forgot them. Both.”
Claire watched her mother, sympathy mixing with a burgeoning, unsettling curiosity. “You never… mentioned me,” she ventured cautiously, a slight furrow appearing between her brows. “To Lara, I mean. Never said you had a daughter?”
Grace blinked, momentarily pulled back from the edge. Surprise flickered across her face, then a wounded look. “Never mentioned you?” she repeated softly, a breath of disbelief in her voice. “Claire, darling…” Warmth seeped back into her tone amidst the sorrow. “Lara knew everything about you.” A tremor entered her voice. “From the moment you were born… my miracle… Starfleet Academy… Edison posting…” A fragile, proud smile touched her lips despite the gathering tears. “My brilliant, headstrong daughter… stars in her blood.”
Claire’s eyes widened further, a flush rising to her cheeks. “She… knew about the Edison?” she repeated, awe coloring her voice.
Grace nodded again, the tears finally breaking free, tracing glistening paths down her cheeks. “Everything, Claire. Everything.” The raw emotion in her voice was undeniable. A mother's grief, tangled with the shared history of friendship, loss, and the unwavering bond with her daughter. A choked sob escaped her lips, her hand clenching into a tight fist, knuckles white. The carefully constructed composure crumbled, the weight of her loss finally crushing her.
“And now…” Grace’s voice cracked, a raw edge tearing through the forced calm. “Lara is gone.” The words were barely a whisper, choked with emotion. “Just… vanished. Like Rachel.” The facade shattered completely. A gasping breath escaped her lips, tears blurring her vision, the cool steel of the turbolift walls swimming out of focus. Grace swallowed hard, her hand trembling violently.
Suddenly, a guttural cry tore from Grace’s throat, raw and primal. Her fist shot out, slamming against the turbolift wall with a dull thud. “Dammit!” she roared, the sound echoing in the confined space, making Claire jump. She struck the wall again, harder this time, the metal vibrating. “Dammit!” Another blow landed, knuckles white against the grey metal. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” Each strike was punctuated by a choked sob, a desperate, physical release of unbearable pain.
Claire recoiled, eyes wide with shock and a dawning horror. She had never seen her mother like this. Grace, always the pillar of strength, the composed Starfleet officer, was… broken. And in that moment, Claire understood with chilling clarity: this wasn’t just about Captain Kanisky. It was about the Samson, the planet, the unseen threat looming in the vast emptiness of space. But it was also so much more.
“It’s not fair!” Grace cried out, her voice thick with tears, raw with anguish. “It’s not fair!” Her voice rose, almost a scream. “First Dracus…” The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken loss. “Then Rachel… and now Lara!” Her body shook with the force of her sobs. “How many more?” Her voice was laced with terror. “Are you safe, Claire?” She grabbed Claire’s arm, her grip tight, desperate. “Jo-Marie? Archer?” Her gaze darted wildly around the turbolift, as if the walls themselves were closing in. “The Edison crew… my family…” She choked on a sob. “Marta… Kathryn… Alynna…” Her voice fractured. “Is anyone safe? Is this… this abomination…” She couldn’t bring herself to name whatever it was, the source of this terror. “Is it going to destroy everything?”
Grace’s chest heaved, her breath ragged. Then, her voice, though still thick with tears, hardened with a newfound resolve. “No.” The word was low, dangerous. “That damn abomination… it’s going to be stopped.” Her jaw clenched, her eyes, though still wet with tears, now burned with a fierce, unwavering determination. “And it will pay.”
Claire reached out hesitantly, her hand hovering inches from her mother's shaking arm. This raw outpouring, this torrent of grief, was terrifying, unfamiliar. The strength she had always relied on, the unwavering core of her mother, had fractured, revealing a depth of pain she hadn't imagined. And in that shattered strength,
Claire saw not just the loss of Captain Kanisky, but the weight of years, of lives lost, of wounds that had never healed. Dracus. Her father’s name hung unspoken in the air, a phantom limb aching in both their hearts. The turbolift doors hissed open, but neither woman moved, trapped in the confines of their grief, the unspoken terror of the unknown pressing down around them.
--
Grace McCallister stepped onto the bridge. Claire a step behind her. The air crackled, thick with a nervous energy that predated even the blaring red alert klaxons that now erupted. Conversations mid-sentence died, heads snapped to attention, and the low hum of the ship seemed to vibrate with a different, more urgent frequency.
Grace’s gaze swept over the bridge, taking in the tense set of Lieutenant Kamarov’s jaw at Flight Control, the focused intensity in Commander Janeway’s stance at the Ops station, where Ensign Zh’Nann, her Ktarian scales paling slightly, frantically rerouted power conduits. Even the ever-stoic Vulcan, Lieutenant Commander Tai’Anna, at the science station, held a stillness that spoke of heightened awareness, her dark eyes fixed on her console.
“Double Red alert!” Grace’s voice, amplified and commanding, sliced through the sudden hush that had fallen. “Maximum warp. Delphi system. Now.” She didn’t need to elaborate. The urgency in her tone, the unyielding steel in her eyes, spoke volumes. “Briefing room in one hour for senior staff. Ensign McCallister, you’re with me.”
Claire, ever professional, merely nodded crisply, her own face tightening with concern, and moved to stand a step behind her mother, her eyes already scanning the science readouts flickering across nearby displays.
“Commander Icid, status report!” Grace’s voice snapped out again, her attention already shifting to the tactical display where Lieutenant Commander Thess, the Andorian, was rapidly bringing weapon systems online.
“Aye, Captain!” Commander Icid, moved with brisk efficiency from her position near the command chairs. “Preliminary reports indicate all stations responding to Red Alert. Engineering reports warp drive spooling up, anticipating maximum warp engagement on your mark. Tactical sensors are calibrating long-range scan for Delphi. Ensign Zh’Nann, report Operations status!”
At the Ops station, Chell Zh’Nann swallowed visibly, fingers flying across the controls. “Operations… nominal, Commander! Rerouting auxiliary power to shields and weapons. Navigation is plotting maximum warp trajectory to Delphi system. Weapons systems online, awaiting tactical input from Lieutenant Commander Thess.” Her voice, though still laced with nervous energy, was clear and professional.
Kamarov’s voice, flat and controlled as always, cut in from Flight Control. “Course plotted and locked on Delphi, Captain. Warp drive at ninety percent… ninety-five… Warp drive at maximum capacity. Ready to engage on your command.” There was a barely perceptible tremor in the deck plating as the Edison strained against the invisible forces holding it back, eager to unleash its warp core.
Grace turned her attention to Thess. “Tactical, Thess. Run a full diagnostic on the Samson’s last known coordinates in Delphi. Anything. Energy readings, sensor ghosts, anything at all.”
The Andorian’s antennae twitched, his brow furrowed in focused concentration. “Aye, Captain. Sensors are sweeping the area now. Retrieving Samson’s logs… fragmented, corrupted… barely readable. But… yes, I am detecting… unusual energy signatures in the vicinity of their last known location. Unidentifiable and… fluctuating wildly, Captain. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”
From the back of the bridge, a voice, smooth and laced with a familiar dry wit, drawled, “Well, that’s just delightful, isn’t it?” Commander Wes Hamil, Senior Intel Officer, strolled onto the bridge, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by a sharp, professional alertness. He moved directly to stand beside Grace, his gaze fixed on the main viewscreen where stars blurred into streaked lines as the Edison lurched into warp.
“Wes,” Grace acknowledged, her voice clipped. “Give me everything you have on the Samson situation. I understand Ambassador Archer isn’t joining us?”
Hamil nodded, his expression grim. “Negative, Captain. Admiral Nechayev made the call personally. Too risky. Apparently, threats to the Ambassador’s safety have escalated significantly since the Samson’s… incident. Alynna believed it prudent for her to remain planetside.” His eyes flickered to where Admiral Nechayev herself now stood near the command chairs, her usual commanding presence radiating an undercurrent of deep concern.
Alynna Nechayev stepped forward, her gaze locking with Grace’s. “Grace,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering, yet laced with a palpable gravity that Grace rarely heard from her. “We are moving to maximum warp towards the Delphi system. Intel suggests whatever destroyed the Samson… is still there. Or something related to it.” She paused, her eyes flicking briefly to Claire, then back to Grace. “This is not a standard mission anymore, Grace. This is… something else entirely. We need to be prepared for anything.”
Grace’s jaw tightened. She could feel the weight of Alynna’s words, the unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air. This wasn’t just about a lost starship. It was about something far more profound, something inherently threatening that had shaken even the unflappable Admiral Nechayev.
She drew a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, her gaze sweeping over her bridge crew, each face etched with a mixture of apprehension and unwavering resolve. “Understood, Admiral,” Grace said, her voice resonating with newfound steel. “Edison to maximum warp. All hands, stand by for potential combat situation. We are going to find out exactly what happened to the Samson. And we are going to be ready for whatever we find in Delphi.” Her gaze met Claire’s for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of understanding and shared purpose passing between mother and daughter in the heart of the ordered chaos of the bridge. The red alert klaxons continued to blare, the ship screamed through warp space, and a chilling sense of the unknown settled over the USS Edison as it raced towards the shadows lurking in the Delphi system.
END
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So we don't get to see the updated K-7? Alas...
Thanks!! rbs
Thanks!! rbs
Intense! Stay tuned, folks, same bat time, same bat channel. I absolutely love the wording. It perfectly relays the emotional tenseness I think you are trying to convey.
-Chill Will
You're in for a treat with the next chapter.
Stardate 38688.22 (September 9, 2361)
Deep Space Station K-7, near Sherman’s Planet
Federation Deep Space Station K-7 hummed with restrained tension. The central operations pit, a circular hub rebuilt and expanded around the original station core from a bygone era, was a hive of controlled activity. Crewmembers moved with practiced efficiency, their hushed voices a counterpoint to the insistent beeps and hums of consoles. Commanding Officer Zoa-sh, a Tellarite of formidable girth and even more formidable temper, stood with her broad hands planted on the command dais, her piggish eyes fixed on the cascading reports scrolling across the main viewscreen.
Zoa-sh’s nostrils flared rhythmically, a sure sign of her mounting agitation. The reports spoke of disaster. Zeta Reticuli IV and the USS Samson, a Miranda-class vessel dispatched to investigate initial sensor anomalies, both simply…gone. Vaporized. No debris field, just a lingering residue that defied Euclidean physics. Non-Euclidean. The word itself tasted foul on Zoa-sh’s tongue.
Beside her, Ambassador Klarr observed the unfolding crisis with a placid exterior that belied the keen intelligence in his aged Klingon eyes. He was an elder statesman, a retired general with a decorated past, and an old comrade of the late Mogh, father of Worf. His presence as a Klingon Exchange Officer was a testament to the alliance between the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire, a bond forged in the crucible of shared threats and mutual respect, however grudging at times.
"Non-Euclidean residue," Zoa-sh grunted, her voice a gravelly rasp. "Superstitious nonsense designed to mask incompetence. Something destroyed the Samson, something powerful. And now Zeta Reticuli IV. What's next, Ambassador?"
Klarr stroked his neatly trimmed grey beard, his gaze thoughtful. "Disruptions, Commander. We are already seeing them. Reports from the Klingon border… Gorn vessels lost. Border skirmishes escalating. Trade routes faltering. Fear ripples outward, like disturbances in a still pond."
Indeed, the strategic situation was fraying at the edges. Whispers of increased Gorn aggression, fueled by their own unexplained losses, were turning into open clashes along the border regions. Federation worlds, already jittery from the ever-present shadow of the Romulan Star Empire, were becoming increasingly anxious. Paranoia, that insidious virus of the mind, was spreading through Starfleet ranks, exacerbated by the Romulans themselves who, despite their official isolation since the Tomed Incident of 2311, were known to subtly manipulate galactic tensions through their Tai-Shiar operatives. Since the loss of the Enterprise-C in 2344, a sacrifice that had solidified the Federation-Klingon alliance, the Romulans had remained outwardly passive, but their silence was as ominous as a predator’s stillness before the strike.
Ensign Worf, temporarily assigned to K-7 as tactical officer, stood at his station, his brow furrowed as he monitored the incoming tactical assessments. He felt a cold knot of disgust tighten in his stomach at the mere thought of Romulan machinations. The Khitomer Massacre, a Romulan treachery in 2346 that had decimated his family, was a wound that time had never fully healed. The mere suggestion of their involvement, however subtle, was enough to ignite a simmering rage within him.
“Romulans,” Worf growled, his voice low and dangerous. “They play their games in the shadows, even now.”
Klarr turned his gaze to the young Klingon, a flicker of understanding in his ancient eyes. "Patience, Worf. Accusations without proof are wind. We must observe, analyze, and then act. As your father would have."
“And the Cardassians,” Zoa-sh added, her nostrils flaring. “Don’t forget those vipers. Always slithering, always opportunistic. Their skirmishes with the Federation on the other side of the galaxy… they’ll see this chaos as a gift.”
Before Worf could respond, a chime echoed through the operations center, announcing an incoming comm transmission. Zoa-sh barked an order. "On screen!"
Admiral Alynna Nechayev’s sharp, no-nonsense face materialized on the main viewscreen. Behind her, the bridge of a starship gleamed, the unmistakable lines of an Excelsior-class vessel. The USS Edison. Nechayev, Flag Officer of Task Force Azathoh – a name dripping with irony considering Azathoth was a being of cosmic chaos from ancient Terran myth – a task force comprised ironically to project unity rather than chaos, with a mix of Federation Miranda-class ships and Klingon D-7s and Birds-of-Prey - was all business. Her gaze, even through the static of subspace, seemed to bore right through Zoa-sh.
“Commander Zoa-sh,” Nechayev’s voice was crisp and efficient. “I trust you are aware of the situation with Zeta Reticuli and the Samson.”
“Aware, Admiral? We are drowning in reports!” Zoa-sh retorted, her tone bordering on insubordination. K’Ehleyr, Special Federation Envoy to Klarr and a seasoned mediator, subtly shifted her position, placing herself slightly between Zoa-sh and the main viewscreen, a silent attempt to defuse the commander’s volatile temper.
Nechayev ignored Zoa-sh’s abrasive tone. “Captain Grace McCallister and the USS Edison have been assigned to investigate. She is en route now and will be assuming primary responsibility for this sector’s security as it relates to this incident.”
Zoa-sh sputtered, her bristles practically vibrating. “McCallister? That…rule-bender? You send her? Admiral, with all due respect—”
“Respect is irrelevant, Commander,” Nechayev cut her off, her voice hardening. “Results are what matter. Captain McCallister has a proven track record, particularly in dealing with…unconventional threats. And given the, shall we say, unique nature of this situation, her expertise is precisely what is needed.”
Klarr, with a carefully timed cough, interjected smoothly. "Admiral Nechayev is wise in her selection. Captain McCallister has earned a certain…reputation even amongst Klingons for her…pragmatic approach. And understanding of…traditions." He added the last with a subtle glance at Zoa-sh, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I understand her brother is married to a woman of my House. Such connections foster…understanding."
Zoa-sh scoffed, turning her back to the viewscreen in a blatant display of disrespect. “Understanding of Klingon customs hardly qualifies one to investigate…non-Euclidean anomalies.”
Nechayev’s eyebrow twitched, but she maintained her professional composure. "Furthermore, Ensign Claire McCallister will be joining her mother on the Edison. Her…aptitudes in theoretical physics and science may prove invaluable."
Zoa-sh rounded on the viewscreen again, her piggish eyes narrowed. “Claire McCallister? The prodigy? Assigned directly to her mother’s ship? Admiral, forgive my directness, but this reeks of nepotism! Are we assigning Starfleet vessels based on family connections now?”
K’Ehleyr stepped forward, her voice calm and measured, laced with just a hint of Klingon steel. “Commander, with respect, Ensign McCallister's academic record speaks for itself. She graduated top of her class at the Academy. Her assignment is hardly unwarranted.”
Klarr nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Youthful brilliance combined with seasoned experience is often a potent combination. I commend your judgment, Admiral."
Worf, who had remained silent until now, stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the name "Claire McCallister." He hadn’t seen her since the Academy graduation ceremonies, several months ago. Claire… the first person outside his Klingon…to see past his ridges, to treat him simply as Worf, a fellow officer. A warm, almost forgotten sensation bloomed in his chest, quickly tempered by the professional demands of the moment.
K’Ehleyr, ever perceptive, caught the subtle shift in Worf’s demeanor. A knowing smirk touched her lips, and as she turned slightly towards him, she placed a hand briefly on his arm, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze. Worf met her gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. K’Ehleyr knew. She knew about Claire, the platonic, non-romantic bond that had formed in their shared Academy years. And she knew it posed no threat to what they shared.
Nechayev, oblivious to the undercurrents of personal history playing out on K-7’s bridge, continued, “The Edison has been provided with all available data on the Samson’s loss. Captain McCallister will liaise with you, Commander, but her mandate is clear: investigate the object, determine the threat, and neutralize it if necessary. Task Force Azathoh will remain on standby, prepared to reinforce if needed. Admiral Nechayev out.”
The viewscreen flickered back to the standard Starfleet interface. Silence hung in the air of the operations center, thick and heavy as space itself. Zoa-sh huffed, pacing behind the command dais like a caged gronnk.
“McCallister,” she spat. “Nepotism. Unconventional methods. This is a recipe for disaster.”
Klarr chuckled softly, a low rumble that barely registered above the station’s hum. “Perhaps, Commander. Or perhaps…it is precisely what is required. Sometimes, the most unpredictable solutions are the most effective.”
K’Ehleyr, ever the pragmatist, turned to Zoa-sh, her expression firm but conciliatory. "Commander, Admiral Nechayev has given us our orders. Whatever your personal opinions of Captain McCallister, we must cooperate fully. The safety of this sector, perhaps the quadrant, may depend on it."
Before Zoa-sh could launch into another tirade, the tactical console at Worf’s station blared a harsh alarm. Red alert klaxons began to wail through K-7, bathing the operations center in pulsating crimson light. Worf’s fingers flew across the controls, his Klingon instincts sharpening in the face of immediate danger.
“Commander! Unidentified vessels approaching at high warp! Bearing…directly towards K-7!”
Zoa-sh’s head snapped up, all personal grievances momentarily forgotten in the face of a tangible threat. “Identify! Hail them!”
Worf worked rapidly. “No response to hails. Sensors…vessels are Gorn! Three Gorn raiders, heavily armed, closing fast!”
Confusion rippled through the operations center. Gorn raiders attacking K-7? Unprecedented. Were these isolated pirates, or something more…orchestrated?
Zoa-sh’s eyes narrowed, her aggressive instincts finally finding an appropriate outlet. “Defense shields up! Arm phasers and torpedoes! Ambassador Klarr, alert your Klingon contingent. Prepare for combat!”
The bridge of K-7 sprang into action. Crewmembers moved with practiced speed, weapons systems powering up, shields shimmering into place.
The station, designed to be a trading post, was nonetheless equipped with formidable defensive capabilities, a legacy of its location near the Klingon border and the lessons learned since the incident with Kirk, Koloth, Cyrano Jones and his tribbles back in 2268. K-7 had since been rebuilt, reinforced, and hardened over the decades, a testament to the evolving realities of galactic life including a now lush and thriving Sherman’s Planet.
The Gorn raiders slammed into sensor range, their reptilian silhouettes stark against the backdrop of stars. They opened fire without warning, lances of green energy ripping through space, impacting K-7’s shields with jarring force. The station shuddered under the assault.
“Return fire!” Zoa-sh roared, her voice echoing across the bridge. Phaser arrays blazed, torpedo tubes launched their deadly payloads. Space around K-7 erupted in a chaotic ballet of energy bolts and explosions. The Gorn raiders were fast and maneuverable, their fire accurate and relentless. K-7’s shields buckled, energy levels dropping precipitously.
“Shields at forty percent!” a voice shouted from damage control. “We’re taking heavy hits!”
Worf’s fingers danced across his tactical controls, targeting the lead Gorn vessel. “Targeting solutions locked! Firing phasers! Torpedoes away!”
Phaser fire lanced out, striking the Gorn raider’s forward shields. Torpedoes streaked through space, impacting with brilliant explosions. The Gorn vessel reeled, its shields flickering and failing. But the other two raiders pressed their attack, their green energy beams hammering K-7 relentlessly. The station groaned under the strain. Internal alarms blared, the air thick with the smell of burning circuits.
Just as K-7’s shields threatened to collapse entirely, a new sensor contact appeared on Worf’s screen. A vessel decloaking…and then another, and another. Three ships materializing out of the void, flanking K-7, their weapons powering up.
“Sensors…identifying! USS Gabriel Bell, Miranda-class starship, NCC-9092, Captain Werner Askin commanding! And…two Klingon Birds-of-Prey! House of Korath markings!” Worf announced, his voice filled with relief.
The Gabriel Bell, shields blazing at full power, moved to intercept the Gorn attack, her phaser arrays unleashing a barrage of energy. The two Klingon Birds-of-Prey, with predatory grace, swooped in from either side, their disruptor cannons spitting bolts of raw power. The tide of battle turned in an instant.
Caught in a crossfire, the Gorn raiders fought back fiercely, but they were outmatched. The combined firepower of the Gabriel Bell and the Klingon warships was overwhelming. One Gorn raider erupted in a spectacular fireball, its hull breached, its warp core destabilized. The remaining two, realizing the futility of their attack, attempted to disengage, but the Gabriel Bell, along with the lead Bird-of-Prey, pursued relentlessly. Within minutes, both remaining Gorn vessels lay crippled and adrift, their weapons silent.
Silence descended once more on the operations center of K-7, a stunned, heavy silence broken only by the hum of the station’s life support systems and the ragged breaths of the crew. The red alert klaxons dimmed, replaced by the steady, reassuring blue of normal operations.
Zoa-sh, her chest heaving, stared at the tactical display, at the smoking wrecks of the Gorn raiders. “Report,” she barked, her voice still rough but calmer now.
Worf ran a quick diagnostic. “Damage to station…moderate, shield integrity seventy percent. No casualties reported. USS Gabriel Bell and Klingon vessels report minimal damage.”
Klarr stepped forward, his gaze steady and resolute. “This was no random pirate raid, Commander. This was a deliberate act of aggression. A message.”
K’Ehleyr nodded, her expression grave. “A message received, and answered. The Federation and Klingon Empire stand united, even here, on the edge of the unknown.”
Worf glanced at K’Ehleyr, a flicker of warmth in his usually stoic eyes. He was silent, but his presence, solid and unwavering at his post, spoke volumes. He knew unity, he valued strength, and in that moment, amidst the lingering tension and the chilling mystery of the unknown object, he found a small measure of solace in the alliance that bound him to these people, to this station, to this galaxy.
And in the secret, unspoken bond he shared with the perceptive Klingon/human hybrid who stood beside him. The larger mysteries remained, the threat of the object, the motives of the Gorn the circling of the Cardassians, and the shadow of the Romulans, all hung heavy in the air. But for now, K-7 had stood firm, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness. And the investigation, with the arrival of Captain McCallister and her unconventional methods, was just beginning.
END
Deep Space Station K-7, near Sherman’s Planet
Federation Deep Space Station K-7 hummed with restrained tension. The central operations pit, a circular hub rebuilt and expanded around the original station core from a bygone era, was a hive of controlled activity. Crewmembers moved with practiced efficiency, their hushed voices a counterpoint to the insistent beeps and hums of consoles. Commanding Officer Zoa-sh, a Tellarite of formidable girth and even more formidable temper, stood with her broad hands planted on the command dais, her piggish eyes fixed on the cascading reports scrolling across the main viewscreen.
Zoa-sh’s nostrils flared rhythmically, a sure sign of her mounting agitation. The reports spoke of disaster. Zeta Reticuli IV and the USS Samson, a Miranda-class vessel dispatched to investigate initial sensor anomalies, both simply…gone. Vaporized. No debris field, just a lingering residue that defied Euclidean physics. Non-Euclidean. The word itself tasted foul on Zoa-sh’s tongue.
Beside her, Ambassador Klarr observed the unfolding crisis with a placid exterior that belied the keen intelligence in his aged Klingon eyes. He was an elder statesman, a retired general with a decorated past, and an old comrade of the late Mogh, father of Worf. His presence as a Klingon Exchange Officer was a testament to the alliance between the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire, a bond forged in the crucible of shared threats and mutual respect, however grudging at times.
"Non-Euclidean residue," Zoa-sh grunted, her voice a gravelly rasp. "Superstitious nonsense designed to mask incompetence. Something destroyed the Samson, something powerful. And now Zeta Reticuli IV. What's next, Ambassador?"
Klarr stroked his neatly trimmed grey beard, his gaze thoughtful. "Disruptions, Commander. We are already seeing them. Reports from the Klingon border… Gorn vessels lost. Border skirmishes escalating. Trade routes faltering. Fear ripples outward, like disturbances in a still pond."
Indeed, the strategic situation was fraying at the edges. Whispers of increased Gorn aggression, fueled by their own unexplained losses, were turning into open clashes along the border regions. Federation worlds, already jittery from the ever-present shadow of the Romulan Star Empire, were becoming increasingly anxious. Paranoia, that insidious virus of the mind, was spreading through Starfleet ranks, exacerbated by the Romulans themselves who, despite their official isolation since the Tomed Incident of 2311, were known to subtly manipulate galactic tensions through their Tai-Shiar operatives. Since the loss of the Enterprise-C in 2344, a sacrifice that had solidified the Federation-Klingon alliance, the Romulans had remained outwardly passive, but their silence was as ominous as a predator’s stillness before the strike.
Ensign Worf, temporarily assigned to K-7 as tactical officer, stood at his station, his brow furrowed as he monitored the incoming tactical assessments. He felt a cold knot of disgust tighten in his stomach at the mere thought of Romulan machinations. The Khitomer Massacre, a Romulan treachery in 2346 that had decimated his family, was a wound that time had never fully healed. The mere suggestion of their involvement, however subtle, was enough to ignite a simmering rage within him.
“Romulans,” Worf growled, his voice low and dangerous. “They play their games in the shadows, even now.”
Klarr turned his gaze to the young Klingon, a flicker of understanding in his ancient eyes. "Patience, Worf. Accusations without proof are wind. We must observe, analyze, and then act. As your father would have."
“And the Cardassians,” Zoa-sh added, her nostrils flaring. “Don’t forget those vipers. Always slithering, always opportunistic. Their skirmishes with the Federation on the other side of the galaxy… they’ll see this chaos as a gift.”
Before Worf could respond, a chime echoed through the operations center, announcing an incoming comm transmission. Zoa-sh barked an order. "On screen!"
Admiral Alynna Nechayev’s sharp, no-nonsense face materialized on the main viewscreen. Behind her, the bridge of a starship gleamed, the unmistakable lines of an Excelsior-class vessel. The USS Edison. Nechayev, Flag Officer of Task Force Azathoh – a name dripping with irony considering Azathoth was a being of cosmic chaos from ancient Terran myth – a task force comprised ironically to project unity rather than chaos, with a mix of Federation Miranda-class ships and Klingon D-7s and Birds-of-Prey - was all business. Her gaze, even through the static of subspace, seemed to bore right through Zoa-sh.
“Commander Zoa-sh,” Nechayev’s voice was crisp and efficient. “I trust you are aware of the situation with Zeta Reticuli and the Samson.”
“Aware, Admiral? We are drowning in reports!” Zoa-sh retorted, her tone bordering on insubordination. K’Ehleyr, Special Federation Envoy to Klarr and a seasoned mediator, subtly shifted her position, placing herself slightly between Zoa-sh and the main viewscreen, a silent attempt to defuse the commander’s volatile temper.
Nechayev ignored Zoa-sh’s abrasive tone. “Captain Grace McCallister and the USS Edison have been assigned to investigate. She is en route now and will be assuming primary responsibility for this sector’s security as it relates to this incident.”
Zoa-sh sputtered, her bristles practically vibrating. “McCallister? That…rule-bender? You send her? Admiral, with all due respect—”
“Respect is irrelevant, Commander,” Nechayev cut her off, her voice hardening. “Results are what matter. Captain McCallister has a proven track record, particularly in dealing with…unconventional threats. And given the, shall we say, unique nature of this situation, her expertise is precisely what is needed.”
Klarr, with a carefully timed cough, interjected smoothly. "Admiral Nechayev is wise in her selection. Captain McCallister has earned a certain…reputation even amongst Klingons for her…pragmatic approach. And understanding of…traditions." He added the last with a subtle glance at Zoa-sh, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I understand her brother is married to a woman of my House. Such connections foster…understanding."
Zoa-sh scoffed, turning her back to the viewscreen in a blatant display of disrespect. “Understanding of Klingon customs hardly qualifies one to investigate…non-Euclidean anomalies.”
Nechayev’s eyebrow twitched, but she maintained her professional composure. "Furthermore, Ensign Claire McCallister will be joining her mother on the Edison. Her…aptitudes in theoretical physics and science may prove invaluable."
Zoa-sh rounded on the viewscreen again, her piggish eyes narrowed. “Claire McCallister? The prodigy? Assigned directly to her mother’s ship? Admiral, forgive my directness, but this reeks of nepotism! Are we assigning Starfleet vessels based on family connections now?”
K’Ehleyr stepped forward, her voice calm and measured, laced with just a hint of Klingon steel. “Commander, with respect, Ensign McCallister's academic record speaks for itself. She graduated top of her class at the Academy. Her assignment is hardly unwarranted.”
Klarr nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Youthful brilliance combined with seasoned experience is often a potent combination. I commend your judgment, Admiral."
Worf, who had remained silent until now, stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the name "Claire McCallister." He hadn’t seen her since the Academy graduation ceremonies, several months ago. Claire… the first person outside his Klingon…to see past his ridges, to treat him simply as Worf, a fellow officer. A warm, almost forgotten sensation bloomed in his chest, quickly tempered by the professional demands of the moment.
K’Ehleyr, ever perceptive, caught the subtle shift in Worf’s demeanor. A knowing smirk touched her lips, and as she turned slightly towards him, she placed a hand briefly on his arm, giving it a light, reassuring squeeze. Worf met her gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. K’Ehleyr knew. She knew about Claire, the platonic, non-romantic bond that had formed in their shared Academy years. And she knew it posed no threat to what they shared.
Nechayev, oblivious to the undercurrents of personal history playing out on K-7’s bridge, continued, “The Edison has been provided with all available data on the Samson’s loss. Captain McCallister will liaise with you, Commander, but her mandate is clear: investigate the object, determine the threat, and neutralize it if necessary. Task Force Azathoh will remain on standby, prepared to reinforce if needed. Admiral Nechayev out.”
The viewscreen flickered back to the standard Starfleet interface. Silence hung in the air of the operations center, thick and heavy as space itself. Zoa-sh huffed, pacing behind the command dais like a caged gronnk.
“McCallister,” she spat. “Nepotism. Unconventional methods. This is a recipe for disaster.”
Klarr chuckled softly, a low rumble that barely registered above the station’s hum. “Perhaps, Commander. Or perhaps…it is precisely what is required. Sometimes, the most unpredictable solutions are the most effective.”
K’Ehleyr, ever the pragmatist, turned to Zoa-sh, her expression firm but conciliatory. "Commander, Admiral Nechayev has given us our orders. Whatever your personal opinions of Captain McCallister, we must cooperate fully. The safety of this sector, perhaps the quadrant, may depend on it."
Before Zoa-sh could launch into another tirade, the tactical console at Worf’s station blared a harsh alarm. Red alert klaxons began to wail through K-7, bathing the operations center in pulsating crimson light. Worf’s fingers flew across the controls, his Klingon instincts sharpening in the face of immediate danger.
“Commander! Unidentified vessels approaching at high warp! Bearing…directly towards K-7!”
Zoa-sh’s head snapped up, all personal grievances momentarily forgotten in the face of a tangible threat. “Identify! Hail them!”
Worf worked rapidly. “No response to hails. Sensors…vessels are Gorn! Three Gorn raiders, heavily armed, closing fast!”
Confusion rippled through the operations center. Gorn raiders attacking K-7? Unprecedented. Were these isolated pirates, or something more…orchestrated?
Zoa-sh’s eyes narrowed, her aggressive instincts finally finding an appropriate outlet. “Defense shields up! Arm phasers and torpedoes! Ambassador Klarr, alert your Klingon contingent. Prepare for combat!”
The bridge of K-7 sprang into action. Crewmembers moved with practiced speed, weapons systems powering up, shields shimmering into place.
The station, designed to be a trading post, was nonetheless equipped with formidable defensive capabilities, a legacy of its location near the Klingon border and the lessons learned since the incident with Kirk, Koloth, Cyrano Jones and his tribbles back in 2268. K-7 had since been rebuilt, reinforced, and hardened over the decades, a testament to the evolving realities of galactic life including a now lush and thriving Sherman’s Planet.
The Gorn raiders slammed into sensor range, their reptilian silhouettes stark against the backdrop of stars. They opened fire without warning, lances of green energy ripping through space, impacting K-7’s shields with jarring force. The station shuddered under the assault.
“Return fire!” Zoa-sh roared, her voice echoing across the bridge. Phaser arrays blazed, torpedo tubes launched their deadly payloads. Space around K-7 erupted in a chaotic ballet of energy bolts and explosions. The Gorn raiders were fast and maneuverable, their fire accurate and relentless. K-7’s shields buckled, energy levels dropping precipitously.
“Shields at forty percent!” a voice shouted from damage control. “We’re taking heavy hits!”
Worf’s fingers danced across his tactical controls, targeting the lead Gorn vessel. “Targeting solutions locked! Firing phasers! Torpedoes away!”
Phaser fire lanced out, striking the Gorn raider’s forward shields. Torpedoes streaked through space, impacting with brilliant explosions. The Gorn vessel reeled, its shields flickering and failing. But the other two raiders pressed their attack, their green energy beams hammering K-7 relentlessly. The station groaned under the strain. Internal alarms blared, the air thick with the smell of burning circuits.
Just as K-7’s shields threatened to collapse entirely, a new sensor contact appeared on Worf’s screen. A vessel decloaking…and then another, and another. Three ships materializing out of the void, flanking K-7, their weapons powering up.
“Sensors…identifying! USS Gabriel Bell, Miranda-class starship, NCC-9092, Captain Werner Askin commanding! And…two Klingon Birds-of-Prey! House of Korath markings!” Worf announced, his voice filled with relief.
The Gabriel Bell, shields blazing at full power, moved to intercept the Gorn attack, her phaser arrays unleashing a barrage of energy. The two Klingon Birds-of-Prey, with predatory grace, swooped in from either side, their disruptor cannons spitting bolts of raw power. The tide of battle turned in an instant.
Caught in a crossfire, the Gorn raiders fought back fiercely, but they were outmatched. The combined firepower of the Gabriel Bell and the Klingon warships was overwhelming. One Gorn raider erupted in a spectacular fireball, its hull breached, its warp core destabilized. The remaining two, realizing the futility of their attack, attempted to disengage, but the Gabriel Bell, along with the lead Bird-of-Prey, pursued relentlessly. Within minutes, both remaining Gorn vessels lay crippled and adrift, their weapons silent.
Silence descended once more on the operations center of K-7, a stunned, heavy silence broken only by the hum of the station’s life support systems and the ragged breaths of the crew. The red alert klaxons dimmed, replaced by the steady, reassuring blue of normal operations.
Zoa-sh, her chest heaving, stared at the tactical display, at the smoking wrecks of the Gorn raiders. “Report,” she barked, her voice still rough but calmer now.
Worf ran a quick diagnostic. “Damage to station…moderate, shield integrity seventy percent. No casualties reported. USS Gabriel Bell and Klingon vessels report minimal damage.”
Klarr stepped forward, his gaze steady and resolute. “This was no random pirate raid, Commander. This was a deliberate act of aggression. A message.”
K’Ehleyr nodded, her expression grave. “A message received, and answered. The Federation and Klingon Empire stand united, even here, on the edge of the unknown.”
Worf glanced at K’Ehleyr, a flicker of warmth in his usually stoic eyes. He was silent, but his presence, solid and unwavering at his post, spoke volumes. He knew unity, he valued strength, and in that moment, amidst the lingering tension and the chilling mystery of the unknown object, he found a small measure of solace in the alliance that bound him to these people, to this station, to this galaxy.
And in the secret, unspoken bond he shared with the perceptive Klingon/human hybrid who stood beside him. The larger mysteries remained, the threat of the object, the motives of the Gorn the circling of the Cardassians, and the shadow of the Romulans, all hung heavy in the air. But for now, K-7 had stood firm, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness. And the investigation, with the arrival of Captain McCallister and her unconventional methods, was just beginning.
END
Kudos to the klingon diplomats for being actually more diplomatic than a Star Fleet officer. Commander Zoa-sh was right on the edge of insubordination. Got a Gorn attack coming out of nowhere... I'm sure Star Fleet will be pursuing some context for that. Nice to see the updated K-7. Thanks!! rbs
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