First Duty: Musashi #1 - "In the Shadow of Alnilam" (WIP)

[McCovey Cove]

For those of you who enjoyed Leo's first written appearance in "Conduct Unbecoming," and are avidly reading Leo's earlier adventures, "Trial of Transfer," "Borderline Justice," and "At Her Majesty's Discretion" in WIP format here on TBBS, I am pleased to present the very first novel covering Leo's return from JAG to fleet service! Feedback and suggestions are welcome as this is a learning opportunity to improve my writing.

NOTE: In accordance with TBBS policy, I may have had to censor any adult language in dialogue. If you'd prefer to read the uncensored version, I encourage you to click here, which will take you to Ad Astra.

I recommend reading the prequel shorts, if you have not already done so. It will provide some background to the new foreground characters being introduced.

Musashi "Prequel" Stories:
- #1: Reserved for Those Willing - Leo's career decision
- #2: Your Service Honors Us - T'Rel's court-martial wrap-up (Conduct Unbecoming)
- #3: The Razor's Edge - Introduction of the new CAG
- #4: Strength from the Shadows - Introduction of the new intel officer
- #5: A Work in Progress - Esumi Benten's arc resolution (Borderline Justice)

Story Summary: Stardate 4402.48: Three months after its commissioning, Captain Leo Verde and the crew of the starship Musashi are sent to the far corner of Federation space to augment Border Service patrols and secretly support covert anti-piracy operations already underway. When a deep-cover operative's identity is compromised, the crew must execute a high-stakes rescue mission with lives on the line, putting themselves between ruthless pirates and the fragile security of the far reaches of Federation's frontier.

Historian's Note: The events of this story take place roughly nine months after the events of "Conduct Unbecoming," and three months after @Gibraltar 's Starship Reykjavik story, "Domum Soli."

First Duty: Musashi - "In the Shadow of Alnilam"
by Lord McCovey Cove

Chapter One: Know Thyself

NCC-3347 (USS Musashi)
Entering Sector 195, en route to the Rho Kelnar system, Warp 5
Stardate 4402.48 (Saturday, April 21, 2323)
Captain's Ready Room

Aboard the Federation starship Musashi, Captain Leo Verde sat in his ready room, letting the soft strains of "Flamenco Sketches" fill the air. The music grounded him, bringing a sense of calm and focus, reminding him of the importance of taking things one step at a time. Each note from Miles Davis's trumpet drifted through the room, echoing the unhurried rhythm Leo used as he read the reports before him. The steady bass anchored the melody, much like the ship's engines beneath him, as the music ebbed and flowed with a restrained yet meaningful cadence. The soft chords of Bill Evans's piano and John Coltrane's saxophone wove through the silence, mirroring the quiet complexity of the unfolding situation.

As Leo sifted through the details of Musashi's upcoming rendezvous at Starbase 32, the music wasn’t a distraction, but a steady undercurrent that brought focus—a calm counterpoint to the steady pulse of the ship and the unfolding mission ahead.

After her commissioning on New Year's Eve, Musashi embarked on a three-month shakedown cruise, giving the crew time to familiarize themselves with the ship's operations and ensure everything functioned smoothly. The extended period, with yard engineers still aboard, allowed Leo to continue his working relationship with the Supervisor of Shipbuilding, Commander Skansh. However, when the third month concluded, it was time to bid farewell to the talented group of specialists, returning them to Utopia Planitia before setting course for their mission in the distant sector near the Klingon border; a three-week trip at warp five.

Coltrane's saxophone took the lead just as a gentle chime from the bridge door demanded his attention, signaling a visitor.

"Enter," Leo called smoothly, his eyes lifting from the reports in anticipation of who would appear.

Captain Lillith "Monty" Montgomery, OSI, stepped into the ready room, her sharp eyes and relaxed posture exuding the confidence of someone well-versed in secrets and strategy. "Afternoon, Leo," she greeted warmly, her Edinburgh accent giving the words a gentle cadence.

"Good afternoon," Leo replied, gesturing to the chair across from him. "What can I do for you?"

Monty’s curly red hair bounced lightly as she approached and eased into the chair, crossing her legs. Glancing up, her green eyes sparked with curiosity. "What’s this, then?" she asked, gesturing at the ceiling as the music flowed through the compartment.

"Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Bill Evans," Leo said with a note of pride. "It’s called Flamenco Sketches."

"Jazz, is it?" she said, raising an eyebrow with clear interest.

He nodded. "Yeah. Helps me focus while I’m reading." His tone held a hint of personal satisfaction—this was more than background music, it was part of his routine. He paused the playback, turning his attention to the conversation.

"So, you’ve read the orders, then?" Monty asked, leaning back in her seat, her gaze steady as she watched him process the new mission.

"I did." Leo tapped his PADD, the weight of his orders still on his mind. "The admiral told me to 'open after entering destination sector.'" He glanced at her, noticing her telling expression. "I assume you’ve already seen them?"

Monty’s eyes sparkled, a playful edge in her tone. "Aye, I knew before we even left Utopia Planitia. Strict orders, though—couldn’t say a word until now. You know how it goes."

Leo sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I’m going to have to get used to having someone aboard who knows more than I do."

She smirked, her tone light and impish. "Even if I wasn’t in Intelligence, I’d still think that to be the case," she added, her voice laced with sarcasm.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fair enough. However, keep in mind that I may not have been top of my class at the Academy, but I wasn’t at the bottom, either."

"Duly noted," Monty replied, her lopsided grin firmly in place. "So, how’s the brilliant captain finding his orders, then?"

Leo’s brow furrowed as he pulled up the full text on the desktop terminal’s screen, a growing sense of responsibility weighing on him. He glanced at the lines of text, the weight of responsibility settling in with each word:

STARFLEET COMMAND​

From: ADM Saavik
Starfleet Command

To: CAPT R. E. Verde
Commanding Officer, NCC-3347 (USS Musashi)

Subj: Operational Orders - Patrol of Sector 195

Ref: Starfleet Directive 476-B, Authorization for Augmentation of Starfleet Border Service

---

1. Purpose: NCC-3347 (USS Musashi, a Matsumoto-class multimission command cruiser) is hereby directed and authorized to proceed directly to Sector 195 in Federation territory. This sector contains the border separating the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire, as well as a portion of Orion-controlled space, making it a high-priority area for the protection of Federation interests and trade.
2. Mission: NCC-3347 is tasked with patrolling Federation territory within Sector 195. While not formally assigned to the Border Service, your vessel is to aid and augment Border Service operations as determined by the commanding officer. Your specific mission objectives include:
   • Securing and protecting Federation shipping lanes.
   • Interdicting and preventing unauthorized incursions into Federation space, particularly from Klingon and Orion territories.
   • Coordinating with, however, not subordinate to, all Border Service cutters and frigates operating in the sector to ensure the security of Federation assets and territory.
3. Operational Area: NCC-3347’s area of operations is strictly confined to Sector 195. No starship operations beyond this sector are authorized without explicit approval from the undersigned or a duly designated Starfleet flag officer. Patrol patterns and inter-ship coordination may be developed in collaboration with the Border Service sector command staff headquartered at Starbase 32 in the Rho Kelnar star system.
4. Special Instructions: Given the proximity of Orion Syndicate activity and its volatile nature impacting the Klingon border, all actions must be executed with discretion and adherence to Federation law or treaty. You are authorized to take all necessary actions to protect Federation space but should avoid unnecessary provocation or escalation with Klingon or Orion forces unless in direct defense of Federation assets.
5. Reporting: Regular situation reports (SITREPs) are to be transmitted to Starbase 32 and Starfleet Command every 48 hours. Immediate notification is required for any significant incidents, including unauthorized incursions or breaches of the Klingon border.
6. Logistics: Resupply, repairs, and maintenance may be conducted at Starbase 32 or any other authorized Federation outposts in the sector. Any deviation from this order must be cleared through Starfleet Command.
7. Effective Date: These orders are effective immediately upon receipt.
8. Command and Control: Maintain constant communication with Sector Command and the Border Service regarding operations and emergent threats. Tactical decisions are left to your discretion, provided they remain consistent with these orders and all Starfleet regulations or directives.
9. Point of Contact: Questions regarding these orders should be directed to the undersigned.

Signed,

Saavik
Admiral, Starfleet Command

"The wording is interesting," Leo remarked, his eyes scanning the screen. "'No starship operations beyond this sector are authorized.'"

Monty gave a small nod. "Aye, I noticed that, too."

He inhaled slowly through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the implications. "It sounds like Musashi herself has to stay within the sector. She specifically said 'starship operations,' but that doesn’t necessarily rule out using our auxiliary craft. And we’ve got plenty of those at our disposal."

Monty raised her eyebrows, a look of playful surprise crossing her face. "You weren’t joking about not being at the bottom of your class, were you?"

Leo rolled his eyes but didn’t miss a beat, brushing past her playful remark. "I take it this ties into your side of things, doesn’t it?"

Monty raised her hands in mock surrender, her smile teasing but her eyes hinting at understanding. "It's been over three months, Leo, and I’d think you’d have figured out my sense of humor by now."

"Oh, I caught on," Leo replied dryly. "Witty, with a side of snark."

She chuckled, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "I like that. I’ll be using it later, for sure."

"It’s all yours," he said, dipping his head with a slight bow, gesturing with an open hand.

Her tone shifted, more serious now. "But yes, it’s about OSI operations. We’ve got several covert missions underway related to Orion activity in the nearby sectors. Obviously, we can’t have a command cruiser like Musashi darting all over the place. The Border Service ships are known quantities out here. If we stay put, we keep the peace—less chance of stirring things up with factions like the Klingons."

Leo nodded slowly, signaling his understanding. "Are you authorized to bring me up to speed on the specifics of these covert operations? I can only assume the OSI intends to leverage the full resources of my ship."

"Aye, that’s right," she said, leaning back. "We’ll be kicking off new ops while we’re stationed here. It’s not just about supporting what’s already in motion—we’ll be staging, prepping operatives, and sending them out on their next missions. This sector’s going to be busy."

Leo groaned, rubbing his temple. "Isn’t that what the starbase is for?"

"It’s not that simple," she said, her tone firm but patient as she reached into her uniform for her specialized PADD—distinctly different, with the OSI insignia subtly etched on its casing. Unlike Leo’s bomber jacket-style top, Monty preferred the formal duty uniform. "OSI operations are covert by nature," she continued as she activated the screen. "Starbase Thirty-Two might be small, but there’s a lot of traffic. The Orions likely have people there, keeping tabs on everything. We need to operate with discretion."

She paused, glancing at him to gauge his reaction.

"I’m with you," Leo said, nodding. "We offer a more isolated, controlled environment. Orions can’t slip agents aboard as easily as they could on the starbase. I get it. Sorry for being slow—it’s my first time playing secret agent."

Monty’s grin widened, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I’ve seen your record. You’ve had a few brushes with intelligence work. Don’t worry, though—we’ll have you up to speed in no time, double-oh-seven," she teased, leaning into the reference with a playful smirk.

Her expression pulled an unexpected chuckle from Leo. "Does that make you ‘M?’"

"I’d definitely be your ‘M,’ Mister Bond," she said, her confidence unwavering, a slight smirk playing at her lips.

"Yeah, hard to picture you as 'Q' or 'Moneypenny,'" Leo said, grinning before letting the moment settle. He glanced down at his PADD, then back up. "All right, shifting gears—when can I expect a full briefing on current activity? I need that if I'm going to be directing resources at a moment's notice."

"We’ll be at Thirty-Two the day after tomorrow, aye?" Monty asked.

"At present course and speed," Leo confirmed.

"Right, tomorrow morning, then," she said. "Meet me in my office. I’ll walk you through the active ops, and we can start working on strategy."

"Sounds good," Leo replied, before pausing. "Can I loop in my senior staff on some of this?"

Monty’s expression tightened briefly. "The more people who know, the harder it is to keep things quiet."

"I get that," Leo said, his tone deliberate. "But I feel like I should at least bring in my XO and Ops."

She tapped her PADD, fingers moving with practiced ease. Leo guessed she was updating her team on Deck Six. "Right, we’re set. We’ll meet in the conference room—not my office. Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of a grand ready room."

He grinned, leaning back. "I’ll take any advantage I can get when it comes to working with OSI, my friend."

Monty stood up, her lips quirking into a smirk as she shot him a sideways glance, noting the slight crease in his brow as he continued processing everything. "Fair enough. And good of you to call me a friend, Leo. Well, I’ll leave you to it, Captain, sir, and head back to my wee dungeon so you can get back to your jazz."

Leo turned, resting his elbow on the desk with a small grin tugging at his lips. "Thanks, Monty. See you later."

 

[McCovey Cove]

Major Shaelynn Rhodes, Starfleet Marine Corps, stepped into the marine detachment's office aboard Musashi's deck eleven. She paused just inside the door, catching sight of the work crew as they finished their final adjustments to the newly placed placard on the commanding officer's door. The crew looked up, nodding politely as they secured their tools and moved to exit. Rhodes waved them through with a brief acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on the updated placard that now read: LTCOL Teme Sh’vaares.

The freshly polished nameplate seemed to shimmer under the ship’s artificial lighting, a visible marker of the transition her commanding officer had made—from major to lieutenant colonel—one Rhodes herself would soon have to adapt to. The change in rank felt heavier than just a few added syllables; it carried a new level of responsibility, authority, and expectation. Rhodes had heard rumors of Sh'vaares’ reputation long before her own recent transfer to Musashi—a decorated Marine officer known for her tactical brilliance and uncompromising leadership. Now, under her command, Rhodes would have the chance to see firsthand what made Sh'vaares such a legend among the Marine Corps ranks.

Glancing back at the door, Rhodes felt a small smile tug at her lips. The change in rank wasn’t the only new thing about Sh'vaares' office. The scent of freshly cleaned upholstery and the faint trace of industrial polish clung to the room. The office had been subtly redecorated to reflect the shift in its occupant's status, though its understated décor retained a distinctly utilitarian edge—much like the colonel herself.

The promotion ceremony had been just a few hours before their arrival in Sector 195. Then-Major Sh’vaares had received her promotion orders from the Commandant, herself, stationed at Marine Corps Headquarters in San Francisco. Upon hearing the news, Captain Verde had taken it upon himself to host the event. As Rhodes had watched from her place among the assembled battalion, she couldn’t help but admire the timing of it all—mere moments before they were to embark on their mission. The sight of Musashi's observation deck had offered a stunning backdrop, the stars twinkling like distant witnesses to Sh’vaares’ ascension. Rhodes had found herself captivated by the quiet formality of it: the raised hands, the reaffirmation of the oath, the captain’s steady voice delivering the ceremonial words that signified a new chapter for Sh’vaares.

She recalled how her new commanding officer had stood there, unflinching beneath the stars, her posture crisp and her expression resolute. It wasn’t just pride that had been evident in Sh'vaares' eyes—it was determination, the kind that set true leaders apart. Rhodes had been through her share of promotions and ceremonies, but this one felt different. This one seemed to signify more than just a personal achievement for Sh'vaares. It felt like the passing of a torch for the entire detachment—a signal that they were about to step into something larger, something that required a leader with the strength to bear it.

Rhodes straightened as she ran her fingers lightly across the fabric of her own uniform. She was still new to the ship, having transferred just before the ship’s departure from Utopia Planitia, and though she was eager to prove herself, there was always that unfamiliar tension of stepping into a new chain of command. Working under Sh'vaares, a Marine whose reputation preceded her, was both an honor and a challenge Rhodes intended to meet head-on.

Adjusting her stance, she stepped forward, knowing that whatever lay ahead for Musashi and its Marines, she and the newest lieutenant colonel in the Marine Corps were ready for it.

The tension in the pilot's ready room on Deck Eight crackled like static electricity, thick and palpable. Lieutenant (jg) Kimberly Timm stood rigid, her eyes locked unflinchingly on Commander Taliah "Razor" Chaudhari, the Commander of Aerospace Group (CAG). The ready room was utilitarian—lined with mission briefings, flight records, and tactical displays—but at that moment, none of it mattered.

"It's [CENSORED]," Timm said flatly, her voice sharp, slicing through the air like a blade.

The CAG froze mid-gesture, then turned on her heel with military precision to face the most junior pilot in her group. Chaudhari's expression was a mix of incredulity and cold fury—a look that could dismantle a lesser officer. Her dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the audacity before her.

"What was that, Lieutenant?" Chaudhari asked, her tone low, lethal.

Timm didn’t blink. "I said, it's [CENSORED]. Sir."

There was no apology in Timm's voice, just that razor-sharp edge, which only pushed Chaudhari's irritation further. The tension between them had been building for weeks—Timm, with her cocky attitude and lack of regard for strict protocol, and Chaudhari, who ran the Aerospace Group with a fierce dedication to discipline. This wasn’t the first time they’d clashed, but it was quickly becoming the most public.

Standing a few feet away, Lieutenant Guilla Vazen, an El-Aurian, did her best to remain neutral. The corner of her lips twitched as she raised a hand, half-covering her face to hide the amusement she couldn't entirely suppress. She knew both far too well—her co-pilot's rebellious streak was as much a part of her as her skill behind the controls. Vazen could see it in Timm's posture: she wasn't backing down, not even from the CAG.

But there was more to it than Timm's usual bravado. Vazen had watched her friend quietly seethe since the last simulation's debriefing, where Chaudhari had—once again—publicly questioned Timm's judgment in front of the entire group. It wasn't that Timm had been wrong. In fact, the maneuver she pulled had saved the squadron from near disaster during atmospheric entry. But Chaudhari wasn’t the type of commander to take kindly to unorthodox tactics, no matter the outcome. Timm, never one to shy away from speaking her mind, had taken the reprimand personally.

As Vazen stood there, silently observing, a sense of déjà vu washed over her. Memories of her first assignment on the Constitution (refit)-class USS Bonhomme Richard surfaced, when she had first served with Chaudhari. Vazen had been fresh out of the Academy, an eager ensign assigned to the same Aerospace Group as Chaudhari, who was already a seasoned lieutenant commander. Back then, Chaudhari had flown under Commander Owen Darvin, a no-nonsense CAG with a ruthless reputation for demanding perfection in flight operations. Darvin had scrutinized every maneuver, pushed Chaudhari to her limits, much like Chaudhari was doing to Timm now—relentless and discipline-focused.

Vazen recalled how Chaudhari had bristled under that constant pressure, but she’d risen to the challenge every time, determined to prove herself. It was clear to Vazen now that Chaudhari had learned more than just tactics from Darvin—she had inherited his command style, and four years later, she was passing those same lessons on to her junior pilots. The irony wasn’t lost on Vazen. Chaudhari was brilliant, but just like Darvin had been tough on her, she was now riding Timm harder than anyone else in the squadron. Vazen had come to respect Chaudhari during those years aboard the Bonnie Dick, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Timm would rise to the challenge the way Chaudhari had.

Vazen’s eyes flicked between them now, the silent storm brewing between Timm and Chaudhari palpable. She’d seen this coming a mile away. Chaudhari, for all her tactical brilliance, pushed her pilots hard—especially Timm, who, in Vazen’s opinion, had the raw talent to back up her unconventional methods. But Vazen knew the truth: Chaudhari probably recognized a bit of herself in Timm, that same rebellious streak, that same unwillingness to follow every rule to the letter. And that, in the end, was what made their clashes so inevitable.

Timm stood tall, her back straight, her eyes unwavering as she held Chaudhari’s gaze. There was no mistaking the defiance, even as she added the perfunctory "Sir" at the end. The room seemed to hold its breath.

“You think I give a damn about how you feel about my orders, Lieutenant?” Chaudhari shot back, her voice laced with icy authority. “This isn’t a democracy. If I tell you to fly into a sun, you ask how fast, understood?”

Timm’s jaw clenched, and for a second, Vazen thought she might push back harder, might escalate this beyond a point of no return. Instead, Timm bit down on whatever retort was burning on her tongue and straightened even further, staring straight ahead. "Understood, Sir."

Vazen’s fingers itched to intervene, to defuse the situation with some well-placed humor, but she knew better than to step in now. There was something deeper going on between Timm and Chaudhari—something that needed to come to a head. Vazen could see the way the two women circled each other, metaphorically speaking. They were too similar in the worst ways—both stubborn, both brilliant, both determined to be right. And as much as Vazen loved her friend, she had to admit that Timm had a knack for provoking authority figures.

Chaudhari took a deep breath, visibly calming herself. “You’re a hell of a pilot, Timm. But if you don’t learn some discipline, you’re going to wash out before you hit your stride. And that would be a damn waste.”

The words were harsh, but Vazen saw the truth in them—and she saw the flicker of something in Timm’s eyes too. Not regret, exactly, but maybe understanding. As much as Timm wanted to rail against it, Chaudhari had a point.

Timm's response was quieter this time, but no less firm. "Yes, sir."

Chaudhari turned her back to them, her fingers drumming once on the flight briefing podium before she picked up a PADD. “Now, get to the flight deck. All of you. We’ve got more drills to run, and I expect you both to be on your game.”

Vazen finally let herself relax as Timm turned to leave the ready room, throwing her a sidelong glance that was equal parts frustration and the faintest hint of humor. Vazen suppressed a grin, following behind her co-pilot, knowing that while the storm had passed for now, the skies were far from clear.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

I've been enjoying and commenting on this series over at Ad Astra... Thanks!! rbs

 

[McCovey Cove]

That evening, on deck eleven, Vazen noticed Chaudhari sitting alone in the ship’s lounge. The dim lighting of the spacious room contrasted with the vibrant warp streaks outside the viewport, casting an eerie glow over the CAG. Chaudhari sat at a small cocktail table, her posture rigid despite the glass of amber liquid cradled in her hand. She didn't notice Vazen approaching, too absorbed in the swirling stars beyond Musashi's saucer section.

"Rough day, Taliah?" Vazen asked, her voice cutting through the low murmur of the lounge, her tone both casual and knowing.

Chaudhari snapped her head up, surprise flickering across her face before it melted into the practiced indifference of command. She glanced at Vazen before turning her attention back to the warp-streaked stars. "Yeah," she muttered, taking a sip of her drink. She paused, then looked back at Vazen. "What the [CENSORED] is wrong with Timm?" The edge of frustration in her voice was tempered with genuine curiosity. "You two were on Repulse together. Is it me, or is she just impossible?"

Vazen slid into the seat opposite her, leaning back as she considered the question. "It's a bit of both," Vazen replied, shrugging one shoulder. "On Repulse, Dini knew how to handle her. He let her do her thing, mostly because he trusted her instincts. The skipper, though? He micromanaged everyone, barely trusted his own crew. It was a different environment."

Chaudhari's expression softened, the mention of Dini stirring memories. "I heard about Dini," she said quietly, respect in her voice. "At least he went out on his own terms. Died a hero."

"Posthumous promotion and the Medal of Valor," Vazen said, her tone softening with a mix of pride and sorrow. She stared into her drink for a moment. "Dini was one of the greats. A damn good pilot and an even better CAG. He always had our backs."

Chaudhari leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "That's the thing, Guilla... I want to be a great CAG. I really do." There was a hesitation in her words, a rare vulnerability that took Vazen by surprise. The usual fire in Chaudhari's eyes flickered, replaced for a moment by something closer to desperation. "[CENSORED]," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll just say it—this is my last shot."

Vazen frowned, sitting up a little straighter. "What do you mean?"

"Back on the Bonnie Dick, before you arrived, I’d been passed over for promotion… twice," Chaudhari admitted with two fingers held up to emphasize her point; her words heavy with the weight of years spent stagnating. "Eight years stuck as a light commander… watching my Academy classmates become captains and full commanders. If it weren’t for Valentinou’s connections, getting me this berth, I’d probably be retired by now."

Vazen’s gaze drifted to Chaudhari’s uniform, the silver-rimmed insignia with two bronze bars glinting in the lounge’s subdued lighting "But you’re a full commander," she pointed out, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Breveted," Chaudhari corrected, the word falling from her lips like a bitter truth. "Temporary. I have to prove I’m worth making it permanent—six to twelve months. And if I can’t, it’s the captain’s call whether I stay or I’m out."

Vazen exhaled slowly, the gravity of Chaudhari’s situation sinking in. She could feel the pressure that her superior was under, not just from the usual burdens of command but from the looming specter of her own career hanging in the balance. The tension in the air felt heavier now, more personal. "And you’re worried Timm might blow it all up?" she asked, her voice softer, understanding.

The only response from the CAG was a silent, thoughtful nod.

Vazen exhaled, feeling the weight of the conversation. She took a moment to measure her words, balancing her loyalty to her friend with her duty to the chain of command. "Timm's one of the best I've flown with, Taliah—even counting you," Vazen said, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "And yeah, she scares the hell out of me in the cockpit. Every. Single. Time. But it's not recklessness. She's not some adrenaline junkie." Vazen paused, searching for the right words. "She's got something special. It's like she sees the numbers, the angles, the corrections—all of it—in her head. She knows exactly where the line is and dances on it to get us through. She’s brilliant, just... rough around the edges."

Chaudhari’s expression tightened, her eyes narrowing as she considered Vazen’s words. "Does the calculus, huh? So… those maneuvers weren’t just pure luck?"

Vazen shook her head. "You weren’t there when we emergency-launched out of Repulse. The ship came out of warp too hot, and we were in a bad spot. Timm… she knew. She knew the exact moment the ship dropped to impulse. She knew the roll, the pitch, everything we needed to break free from the approach vector, all without looking at her console. Her hands were on the controls, sure, but her eyes were forward. She executed the departure sequence at full impulse, cleared the safe zone, and jumped us back to warp like it was nothing. It was like she flew by instinct, not instruments."

“[CENSORED],” Chaudhari sputtered, the disbelief coloring her voice as she echoed Timm’s own words from earlier. "That’s impossible."

"Improbable," Vazen corrected, leaning in, her tone more serious. "But not impossible. Dini made her pilot-in-command that day for a reason. She saved all our lives. The Distinguished Flying Cross wasn't a favor—it was earned, every bit of it."

Chaudhari fell silent, her mind clearly processing what Vazen had said. The skepticism in her eyes remained, but there was something else now—an understanding that perhaps Timm’s unorthodox style wasn’t just brashness or disregard for protocol. Maybe there was something more to it. Something Chaudhari hadn’t seen yet, or hadn’t been willing to see.

Vazen leaned back in her chair, watching the CAG closely. "Look, I'm not saying she's the perfect officer. She's far from it. She's got a long road before she's ready to wear the CAG pin. But if we're talking raw piloting skill? She's in a league of her own."

"And Dini knew all this, didn’t he?" Chaudhari asked pensively, her voice quieter now, as if reflecting on something more personal.

Vazen nodded slowly, her eyes lingering on the drink in her hand. "He did. He took her under his wing, personally. I think he saw past all the rough edges, saw the prodigy underneath."

Chaudhari raised an eyebrow. "And Dini put up with her attitude?"

"I don’t think he saw it as a problem," Vazen replied quickly. "And believe me, she never spoke to him the way she spoke to you earlier. Dini trusted her abilities from day one. That trust? It made all the difference. It brought out her best."

Chaudhari leaned back in her seat, eyes drifting out toward the warp-streaked stars beyond the viewport. Silence hung between them as she mulled it over, her brow furrowed in thought. Finally, after a long pause, she exhaled and turned back to Vazen, her large brown eyes now focused with a newfound resolution. Folding her arms across her chest, the CAG of Musashi seemed to come to a decision.

"Maybe I need to have a little more faith in her," Chaudhari said, the words slow, deliberate. "But I have to see this for myself. Next time we run maneuvers, I’m going to sit right next to her. Watch her work. See if this magic you keep talking about is real."

Vazen smiled, lifting her drink in salute. "I guarantee you’ll be a believer after that."

END OF CHAPTER ONE​

 

[McCovey Cove]

Chapter Two: Know Thy Enemy

NCC-3347 (USS Musashi)
Sector 195, en route to the Rho Kelnar system, Warp 5
Stardate 4404.17 (Sunday, April 22, 2323)
Deck 6: OSI Complex Conference Room

Lieutenant Commander Shov Th'chilliq, OSI, gestured toward the large screen displaying a detailed map of Sector 195 and its surrounding regions. "Moving on to ongoing covert operations, we have eight operatives embedded in various pirate cells. Some operate independently, some are Syndicate-backed or affiliated, and others are part of official Syndicate activities," he said, his baritone voice devoid of emotion. "For now, we are focusing on the first two categories, as breaking into the Syndicate directly remains extremely challenging."

At the head of the table, Monty glanced at Leo, seated to her right, before addressing the room. "Over the next year, we’ll be placing four more operatives into the field," she stated, her voice calm but carrying the weight of command.

Lieutenant Commander Lama Niu, Musashi’s operations officer and third-in-command, tapped notes into her PADD. Without missing a beat, she asked, "Are they being sent in to augment the current operatives or to relieve them?"

"Both." Monty leaned forward, tapping the control panel in front of her, causing the display to shift. "The operation in progress is what we’ve dubbed Alnilam Shadow," she explained as she stood, smoothly taking over the briefing from Th'chilliq.

Th'chilliq moved aside, his expression briefly flashing a hint of alarm—an expression Leo caught before the Andorian quickly masked it behind his usual poker face.

"Given the increase in activity we've seen over the past four years, the Syndicate appears to be growing bolder. In response, Alnilam Shadow is a large-scale intelligence-gathering operation, executed in phases," Monty explained, her eyes briefly sweeping the room before turning to the screen. "Phase One involved a series of Starfleet-run civilian freighters transporting high-value cargo over twenty-four months." She pointed at various sectors on the map, illustrating the scope. "As expected, all eleven freighters were boarded, captured, and their cargo plundered."

She clicked her handheld device, and the screen shifted again. "Phase Two commenced when five of our operatives were taken hostage by those pirate cells to ensure safe getaways or as insulation against Starfleet action. Of those five, three successfully infiltrated the cells, and two escaped when conditions became unfavorable."

Commander T'Rel folded her hands neatly on the table, her calm gaze fixed on the display. "Given the circumstances, I assume they faced significant threats to their personal safety. I would like to understand how both operatives escaped undetected without compromising their counterparts within the cells."

Th'chilliq responded almost reflexively, "That's classified, Commander."

Leo caught T'Rel’s slight shift—the Vulcan’s version of a surprised expression—and quickly interjected. "XO, let's acknowledge that the specifics of their escape might not be pertinent to our current role." He held her gaze, sensing her mind already calculating the implications. "However, if it becomes necessary, Captain Montgomery has assured us that all relevant details will be made available."

Monty gave a quick nod. "Aye, that’s right."

T'Rel paused, clearly weighing the response before giving a small, measured nod. "Very well, Captain. I will defer my inquiry until such time as it is deemed necessary."

There was no trace of frustration—only the precise logic that drove her actions—but Leo could tell she had cataloged the moment for future reference. He allowed himself a small smile, pleased with how T'Rel maintained her poised professionalism despite the incomplete data.

"Please continue, Captain," Leo said, leaning back in his seat, his tone inviting Monty to press forward.

"Thank you, Leo," Monty replied, offering him a quick smile. She turned her focus back to the presentation, her posture straightening as she resumed. "Phase Three involves twenty-four months of deep-cover intelligence gathering, directly assisting the Border Service in mitigating interruptions to trade and preventing the loss of life. The results speak for themselves—a seventy-seven percent reduction in piracy across the sector."

T'Rel, ever precise in her observations, noted with a raised brow, "The reduction is quite remarkable."

"Agreed," Leo added, glancing between his officers. His focus shifted to Monty and Th'chilliq, his brow furrowing slightly. "So where does Musashi come into play? Are we being tasked to root out the remaining cells operating nearby?"

"Not quite, sir," Th'chilliq replied, his dry baritone cutting through the room as he leaned forward slightly. His antennae twitched as he met Leo’s gaze. "Our role begins in Phase Four. With Phase Three coming to a close in the next six months, the plan is to start another series of freighter runs within the sector. This time, we’ll be introducing fifteen decoy freighters. The aim is for pirates to board and take control of these vessels. In the process, we hope they’ll seize at least four of the seventy-five operatives aboard the freighters."

Monty picked up the thread seamlessly, her voice clear and steady. "Operatives taken as hostages will either augment the personnel already in place or replace them entirely, depending on the situation. This will allow key individuals currently operating within the pirate cells to return safely to the Federation after completing their missions."

Lama Niu, who had been quietly taking notes, looked up and raised a question, her tone measured. "You’re effectively rotating operatives in and out under pirate control, ensuring the continuity of intelligence while minimizing risk?"

"Precisely," Monty confirmed, meeting Niu’s gaze with a nod. "It’s a delicate operation. We’re carefully managing the turnover to avoid drawing any unwanted attention, and Musashi will be positioned to respond if anything goes wrong."

Leo considered this, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "And what are the specific risks to Musashi during this phase?"

"The primary risk," Th'chilliq said, interjecting once again, "is detection. Should any of our ships, including Musashi, be identified as supporting these decoy operations, the entire network could be compromised. We’ll need to maintain an extremely low profile while providing immediate support if an extraction is necessary."

Niu’s brow furrowed as she asked, "And we're absolutely certain that these pirate cells are unaware of our operations?"

Monty frowned slightly, her gaze sharpening. "OSI has been conducting covert ops like this for many years, Commander. We have layers of operational security in place."

"I mean no offense, sir," Niu replied smoothly. Her voice held a careful, respectful tone, but her words carried weight. "It's just that, in my experience, underestimating the enemy is the quickest way to lose a battle. If these pirate cells suspect their operations are being watched, they might not take hostages at all. They might just kill the crews outright."

There was a tense pause before Monty’s lips tightened, though her tone remained measured. "Killing the freighter crews would invite a proportional and devastating response from Starfleet. These pirate groups have established themselves in this sector for a reason. They've invested heavily in their operations here, and drawing Starfleet into a full-on confrontation would jeopardize everything they've built."

Niu wasn’t ready to back down, her expression firm. "With respect, sir, pirates are not predictable thinkers. That hasn’t been my experience, anyway."

Before Monty could reply, Leo leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but pointed. "Commander Niu served six years in the Border Service, aboard frigates patrolling this region."

Monty’s jaw set slightly, her gaze shifting to Leo before back to Niu. Her voice carried a sharper edge now. "I’m aware of the commander's credentials, Leo. However, pirates—like any criminal enterprise—are ultimately driven by profit. If the cost of doing business exceeds what they can bear, they'll change their methods. And losing entire crews would escalate matters far beyond what they can afford."

Niu’s eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced. "Forgive me, sir, but that reasoning seems reductive at best. Not all pirates operate with that kind of foresight or restraint."

Monty held Niu’s gaze for a long moment before responding, her tone slightly cooler. "Perhaps. But we’re not facing mindless raiders here. These are organized, sophisticated groups with considerable interests to protect. We’re betting they won’t risk their entire network on one crew."

Leo, sensing the tension, leaned back in his chair, his gaze moving between the two officers. "Let’s consider all possible outcomes, then. We can’t dismiss either perspective."

Niu cast a quick glance at Leo, her posture softening as she gave a nod of capitulation. "Aye, sir."

Monty’s lips pressed into a thin line, her dimples briefly appearing as a subtle sign of her minor frustration. "Musashi's orders are to remain in Sector One-Niner-Five for the duration of Phase Four. As you can see, this is essential to operations in the adjacent sectors where the pirate cells are active. We’ll be leveraging the Aerospace Group and the Marine detachment to conduct infiltration and exfiltration missions to secure assets and operatives as required."

T'Rel’s gaze was as steady as her tone when she pointed out, "Captain Montgomery, as we will be tasking those departments aboard, I presume we will be conducting operational briefings with the CAG and MARDET commander prior to execution?"

Monty answered, her voice matter-of-fact but with a subtle edge, "At some point prior to deployment, aye. However, the OSI reserves the right to determine the timing and scope of those briefings. Until then, you are reminded that all information discussed here is classified X-ray."

T'Rel’s expression remained perfectly neutral, her response calm. "As Commander Th'chilliq mentioned at the start of this meeting, I have not forgotten."

"You were giving her a hard time in there, Lama," Leo said as he, Niu, and T'Rel rode the lift back to the bridge alone.

Lama Niu sighed, the weight of her experience evident in her response. "Not my first time working with the OSI, sir." Her tone carried an undercurrent of frustration and skepticism, clearly indicating she did not hold Starfleet Intelligence in high regard.

T'Rel inclined her head in agreement. "I, too, found the reasoning unsatisfactory. There are numerous variables in play, and certain discrepancies in their operational approach. These inconsistencies could easily jeopardize the mission."

Niu folded her arms, her brow furrowing as she added, "Cells that survive for more than a year in this region aren’t sloppy. If they're still operational, it's because someone smart is pulling the strings."

Leo nodded thoughtfully. "Let’s continue this discussion in the ready room."

The turbolift doors slid open, depositing the trio onto the bridge, where Lieutenant Commander M'Rasha, the ship’s sharp-eyed tactical officer, held command of the deck.

"Captain on the bridge!" M'Rasha called out instinctively, her Caitian reflexes betraying her predatory alertness. She rose from the captain's chair, her green eyes focused as always, ready to yield control.

Holding his hand up to forestall any further ceremony, Leo gave her a faint grimace. "I’m not a big fan of that protocol, Commander. Keep your seat and the conn, please. We’ll be in the ready room."

M'Rasha’s ears twitched slightly at his dismissal, but she gave a sharp nod, ever professional. "Aye, sir," she replied, her voice clipped but respectful. She resumed her seat, her posture as composed and ready as ever.

The three officers passed through the ready room doors. Leo took his seat behind the desk, while T'Rel settled into her customary chair to the left. Niu, with her tall, muscular Samoan build, preferred the couch along the bulkhead, where she stretched out her long legs. Her dark brown eyes reflected the quiet focus she brought to every briefing, and her jet-black hair, neatly braided and tucked up for duty, added to the air of calm control that surrounded her.

T'Rel was the first to break the silence, her voice measured and calm. "I would like to offer my apologies if I acted inappropriately, Leo."

Niu's sharp gaze flicked toward T'Rel. "Me too, sir," she added, her voice carrying its usual warmth.

Leo waved their concerns away with a simple motion of his hand while leaning back in his chair. "Monty's not the type to find fault with a little breach in protocol. I’d wager she took more offense at being accused of thinking reductively than anything else. She’s from Edinburgh, and if there's one thing I understand better than most, it’s Scottish pride."

Niu, her grin revealing a hint of amusement, shifted slightly to rest one arm across the back of the couch. "Tough growing up as the son of the Red Witch, sir?" she asked, her long, jet-black braid slipping over one shoulder.

Leo chuckled, a warm, easy laugh. "There are maybe three people in this entire universe who would dare call my mother that within earshot, Lama. I’m not one of them." His tone carried an amused warning, referring to his mother, Rear Admiral Veronica Branwen Kendrick McLaren, known by her friends as Bran but by many others as the Red Witch—a moniker born out of her near-legendary skill as a starship captain and tactician, though it was one she despised.

Niu raised an eyebrow, her amusement clear. "Still, I’d bet it made you thick-skinned, sir."

"That, and a bit more," Leo replied, his smile lingering. "It takes more than a sharp remark to get under my skin. Monty can handle herself, but you two made valid points. That’s what matters here."

T'Rel inclined her head slightly. "While it is important to maintain cohesion, I appreciate that you value differing perspectives, Captain. It is a quality I have come to respect in your leadership."

Leo gave her a nod of acknowledgment, appreciating the comment for what it was—a rare, direct expression of trust from his Vulcan XO. "Differences of opinion are how we refine our approach. We’re not here to agree for the sake of it. We’re here to make sure we’re as ready as we can be."

Niu, still stretched comfortably on the couch, let out a low chuckle. "And ready we are, sir. Though I still don't trust the OSI. In my experience working with them, each time I seem to confirm the hard way that the patron saint of covert operations is Saint Murphy."

Leo laughed in response, appreciating Niu’s dry humor, while T'Rel’s eyebrow lifted slightly. "I don't doubt it," he said. "That’s why we’ll make sure we’re prepared for any scenario. Trust or no trust, we’ll do our part to ensure the mission succeeds. Start going over your notes from the meeting, and between the three of us, we'll try to come up with contingency plans. Let's get the Colonel and the CAG up here for a little hypothetical brainstorming session."

 

[McCovey Cove]

Montgomery eyed her deputy from across the conference table after the Musashi command triad had departed. "You have something to say, Shov?"

Shov Th'chilliq hesitated, his antennae twitching slightly—a sign of his internal debate. He had served with Montgomery long enough to trust her implicitly, but this situation felt different. Before his assignment aboard Musashi, he had not served closely with a Starfleet crew, especially not outside the insular world of OSI personnel. He valued protocol, and the deviation from their standard operating procedure was nagging at him.

"I am curious to learn the reasoning behind your decision to disclose classified information," Th'chilliq said cautiously, his pale blue skin shifting as he inclined his head slightly. "It deviates from our SOP regarding covert operations."

Before Montgomery could respond, the doors to the conference room slid open with a soft hiss, and OSI analyst Lieutenant (jg) Sophia Lavasseur stepped in. Her presence was sharp and intentional, her dark brown eyes scanning the room as if assessing the tactical situation. Tall and willowy, she moved with an effortless confidence, her neatly styled dark hair framing a face that rarely betrayed emotion but always conveyed focus.

"Am I interrupting, Captain?" Lavasseur asked, her Quebecois accent crisp but polite as she stood at attention. She caught the subtle tension in the room between her senior officers and raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity.

"Not at all, Soph," Monty replied, her tone warm but controlled. She gestured to the seat beside Th'chilliq. "We were just discussing the operational adjustments needed for Musashi. Take a seat. I believe this conversation will benefit from your perspective as well."

Lavasseur nodded and took her seat, her analytical mind already shifting into gear. She noticed the way Th'chilliq’s antennae remained slightly tense, a clear indicator that he was still grappling with something.

Monty turned back to Th'chilliq, her gaze softening. "Shov, you and I have worked together for years, and I value your adherence to protocols. But this," she gestured to the room, encompassing the ship and crew, "is different. We're embedded with a full Starfleet crew now, not isolated on Lexington with OSI analysts. These people need to be brought into the fold—carefully, yes, but they need to understand what's at stake."

Th'chilliq frowned slightly, his piercing stare meeting hers. "I understand that, Captain, but it feels… risky. On Lexington, we were shielded. Here, everything feels exposed."

Lavasseur interjected, her sharp wit slipping into her voice. "If I may, sir, we're only as exposed as we let ourselves be. I’ve worked with other crews before. It comes down to how well you compartmentalize." She glanced at Montgomery before adding, "I need not remind you that there’s no such thing as a perfect op."

Montgomery nodded in agreement, a gentle smile playing at her lips as she turned her attention to Lavasseur. "Exactly. And that’s why we need to navigate this together." She glanced at Th'chilliq, her tone soft but firm. "We’re still following OSI protocols, but I feel Captain Verde has earned enough trust to be given the information he needs to anticipate the resources necessary for our success. That's his job. It’s not about risking our operation; it’s about ensuring Musashi plays its role without stumbling around in the dark."

Th'chilliq’s antennae twitched once more before settling. "You’re right, of course. I just—" He paused, catching himself before sighing. "I’ll adjust."

"Good," Monty replied gently, leaning forward. "Keep in mind… we're not simply analysts here, Shov. We're strategists." She glanced at Lavasseur, her expression softening slightly. "And having Lieutenant Lavasseur on the team will only strengthen our ability to analyze and act accordingly."

Lavasseur smirked, her dark eyes flicking toward Th'chilliq. "We’re all in this together, sir." Her eyes pointedly stared at his antennae. "No need to be twitchy about it."

Shov’s antennae twitched again, but this time with a hint of amusement. "Twitchy is not something I aspire to be, Lieutenant."

Monty chuckled softly, the tension easing from the room. "Alright, let’s make sure we’re on top of our game. This is the first op for us as a team."

Ensign Marcus Nanurjuk took in the sights of Starbase 32 as he awaited his new assignment, the USS Musashi. His black hair had an almost deliberately unkempt style, reflecting his relaxed demeanor. He leaned back into his seat on the base's main commerce level, where coffee shops, restaurants, and entertainment options bustled with life. Massive viewports lined the perimeter, offering a panoramic view of the vast expanse beyond. Slow-moving freighters, sleek starships, and nimble small craft caught his eye as he soaked in his last peaceful night before duty called.

Since his days at the Academy, Marcus had developed a preference for a mix of herbal and black tea, though he eventually settled on a strong black tea to sharpen his focus in the mornings. His classmates had gravitated toward the bitter tang of Klingon coffee or espresso, but Marcus couldn’t stomach anything that resembled coffee.

Good tea blends were scarce on remote outposts like Starbase 32. So, that night, Marcus kept it simple: herbal tea, clean and uncomplicated. Most places here offered at least that, catering to the variety of patrons passing through the station.

The distinct smell of coffee wafted over as a Starfleet officer with the rank of lieutenant commander sat down uninvited at his small table, interrupting his moment of reflection. Marcus couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose ever so slightly at the familiar odor.

"May I help you, sir?" Marcus asked, maintaining a tone of respect for the senior officer.

"My apologies for intruding on your peace," said the pale-skinned man with neatly cropped blonde hair. "Lieutenant Commander Oliver Coburn," he introduced himself, setting down his steaming mug of coffee before extending his hand. "You’re Ensign Nanurjuk, right?"

Marcus fought to keep his expression neutral as Coburn mispronounced his Inuit surname with a heavy Southern American accent: "nan-her-juck." He forced a polite smile and shook the lieutenant commander's hand.

"It’s Nah-noor-jook, sir," Marcus corrected gently, making sure the emphasis was clear.

Coburn chuckled, waving it off with a good-natured grin. "My apologies. I’ll get it right next time."

Marcus nodded, though his attention lingered on the coffee. That, he thought, is something I’ll never understand. He gave Coburn a polite, almost deferential nod. "Of course, sir."

"As to how you can help me," Coburn replied, leaning forward slightly, "let me begin by confirming a few things. You’re the same ensign who arrived a week ago, right? Waiting for Musashi per your PCS orders?"

"That’s right, sir," Marcus replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Do you mind if I ask why you have that information and why it's important?"

Coburn smiled, taking a measured sip of his coffee, clearly relishing the pause before answering. "I have that information, Ensign, because it’s my job to have it."

"Sir, I apologize for any impertinence—"

"It’s fine. Ask your questions."

"—thank you, sir. I guess I’m just wondering why a senior officer I’ve never met is sitting with me, asking about my orders," Marcus said, his tone sharpening slightly.

Coburn's smile widened, this time more genuine. "I was told you’ve got a sharp mind for detail. That’ll serve you well."

"Sir—"

"Relax," Coburn ordered, his tone firm but not harsh. "I’m with the Starfleet Department of Management Analysis. We work closely with the Inspector General’s office on certain joint operations. I’m deputizing you to help us out."

"The IG?" Marcus’s eyes widened. The Office of the Starfleet Inspector General handled serious matters—unit readiness, command misconduct, investigations. "Sir, I’m not part of the IG’s office. I’m just an ensign."

"Ensigns are often in the perfect position to notice things that might slip past senior officers. Your rank is an asset here," Coburn explained smoothly. "When you report aboard, I figure you’ll have more chances than most to see and hear things your fellow ensigns won’t."

"How so?" Marcus asked, feeling a knot form in his stomach.

"You took some legal courses at the Academy, didn’t you?"

Marcus nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. I took 'Intro to Starfleet Law' my first year, 'Starfleet Regulations and Interstellar Law' my second, and 'Ethics, Command Decisions, and Legal Accountability' in my third year. All electives in LEL—I didn’t earn a law degree or certification." LEL referred to the Law, Ethics, and Leadership track at Starfleet Academy.

"Most shipboard legal officers don’t have law degrees," Coburn dismissed, waving his hand as if the concern were trivial. "I’d bet once you report aboard, the XO’ll tap you to fill that role. They need it, and you’re the best qualified for the job."

"I… I’m not so sure, sir. My main role’s in the CIC—"

"Trust me, Ensign. I know how these things go."

Marcus swallowed hard. "Of course, sir. But… I’m still not clear on how I can help the IG or… sorry, what was your office again?"

"Department of Management Analysis."

Marcus eyed Coburn cautiously. "Right… which I’ve never heard of."

Coburn chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something that made Marcus uneasy. "Trust me, that’s a good thing."

"If you say so, sir," Marcus replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Suffice it to say, Ensign, the nature of our interest in Musashi relates to her mission and, more importantly, her leadership."

Marcus froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over his tea. He blinked, trying to process the weight of what Coburn had just revealed. "Sir?" was all he could manage, his voice barely above a whisper.

Coburn leaned forward, lowering his tone. "I’m sure you know that Admiral Saavik appointed Captain Verde, and Admiral Stulot did the same for Captain Montgomery."

Marcus shook his head slowly as he set his mug down. "Sir, again, I’m just an ensign. I know nothing at that level."

"My department, along with the IG, has concerns about how both captains will conduct themselves. As legal officer, you’ll have some access to orders, and with your training, you’ll be in a position to interpret them. All we’re asking is that you stay observant."

"Being observant is part of my job, sir," Marcus said, his brow furrowing, "but I get the sense you’re asking for more than that."

Coburn’s grin widened, his eyes glinting. "For now, all we want is for you to keep your eyes open. But I’d suggest you keep a log—secured and locked down, of course—just in case we need it for… further action."

"Legal action?" Marcus asked, his pulse quickening.

Coburn shrugged casually. "Sure, that sounds good."

The hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck stood on end. Beneath his uniform sleeves, his skin prickled at Coburn’s tone and choice of words. "Sir… may I speak candidly?"

"Of course, Ensign."

"You’re putting me in a tight spot," Marcus said, his voice low but firm. "I’ll be in CIC most of the time, and if I’m supposed to be some kind of mole—"

"Not a mole," Coburn interrupted, his smile fading slightly. "An observer. We’re not asking you to do anything outside your duties. But if you notice either captain acting against orders, or violating regulations, we’ll expect you to communicate that. Along with your logs. Without delay. To me."

Marcus sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Do I… need to do anything to formalize this or something?"

"Nothing of the sort," Coburn replied, after draining his mug empty. "As far as you’re concerned, this conversation never happened. You’ll send periodic reports to me here at Starbase Thirty-Two, just as part of the routine check-ins the ship does. I’ll make sure you’ve got the proper admiralty encryption to protect those transmissions."

Marcus felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He nodded, though the weight of the request settled uncomfortably on his shoulders. "Understood, sir."

Coburn rose from the table and extended his hand once more, his practiced smile never faltering. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Ensign. We’ll speak again soon, I’m sure."

Marcus hesitated for a moment before taking the man’s hand, his grip firm but his enthusiasm gone. The handshake felt hollow, like an unwanted transaction. "I wish I could say the same, sir."

Coburn chuckled, unbothered by the lack of warmth in the ensign's response. "I think you’ll come to enjoy this, Mister Nanurjuk," he said, once again mispronouncing Marcus’ name with lazy confidence. "You’ll see."

Before Marcus could respond, Coburn was already turning away, disappearing into the crowd on the commerce deck. Marcus watched him go, a knot of tension tightening in his chest. The crowd swallowed Coburn quickly, as if the encounter had been nothing more than a passing moment.

Marcus looked down at his mug, half-full and south of lukewarm now. His reflection stared back at him from the surface of the tea, and his mind churned with a thousand unspoken thoughts. He could feel the weight of what had just happened settling over him, like a shadow creeping in at the edges of his mind.

What have I just agreed to? The question gnawed at him. He hadn’t agreed to anything—not explicitly—but the implied expectation felt like a trap closing around him. Coburn’s words replayed in his mind, each one pressing down harder. Be observant. Send logs. Ambiguous action; legal or otherwise.

Marcus’ stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising as he considered the implications. He’d be watching the ship's leadership—led by two very senior officers—reporting on them behind their backs, under the guise of routine check-ins. It felt wrong, every bit. But how could he refuse? He was just an ensign, barely out of the Academy. What power did he have to resist?

The muscles in his jaw tightened as frustration built. He had come to Starfleet to serve, to uphold the ideals of the Federation—not to play spy for some shadowy department he’d never even heard of. And yet here he was, caught between duty and something that felt dangerously close to betrayal. His hand clenched around the handle of his mug, knuckles white, before he let it go. The tea was cold now, tasteless. Like this whole situation, he thought bitterly. His throat felt tight as the weight of the choice—if it even was a choice—pressed down on him.

"What the [CENSORED]," he muttered angrily under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them. They hung in the air for a moment, unnoticed by the passing crowd. Marcus let out a long sigh, trying to steady the rush of conflicting thoughts.

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the prospect of doing what Coburn had asked, or that he was already wondering how he could avoid it without ending his career a mere year after it had begun.

END OF CHAPTER TWO

 

[Cobalt Frost]

That's some tasty plot thickener there! Robust, with a whiff of Section 31 perhaps?

 

[McCovey Cove]

That's some tasty plot thickener there! Robust, with a whiff of Section 31 perhaps?

Heh, well, this "department" shows up in the first Leo story on Starbase 8, so it's a continuation of that thread.

Thanks for reading and replying!

 

[McCovey Cove]

Chapter Three: Warfare is Deception

NCC-3347 (USS Musashi)
Docked at Starbase 32, Rho Kelnar system
Stardate 4407.05 (Monday, April 23, 2323)
Primary Docking Airlock

"Request permission to come aboard," said Ensign Marcus Nanurjuk, stepping off the gangway from Starbase 32. His posture was crisp as he addressed the ensign on duty with formality, waiting for the required response.

Beside the ensign stood several non-commissioned officers, including a tall Saurian chief petty officer whose sharp, inquisitive eyes were fixed on Marcus. The brassard on his arm marked him as part of Musashi's shipboard constabulary, and his curious stare seemed to evaluate the newcomer with practiced scrutiny.

"Permission granted," Ensign Kristiana "Kris" D’Amico replied, her tone a mix of practiced ease and warmth. "Welcome aboard, Ensign...?"

"Nanurjuk," he answered quickly, his voice steady. "Marcus Nanurjuk."

D’Amico tapped at her PADD, scrolling through the crew roster. "Nanurjuk..." she echoed slowly, her eyes skimming the screen. "Spell that for me?" she requested. Once he did so, she looked up, an eyebrow raised. "Are you reporting in or just visiting?"

"Reporting in," Marcus said, keeping his voice clear. "Assigned to the Tactical Department. I’m supposed to report to a Lieutenant Commander M’Rasha."

"There you are," D’Amico said, her lips curling into a small smile as she found his name. "Alright, Ensign Nanurjuk, Commander M'Rasha is in the CIC on Deck Six. If I were you, I'd present myself to her first." She paused before adding, "And make sure to check in with Commander Hameen. She’ll get your quarters sorted out." She turned to the Saurian beside her. "Chief Krite?"

"Yes, Ensign?" His voice was deep, his gaze still on Marcus.

"Would you mind escorting Mister Nanurjuk to see Lieutenant Commander M’Rasha?"

Chief Krite nodded once, efficiently. "Of course," he said, gesturing for Marcus to follow.

"Thank you, Chief," Marcus said, falling into step behind the Saurian. As they walked deeper into the ship, Marcus felt a mix of anticipation and focus, though a flicker of unease from his conversation with Coburn the night before threatened to creep in. He pushed it aside, concentrating on the task at hand as they approached the Combat Information Center (CIC).

The moment they entered the CIC, the atmosphere shifted. The room was low-lit, bathed in a cool, almost ominous glow. The massive holographic tactical table dominated the center, projecting the ship's position within a constellation of star systems. Tactical readouts and sensor data pulsed from the various stations lining the bulkheads, while officers moved with quiet precision, their voices hushed. Marcus could feel the latent energy in the room—designed for exacting operations, ready to shift into battle mode at a moment's notice. The tiered layout allowed senior officers a clear vantage point over the bustling tactical hub below.

"Commander," Chief Krite announced as they ascended the three steps to the central platform. "This is Ensign Nanurjuk, reporting in."

Lieutenant Commander M’Rasha, standing near the tactical table, turned toward them. Her lithe form moved with the controlled grace of her Caitian heritage, and her sharp green eyes locked on Marcus with a brief but piercing assessment. The display before her showed the ship undergoing system diagnostics, casting faint light over her tawny fur.

"Welcome aboard," M'Rasha said, her tone neutral yet commanding.

"Thank you, sir," Marcus replied, his voice even as he stood at attention.

"Have you spoken to Commander Hameen yet?" she asked, her voice soft but edged with authority that demanded swift, clear responses.

"No, sir. I wanted to pay my respects to you first."

M’Rasha’s ears flicked slightly—a subtle signal of approval. "Commendable," she replied, her words clipped but not unkind. "I will note your report in my log. See to your billeting with Commander Hameen, then check in with the executive officer. After she has confirmed your primary billet, return here for your duty assignments. Is that understood?"

"Understood, sir," Marcus answered, swallowing the brief tension in his chest. He made a mental note to thank D'Amico for her politic suggestion.

"Dismissed," she said, turning back toward the tactical table, her attention already shifting to the ongoing operations.

 

[McCovey Cove]

Commander Hameen, the affable Rigelian limited-duty officer and head of Musashi's logistics department, greeted Marcus with a warm smile that contrasted starkly with M'Rasha’s cooler reception. Hameen's easygoing nature put Marcus at ease as they walked. Their conversation flowed naturally as Hameen explained the ship’s layout and assigned Marcus his quarters—a junior officer's stateroom on Deck Two, starboard side. He would share the room with one other junior officer, Ensign Ollyton, until further notice. Marcus felt a sense of relief at Hameen’s warmth and willingness to help, a sentiment he hadn’t realized he needed until that moment. After thanking Hameen, Marcus politely dismissed Chief Krite, allowing the Saurian to return to his duties at the airlock with D’Amico.

His next stop was to report to Commander T'Rel on Deck Five. Standing before the hatch to her office, Marcus pressed the panel to announce his presence. A moment later, a calm, contralto voice bid him enter. The hatch slid open with precise efficiency, and Marcus stepped inside.

Taking three deliberate steps forward, he came to attention before the Vulcan executive officer. "Ensign Marcus Nanurjuk, reporting for duty, sir," he declared, his tone crisp with formality, hoping it conveyed the confidence he didn't entirely feel.

T'Rel stood beside her desk, a PADD in hand, her gaze briefly flicking to him before returning to her screen. "Please stand at ease, Ensign. I will be with you in thirty seconds," she said, her voice composed, almost clinical, as if she had already calculated the exact time needed to finish her task.

Marcus shifted into a more relaxed stance, using the brief pause to observe her. Commander T'Rel was tall, her sharp, intelligent brown eyes focused intently on the PADD. He couldn't help but notice the graceful way her neat, tied-back dark hair framed her disciplined features, adding an understated elegance to her presence. There was something captivating about the way she moved—every action deliberate, efficient, yet effortlessly composed. Marcus felt an unspoken challenge in her presence, as if her very bearing demanded he rise to meet her standards. Her commanding demeanor was both intimidating and captivating, a strength that drew his admiration despite the disparity in their ranks. He swallowed, feeling a mixture of determination and intimidation.

Realizing he was staring, Marcus shifted his gaze to the far bulkhead, unwilling to risk making a poor first impression. He found T'Rel's presence compelling—her composed authority drew him in—but he reminded himself of the vast disparity in their ranks and the importance of maintaining professionalism at all times. He took a slow breath, steadying himself. This was his moment to show he belonged here.

"Thank you for your patience, Ensign," T'Rel said as she set the PADD down and took her seat behind the desk. Her long fingers activated the terminal with practiced efficiency, bringing up his service record. "You ranked three hundred and ninety-seventh from the top of your Academy class. Out of a class of over eight hundred midshipmen, that is a fair performance. May I ask why you did not place higher?" Her tone was even, but Marcus detected a hint of curiosity beneath the formality.

Marcus blinked a few times, the question coming as a complete surprise. The executive officer on his previous ship had never broached that topic, and he had not expected such directness. He felt a momentary tightness in his chest but forced himself to answer. "Uh, well, sir, I was almost a full year younger than my peers when I arrived at the Academy."

She kept her eyes focused on the screen as he spoke. During his pause, she continued to listen passively, prompting him to continue.

"I attained high academic standing at my preparatory school and graduated ahead of my class, which allowed me to report to Starfleet Academy in time for the 2319 Induction Day." He paused before adding, "I struggled with emotional maturity during my first two years."

T'Rel raised an eyebrow, her head tilting slightly, her expression almost imperceptibly softer. Marcus found this subtle shift fascinating; it added an enigmatic quality to her demeanor that he couldn't help but find appealing. "Emotional maturity is a necessary step for any Starfleet officer," she replied.

Marcus nodded, sensing she expected honesty. He wanted to show he wasn't making excuses, and deep down, he wanted to impress her—not just as an officer meeting expectations, but as someone who could earn her respect on a personal level. "Yes, sir. It took me time to learn that being smart wasn't enough. I had to learn to work with others, to understand them, and not just focus on myself."

That earned him a nod, which he took gratefully, knowing her reactions were in short supply. "I see here that you are on a split-tour assignment to this vessel. You were previously assigned to Belknap."

Though it wasn’t phrased as a direct question, Marcus sensed the need to respond. He felt the urge to answer clearly, knowing she would see through any hesitancy. "That is correct, sir. I served in the Tactical Department."

"Service aboard this vessel is voluntary. Why did you seek to transfer?" T'Rel's gaze remained steady, her voice probing yet without judgment.

Marcus took a moment to gather his thoughts. He wanted his answer to reflect his aspirations without sounding rehearsed. "I received a copy of the notice regarding open berths aboard this ship from my department head, Commander Gwen Lassiter. She suggested I would benefit from the experience working aboard a ship with a dedicated CIC. I initially sought a berth aboard Yamato or Arcadia, but neither vessel had openings available then. The Detailer recommended a split-tour. He said those were common."

"Generally speaking, it is common for officers of higher rank, but it is not unheard of for ensigns. I believe it is that most ensigns may not understand they can request that option." T'Rel’s words carried a subtle undertone, as though she were gauging Marcus’s ambition.

Marcus offered a nod of understanding, feeling the weight of her observation. He had pushed for opportunities, but now it was clear she was testing if he truly understood what he'd gotten himself into.

T'Rel entered some information into her terminal. "Very well. Your primary duty will be as an Assistant Combat Information Center Officer, under Lieutenant Commander M'Rasha. Have you checked in with her yet?"

"Yes, sir," Marcus replied, keeping his voice steady.

"During your time aboard Belknap, did you qualify as a junior officer of the deck?"

Marcus straightened slightly, proud of this achievement. "Yes, sir."

"You will be added to the rotation," T'Rel said, tapping through the next screen. "How far along are you in your post-graduate qualifications?"

"I've completed six of the nine requirements, sir. However, I must ask if I need to re-qualify for shipboard familiarity."

"Because of the transfer?" T'Rel's tone softened slightly, a hint of understanding in her eyes. "The requirements do not prescribe a need if you have already signed off on that specific qualification. However, I strongly urge you to re-qualify, if only because you are now assigned to an unfamiliar class of starship."

Marcus nodded. "Aye, sir. I agree, which was the motivation for asking."

T'Rel's gaze seemed to appraise him, and Marcus felt a surge of determination. Her calm authority made him feel both scrutinized and drawn to her; there was something about her presence that compelled him, pushing him to prove himself worthy of her regard. "Laudable. I see you have a need to sign off on mentorship. I will assign you training officer duties to assist you."

Marcus replied, "Yes, sir," trying to keep his excitement in check. Every new responsibility was a chance to prove himself, and he wasn't about to let this one slip away.

"Your Academy record shows you completed several legal officer courses."

"Yes, sir," Marcus confirmed, his pulse quickening slightly. He suspected where this was going.

"May I ask why you chose those electives?" T'Rel's voice held a subtle, almost imperceptible note of curiosity.

Marcus took a breath, wanting to convey his genuine interest. "My ethics professor felt that I would benefit from a broader understanding of Starfleet regulations when examining ethics in command. I wanted to understand how the rules applied in practical scenarios."

"Professor Lindstrom?" T'Rel asked, lifting her eyes to meet his for the first time since she sat down.

Taken aback, he nodded. "Yes, sir. I was fortunate to be her student for three years."

"I concur. She is a remarkable instructor." T'Rel paused for a moment, her gaze softening just slightly before continuing. "Very well, given your coursework and tutelage, I will assign you legal officer duties as well."

Marcus felt his earlier conversation with Coburn flash through his mind—he had been right. He straightened a bit more, the weight of the new responsibility settling in. "Yes, sir," he answered, keeping his voice steady despite the excitement and apprehension mixing inside him.

"Be advised," T'Rel continued, her tone level but with a hint of gravity, "our commanding officer, Captain Verde, is a licensed attorney. Prior to this command, he served in the Judge Advocate General's office for over four years. I recommend you exercise due diligence in your duties, as he will expect a high standard of performance."

Marcus swallowed, a mix of nerves and determination coursing through him. "Understood, sir."

T'Rel gave a final nod, her demeanor returning to the controlled, focused energy that seemed to define her. "You are dismissed, Ensign. Report to your station and make the necessary preparations to begin your duties."

"Aye, sir." Marcus stepped back, turned, and left the office, the hatch closing behind him with a soft hiss. As he walked down the corridor, he felt the weight of his new responsibilities pressing on him—but also a sense of anticipation. He was ready to prove himself aboard Musashi, to meet the challenges head-on, and perhaps, to earn the respect of officers like Commander T'Rel and Captain Verde.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Cool, logical, collected, sexy vulcan. Got it. Definitely need more of those in the franchise...

Thanks!! rbs

 

[McCovey Cove]

Cool, logical, collected, sexy vulcan. Got it. Definitely need more of those in the franchise...

Thanks!! rbs

It's less about T'Rel and more about Nanurjuk (in whose perspective we're seeing things), who is a romantically-naïve young man, whose innocence is getting in his way slightly. This is also why Coburn was trying to take advantage of his general naivete to bring him on-side with his group.

 

[McCovey Cove]

"Welcome to Starbase Thirty-Two, Captain Verde," greeted Commodore Romuald Moussa, his deep, resonant voice commanding the room as he extended a hand to Leo. Moussa stood tall, his crisp Starfleet uniform accentuating the broad shoulders of a man accustomed to authority. The dark tone of his skin contrasted sharply with the bright white of his office, which overlooked the serene orbit of Rho Kelnar III, a silent backdrop to their meeting.

"Thank you very much, Commodore. I appreciate the warm welcome," Leo replied, offering a genuine smile as he shook the Commodore's hand, noting the firmness of Moussa's grip. It was the handshake of a man used to closing deals.

Moussa gestured to a nearby seating area—two armchairs, and a couch arranged around a low table. "Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, his tone gracious as he waved Leo towards the chairs. "Can I offer you a refreshment?"

"Thank you, sir, but I'm fine," Leo replied, politely declining.

Moussa's eyes twinkled with amusement as he pressed on, his tone light. "Are you certain, Captain? It's not every day I get to host the son of two of Starfleet's most renowned fighting admirals. I should make the best impression possible!" He finished with a deep, booming laugh, clearly enjoying his own joke.

Leo smirked, appreciating the light-hearted moment, though he felt a slight tension beneath it—an unspoken expectation, perhaps. "Rest assured, Commodore, you and your staff have already made an excellent impression. I've nothing but compliments for your station."

"Excellent!" Moussa beamed as he poured two cups of tea from a polished silver pot, placing one gently in front of Leo. "Please, enjoy it if you wish. I won't take offense if you prefer something else. Milk and sugar are just to your right."

Leo lifted the cup to his lips, inhaling the aromatic blend before taking a sip. The tea was rich and earthy; the warmth spreading through his chest. "Oh, that's excellent," he admitted, nodding with approval. "I wouldn't dare add anything to this. A good black tea stands on its own."

"Thank you, Captain. This blend is from the Cameroon Tea Estates on Earth," Moussa said with a note of pride. "My family sends me a shipment twice a year, and I just received the latest parcel last month."

"A taste of home," Leo commented, smiling. "I know the feeling—thanks to my mother, I developed a taste for Earl Grey. Though, she always insisted on no sugar."

"A classic blend," Moussa agreed with an approving nod before shifting seamlessly into business. "So, Captain, how can Starbase Thirty-Two be of service to you and your crew?"

Leo gently set the cup back on its saucer, preparing to move the conversation to official matters. "We've come fresh from the Sol sector, so Musashi is well-supplied. However, I'd like to arrange a meeting with the Border Service leadership here as soon as possible."

"Consider it done," Moussa replied without hesitation, his tone exuding efficiency and readiness. "I'll ensure the relevant officers are made available to you right away."

"Thank you, sir. That will help us hit the ground running," Leo said, appreciative of the Commodore's swift action. He paused, weighing his next words. "Our mission is fairly straightforward. Musashi has been tasked with patrolling Sector One-Ninety-Five—securing Federation shipping lanes and monitoring for potential incursions from renegade Klingon forces or Orion piracy. We'll be working closely with the Border Service, though Musashi isn't formally assigned to them. It's more of a… support role."

Moussa listened closely, nodding as he took another sip of tea. "Support role, indeed," he said, his tone thoughtful as he set his cup down. His dark eyes glinted with a subtle sharpness. "Sector One-Ninety-Five is a vast space, Captain. It requires more than just patrols; it requires insight, the kind that can only come from experience. Wouldn't you agree?"

Leo felt his instincts flare. Moussa's words carried more weight than casual conversation suggested. There was an underlying implication—one that hinted at deeper, covert operations. Leo kept his expression neutral, careful to tread lightly. "You're right, sir. Things are rarely simple in this part of space."

"Precisely." Moussa leaned forward, his smile friendly but his eyes measuring. "Out here, we deal with complexities that often go beyond the typical mission briefings—situations that require discretion and adaptability. It takes a certain awareness to navigate those waters."

Leo met the Commodore's gaze, fully understanding now. Moussa knew something—perhaps more than Leo was officially cleared for—but Leo wasn't about to confirm it. He had his orders, and discretion was paramount. "I imagine that's why vigilance is critical in a sector like this," he offered diplomatically.

Moussa's smile widened, clearly pleased with Leo's careful response. "I know Musashi is the right ship for this assignment, Captain. And with your experience, I'm confident you'll handle these challenges adeptly. Rest assured, you have my full support in any capacity you need."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that," Leo replied, though he remained cautious. Moussa's offer of support was genuine, but there was more to this. The Commodore wasn't just being overly helpful—Leo sensed he was pushing an agenda.

Moussa set his cup down, folding his hands together as he leaned back slightly, his expression shifting into one of casual reflection. "I've been stationed at Starbase Thirty-Two for quite some time now, Captain. It's been a good posting, and I take pride in running a smooth operation here. Of course, one always hopes to serve Starfleet in broader ways, to contribute on a larger scale."

Leo raised an eyebrow, fully grasping the subtext now. Moussa was offering his full backing, but there was an unspoken request in return—a hope that Leo, with his family's connections, might lend a hand in advancing the Commodore's career.

"Commodore," Leo said, keeping his tone professional but warm, "your support will be invaluable to our mission. And should the opportunity arise, I'd be more than willing to share my positive experiences here with the appropriate people in Starfleet Command."

Moussa's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his smile widening just enough to convey his appreciation. "That's all I could ask for, Captain. You'll find I'm a man who values mutual benefit."

"Mutual benefit, indeed," Leo agreed with a nod.

The two officers shared a brief, understanding look before Leo shifted the conversation back to the task at hand. "I'll need to finalize our patrol patterns and coordinate with the Border Service. I'm sure their input will be crucial, and I'd like to ensure Musashi is aligned with the broader strategy before we get underway."

"Of course," Moussa said, standing up smoothly. "As I mentioned earlier, I'll arrange the necessary meetings for you. And Captain, rest assured, whatever challenges arise, Starbase Thirty-Two will support Musashi in every way possible."

"Thank you, Commodore," Leo said, rising to his feet as well. "I look forward to working with you."

"As do I," Moussa replied, his eyes gleaming as he raised his cup in a symbolic toast.

Later that day, Leo stepped into the OSI complex aboard Musashi, immediately sensing the shift in atmosphere. The air felt different here—heavier with the quiet hum of classified activity, punctuated by the occasional beep of encrypted consoles and the muted chatter of intelligence personnel. It wasn’t a part of the ship he frequented, and his presence drew a few curious glances from passing crew members.

At the front desk, Lieutenant Lavasseur looked up from her station, her keen dark eyes narrowing slightly in surprise at the unexpected sight of the ship’s captain. "May I help you, sir?" she asked, her tone clipped and professional, though her gaze flickered with subtle intrigue.

Leo didn’t waste time on pleasantries, his manner direct. "Yes, is Captain Montgomery available?"

Lavasseur arched an eyebrow, recognizing the unusual nature of his unannounced visit but keeping her expression neutral. "I’ll check, sir," she said, her hands moving swiftly across her console. "It won’t be more than a moment."

He gave a curt nod, his thoughts already racing ahead. He appreciated the efficiency here—it mirrored the focused energy of the place. Intelligence officers like Lavasseur thrived on details, and even now, she was likely cataloging this interaction, piecing together why the captain of the ship had dropped by unannounced.

True to her word, Lavasseur returned quickly. Her posture straightened as she gestured toward the office with a precise motion. "Captain Montgomery asks that you join her in her office, sir."

Leo offered a brief thanks before moving toward the door. He could feel Lavasseur’s eyes following him—ever observant, ever calculating. It was her job, after all.

Upon entering Monty’s office, Leo was struck by the subtle contrast to his own ready room. Despite her earlier complaints about the size, the office felt more spacious than he'd expected—or perhaps Monty just knew how to use the space better than he did. The warm, comfortable atmosphere reflected her personality—practical but inviting, with personal touches that spoke to her character.

"Ah, look who’s finally gracing my little corner of the ship," Monty said with a teasing grin, leaning back in her chair, her accent coloring her words.

Leo smirked, taking a moment to appreciate her light-hearted jab. "I didn’t think it was this far off the beaten path."

"Aye, well, we intelligence folk like to keep ourselves tucked away. Helps us keep an air of mystery," she replied, her eyes twinkling with playful mischief. "But come on in. Don’t just stand there looking awkward."

He took a couple more strides in and offered a tight smile. He brought her up to speed on his discussion with Commodore Moussa and expressed his concerns.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. "Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s got their fingers in the wrong pie. Moussa’s not daft—he’s been out here long enough to pick up on the shadows we leave behind." Her gaze flickered briefly with amusement, but her tone remained grounded. "But what is it about him that’s stickin' with you?"

Leo moved toward the couch near the bulkhead, his expression thoughtful as he sat. "I can’t shake the feeling that the operation might be compromised. Doesn’t that bother you?"

Monty’s smile was serene, though there was an edge of confidence in it that drew Leo in, making her even more compelling in his eyes. "I’ve worked along the border before," she said, her tone casual but reassuring. "This isn’t the first time there’s been a wee bit of overlap in information flow. It’s part of the job when you’re out here. Until something truly goes wrong, I wouldn’t let it weigh on you."

Leo shifted, glancing around her office as he considered her words. He wasn’t fully convinced, but he felt a strange comfort in how easily she addressed the issue. There was something about Monty that set him at ease, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was her calm demeanor or maybe her composure that he found increasingly attractive in a way he wasn't prepared to admit. Or maybe it was the way she carried herself with a mix of professionalism and warmth. He found himself leaning into that ease, despite his initial reservations when she first arrived.

"And you’re not worried?" he asked, his tone less tense now, but still cautious.

She stood and took a few steps toward him, stopping just short of his space. Leo felt a subtle tension in the air, an awareness of her presence that made his heart beat just a bit faster. Her proximity brought a sense of both comfort and something else—something he wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge. "I’ve learned to trust the people I work with. Trust goes a long way, especially in operations like these." Her eyes met his, her expression serious but with a hint of something more—confidence in him. "I trust we’ll keep things under control. And that includes you."

He raised an eyebrow slightly, feeling the weight of her words. She said it casually, yet there was an underlying solidity to it. He didn’t know her that well—yet—but her confidence in him felt reassuring. Leo's concerns hadn’t vanished, but they felt more manageable now, just from that small gesture.

"I guess trust is key," he admitted, his tone softer. "It’s something I’m still getting used to, this kind of command. I’m more used to... handling things differently."

Monty’s smile returned, this time with a knowing glint that made Leo feel a slight flutter—something that hinted at more than just camaraderie. "Well, ye’ve got your ship, your crew, and this lovely intelligence operation to look after now. I reckon ye’ll do just fine." Her accent lost its subtlety as the warmth in her voice flourished, but she quickly returned to a more professional tone. "We’re not here to make it harder on ourselves, aye?"

Leo found himself relaxing a bit more, the edge of attraction lurking beneath the surface of his thoughts, though he pushed it aside. He struggled to maintain his professionalism, but he couldn't help noticing the qualities that attracted him to Monty—her calm, her composure, and the way she made him feel grounded despite the uncertainties. There was something about Monty that was... familiar. Something that made him trust her, even though they’d only worked together for a few months. It wasn’t about history—it was the way she spoke, the way she moved through this uncertain territory with such surety. He couldn’t explain it, but it made him feel more grounded.

"Thanks for that," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It helps to hear someone’s got a better grip on this than I do."

Her eyes sparkled again with the same playful mischief from earlier. "Ah, I wouldn’t say better. Just more... practiced. But don’t worry. We’ll navigate this together."

Their gazes lingered for a brief moment, something unspoken passing between them—trust, maybe something more, but neither was ready to acknowledge it openly. Monty felt a pull toward Leo, a curiosity mixed with warmth, but she hesitated, uncertain whether it was the right time to explore what lay beneath the surface. She broke the moment with a light chuckle, turning back toward her desk. "Besides, you’re not so bad yourself. Just... remember to take a breath now and then."

He laughed, feeling a strange sense of relief, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. "I’ll do my best."

Monty’s expression softened just a touch as she leaned back against her desk. "And I appreciate you bringing all this to my attention," she said, her voice carrying a sincerity that wasn’t lost on him. "Most captains I’ve worked with keep their own counsel, even when a problem’s staring them straight in the face."

Leo shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "That’s not my style. I’ve always believed in collaboration. Teamwork gets things done more efficiently, and… well, we’re both the same rank. You’re the only true peer I have aboard. I… find that I kind of like that about you."

"Me being a Captain?"

He shook his head. "You being my peer."

Monty nodded thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary. She found herself intrigued by Leo—there was more to him than she'd initially thought, and that realization made her want to understand him better. "Aye, that makes sense." There was something in her tone—something understanding, yet still professional. "I’ve been on enough ships to know that the captain’s word is final. One who is more sharing like yourself… that's going to take some getting used to."

He stood up, sensing that their conversation had come to a natural close. There was a moment of hesitation, though. As he met her gaze, he felt an instinct rise within him—a quiet, almost unconscious urge to ask her to dinner. It was a mix of curiosity and attraction, an inexplicable pull that made him want to know more about her beyond the confines of duty. It wasn’t anything he could fully explain, but there was a pull there. Maybe it was the ease he felt in her presence, or maybe it was the way she looked at him, with a mix of trust and curiosity.

But he stopped himself. Leo didn’t ask, and instead, he offered her a polite smile. "Well… thanks for your counsel. I’ll leave you to it. Have a good evening."

"Good evening, Leo," she replied, her tone light but observant, as if she noticed something unspoken pass between them. As he turned to leave, Monty watched him go, a small, puzzled smile forming on her lips. She found herself more intrigued by Leo, wondering what he might have held back, and what more there was beneath his composed exterior. She couldn’t help but wonder what he had stopped himself from saying, her curiosity piqued. There was something more to him than she’d initially thought—something that made her more intrigued than she cared to admit.

As the door slid shut behind him, Monty returned to her work, but her mind kept drifting back to their conversation. Something had shifted between them, and she found herself wondering just how much more there was to uncover about Captain Leo Verde.

End of Chapter Three

 

[McCovey Cove]

Apologies for not posting more here. I was given additional projects at work and it has consumed a lot of my time the past couple of weeks. I'll try to be more diligent about adding more of the story, as I've actually written well ahead of where we are right now. I'm in the middle of writing chapter nine, as we've moving into chapter four.

In the game of adult juggling, this tends to fall way down on priority, but I know how it can be frustrating to come to sudden stop if you're enjoying your read.

I encourage subscribing to the thread so you're updated the moment there is a new post.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Really enjoying the odd blend of politics - a commodore buttering up an influential captain and two captains carefully delineating boundaries.

Thanks!! rbs

 

[Bynar0110]

Love this fic.

 

[McCovey Cove]

Chapter Four: The Calm, Detached Warrior

NCC-3347 (USS Musashi)
Docked at Starbase 32, Rho Kelnar system
Stardate 4407.78 (Monday, April 23, 2323)
Deck Two, Starboard Side

"You're Nanurjuk?" A confident, feminine voice cut through the hum of the corridor as Marcus exited his quarters on Deck Two.

The familiar mispronunciation of his name caused a brief flicker of worry to cross his face before smoothing into a polite expression.

He looked back and saw a young woman a short distance behind him, clearly having just stepped off the turbolift a few meters down the corridor. Her uniform, the more casual jumpsuit variant with the zipper pulled down to show more of her undershirt, stood out against the standard maroon wraparound that was the norm. The ochre departmental tabs and ensign's rank insignia signaled her assignment—either operations or engineering. She appeared comfortable in the utilitarian outfit, her posture relaxed yet commanding attention. There was something in her stance—a self-assuredness, perhaps mixed with a hint of overcompensation—that made her presence difficult to ignore.

Marcus offered a quick correction, accompanied by a polite smile. "But yes, that is me," he confirmed, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity. "How can I help you?"

"Sorry for sneaking up on you like that." She stepped forward, extending her hand, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. "I'm Ensign Gabbie al-Allam," she introduced herself, her tone hinting that she expected recognition. "I'm in Ordnance."

Her assignment explained the more casual attire; she likely worked with the ship's torpedoes and weapons systems.

Marcus accepted her offered hand, giving it a firm shake while noting the strength behind her grip. "Good to meet you," he said, studying her with growing interest. Her confident demeanor seemed rehearsed, as if she had something to prove. He added, "I'm assigned to CIC."

"I see. Well, I’m also the Bull Ensign around here," Gabbie declared, a note of pride evident in her voice. The title marked her as the senior-most ensign, the one expected to guide and assist other junior officers in navigating ship life. It carried informal authority—some embraced it, others shrugged it off—but Marcus could already tell that she took the role seriously.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, the weight of her statement sinking in. "Bull Ensign, huh?" he replied, intrigued rather than surprised. "That makes you Class of '22?"

She nodded twice, her neatly styled dancer's bun bobbing slightly. The precise shape of the bun gave her a composed, almost regal air. "That’s right," she said, her voice steady. But beneath the confidence, Marcus sensed the tension of someone who had worked hard to earn her place and wasn’t interested in being challenged.

Her gaze shifted to his hands, her expression changing slightly when she noticed the glint of his Academy ring. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Ring knocker, huh?" she teased, tilting her head.

Marcus lifted his hand, glancing at the ring with a hint of self-consciousness. "Yeah," he admitted with a chuckle. "Guilty. I was about to ask if you went to the Academy, too." He glanced at her hand, adding, "But either you don't wear your ring or…?"

Gabbie shook her head, and for the first time, her demeanor seemed more grounded. "University of Mars ROTC," she said simply. "Not exactly the same path as you." Her tone turned slightly challenging, as if daring him to show the typical derision toward reservists.

"Hey, same destination. You're here, and you're the Bull," Marcus said, acknowledging her journey. He respected that. But his next question came with a certain weight. "Am I more senior, though?" It wasn’t meant as a challenge, more of a curious observation, but he knew the implications of his words.

Gabbie’s smile faltered for a split second, her arms folding across her chest in a subtle defensive gesture. "I commissioned on the fifteenth of April," she said evenly, though there was an edge to her tone.

"Sixth of April for me," Marcus replied, sensing the shift in her demeanor. He wasn’t trying to usurp her authority, but facts were facts.

Her smile returned, though it was more calculated this time. "So yes, you outrank me in time in grade," she said, her voice carrying a hint of smugness.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I apologize for asking. It was just idle curiosity, I assure you."

"I am a plank-owner." The title seemed to carry immense weight for her, a badge of honor she wore proudly.

"Damn, I missed it by almost five months, it seems," Marcus said with a hint of amusement. He could see that her place aboard Musashi was deeply important to her. Wanting to lighten the mood, he changed the subject. "I take it the other ensigns are Class of '23?"

"Yep," Gabbie said, her voice lighter now, the tension easing slightly. "We’ve got a bunch of shave-tails aboard. They’re still green, trying to figure things out."

Marcus chuckled. "Honestly, I still feel like a shave-tail some days," he admitted, hoping to find some common ground between them.

Her eyes softened just a bit, and she seemed to relax. "Rumor has it you split-toured from Belknap?"

"The shipboard gossip is correct," Marcus confirmed, his tone more casual. "Transferred over this morning."

Her posture loosened as she began to warm to him. "I came over from Athabasca. Guess they wanted at least a couple of experienced ensigns around here." Her smirk returned, but this time it was friendlier, less guarded. She tilted her head toward the corridor. "I was about to grab something to eat in the wardroom. You want to join me?"

He smiled, feeling the ice break between them. "You read my mind." Then, with a playful nod, he added, "This is my first time on a Matsumoto-class ship, though, so I’ll defer to your guidance, Bull Ensign."

Gabbie’s smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with newfound camaraderie. "I like you," she said, her tone less guarded now.

Marcus chuckled, falling into step beside her. He could sense that beneath her confident exterior, Gabbie was navigating the same uncertainties he was. In that moment, a subtle understanding passed between them—one built on mutual respect and the shared challenges of being young officers in Starfleet.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

I really appreciate the mention of ROTC, which generates more officers than academy. OCS doesn't generate as many, but I also enjoy seeing characters coming in via that route. (I used it for a main character who came into SF in his 40's after two previous career failures.)

In this case, the academy grad is wise to defer to the less glamorous ROTC product. There is a sense that the academy types are on the fast track - something that ROTC products, in my experience, both acknowledge and resent.

Thanks!! rbs

 

[McCovey Cove]

I really appreciate the mention of ROTC, which generates more officers than academy. OCS doesn't generate as many, but I also enjoy seeing characters coming in via that route. (I used it for a main character who came into SF in his 40's after two previous career failures.)

In this case, the academy grad is wise to defer to the less glamorous ROTC product. There is a sense that the academy types are on the fast track - something that ROTC products, in my experience, both acknowledge and resent.

Thanks!! rbs

Heh, then you're going to love the very next scene.

Yeah, I never served, but I have a lot of friends in the service and the one thing that keeps getting mentioned is the sheer number of reservists officers we have in active billets. I have an in-law who's a reservist overseas and every time they come for a visit, I ask a lot of questions. All credit regarding this aspect of military life is due to their willingness to put up with my rapacious curiosity.

Thanks for reading!

 

[McCovey Cove]

"Let me introduce you to your fellow ensigns," Gabbie said as they approached the long table at the rear of the wardroom. Her voice held a confidence that bordered on playfulness, her eyes twinkling as she looked over the gathered group. The group, previously engaged in an animated discussion, fell silent and turned to the newly arrived pair.

Gabbie gestured to the baby-faced ensign at the far end. "That's Dougie, working for Commander O'Brien in Engineering."

The young officer with light brown hair and green eyes frowned slightly, his expression tightening. "I prefer Douglas, actually. I'm Douglas Michaelson, how do you do?" he corrected, his voice carrying a hint of defensiveness, as though this wasn't the first time he had to make the clarification.

"Good to meet you, Douglas," Marcus said, nodding with respect to the younger officer's wishes. He caught the brief flash of relief in Douglas's eyes.

"Dougie," Gabbie insisted quickly, her grin mischievous. She gestured to the Vulcan beside Douglas. "Next to him is Salvem." The Vulcan gave nothing more than a simple nod, his expression stoic, but his eyes sharp and assessing. "He comes by way of the Vulcan Science Academy. He splits his time between Engineering and Sciences."

"That's impressive, Salvem," Marcus acknowledged, his gaze catching the ochre-colored shoulder strap with the science-gray slash in the center. Salvem’s nod was precise, and Marcus sensed the calm intensity behind his otherwise reserved demeanor. "Which disciplines do you specialize in?"

"Warp propulsion and astrophysics," Salvem replied evenly, saying nothing further.

Gabbie continued, preventing the pause from becoming awkward. "Then we have M'Ruris, who's working for Commander Niu in Operations."

Marcus nodded toward the black-furred Caitian male. "M'Ruris."

M'Ruris nodded back, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as they met Marcus's. Silent scrutiny filled his gaze, making Marcus feel as though he was being evaluated against some unknown criteria. The Caitian said nothing, but Marcus understood that his approval was not yet given.

"And you've already met Kris D'Amico," Gabbie said, pointing to the dark-haired woman at the other end of the table.

"Of course. Thank you for the kind welcome and the sage advice," Marcus said warmly. Given Douglas's earlier reaction to the diminutive use of his first name, Marcus felt compelled to confirm, "You prefer 'Kris'?"

Kris D'Amico grinned, her eyes lighting up. "Just 'D'Amico.' We've got ten other Christophers, Christinas, and the like aboard." She added, "I'll be in CIC with you, just so you know." Her voice carried an easy friendliness, and Marcus could tell she was someone who took pride in making newcomers feel at home.

"You're also working as an ACICO?" Marcus asked, curious.

She shook her head; her smile widening. "No, assistant communications." Her tone was light but matter-of-fact, clarifying her role without any sense of competition. "I'm working for Lieutenant Xi."

Marcus nodded, absorbing the information. D'Amico's confidence was evident, and he appreciated her directness.

"Everyone, this is Marcus Nanurjuk," Gabbie said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "He's the most senior ensign aboard, but since he's only just arrived, I remain your Bull for the nonce." Her tone carried a hint of challenge, as if daring Marcus to step up to the role in time.

Marcus glanced down at Gabbie's hand on his shoulder, feeling a mix of amusement and discomfort. She either didn't notice his reaction or didn't care. "Uh, yes. I've transferred over from Belknap. It's great to meet everyone, and I feel like there are still plenty of other ensigns I haven't met yet."

"Tons," Michaelson said, his voice tinged with a mix of sarcasm and pride. "On a ship with over a thousand people, we have forty-four—now forty-five with you. Most of us are recent Academy graduates. The Class of '23 is well-represented here." He spoke quickly, eager to show his knowledge of the ship's complement.

"Oh, so you're all classmates, then?" Marcus asked, curious.

"I believe Ensign Michaelson is referring to those who graduated from Starfleet Academy," Salvem said, his voice a surprisingly rich tenor. His expression remained neutral, but Marcus sensed an underlying pride in his background. "There are also several ensigns aboard who earned their degrees through ROTC programs at other institutions."

Gabbie beamed, her smile wide and bright. "Including me." She took a seat on the other side of the table from the group of ensigns, pulling out a chair for Marcus. Marcus noticed the ease in her movements, as if she was accustomed to leading, and the others naturally followed.

Marcus sat down next to Gabbie. "The Vulcan Science Academy has an ROTC program?"

"It does not," Salvem replied. "However, the Starfleet Reserve Officer Center in Shi'Kahr offers affiliated training programs to students at local universities, including the Vulcan Science Academy. I availed myself of that opportunity, obviously." His tone was even, but Marcus thought he detected a trace of humor in the Vulcan’s precise delivery.

"Obviously," Marcus said with a grin, appreciating the subtle Vulcan humor. "You are in honored company, considering the contributions of Vulcans to Starfleet and the Federation. I know you'll uphold that tradition."

Salvem inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Marcus's words with what seemed like quiet approval.

Marcus leaned back into his seat. "So, what were you all discussing before we interrupted?"

"The ensign qualifications," D'Amico admitted. "Trying to decide which one to complete, first."

He grinned. "Ah, yes. I know them well."

"Uh, so… can I ask how far along you are?" D'Amico asked.

"Three left to go," Marcus admitted. "I assume the XO signs off on those? That's who took care of them on Belknap."

Gabbie nodded, her expression turning a bit more serious. "She does."

Marcus's heart fluttered slightly at the thought. "Oh, good," he said, trying to keep his tone steady, though he knew his excitement might be showing.

Gabbie and D'Amico exchanged a knowing glance, and Gabbie's lips curled into a smirk. "Uh oh," she muttered.

"What?" Marcus asked, feeling his cheeks grow warm, a sense of embarrassment creeping in.

Both women smiled teasingly. "Someone's got a crush on the XO," Gabbie said, her voice sing-song and playful.

Marcus took a steadying breath, recalling the emotional maturity he had boasted about earlier to T'Rel. He let out a sigh, attempting to project calm. "It would be inappropriate for me to pursue any relationship other than a professional one with a superior officer in my direct chain of command," he said, keeping his tone even and deliberate.

"Undoubtedly," Salvem agreed, his expression unchanging.

"But you don't deny it," Gabbie pointed out, her grin widening, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Marcus gave her a pointed look, trying to suppress a smile. "I prefer to exercise the Seventh Guarantee—in the interest of unit cohesion."

From the other end of the table, Michaelson smirked, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "They definitely made the right choice for legal officer."

"I wonder what's good to eat here?" Marcus said with an innocent air about him.