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The Request

Episode: 12A, Special 28

Writer: Vakash

Editor: Ashen Hugo

IDP 2025

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Harry and Terri followed Captain Stiles into his office, the dual doors to Ops easing shut behind them.

“Have a seat, you two,” Stiles said, motioning to the chairs in front of his desk. “I apologize for the sudden meeting, but this matter is of utmost importance.”

Harry and Terri settled into the offered seats. Harry sat up straight, waiting for Stiles to take his own before prompting him. “Alright, what is it, Sir?”

“It’s about that Urthean crew we’ve got locked up in one of our miscellaneous bays. The ones who requested asylum. Starfleet is sending someone out here to deal with their request.”

“Who would that be?” Harry asked, glancing at Terri to signal she didn’t have to speak out of turn.

“Admiral Conroy. She stated she’d deal with them in person. You two are both requested to attend any negotiations since Commander Lu was the one who saved them, and you are her commanding officer.”

“Understood,” Harry said. “Sir, they aren’t expecting us to use the Raptor, are they? We’re still trying to isolate the little miracle that happened. I don’t think it would be wise to press it into service so fast until we understand what exactly occurred.”

“No, not from what I understood,” Stiles replied. “The Admiral has been kind enough to requisition another vessel just for this mission. By the way, how are our guests doing? I haven't checked on them.”

“Sir, I’ve been handling them for the most part,” Terri said. “I’ve made sure any reasonable requests have been taken care of. All their wounded are tended to, they all have a place to sleep and a little privacy, and any amenity I could round up. I would say they are comfortable but restless. The hangar is large enough that they have space not to feel too cooped up, but still…”

“I can understand that, Commander,” Stiles said. “But it’s just how we handle these things. We can’t risk any of them being imperial agents just waiting to strike once we let our guard down.”

“I don’t think they are,” Terri countered. “They were a pretty sad lot when I first saw them. I’m sure you saw our reports.”

“Well, we’ll let the powers that be decide what to do with them,” Stiles said. “I’m sorry, Commander, but we really can’t take risks. We can care for them, feed them, clothe them, give them shelter, but that’s all we can do for now.”

Terri bit her lip, genuinely feeling for the Urtheans. “Can I make a suggestion? To at least maybe help with their morale?”

“Go on.”

“Is it possible if I can find some merchants or vendors that would like to help out—to come by and provide a bit more variety than just rations and bog-standard wares?”

“Is one of these merchants Kazan?” Stiles asked, raising a brow.

“Well… yes,” Terri admitted. “He offered to provide some new clothes.”

“Of course he did,” Stiles said. “Fine, they can go. But you monitor them and make sure they have a security team with them. Especially Kazan.”

Stiles quickly wrote something on his data-pad with a stylus and handed it to her. “There, you have about ten thousand credits per merchant to be compensated for their wares. Maybe if you offer that as an incentive, you will get more to participate.” He said with a smile. “Just keep it to food, clothing, simple sundries. Nothing complicated.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir!” Terri said, taking the datapad gratefully.

* * *

Bay 27, Starbase 186

Gel Fenrix held up the data-pad, her glowing cybernetic eyes narrowed to slits of cold fury. “And what, pray tell, is this supposed to be?” she demanded, the gesture sharp, the pad held aloft as if it were a contaminated scrap.

Terri exchanged a swift, knowing look with Harry, who offered a quick, barely perceptible nod of reassurance. “Starfleet is currently processing your official request for asylum, Fenrix,” Terri explained, her voice calm and measured. “Admiral Conroy has been dispatched from Sector Headquarters to discuss the full, formal terms—or whatever long-term arrangements you and your people wish to settle on. This data pad,” she continued, gesturing to the device, “is merely a temporary measure—a means to assist your people while we await the Admiral’s arrival and the conclusion of the official review.”

Fenrix angrily scrolled through the list, a guttural growl vibrating in the small office before she slapped the device back down on the desk. “What is the point of allowing a parade of merchants and vendors to congregate here? We have no credits! No currency recognized in your Federation!” she spat, the sheer force of her irritation causing a fine mist of moisture to hit Terri’s muzzle. Urtheans, often exhibited their emotions physically.

Terri, unfazed by the display, maintained a gentle, unwavering, warm smile. She leaned forward slightly, her posture conveying patience. “Well, you and your displaced crew may be here for a considerable while, Fenrix. Since we genuinely do not know how long that could be—a few weeks, perhaps longer—you could at least try to make this temporary lodging facility feel a little more like… a home. You can select whatever you want from those vendors—clothing, supplies, décor, even entertainment. Starfleet will take care of the compensation. The merchants will be paid in full with Federation credits.”

Fenrix eyed her suspiciously, her head tilting. An arched, striped brow suggested a complex mix of lingering rage and grudging amusement at the sheer audacity of the offer. “I suppose that… would be acceptable,” she conceded, her words clipped. “But tell me, Terri-Lu,” she pressed, using her full name in a manner that was both a slight and a familiarity, “do any of these itinerant people have fresh food? Your replicator swill upsets my stomach and that of my crew. We need meat, Terri-Lu, real meat, not this flavorless, recycled nonsense that provides no nourishment! My people are carnivores, not herbivores feeding on synthesized paste!”

“Most of our registered food vendors do,” Terri replied easily, her patient smile not wavering. She reached across the desk and gently took the pad back from her clawed grasp. Her fingers quickly navigated the menu, marking several vendors known specifically for their fresh, non-replicated provisions, including ones that specialized in hydroponic produce and ethically-sourced livestock. “There you go, I’ve highlighted the ones who can meet your… specific requirements. Take a look,” she said, handing the device back to the surprised Gel Fenrix.

“Fine,” Fenrix said, resignedly. “Send your merchants. Perhaps there is some logic in this; maybe some niceties will improve my people's morale. I appreciate your efforts, Commander. I’m sure the Confederation Bureaucracy moves at a speed on par with our own.” She sighed and leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed in front of her. “When will this Admiral of yours be here?”

“In a few days,” Harry said, speaking up. “We’re not exactly central to anything but Urthean space. It takes time to get here.”

Fenrix snorted and nodded. “You may go. Just make sure the food people come here first.”

“I will.”

Exiting the hold and passing the security team, Terri let out a long, deep breath, the tension finally easing from her shoulders. She paused at a clean-up station just outside the detention area, pulling out a packet of industrial-strength sanitary wipes. The thick, acrid odor of the Urthean’s breath still seemed to cling to her, an unpleasant mix of metallic tang and stale protein. She scrubbed her face vigorously, trying to erase the sensation of the alien’s spittle.

Harry, leaning against the bulkhead a few feet away, tried to conceal his amusement behind a neutral expression, though a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He was intimately familiar with the “lovely smell” of an Urthean's maw, having been on the receiving end of it over the last year, and had learned to compartmentalize the sensory offense—a necessary skill when dealing with species that prioritized aggression over hygiene.

“Ugh, did she have to practically bathe me in spit?” Terri complained, wadding up the used wipes. Her voice held a note of genuine disgust that Harry found endearing.

“I honestly don't think they’re aware they do that,” Harry replied matter-of-factly, the smile finally breaking through his forced neutrality. “It’s a pheromonal display, or so the xenolinguists claim. Supposedly, it shows dominance and confidence. To them, you just got a compliment.”

Terri finished freshening up, tossing the saturated wipes into the high-temperature disintegrator unit with a satisfying hiss. She smoothed her short, practical hair back into place and inspected her reflection in the polished metal until she considered herself minimally presentable again. The faint pink of a stress rash still marred her cheekbones, but the overwhelming sense of grime was gone.

Closing the compartment door and turning, she noticed Harry watching her with an expression that was part pride and part gentle mockery.

“What?” she asked, challenging him with a raised eyebrow.

Harry’s tense, mission-ready posture completely relaxed as he finally pushed off the bulkhead wall, a genuine smile replacing the captain’s mask of calm authority. He extended a hand and clapped Terri gently on the shoulder. A low, conspiratorial chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You're going to be a great Captain someday, Number One,” he said, his eyes crinkling with an almost paternal pride. “You handled that entire unpleasantness like a seasoned professional. You kept your cool, maintained protocol, and had almost supernatural candor with the Urthean envoy—which is exactly what was needed to keep them from escalating the incident.”

A genuine, slight blush rose on Terri's cheeks, a warmth that was a pleasant, immediate counter to the icy knot of stress and the lingering sting of the recent Urthean encounter. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that. It was... definitely a close one.” Harry’s praise, delivered so casually and sincerely, meant more to her than any formal commendation. He didn't just acknowledge the result; he acknowledged the work.

“I’ve got a bottle of aged Altarian whiskey in my quarters,” Harry continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially and leaning in closer, the gesture suggesting a confidence shared between equals. The rich, clean scent of his uniform and his natural scent replaced the memory of the alien stench of the Urthean’s breath. “It's a vintage batch—smooth, smoky, and definitely illegal to consume on duty,” he said, a playful spark in his eye. “I think you deserve a shot after that performance. You earned it, Number One. I won't tell anyone if you won't.”

Terri felt a sudden, unexpected flutter in her stomach, a relic of her more impulsive days. She knew the gesture was entirely platonic, a tradition of shared risk and respect among high-ranking officers, and she immediately scolded herself for thinking otherwise. He’s your Captain, not a dating prospect. Since her last, rather messy breakup, she hadn’t had much time for anything "recreational," and found herself regretting breaking off her stable, comfortable relationship with Jack Land.

Well, don’t stand there staring at your boots, say something, she chastised herself internally. It’s just a drink; he’s not wanting to sleep with you. It’s a pat on the back. Unless he is... Then... NO! Stop it! Focus, Commander.

The internal tension melted completely, replaced by a broad, relieved smile that lit up her face. The thought of a quiet, illicit drink with the Captain—a moment of shared, rule-breaking decompression—was a perfect, necessary end to the tense diplomatic incident. “I think I'll absolutely take you up on that, sir,” Terri said, the stress finally draining away. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The next day, the urgent blare of a priority security alert echoed through Starbase 186's corridors, pulling Terri from a deep, much-needed sleep. Harry, already consumed with the delicate, high-stakes investigation alongside Fara into the Raptor's 'miracle,' had delegated her to deal with the inevitable complication in Bay 27.

The Security guards let her pass, and she entered the hull to the cacophony of a hellacious ruckus. Jakar, his face a mask of strained patience, was barking orders for everyone to stand back, he and his men forming a thin yellow line of frantic yellow and black living hazard tape before the clearly irritated Urtheans. Opposite them stood Kazan, the merchant, who looked utterly nonplussed by the confrontation.

Kazan was a striking figure, an Urthean with magnificent white fur that seemed unnaturally pristine against the grimy backdrop of the makeshift detention bay. His eyes were the most arresting feature: glowing pale blue orbs that held a frightening, detached intelligence. He stood beside his simple cart, a wry, almost bored smile playing on his muzzle, a sample of fine cloth draped casually over his arm. Terri had bought a few outfits from him over the years. He was always a bit eccentric, but friendly and warm to his customers; all things considered, he wasn’t that bad for an Urthean. She knew he was an exile from the Urthean Empire, and beyond that, not much—a gap in knowledge that suddenly felt significant.

“What seems to be the problem?” Terri asked, forcing her way through the rabble. She had to project an authority she wasn't entirely feeling.

“That man is an assassin! A stone-cold killer!” Gel Fenrix spat, her finger shaking as she pointed accusedly at Kazan, with Jakar barely managing to hold the furious Urthean commander back. “He has blood on his hands that would fill this bay!”

Kazan offered a slight, almost theatrical bow, his pale blue eyes twinkling with cold amusement as he addressed Fenrix. “Madame Gel, if I were here to dispatch you, with all due respect, you would not have had time to point. You would be a simple, neat casualty on a security report. Alas, those particular days are far behind me. I assure you, I have traded my skills with blade and blaster for needle and thread—a trade I find far more purposeful and significantly less… messy.” The emphasis on "purposeful" was subtle, a fleeting shadow of regret crossing his striking eyes before the tailor's practiced, affable mask settled back into place.

“He has been a registered, licensed vendor on this station for the last several years,” Terri interjected, trying to keep the peace and waving off the nervous-looking security officers. “I wouldn't have allowed him to come if I thought he was a threat to your people, Commander.”

Fenrix didn’t seem convinced in the least, her lip curled in a snarl of contempt. “He is a threat, Commander Lu, and you are fools for letting a monster like him among your ranks! You may think him a tailor, but I recognize the hollow look of a man who has spilled enough blood to know the value of a clean, swift end! He has probably slew many of a colleague of mine when the Reds took over, as others have of his ilk, and he needs to be vaporized!”

Kazan’s magnificent white fur seemed to bristle, not in fear, but in a coiled, almost imperceptible reaction to a threat he had long hoped to forget. His brow twitched, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, the glowing pale blue orbs of his eyes hardened, losing their light and darkening to a deadly, cold sapphire—the precise shade of a plasma blast just before it hits. The shift was absolute, a predator’s mask replacing the merchant's. He didn't just look at Fenrix; he assessed her—her stance, the tension in her limbs, the distance. It was the look of a man weighing a thousand past sins against one more for the sake of peace, and finding the decision utterly simple, yet profoundly regrettable.

He took a single, slow step forward, a movement so fluid and silent it caused the security team to subtly tense, their hands hovering near their phasers. Kazan didn't even glance at them. His voice, when it came, had lost all its theatrical flourish, dropping to a low, dangerous growl that resonated with the silence of a vacuum.

“And what do you think the Reds did with my breed when the deed was done, Madame?” he countered, his words carrying the weight of aristocratic offense and old sorrow. “You speak of blood. You have no idea what my hands are stained with. I know what it means to choose who lives and who dies, and I regret every time that choice was the only one. But those of us who did not agree to simply serve the Emperor without question were hunted down, lured, trapped, and executed. There are probably fewer of us left in the empire than your mangy lot.” He paused, the sapphire in his eyes slowly softening, a painful effort of conscious control. He ran a finely-clawed hand—hands that knew how to find a vital artery with two fingers—over the soft cloth draped on his cart. “My purpose now is here,” he continued, the light returning to his eyes, transforming them back to the pale, distant blue of a winter moon. “In the careful measurement and clean, simple stitch. There is honesty in a good seam, you see. It is a purposeful trade, a necessary trade, and a far, far better one than the messy, regrettable work of the past.”

Terri saw Jakar say something to Fenrix in Urthean that she didn’t catch and the translator didn’t either due to the lag. Fenrix looked at Jakar and Jakar stared back with intense resolution.

“You speak for him!?” Fenrix said.

Jakar simply nodded with a grunt.

Fenrix glared at Jakar then at Kazan and back at Jakar. The whole throng of her crew seemed to grow quiet as whispers of what Jakar had said passed quickly through the crowd calming them much to the security team's confusion and relief.

“Believe me, Madame, if there were to be an attack by the Empire, I would do whatever is necessary to keep the Emperor’s pet Reds from taking you back home,” Kazan said coolly, the finality in his tone a quiet, lethal promise that was more terrifying than any open threat. “I am a tailor, but I am also a man of my word. You have my word on that.” He then gave a slight, dismissive flick of his wrist, as if sweeping away the entire conversation. “Now that collection of tatters that you are wearing is absolutely dreadful, I could make you some wonderful outfits more fitting of someone from your station that would match gorgeously with your orange fur. Would you care to try some of my samples? I have quite a few that would match those wonderful eyes of yours as well.”

Terri watched as Fenrix stepped back from Jakar, breathing through her nose clenching and unclenching her fists, slightly flushing under her fur. The heat of her anger seemed to be drawn out of her, replaced by a complex, unsettled mix of resentment and curiosity. Terri wondered if Kazan hadn’t somehow enamored her with his unnervingly polished menace, and that combined with whatever the hell Jakar had said, was quickly stifling the fires of her rage. Her people were looking at her questioningly unsure of themselves of what to do. The security officers all exchanged quick glances, ready to stun if need be but not wanting that to be the final outcome. The hold had grown quiet enough Terri swore you could hear a pin drop.

Fenrix sighed, a sound of profound, weary surrender, and her shoulders relaxed. “I…. am rather tired of these.. Rags.” She muttered, her eyes then lifting up to Kazan with a new, grudging respect. “Your kind are not known to be liars.”

“Lying benefits not Assassins or Tailors,” Kazan said with a charming, almost mischievous grin, the pale blue of his eyes entirely innocent once more. “One must maintain a reputation for precision, after all.”

“Is the matter resolved?” Jakar said brusquely, his patience obviously at an end. His voice held a low, solid finality that brooked no further argument from the Urthean commander.

Fenrix nodded once, sharply. “My apologies to the other’s that fled, they are welcome back, our issue of it was not with them.” She looked over to Kazan, her chin slightly lowered in a gesture that was half defiance, half submission to a superior predator. “Nor you anymore.”

“Good.” Jakar said, the single word a dismissal. “Go get the other merchants back in here. Return the security detail back to normal. I want things back to at least somewhat peaceable as it was.”

“Aye.” Said one of the security officers turning to leave the hold. The others holstered their weapons with equal faces of relief, and the mob of Urtheans slowly broke up, melting back into a bunch of listless bystanders hoping they could finally have the day they planned on having.

“I’m glad you all worked it out,” Terri said, grateful she didn’t really have to do anything but act as a silent witness. The entire exchange had been a masterclass in tension and de-escalation by two people intimately familiar with the anatomy of conflict. “If you have any further problems, contact me directly before starting a disturbance, please,” she said to Fenrix.

Fenrix fixed her intense attention on the array of shimmering cloth samples, her steps purposeful as she approached Kazan's mobile merchant cart. The air around them still held a faint, electric tension from their recent, near-violent confrontation, yet Fenrix’s focus was now entirely consumed by the fabrics. Kazan, a man who could transition from tense confrontation to cheerful commerce in a breath, launched immediately into his merchant’s tale. He spun a narrative of rich, imported silks and durable, perfectly-woven wools, of master tailors and flawless cuts—a story that seemed to capture Fenrix's professional interest far more effectively than the memory of their bitter standoff. She began to ask sharp, technical questions about dye-fastness and thread count, the earlier hostility completely eclipsed by her craft.

Meanwhile, Terri, the relief washing over her, turned to leave the bustling bay. As she did, she saw Jakar waiting patiently for her just beyond the radius of the merchant activity. His posture was the same as ever: still, formal, and utterly impenetrable. They began to walk, their footsteps echoing slightly on the metal floor as they headed toward the nearest exit ramp.

Terri finally broke the silence, turning to look at him with a mixture of confusion and gratitude. "Just what exactly did you say to her? It was... abrupt. And terrifyingly effective."

Jakar, already focused on their route, stared straight ahead as they moved, his gaze fixed on the bright light of the docking bay exit. "It’s not important, Commander. The method of resolution is irrelevant now." A few merchants who had prudently retreated during the earlier trouble began making their way cautiously back inside the bay, sensing the peace had been restored. "It resolved the situation, didn't it? That was the objective."

Terri sighed, "Well, yes, but I still have to file a report for the captain. He requires a thorough accounting of all incidents, particularly those involving weapons being drawn near civilian traffic." She paused, waiting for a more substantive answer. "I can't just write 'magic words were spoken.'"

A genuine, though small, smile finally cracked Jakar’s usual stoicism, a rare and startling sight. "Just put, 'Jakar handled it,'" he replied, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to crease the skin around his eyes. "It’s what he puts in the reports when I refuse to explain the intricacies of a situation to him, either. He trusts the result."

“Ugh.” Terri said. “Fine, do you have to be so damn difficult and mysterious all the time?”

“Yes.”

* * *

The Next day.

Shortly after breakfast, she’d received the call from Captain Stiles to Report to the Ops. She’d just barely started to eat because after she got her food it suddenly didn’t seem appealing despite the fact she swore she was hungry when she woke up. Her stomach protested with a loud growl as she dumped her tray and uneaten meal into the disintegrator and bolted for the nearest turbolift.

Ops was humming when she stepped out. Traffic control holo-panels crawled with transponder IDs, docking schedules, and the anonymous clutter of a busy border station. At the central platform, Harry stood beside Stiles, both of them facing the main viewport.

A battered, older Confederation cruiser was just sliding into position outside, riding the tractor beams in toward one of the upper docking arms. The hull was clean, but there was a certain tiredness in its lines—an older design, pulled back into service because someone somewhere had decided there weren’t enough ships to go around anymore.

“You’re just in time, Commander,” Stiles said without turning. “Our guest of honor has arrived.”

Terri fell in beside Harry, eyes tracking the cruiser as it settled into place. “That’s Conroy’s ship?”

“USS Hopewell,” Stiles confirmed. “Decommissioned, recommissioned, and now apparently pressed back into duty for one more ride.”

“Skeleton crew,” Harry murmured, mostly to himself. “That fits what Command sent us.”

Terri glanced up at him. “Sir?”

He gave her a half-smile. “Old ship, minimal staff, borrowed for a single mission? If they wanted her to run it herself, they’d have given her something modern. This… is her diplomatic shuttle with delusions of grandeur.”

“But why a skeleton crew?” Terri asked.

Harry let out a dark chuckle and a mirthless grin crossed his muzzle. “Well with the Raptor out of service, and this being our problem now who do you think is possibly going to be the crew.” He said arching one of his eyebrows.

Stiles’ console chirped. He tapped it, listened, then nodded sharply. “Admiral Conroy has docked. She’s requested you both in the conference room in fifteen minutes. That includes your Urthean commanding officer, Commander Lu.”

Terri blinked. “Fenrix? She wants her there?”

“Her exact words were: ‘If this is about asylum, I want to hear from the officer who asked for it, not just the people who wrote the report.’” Stiles shrugged. “Go escort her up. Harry, you can brief them both on the way.”

Harry gave a crisp nod. “Aye, sir.”

* * *

Corridor – En route to Bay 27

“So much for easing her into this,” Terri muttered as they walked. “She barely tolerated a tailor yesterday.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “She tolerated not murdering a tailor. That’s progress.”

Terri huffed a laugh in spite of herself. “You really think this is going to work, sir? Getting the Kilagra Union to accept a bunch of refugees from the homeworld?”

Harry’s expression sobered. “I think this is their best shot that doesn’t end with them in an internment camp for the rest of their lives. And I think Fenrix knows it.”

He glanced sidelong at her. “And I think Admiral Conroy is going to be watching very closely to see how you handle yourself, Number One. She specifically asked for you in the room.”

“That’s… mildly terrifying,” Terri said dryly.

“That’s command,” Harry replied. “Terrifying, but you do it anyway.”

* * *

Bay 27 – Fenrix’s Home

Gel Fenrix lifted her gaze from the chaotic spread of her workspace. A dozen bolts of finely-woven synthetic fabric, varying from deep charcoal to slate grey, lay draped across the mess-table, mingling with a stack of half-completed, meticulously detailed requisition forms. She had spent the last hour replacing her tattered, battle-scarred remnants of a uniform with a newly tailored, practical military-cut tunic and trousers—a uniform that Kazan, with his uncanny ability to procure anything from an empty void, had produced almost instantly. The quiet intensity of her focus was only broken when the two figures she had been expecting finally entered the small briefing room: Captain Harry Martinez and the communications officer, Terri-Lu.

“Commander Lu. Captain Martinez,” Fenrix said, her tone a deliberate mask of neutrality, though the subtle twitch of her keen ears betrayed her heightened state of alert. Her gaze was direct, unwavering. “Has your bureaucracy finally reached a verdict on the fate of my crew?”

Captain Martinez, ever the picture of composed confidence, leaned against the doorframe, radiating a calm authority that Fenrix grudgingly respected. “Not yet, Gel Fenrix. The decision-making process is…layered. But the person who will help significantly shape that verdict has arrived: Admiral Conroy. She’s specifically requested to meet with you before any official councils or hearings are convened.”

Fenrix’s eyes narrowed, the smooth line of her brow furrowing slightly. She pushed a swatch of heavy, durable fabric aside. “This is your superior? The one whose word holds the fate of my people? The one who decides if we are to be penned like livestock in a quarantine zone or simply sent back to the Kilagra Union to be culled as undesirables?” The words were sharp, an undisguised challenge.

Harry maintained an even, measured tone, refusing to rise to her bait. “She is the Confederation’s primary diplomatic envoy for this sector, Gel. She doesn’t decide alone, certainly not in a matter of this magnitude, but she is the one who will speak for us to her superiors, and critically, to your Kilagra Union—if we can get that far in the talks.”

Fenrix’s ears twitched sharply at the mention of the Union, a flicker of pain and steel mixing in her gaze. “You intend to approach Kilagra directly.”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, his expression serious. “But let me be perfectly clear: not with your people aboard our ship. It’s too great a risk for everyone involved. The initial, immediate mission is simply to open a line of diplomatic communication. To establish trust, however fragile. If they agree to negotiate, and if those negotiations yield solid, safe guarantees, we will arrange to bring your crew over later, under the most secure escort we can provide.”

Fenrix’s spine straightened, a subtle, almost involuntary movement as the familiar, immense weight of her duty as a commanding officer settled over her shoulders once more. It was a weight she had thought she’d lost forever. “And why am I personally requested at this meeting with your Admiral?”

Terri-Lu, who had stood silently by, finally spoke, her voice soft but surprisingly firm, cutting through the military formality. “Because you’re their commanding officer. You’re the one who led them this far. But more importantly, because nobody from the Kilagra Union—no diplomat, no official—will believe a single word we say about your people, about their intentions or their circumstances, unless someone they recognize as one of their own, someone with your rank and standing, stands beside us and validates our claim.”

Fenrix studied the young communications officer for a long, assessing moment, her eyes penetrating. Terri-Lu did not flinch, maintaining her steady gaze with a genuine earnestness that was hard to dismiss as mere political maneuvering.

Finally, Fenrix gave a single, curt, decisive nod. “Then I will attend this meeting. I understand my role. And I promise you this, Captain Martinez: if this Admiral of yours proves to be merely another polite face for bureaucratic cowardice or convenient xenophobia, I will tell her so. In no uncertain terms.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint, appreciative smile. “She wouldn’t respect you if you didn’t, Gel Fenrix.” He pushed off the doorframe and gestured toward the corridor with an open hand. “Come on then, Gel Fenrix. Time to meet the woman who brought the ship we’re going to borrow.”

“Borrow?” Fenrix echoed, a flicker of professional worry in her eyes as she stepped out, falling into place between the two Confederation officers.

“The Raptor is currently furloughed,” Harry explained as they moved down the brightly lit corridor. “It’s classified, the simple version is that she’s having a significant technical ‘quirk’ we need to figure out. We can’t trust her systems right now, not for a mission like this, and we’ve learned it’s best practice to lock the ship down and give her a thorough, complete examination when she’s acting up this badly.”

“How… strange,” Fenrix mused, a complicated mix of confusion and professional anxiety in her tone. Carrying out a high-stakes diplomatic and retrieval mission without the Raptor's impressive firepower and advanced sensor capability would deeply and worryingly complicate everything.

Harry’s eyes glinted, a flash of strategic foresight. “As for the command structure going forward, the Admiral handles the diplomacy, the protocols, and the political wrangling. I handle the ship and the execution of the mission. You, Gel Fenrix, will be working directly with Admiral Conroy to help bridge a working relationship between the Kilagra Union and us. You are our first, and most crucial, point of trust.”

Terri-Lu fell into step on Fenrix’s other side, the three of them forming a tight, purposeful cohort heading toward the Admiral’s quarters. Terri felt the distinct shape of the upcoming meeting settle in her gut—a complex, contradictory mix of immovable stone and explosive spark.

No pressure at all.

* * *

The doors whispered open as Terri led Harry and Gel Fenrix into the small briefing chamber adjacent to Ops. The room was lit softly, a low amber tint meant for diplomatic receptions rather than tactical briefings. A carafe of steaming herbal tea sat untouched at the center of the long conference table.

Admiral Conroy stood with her back to them, hands clasped behind her, observing the traffic lanes outside the wide viewport. Her uniform was immaculate—older cut, slightly out of date, but pressed so sharply it looked like it could cut glass. Her dark hair was pinned neatly, her posture measured and balanced, neither rigid nor lax.

She didn’t turn when the doors shut.

She didn’t need to.

“Captain Martinez,” she said, voice crisp yet warm. “Thank you for coming so promptly, it is good to see you under more pleasant circumstances.”

Harry shot Terri a glance—she’s good—before stepping forward. “Admiral. This is my Acting Executive Officer, Commander Terri Lu.” Terri straightened instinctively. “And this is Gel Fenrix, commanding officer of the Ur’thaen survivors under our protection.”

Conroy turned at last.

Her gaze moved first to Harry—steady, assessing, respectful—then Terri—curious, appraising—and finally halted on Fenrix.

Where most officers would tense at seeing a large, cybernetically-augmented Ur’thaen, Conroy merely lifted her chin in acknowledgment.

“Gel Fenrix,” she said, without fear or hesitation, “thank you for agreeing to speak with us. Your situation has reached my desk at Sector Headquarters, and I intend to see it resolved with dignity.”

Fenrix blinked, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected civility. “I… appreciate the courtesy, Admiral. It is not something my people often receive from your kind.”

Conroy offered the faintest, driest smile. “Then it’s well past time someone corrected that.”

Terri felt the tension in Fenrix’s shoulders ease just a fraction.

Conroy gestured to the table. “Please. Sit.”

They all took their seats. Terri noticed the Admiral didn’t take the head of the table; she sat slightly to one side, deliberately ceding the central position to Harry.

A small thing—but a very loud message.

“Commander Martinez,” Conroy began, folding her hands, “I’ve reviewed your initial reports on the incident in the Roirishard system. What your crew, under acting Captain, Lt. Commander Lu did—saving a non-Red Ur’thaen complement from a collapsing warship under active fire—was an act of bravery and moral clarity. I commend you.”

Harry inclined his head. “Thank you, Admiral. My crew did the heavy lifting.”

Conroy’s lips curled in a subtle smirk. “They usually do, Captain. The trick is noticing.”

Terri felt her cheeks warm.

Conroy tapped her datapad and projected a map of Ur’thaen political space into the air.

“Now, to the matter at hand. The survivors under Gel Fenrix’s protection have requested asylum. Starfleet Command believes the best course is to approach the Kilagra Union for formal acceptance. They represent the largest non-Red breakaway authority remaining. ”

Fenrix stiffened at the name. “Kilagra will not trust off worlders.”

“No,” Conroy agreed. “Which is why they won’t be dealing with offworlders.”

Her gaze cut cleanly to Fenrix.

“They will be dealing with you.”

Terri watched as Fenrix’s expression shifted—uncertainty, pride, fear, duty, all colliding behind her glowing eyes.

“I… am not Kilagra,” Fenrix said slowly. “I am main-Empire. My caste was subjugated. My rank stripped. My choices limited.”

“Which,” Conroy said gently, “means your testimony about the survivors is doubly valuable. You aren’t a political plant. You aren’t a rebel faction. You are their officer. Their protector. You are the only one the Kilagra will consider credible.”

Fenrix looked down at her clawed hands. “It is a dangerous task.”

“It is,” Harry said. “Which is why you’re not going alone.”

Conroy nodded. “Effective immediately, Commander Martinez is granted operational command of the USS Hopewell. It will serve as your transport for a limited diplomatic mission. I will accompany you solely as the Confederation’s official envoy. Commander Martinez will command the vessel and all shipboard operations.”

Terri’s eyes widened a fraction—Harry commanding another ship was rare, prestigious, and intensely political.

Harry kept his tone level. “Understood, Admiral.”

Conroy leaned back slightly, studying them as a group now. Not individuals—a crew.

“I’ve heard stories about the Raptor,” she said. “About you all. Starfleet can’t afford to ignore an ensemble that consistently survives what should kill them.”

Terri swallowed, unsure whether to take that as praise or a warning.

Conroy softened. “Relax, Commander. If I wanted to intimidate you, you’d know.”

Fenrix snorted—a rare, amused sound.

Conroy continued, “Your crew’s behavior with the surrendered Ur’thaens was exceptional. Your compassion, Commander Lu”—Terri jolted slightly at being singled out—“likely prevented a violent incident. That’s not something I overlook.”

Terri opened her mouth to respond, but the Admiral raised a hand.

“You’ll have time to impress me later, Commander. Right now, we must focus on the mission.”

Conroy tapped the table, pulling up a new holo:

Kilagra Union – Diplomatic Conditions: UNKNOWN.

“They do not answer hails outside their territory. They do not permit armed escorts. And they will not tolerate perceived disrespect or deception.”

She paused.

“And Commander Martinez—since you’ll be commanding the Hopewell, you’ll be the face they judge in the first ten seconds.”

Harry nodded once. “Then we’ll make those ten seconds count.”

Conroy stood. The others followed.

“We depart in twenty-four hours. Captain, Commander Lu, Commander Fenrix—prepare yourselves. I suggest you round up your crew that you wish to take with you Commander, This will not be easy.”

Fenrix rose with slow, deliberate dignity.

“My people’s futures depend on it.”

Conroy held her gaze with equal gravity.

“Then let’s give them a future worth fighting for.”

* * *

“Captain,” Fara’s voice was tight, scrubbed of emotion despite the grit on her face and the faint, acrid smell of ozone clinging to her singed uniform. "If the Raptor is to be operational and safe, I need Kurtzman, Knackt—my dedicated team. Logically, there is no other path to a successful repair."

Harry leaned against the bulkhead, his gaze steady and mildly challenging. "I would prefer to have you, Fara. Frankly, the engineering corps on this station are glorified parts-swappers."

Fara allowed a short, humorless exhalation—the closest she would come to a laugh. "I am honored by your preference, Sir. But to be serious, if you want your ship back—space-worthy again, not just flying—it requires my precision. My people have been with the Raptor since day one; their accumulated knowledge is the only reliable data set we possess in this sector. If you need general manpower, raid the station. I assure you, there are plenty of capable hands not doing anything truly pressing at the moment."

Harry groused and sighed reluctantly. “Fine, have it your way.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” Fara said confident she’d won the discussion.

“You are going to miss me over the next week.” Harry called over his shoulder as he left the Raptor’s engineering bay.

“Bullshit.” Fara said, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists.

* * *

USS Hopewell – Main Bridge

Starbase 186

Terri-Lu stepped through the turbolift doors first, posture straight alert readiness. The Hopewell’s bridge opened around her like a time capsule: vaulted ceiling, ribbed supports, bulky consoles with brass toggle-guards and honest-to-god status diodes. Everything felt taller, narrower, built for another era of Confederation design philosophy. Not better—just older. Worn. Loved.

Harry followed close behind, Gel Fenrix a silent mountain of orange fur flanking them. Admiral Conroy stood at the starboard rail with her hands clasped behind her back, gaze sweeping the deck like she’d been evaluating it since the moment she arrived.

As the hatch shut behind them, a young ensign at the rear straightened and called out, “Captain on the bridge!”

Terri echoed it instinctively, her voice crisp and authoritative. “Captain on deck.”

Harry cast her a sidelong look — good instincts, Number One — then let his attention sweep across the crew.

Jack Land sat at the helm, lit by the blue-white glow of the navigation displays. His shoulders were relaxed, but too deliberate in their relaxation. The helm controls rested beneath his poised fingers like a familiar lover he was pretending not to notice. He didn’t look at Terri.

He didn’t avoid looking at her either.

Just that neutral, practiced professionalism they’d both seemed to have perfected since the breakup.

It hit Terri in the chest before she could brace for it.

She masked it instantly.

“Mr. Land,” Harry said, “gentle hands today. This ship’s a lot older than you are used to.”

Land offered a grin — that crooked, infuriatingly charming smile — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Aye, sir. I’ll keep her steady.”

Terri turned to her station, pulse fluttering once in her throat before she crushed it down.

Jakar stood at Tactical, larger than life, fur perfectly brushed, expression cut from cold stone. The tactical console looked almost too small for him. He inclined his head once to Harry in greeting, the barest twitch of acknowledgment.

“Jakar,” Harry said, “weapons and shields remain cold. But stay sharp.”

Jakar gave a low grunt that translated unambiguously to: Always.

Lieutenant Rovek, the ship’s chief engineer—a slightly disheveled but sharp-eyed canine—stood at the engineering arch. “All systems report ready,” he announced. “Drive coils are stable. She’ll fly, sir.”

“She’d better,” muttered Doctor Okan as she emerged from the small medical alcove, arms folded. “For the record, Captain, I strongly advise against being shot, stabbed, irradiated, poisoned, mauled, disintegrated, or culturally offended until I finish inventorying this antique’s medical locker.”

Harry didn’t turn; he only smiled. “No promises, Doctor.”

Fenrix rumbled something like amusement deep in her chest. Conroy’s mouth twitched.

The Admiral stepped forward just enough to be seen but not enough to interrupt. “Captain Martinez,” she said lightly, “the Hopewell is yours.”

Harry walked to the center chair — a little taller than the Raptor’s, the padding stiffer, the arms colder. He lowered himself into it slowly, letting the chair accept him. Conroy seeming satisfied with how things were going politely excused her self to the leave the bridge for the ready room

“Alright,” he said, voice settling into command. “Let’s take her out nice and easy till you get a feel for her Jack. She’s old so go easy on her.”

Land’s hands floated into motion across the helm.

“Thrusters standing by,” he said.He still hadn’t looked at Terri.

Terri forced her gaze onto her display. “Broadcasting departure signals now,” she said, her tone clipped, professional. “Dockmaster is green across the board.”

Harry heard the strain in her voice — but he didn’t comment.

“Dockmaster,” Terri said into her mic, “this is USS Hopewell, Captain Martinez commanding. Requesting release of moorings.”

“Hopewell, Dockmaster,” came the filtered reply. “Moorings disengaging on your mark. Safe travels.”

Harry leaned forward. “Mark.”

There was a faint, metallic thunk as the magnetic clamps disengaged. The Hopewell drifted an inch on inertial drift, then steadied.

Clamps clear,” Rovek reported, his voice already sounding slightly muffled by the old comms system. “Grav-sync dropped. You’re flying solo now, sir.”

Harry took a slow, deliberate breath, leaning forward in the stiffer, unfamiliar command chair. “Helm,” he said, keeping his tone even. “Quarter thrusters. Nice and easy. Keep our speed under ten meters per second until we clear the traffic shell.”

“Aye, Captain,” Land replied. His voice was a flat, flawless layer of professionalism, betraying nothing of the tension Terri knew must be coiling in his gut. “One-quarter thrusters.”

The Hopewell didn't respond to the helm command with the Raptor's eager, instantaneous kick. Instead, a deep, resonant hum resonated through the bridge deck, an ancient groan of stressed metal and recycled power. It was the sound of a big ship remembering its purpose.

Terri gripped the edges of her console, feeling the subtle, rhythmic pulse of the old drive coils beneath the deck plates. As Jack gently eased the massive hull into a turn, the main viewport swept across the station. For a long, painful moment, their gaze was fixed on their own ship: the Raptor, dark and lifeless, held firmly in place by its docking clamps. A cluster of engineers swarmed its sleek hull like ants—a humbling, frustrating image of a powerful starship temporarily sidelined.

Jack’s voice, a casual comment tossed over his shoulder, broke the silence. “Thought you’d appreciate the view, sir.”

The crooked, infuriatingly charming smile reached his lips but stopped short of his eyes.

Harry grunted, the sound a low, complicated mix of regret and necessity. This mission was a diplomatic one, and the Raptor, a sleek, dark attack ship, would have sent the wrong message. The last time they’d approached the Kilagra Union, they were justified in bringing a warship—it was a military threat. This time, they were simply extending a hand, fragilely probing the unknown. A diplomatic vessel, however old, was the correct face to present.

The Hopewell slid past the colossal opening doors of Starbase 186. With a final, gentle push, the ship cleared the docking envelope and slipped out into open space. The stars began to slide past, gaining momentum on the viewport. Traffic was heavy; smaller, nimbler freighters and couriers that hadn’t moved fast enough were quickly nudged out of the way as the larger, slower Confederation cruiser asserted its presence.

The Hopewell settled into its routine, the old, eager hum of its engines vibrating under Terri’s feet. It felt like a retired warhorse saddled up for one last, vital duty.

“Traffic envelope cleared,” Land announced, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease as he focused on the navigation data. “We are on a clear vector, Captain.”

“Hold position,” Harry said. “Rovek?”

“Warp core stable. All readings nominal,” the engineer said. “She was built forty years ago, sir, but she still has teeth.”

“Helm… set course for Kilagra staging point. Warp four cruise.”

Land’s fingers hesitated — only a fraction — then resumed moving with smooth, familiar elegance.

“Course locked. Warp field stable. Warp engines ready at your command, Captain.”

Terri watched his hands.

She hated herself a little for doing it.

Harry sat back, lifted his chin, and said:

“Engage.”

The Hopewell’s engines rose into a rising, singing pitch.

The stars outside stretched into brilliant white threads, then collapsed into the tunnel of warp.

Terri felt the warp transition all the way down her spine.

“Helm, set course for the Kilagra Exclusion Zone, maximum sustainable cruising speed,” Harry commanded, his voice gaining a firmer edge as the ship entered open space.

“Course laid in,” Land said. “ETA: twenty-one hours, fifteen minutes.” Jack replied, his fingers dancing lightly over the helm controls. The small, professional smile from earlier was gone, replaced by the intense focus of a seasoned pilot.

“Jakar, run a passive sensor sweep. Anything hostile on the fringes?”

Terri watched Jack from her station, the sudden, professional proximity a confusing mixture of comfort and ache. It was a mask she was grateful for and simultaneously hated.

“Negative, Captain,” Jakar reported from Tactical, his deep voice cutting through the bridge's quiet hum.

“Good, helm?”

Before Land could answer, the lights on the bridge flickered—not a violent spike, but a graceful, almost gentle dip and then a surge back to full intensity. The old carpet under their feet seemed to sigh.

Lieutenant Rovek immediately reacted from the engineering arch. “Apologies, Captain! That’s the plasma manifold. Old girl hasn't run hot in a while. The surge damper is a bit sluggish on the initial warp-drive charge. We’ll be steady in a moment, sir.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair with an amused, patient sigh. “A few more quirks for your list, I presume?”

“I’m up to five hundred and seventy-three, sir. Most of them relate to the fact that the Hopewell seems to run on hope and good intentions,” Rovek chirped, clearly undaunted.

Terri couldn't help a small, genuine smile at Rovek’s tenacity. She felt the ship shift, the distant stars blurring into lines as the Hopewell finally, deliberately, entered the warp field.

“Warp seven, steady,” Jack announced, his eyes still fixed ahead.

Harry nodded, the movement slow and satisfied. He looked around his makeshift command crew, resting his gaze on Terri for a brief, meaningful moment. “Commander Lu. Set up a secure channel to Admiral Conroy in the ready room. Gel Fenrix, with me. The time for polite preamble is over. We start the real work now.”

“Captain.” O’mara spoke up.

“Yes Lieutenant?" Harry said.

“I know the Raptor’s phaser rotation algorithms fairly well, I can help Jakar if you would like, it’s not like we’re going to be traversing though any space we haven’t already.”

“Sure if you’d like.” Harry said smiling. “Jakar would you appreciate the help.”

Jakar merely nodded.

He pointed at Land last, softer. “Mr. Land — keep us steady.”

“Why are you worried about your weapons capability?” Fenrix asked suspiciously.

“Because I’m not worried about the Kilagra Union,” Harry said. “Despite our last encounter with them being fairly awkward it was peaceful, I’m more worried about the rest of the Urthean Empire that could be potentially lurking around these parts of space.”

This seemed acceptable to Fenrix and she grunted in approval.

* * *

U.S.S. Hopewell — Mess Hall & Hallway

20:00 hours

The mess hall felt hollow at this hour, a deserted shell of its busy daytime self. A few scattered trays, dimmed lights, the soft hum of the replicators in standby. Despite the growl of her stomach from a missed breakfast, Terri stood across from Jack’s table, tray clutched in both hands like a shield, trying to find words that wouldn't sound like a plea. A nervous, hollow feeling settled in her gut, a low, persistent hum of distress that had replaced her appetite entirely.

Jack didn’t make it easy.

He didn’t look up—just stared into the cooling mug cradled in his paws, ears angled backward in that subtle Cornerian “not now” posture. He radiated a focused, almost brittle professionalism, a wall of deliberate patience holding back a reservoir of pain.

Terri cleared her throat once. Twice. “Jonathan… can we talk? Just for a moment.”

A slow blink. A tight, controlled inhale that seemed to steel him. He didn't answer, but he also didn’t tell her to leave. She took that small silence as permission and slid into the seat opposite him. Her chest felt tight, the same confusing blend of nerves and a persistent, regretted longing for the comfort he used to represent.

She tried anyway, trying to sound detached, trying to ignore the deep-seated anger over the initial event that tore them apart.

“I know things have been… weird between us,” she said, forcing a small, meaningless smile. “But we work together. There’s no reason we can’t at least be civil. Maybe even friends again, eventually.”

Jack’s jaw twitched subtly, a muscle flexing under his fur. “Terri—”

“No, listen. I just mean…” She searched for a model, for some evidence that this could be managed. “I used to date Commander Rivas. And he and I have a great professional relationship now. We’re fine. We can work together without any—”

The moment she said it—equating him to a past, professionalized relationship—she saw the change.

Jack’s eyes hardened, losing their distant softness and becoming cold, focused chips of dark blue.

His posture straightened in a sudden, rigid movement.

The familiar, profound hurt from the breakup, which he had tried so hard to contain with professionalism, hit him like a physical blow. The comparison to Rivas was the knife twist.

Without a word, he pushed back from the table, the chair scraping sharply on the floor, stood up, and walked away with a clean, soldierly stride that never once looked back.

“Jack?” Terri blinked, startled by the swiftness of his retreat. “Jo... wait.”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

He just left the mess hall in angry silence.

Terri sat there for half a heartbeat, confused and increasingly flustered.

Why is he reacting like this? She thought. She hadn’t meant anything by mentioning Rivas.

She shoved her tray aside and rushed after him.

* * *

Hallway — Seconds Later

“Jack!” Her voice echoed in the corridor. “Jack, would you just—stop!”

He finally did. Only because he was too irritated to keep walking.

He snapped over his shoulder, “Terri, what?”

She froze about three paces away. His ears were pinned back, tail low, posture defensive and bitter—more agitated than she’d seen him in months.

She swallowed, softening her tone.

“Look… I didn’t come out here to fight. I’m just trying to understand why you’re so upset.”

Jack laughed bitterly under his breath. “Because this whole thing is a mess. Because you started us. Because you ended us, and now you’re—what—what are you trying to do? You want to just act like nothing happened, all of it?”

“I’m just trying to be your friend again,” she said quietly. “That’s all. That’s why I brought up Rivas. I used to date him, and we still work together. I thought we could—”

He spun on her, eyes flashing.

“Then why don’t you go fuck Rivas then and leave me alone!” Jack snapped.

The words hit her like a slap.

Her face went hot, eyes widening—hurt, anger, humiliation all boiling up at once. Before she could think, her hand shot up, instinct aiming a slap straight for his cheek—

Jack caught her wrist mid-swing.

Not hard.

Not painful.

Just firm enough to stop her from doing it.

The hallway went dead silent.

Terri tried to yank her arm back, breath shaking, but he held just long enough to steady the moment. His eyes locked with hers—frustrated, wounded, angry at himself as much as at her.

“Terri…” His voice was tight, controlled with effort. “Don’t.”

She tugged again, and this time he let go.

She stumbled back a half-step, chest heaving, emotions spiraling without direction or explanation.

Jack exhaled sharply—some mix of guilt and exasperation—then ran a hand down his face.

“This is just… whatever the hell is still in your system from the polywater incident.” His voice cracked with bitterness. “Hormone crap, emotional swings… it’s messing you up again.”

“It’s not—!” She started to protest, but he didn’t wait.

He turned away, tail low, shoulders rigid.

“Just… leave it alone, Terri,” he muttered, not trusting himself to say anything more.

Then he walked off down the corridor, footsteps fading into the hum of the ship.

Terri stood there alone, shaking, confused, and hurt.

And completely unaware that none of this was the repercussions of the polywater virus,she’d been medically cleared of that before the break up. it was something else entirely. It was something deeper.

* * *

Later

Jack had done everything right.

Or… everything he thought would help.

He’d replicated a stack of comics—old Cornerian adventure serials he usually devoured in one sitting.

He’d brought his portable holo-console from storage, set up a game he used to love.

He’d queued up three movies on the wall display.

His room was a tiny island of distractions.

None of them were working.

The holo-console chimed at him impatiently from the foot of his bunk. He ignored it.

The movie screen paused at the thirty-second mark. He hadn’t absorbed a single frame.

The comics sat open across his lap, but he’d read the same panel at least twenty times without registering a word.

His tail twitched on the blanket with a sharp, irritated flick.

His ears were pinned so flat they almost pressed into his skull.

His eyes kept drifting to the same place on the wall—somewhere past it, really.

He couldn’t stop replaying the hallway.

Terri’s face.

Her expression when he snapped.

The moment her hand came up.

The hurt in her eyes when he caught her wrist.

He dragged his hands down his muzzle with a groan.

“Why did I say that?”

His voice was a low, angry rasp.

“Why the hell did I say that?”

The worst part was that he knew the answer.

He wasn’t really angry at her.

He was angry at himself—because her mentioning Rivas had hit a nerve he didn’t even know he still had. Because he didn’t understand why she was suddenly everywhere again. Because she kept showing up, looking confused, looking hurt, looking like she needed something from him, and he didn’t trust himself not to give it.

He clenched his fists.

“She broke it off,” he muttered. “She ended it. She wanted space. She wanted—whatever. So why come to me now?”

The wall didn’t have an answer.

The holo-console chimed again, as if reminding him it existed.

He snapped.

“SHUT UP.”

He slapped the power button so hard the device wobbled. The holo-light sputtered out.

His pulse hammered.

His breath came too fast.

This wasn’t him.

He didn’t get like this.

He got mad in combat simulations.

He got sharp in arguments.

He got tense on the bridge.

But he didn’t lose control like this.

He grabbed a comic and threw it across the room. It flapped against the bulkhead and fell with a pathetic papery sound. It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

He slumped back on the bunk, rubbing at his tired eyes. He hated how unsettled he felt. How raw. How stupid. How much Terri still got under his skin despite everything.

Despite the breakup.

Despite the distance.

Despite the hurt.

He stared at the dim ceiling.

“What is wrong with me…”

He didn’t know the bigger truth—that Terri wasn’t pulling away anymore because something had changed inside her.

He only knew how he felt right now:

Like everything he tried to do to calm down was failing.

Like he was trapped with his own frustration.

Like he’d somehow made everything worse without meaning to.

Jack dragged the pillow over his face, muffling a groan.

Movies weren’t working.

Games weren’t working.

Comics weren’t working.

He wasn’t angry because he hated Terri.

He was angry because he didn’t know how to stop caring.

And that scared him more than anything.

Jack lay there staring at the ceiling, pillow half-covering his face, thoughts swirling in tight frustrated loops.

Nothing was working.

His tail lashed once across the blankets before he forced it still.

“Damn it…” he muttered, dragging the pillow off his face.

A dangerous, stupid idea drifted through his head—uninvited, almost reflexive.

There are other women on this ship.

It was true.

Hopewell had gotten a wave of new crew after their last mission—fresh transfers, young officers eager for adventure, social circles shifting. Starfleet ships were small cities with uniforms; hookups happened. Everyone knew it. No shame, no stigma.

Cornerians weren’t shy about attraction.

He wasn’t bad-looking.

He knew that.

Young, fit, sharp features, tail usually fluffed just enough to catch attention when he wanted it.

There were women—cute ones—who’d already given him lingering glances in the mess. A couple had even asked if he wanted to join them for recreation deck time.

If he wanted an easy distraction, he could have one.

Tonight.

Tomorrow.

Whenever.

For half a second, the idea tempted him.

Just… burn off the tension.

Forget all this hurt with Terri.

Move on like he should have weeks ago.

But the thought didn’t last.

The instant he really pictured it—any of them—his stomach twisted.

Not guilt.

Something worse.

Self-disgust.

He sat up abruptly, shoulders tightening.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” he snapped at the empty room.

What would that even solve?

A meaningless fling?

Using someone else as a pressure valve?

Dragging another person into the emotional mess he barely understood himself?

It wasn’t who he was.

It wasn’t who he wanted to be.

He didn’t want some random warm body to make the feelings go away.

He didn’t want anyone but—

He cut the thought off sharply, ears flattening even harder.

“No,” he growled under his breath, pacing the room now. “No. I’m not doing that. I’m not… thinking like that.”

He pressed both hands to the bulkhead, leaning his forehead against the cool metal.

If he tried to be with someone else right now, he’d feel like a liar.

If he forced it, he’d feel like garbage.

And the woman involved? She’d deserve better than being used as emotional debris.

He’d break her heart too.

Jack groaned, letting his head hit the bulkhead a little harder than he meant to.

His voice came out low, frustrated, almost pleading:

“What would that fix? What good would it do anybody?”

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He wanted Terri.

And he hated himself for wanting her when she’d made it clear she didn’t want him anymore.

He hated that he couldn’t just shut this off.

He hated feeling helpless.

He sank back onto the bunk, breathing out slowly until his pulse finally started to settle.

He wasn’t the kind of man who used people to solve his problems.

He wasn’t the kind of man who moved on out of spite.

And he wasn’t the kind of man who hurt someone to make himself feel better.

He wasn’t.

…even if right now, he desperately wished he felt like someone else.

* * *

Michelle O’Mara’s door chimed.

She wasn’t expecting visitors — she’d spread out a few datapads, a portable viewer, and a small pile of comfort snacks she absolutely wasn’t going to admit to eating. She had planned to decompress from the last few hours of controlled chaos.

“Come in,” she called lightly.

The door slid open.

Terri Lu stood there, shoulders hunched, pupils dilated, spines slightly drooped — the unmistakable posture of someone trying very hard not to fall apart.

Michelle’s crest lifted in alarm.

“Oh. Terri. What happened?”

Terri walked in with a stiff half-step, as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there. The door closed behind her.

“I—” Her voice cracked immediately. She swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to come here, I just… didn’t know where else to go.”

Michelle gestured her closer, guiding her toward the couch.

“Hey, hey. Sit. Tell me what happened.”

Terri sat, clutching her hands together so tightly her claws clicked.

“It was Jack,” she whispered. “He— we— we got into it again. In the corridor.”

Michelle sighed softly.

“Oh no… what now?”

“I tried to talk to him,” Terri said, voice shaking. “Just talk. I told him I wanted us to at least be friends. That we work together, so we shouldn’t keep tearing each other apart.”

“And?” Michelle asked gently.

“And he just— snapped.” Terri closed her eyes tight. “He said… he said something awful. Something he didn’t mean. I know he didn’t mean it but—”

Michelle moved beside her. “Tell me.”

Terri inhaled sharply, trying not to cry.

“He said, ‘Why don’t you go fuck Rivas and leave me alone.’”

Michelle froze for a full second.

“…oh. Jack…”

Terri’s voice cracked. “I went to slap him. I didn’t want to, I just— reacted. He caught my wrist. Held it. Not hurting me, just… stopping me. And then he stormed off.”

Michelle winced.

“That’s… messy.”

“He’s being impossible,” Terri whispered, wiping at one eye. “I don’t understand why he’s so angry. I don’t want him back, but I don’t want us to hate each other. I don’t want it to be like this every time we breathe the same air.”

Michelle hesitated — because she did understand, and also because she was fond of both of them.

“Terri,” she said carefully, “you know I love Jack. He’s one of my favorite people. Which is why I’m going to be honest.”

Terri tensed.

“He’s hurt,” Michelle said softly. “And he doesn’t know what to do with it. Jack thinks in straight lines. When something breaks the line— he doesn’t know how to bend, so he snaps.”

Terri stared at the floor.

“I didn’t try to hurt him.”

“I know,” Michelle said, placing a feathered hand on her arm. “But Terri… you two were close. Closer than either of you wanted to admit. That kind of thing doesn’t disappear cleanly. Not for him. Not for you.”

Terri’s spines drooped.

“I just want it not to hurt.”

Michelle gave a short, sympathetic huff of breath.

“Then you’re already doing better than most people in Starfleet.”

She squeezed Terri’s arm.

“Do you want some tea? Or something stronger?”

Terri managed a tiny, broken smile.

“…tea. Please.”

Michelle rose to prepare it.

And Terri sat there, quietly, breathing for the first time since the hallway… not okay, but no longer alone.

* * *

Jack didn’t remember leaving his room.

One moment he was pacing, angrier at himself than anything else.

The next his feet were carrying him down the corridor, tail snapping behind him in tight, irritated flicks.

Before he knew it, he was standing outside Harry Martinez’s door.

He hit the chime hard.

The door opened almost immediately.

Harry looked up from a datapad, taking in Jack’s rigid shoulders, pinned ears, and storming posture.

“…You alright?” Harry asked, an eyebrow cocked suspiciously.

Jack exhaled through clenched teeth. “Can I come in?”

Harry stepped aside without hesitation. “Yeah. Sit.”

Jack dropped onto the small couch. Harry crossed to his cabinet, pulled out a bottle, and poured two glasses. He handed one over, then sat across from him.

“Is that the stuff Jayna gave you when you were on her ship.”

“Indeed.” Harry smiled.

Jack swallowed half of it in one go.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So it’s bad.”

“Yeah,” Jack muttered.

Harry waited. Silence stretched.

Jack finally said, “I don’t want to talk about the details.”

“Okay,” Harry replied simply. “Then tell me what you do want to talk about.”

Jack stared into his drink. His hands were shaking slightly. “I’m just… not okay. And nothing’s helping.”

Harry leaned back. “Alright. Let’s try this. You angry?”

“Yeah.”

“Hurt?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah.”

“Confused?”

“More than I want to admit.”

Harry nodded. “Sounds like you’re trying to deal with something… personal. And it’s not going well.”

Jack let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Understatement.”

Harry sipped his drink. “You care about someone?”

Jack didn’t answer, but the look on his face did.

Harry didn’t push. “And you can’t talk to her.”

Jack shook his head slowly. “I can’t even look at her right now.”

“Do you want to?” Harry asked.

After a long pause: “…Yeah.”

Harry set his glass down and leaned forward. “Then you’re fighting two battles at once. What happened, and what you feel. One of those you can’t control. The other you can.”

Jack rubbed his face with both hands. “I hate this. I hate feeling like this.”

“I get it,” Harry said quietly. “But trying to bury it won’t make it go away. Trust me on that.”

Jack sat back, staring at the ceiling. “I thought about… I don’t know. Finding someone else. Getting my mind off everything.”

Harry didn’t react with surprise. “Would that help you?”

Jack’s ears dipped. “…No.”

“Then don’t do it,” Harry said. “You’d regret it. And you’re not that kind of man.”

Jack swallowed. “I know.”

Harry let the quiet linger a moment before saying, “You’re hurting because you care. That’s not a weakness. It just means you’re alive.”

Jack’s lip twitched. “Yeah.”

“When you’re ready,” Harry said gently, “talk to her. Honestly. Don’t run from it. Don’t numb it. Just… talk.”

Jack nodded slowly, tension easing just a little. “I’ll try.”

Harry lifted his glass. “To trying.”

Jack clinked his glass against his.

“To trying.”

* * *

The next morning, the conference room lights felt far too bright for at least one member of the Hopewell’s senior staff.

Ensign Jack Land sat rigidly at the far side of the oval table, hands folded with military precision, trying desperately to pretend that his skull wasn’t throbbing with each heartbeat. His ears were held low, his fur a shade flatter than usual, his tail unnaturally still.

Across the table, Doctor Okan watched him with the kind of calm, silent condemnation only a medic who knows exactly what you drank can muster. Every subtle twitch beneath Okan’s spines radiated unimpressed disapproval.

Jack did not meet his eyes.

Everyone else focused on the meeting at hand.

At the head of the room stood Admiral Conroy, feathers sleek and avian posture radiating precision. To her right stood Terri Lu, padd in hand, spines arranged neatly in a professional angle. To her left, upright as a drawn blade, was Gel Fenrixher presence carrying quiet weight.

Terri tapped her padd and brought the diplomatic message draft up on the main display.

“Since all prior attempts to contact them have failed we’re going to try to reach out to the Kilagra Union a different way.” Terri said. “So we’re using a culturally specific approach one that Gel Fenrix has been advising us on.”

“Let’s hear it.” Harry said with a nod.

Fenrix stepped forward, her voice firm and resonant.

“I will deliver the broadcast personally. In formal Urthean dialect—the prestige register the with legitimacy and high diplomacy.”

Conroy nodded. “Good. That will get their attention if anything will.”

Terri adjusted a line on her padd. “We’ve removed anything that could be interpreted as a demand or a plea. It’s neutral, respectful, and direct.”

Fenrix added, “Once Comander Lu finalizes the script, I’ll record the full message. They will hear us.”

Satisfied, Conroy motioned for the next report.

Jakar rose, his spines falling into place with the military exactness only he could achieve. “All primary systems are operational. Warp core stable. Power distribution balanced. Structural integrity fields at one hundred percent.” He brought up engineering overlays. “Phaser alignment off by point-zero-two degrees.”

Michelle O’Mara lifted a hand without looking up from her console. Her crest feathers angled in crisp professionalism. “Corrected at oh-five-hundred. No residual variance.”

“Excellent,” Jakar said with a respectful incline of his head.

Lieutenant Rovek, the Hopewell’s perpetually disheveled but razor-sharp canine chief engineer, chimed in next, scratching behind one ear as he spoke.

“Auxiliary systems are holding. EPS grid’s balanced. Nothing’s complaining at me.” He paused, thoughtful. “Which makes me suspicious. But for now, we’re green.”

A faint ripple of amusement passed around the table.

Conroy turned to Michelle. “Sensors?”

Michelle stood slightly, crest tightening. “Quiet. No cloaked signatures, no unusual radiation spikes, no gravimetric traps. Space along the border is empty… at least as far as they want us to see.”

“Thank you,” Conroy said.

Finally she turned toward Okan.

“Doctor, Sickbay status?”

Okan folded his hands, spines shifting in a subtle, precise motion that conveyed both professionalism and his barely restrained opinion of Land’s current condition.

“Medical stores are adequate,” the Echidna said. “Crew health remains within acceptable parameters. No outstanding concerns.”

A pause.

A fractional narrowing of the eyes in Jack’s direction.

Jack swallowed and looked straight ahead, as if reading imaginary text off the opposite wall.

Conroy nodded. “Then we proceed. Commander Lu, Gel Fenrix—finalize the message and prepare for broadcast operations at fourteen-hundred. All departments: readiness reports by the top of the hour. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Officers gathered their padds.

Rovek stretched until something cracked. Michelle powered down her console. Jakar’s spines shifted back to their neutral posture. Fenrix glided out with the assured calm of someone who knew her voice could change the fate of a border region. Terri didn’t look at Jack as she left—but her spines flickered once in his direction, an unconscious instinct she didn’t yet understand.

Jack slowly rose from his seet at the table, a painful groan escaping his lips, waiting for Admiral Conroy to leave. His head felt like a drum being pounded by a small, angry alien, and the residual metallic tang of the alien grog still lingered in his mouth. Harry, ever the watchful friend and superior, quickly moved to Jack’s side, steadying him with a firm touch on his elbow before anyone else in the busy mess hall could notice the Ensign's precarious balance.

“Drink water,” Harry murmured, his voice low and laced with a familiar, weary amusement. “And maybe don’t try to out-drink a species with two stomachs next time.”

“Never touching that stuff again,” Jack muttered back, the words feeling dry and heavy on his tongue. The Altarian whiskey had seemed like a good idea at the time last night. Now, it just felt like a weaponized hangover.

Harry merely patted his back with a soundless sigh. “Everyone says that. Take a detox pill before you wreck yourself, Ensign. I already ordered one for you at the replicator.”

“Hah, then I wouldn’t learn anything,” Jack managed, attempting a weak grin that felt more like a grimace.

Harry sighed again, rolling his eyes dramatically for Jack’s benefit. “Water. Now.” He pointed a firm finger at the replicator unit set into the polished silver wall of the common area. “A liter, now.”

Before Jack could respond, a new, authoritative voice cut into their hushed conversation.

“And if I may ask,” Doctor Okan interjected, walking up to them with an incredulous look that managed to be both stern and mildly disgusted. “Why are you, Ensign, clearly suffering the late stage effects of acute intoxication? You look like absolute hell.”

“Women trouble, Doctor,” Harry replied smoothly, his fatigue vanishing instantly, replaced by a broad, utterly unconvincing grin. He slapped Jack on the back with a force that was perhaps a little more enthusiastic than necessary. The blow made Jack stumble the final two steps into the replicator, where he quickly placed his hand on the ordering plate and began to chug the pre-ordered liter of water as if his life depended on it.

Okan's thick, dark brows furrowed, and he scowled, his professional demeanor clearly annoyed by the casual disregard for health. “There are better things than alcohol for managing emotional distress, Ensign. I could have easily made you a potent herbal tea—a blend of Cornerian willow bark and Fortuna valerian root—that would have soothed your nerves, regulated your cortisol levels, and allowed you to sleep a restorative, toxin-free sleep.”

Jack finished a long, desperate drink, his throat burning from the cold water, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His hangover-fueled irritability flared. “No offense, Doc,” he rasped out, his voice hoarse. “But right now, I’d rather drink my own piss.”

A small, almost imperceptible twitch ran through Doctor Okan’s jaw. He was a meticulous man, and casual vulgarity was not something he tolerated. “That,” Okan stated with cold, clinical precision, “would only exacerbate your symptoms through excessive sodium and nitrogen buildup and not help them in the slightest. The herbal tea, conversely, would at least be beneficial, even if you express a distinct preference for consuming your own sterile biological waste.” Okan understood the joke perfectly; he simply didn't find any humor in the situation or in the Ensign’s appalling judgment. He stood there, arms crossed, until Jack had finished the entire liter, a silent, disapproving medical sentinel.

“I’ll be fine.” Jack said.

“Captain?!” Okan said glaring at Harry with a warning tone that said “dont make me pull rank on you.”

Harry sighed. “Take a detox, go sleep it off, be back on the bridge in two hours.” He then turned to Okan. “Is that ok Doctor?”

Okan nodded curtly. “As long as he does it.”

Jack his hand still clasped around the water bottle used the same hand to point at Doctor Okan. “I could still fly this ship better than you could, even in my current state, but I’m not the one with the medical degree.”

“Jack.” Harry hissed reminding his friend that he was being belligerent to a senior officer.

“Sir.” Jack finished.

Okan’s jaw tightened, he was trying to be patient, and that patience was running incredibly low at this moment.

“Ensign, Quarters, Now!” Harry barked thrusting his finger at the exit. “And try not to trip over the Admiral if you can help it!”

That seem to cut though the fog of the hangover and Land nodded and quickly left.

* * *

Harry arrived back on the bridge just as the Hopewell started to drop out of warp, they’d arrived at the Coordinates where they’initially encountered Gel Chanzi.

“Well, number one.” Harry said over to Terri who was informing the Hopewell’s communication officer on the plan. “Are we ready to start the show.”

“We are sir.” Terri said with a warm smile.

“Well, lets send out our friendly hello then.” Harry said returning the smile and turning back to the main viewer. “And lets hope they answer.”

Terri gave a small nod. Her spines angled forward in concentration as she ran final diagnostics on the comms array. The com officer nodded letting her know that everything is in order.

“All channels ready,” she said. “Primary subspace band locked. Narrow-beam transmission aligned exactly per Fenrix’s specifications.”

Gel Fenrix stepped forward with a subtle stiffness in her posture. It wasn’t fear—it was the weight of knowing she had put her entire caste, her entire identity, into a message that could doom or redeem them.

Her jaw tightened.

“Ensure my formal register is unaltered. Even Federation compression can distort tonal authority.”

“It’s untouched,” Terri assured. “Your recording is word-for-word, breath-for-breath.”

Harry angled one ear at Fenrix. “No second thoughts?”

Fenrix snorted. “Second thoughts are for those with options.”

Terri activated the playback queue. A small holo-window popped open at her console, displaying the frozen first frame of Fenrix’s recorded message—shoulders squared, ears high, expression like carved iron.

“On your order, Captain,” Terri said.

Harry leaned forward slightly. “Send it.”

Terri tapped the control.

Fenrix appeared in the small holo-frame.

Her voice, when it began, was the high formal dialect—smooth, resonant, ceremonial, almost liturgical. It sounded like a bygone empire speaking through her.

“⟨Kilagra Union authorities. This is Gel Fenrix, formerly Commander, Third Front, Main Empire Defense Fleet, designation SEVEN–TWO–DELTA–ORANGE.⟩”

The translator paired under her voice—but she had insisted the Ur’thaen original remain primary.

“This is Gel Fenrix… commanding officer of surviving non-Red Ur’thaen personnel now under Confederation protection…”

“⟨We reject the Emperor’s purge. We reject Red tyranny. We seek asylum among those who first refused him. If Kilagra still holds honor, hear me.⟩”

Her posture did not move, but her voice carried every drop of controlled fury.

“⟨I speak not as a supplicant. I speak as a commander preserving those who would not kill civilians on command.⟩”

The message ended with a stark, ritual closure:

“⟨I await judgment.⟩”

The playback faded.

Terri straightened. “Message sent. Carrier wave holding open for reply.”

Harry exhaled. “Now we wait.”

* * *

Somewhere in Urthaen Space

Xox’s ship Executor

D'jonn stood at the bridge's dim holo-pit, his posture composed, hands folded behind his back, a faint boredom on his face. It had been a routine, uneventful day of border patrol—no quarry to hunt, no Raptor to provoke. A normal day. This thought was interrupted when the communication officer signaled him.

In the holo-pit, a translucent ribbon of text and waveforms scrolled, written in Ur'thaen glyphs and occasionally marked by analysts' scribbled notes.

"Border relay spine six has completed decryption," an Orange-caste technician reported without quite making eye contact. "Flagged it for Sector Command due to anomaly tags: Kilagra reference, non-Red officer, use of formal prestige dialect."

D’jonn’s ears tipped a fraction forward. “Play it.”

The sound came through slightly distorted, like someone speaking through metal and water.

“⟨…Gel Fenrix, formerly Commander, Third Front… surviving non-Red combat personnel… request asylum… Kilagra Union…⟩”

The transmission crackled, a portion clipped where the ancient relay had sputtered.

Even so, the content was clear enough.

D’jonn’s muzzle twitched in something that might, in another species, have been amusement.

“Fenrix,” he murmured. “Still not dead. How inconvenient for our dear Emperor.”

On the other side of the pit, Xox lounged in his throne-like command chair—because of course he’d had the standard captain’s seat rebuilt into something more theatrical. His coat hung perfectly, his tail draped just-so over one armrest, cybernetic eyes glowing that soft predatory gold.

At the sound of Fenrix’s name, those eyes brightened.

“Oh?” he purred. “Someone crawls out of the grave.”

D’jonn rotated the display, letting him see the gist: a main-Empire commander, non-Red, using formal speech to call to Kilagra from near Confederation space.

“Origin?” Xox asked.

“Somewhere along the Confederation border,” D’jonn replied. “Relay degradation obscures exact coordinates. There is mention of protection under foreign flag, but the vessel identification is lost in static. Could be any mid-range escort or cruiser.”

“Could be any gnat in the dark, you mean,” Xox said, lazily. “Is Kilagra responding?”

D’jonn shook his head. “Not yet. Their side of the lattice is quiet. If they answer, it will be down-line from this recording.”

Xox considered that, one claw idly tracing the arm of his chair.

“Non-Red defectors are not a new story,” he said at last. “Kilagra breeds them in their sleep. Our Emperor culls them when they become… distracting. Why did the net flag this one?”

“The dialect,” D’jonn said. “Old court register. Clean. High. Someone with proper breeding and training. And her record, of course.” A faint, sharp smile touched his muzzle. “She didn’t defect when it was fashionable. She’s doing it now, when it is suicidal. That makes her interesting.”

“Mmm.” Xox’s ear flicked. “Interesting in the way a knife on someone else’s table is interesting. Potential, but not yet in my hand.”

He waved one clawed hand dismissively.

“Note her alive. Tag Kilagra’s border nodes for increased observation. But do not waste a ship on shadows in foreign airspace. If Kilagra chooses to coddle traitors, they will choke on them eventually.”

“And if they don’t?” D’jonn asked mildly.

“Then they will kill them for us,” Xox said, tone light, almost cheerful. “And the Emperor will call it providence. Either way, our paws stay clean.”

He leaned forward, just a little, eyes narrowing.

“If anything more concrete emerges—coordinates, ship ID, Confederate name—bring it to me. Until then, let them all talk. Words make wonderful ropes.”

D’jonn inclined his head. “As you wish.”

The recording looped silently in the pit, Fenrix’s voice reduced to waveform and annotation.

Beyond their hull, the shadow net carried her plea deeper into the Empire like a rumor no one had time to act on.

Not yet.

* * *

U.S.S. Hopewell – Main Bridge

“Still nothing,” Terri murmured. “Carrier’s starting to feel lonely out there.”

“Give them another sixty seconds,” Harry said. “If they’re anything like us, they’re arguing about who has to answer.”

Michelle’s crest flicked. “I am picking up… something. Very faint. Same bearing as the last encounter with Kilagra, three degrees variance. Subspace ripple, narrow-beam, heading toward us.”

Terri’s ears perked. Her claws hovered above the controls. “Modulation matches Kilagra sideband?”

“Close enough I’d bet my spines on it,” Michelle replied. “They’re thinking about saying hello.”

Harry leaned forward in the chair. “Open a receive window only. No return yet. Let them talk first.”

“Aye, Captain,” Terri said softly. Her heart rate kicked up again. “Receive channel open. Routing to main audio, no translation overlay unless they use standard.”

The bridge went completely silent.

For a moment, there was only static—old, thin, like ancient cloth being pulled apart.

Then a voice cut through.

Rough. Measured. Ur’thaen—but not quite the same flavor as Fenrix’s. Less polished. More… scarred.

“⟨Unidentified vessel broadcasting on Kilagra diplomatic band, this is Node Eight, Outer Union Border Authority. Your signal is received.⟩”

The translator flickered, hesitated, then began to ride underneath, a half-second behind.

“This is Kilagra Union Node Eight. Your signal is received.”

Terri’s breath caught.

Michelle’s hands flew over her console. “Bearing confirmed. That’s them. No bleed on this line. It’s clean.”

On the viewer, the stars remained indifferent. Nothing visible. Just a voice crawling across the dark.

The Kilagra speaker continued, tone edged with suspicion.

“⟨You claim to be Gel Fenrix, main-Empire commander. You speak of non-Red crew under foreign protection. You use court dialect not heard from your kind in many seasons.⟩”

Fenrix’s jaw clenched, but she stayed still, eyes fixed ahead.

“⟨Identify the vessel that carries you. Explain why a main-Empire commander speaks for offworlders instead of standing trial under Kilagra law.⟩”

Terri flicked her gaze to Harry.

He met Fenrix’s eyes first.

“Your show, Gel,” he said quietly. “We’re just your ride.”

Fenrix nodded once, sharp.

“Put me through,” she said to Terri.

“Channel is live,” Terri replied. “They’ll hear you.”

Fenrix stepped up to the edge of the command well, shoulders squared, ears high, every line of her body radiating the calm of someone who had already survived more than enough executions.

“⟨Node Eight, this is Gel Fenrix, formerly Commander, Third Front, Main Empire Defense Fleet. The vessel that carries me is a Confederation starship acting as neutral escort.⟩”

She paused, just long enough for the insult of “neutral escort” to settle.

“⟨I do not stand trial under Kilagra law because I have not yet been invited to. If you wish to judge me and the ones I protect, I am here. I am speaking. Name the terms of your hearing and I will answer.⟩”

On the bridge, Terri realized she was holding her breath.

Michelle’s crest was rigid.

The reply came after a long, long moment. When it did, the Kilagra voice sounded… different. Not softer. Just more careful.

“⟨Your name and dialect are verified against pre-war records, Fenrix. You are either who you claim… or someone who has studied you too well to be casual.⟩”

A faint, humorless huff of air that might have been a laugh.

“⟨We do not trust main-Empire officers. We do not trust Confederation vessels. We certainly do not trust anyone who arrives with both in the same breath.⟩”

Terri winced internally. Fair.

“⟨But…⟩” the voice continued, and that one syllable tightened every spine and feather on the bridge “⟨…we have not heard court register spoken without threat in many years. That buys you a single conversation. No more.⟩”

Harry’s ears tipped forward.

Terri looked over her shoulder at him, eyes wide.

“⟨Hold your position, Confederation vessel,⟩” Node Eight finished. “⟨You will receive coordinates for a designated point. You will travel there alone. Any escort, any cloaked partner, any misstep, and this conversation ends with weapons.⟩”

The channel clicked off.

Terri let out the breath she’d been strangling.

“Message terminated,” she reported. “Data packet incoming—navigational coordinates only. No further text.”

Michelle confirmed. “Nothing else riding along. No hidden tags, no trojans. Just a rendezvous point.”

Fenrix turned her head slightly toward Harry, eyes burning.

“They answered,” she said quietly. “That is more than I expected.”

Harry nodded once. “Then let’s not waste the miracle.”

He rose from the chair, the old Hopewell creaking almost imperceptibly under his boots.

“Helm,” he said, voice calm and steady, “plot us a course to those coordinates. No escorts, no tricks. We do this their way.”

“Course laid in, Captain. We can cover the distance at impulse should take about twenty minuets.” The avian helmsmen standing in for Jack said.

“Good,” Harry said. “Surprises are for later. Ahead full impulse. Take us in, nice and polite.”

“Ahead one-quarter,” the helmsman confirmed. “Course engaged.”

The Hopewell turned, engines humming, sliding into the path Kilagra had drawn for them.

Behind the clean line of their plotted route, somewhere just outside their immediate awareness, an old Red listening lattice continued to whisper their deeds into the dark.

And farther away still, in a command chair that looked more like a throne, Xox had already decided they were not worth his attention.

* * *

A few hours later.

Harry paced back and forth across the command well like a restless metronome. Five steps, pivot, five steps back, boots clicking on the deck. Nobody on the bridge questioned it — except the one person with absolutely no patience for such displays.

Fenrix watched him with folded arms and a glare sharp enough to cut deck plating.

“Captain,” she said coolly, “if you intend to dig a trench in the floor, warn me. I prefer not to fall into holes while standing.”

Michelle smothered a laugh. Terri hid her smile behind a console. Jack was fortunately still absent.

Harry stopped, gave Fenrix a look halfway between amused and exasperated.

“I pace,” he said, “because it keeps me from saying something stupid.”

Fenrix’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Does it?”

“Not even a little,” Harry replied. “But it slows me down.”

Fenrix let out a soft, unimpressed grunt — the Urthaen equivalent of an eye roll.

Right then, the turbolift doors opened.

Jack Land stepped out, uniform straightened but fur slightly disheveled. He didn’t look hungover anymore… but he definitely wasn’t at 100%.

Harry didn’t miss it.

He turned with a smirk that was just a hair too knowing.

“Well,” Harry said, “look who bothered to finally show up.”

Jack eased into the helm, shoulders stiff. “Sir.”

“Feeling better?” Harry asked, voice innocent as poison.

Jack winced at the memory. “Mostly. Slept it off. Took detox tabs. Just a bit… fuzzy.”

“I noticed,” Harry said. “Your ears are arguing with your eyes.”

Jack muttered, “Wasn’t planning on doing that again anytime soon.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Because we’ve got real trouble brewing.”

As if on dramatic cue,

Michelle’s console beeped sharply.

Her crest rose. “Captain — picking up a vessel. Long-range sensors. Fast profile. Urthaen signature.”

Fenrix straightened instantly.

Terri tensed. “Kilagra?”

“Not sure, it’s definitely Urthean in design, Scutta class,” Michelle said. “Her eyes widened.

Jack’s hangover died instantly.

Fenrix’s ears snapped forward, posture rigid.

Michelle expanded the silhouette. Angular plating. Stingray hull. Forward-mounted vectors. A hunter.

“It matches the profile of Gel Chanzi’s ship,” Michelle said.

Fenrix inhaled sharply through her teeth, Terri observed this and wondered if it was dread or anticipation. Michelle checked her readouts again. “She’s accelerating. High impulse. ETA two minutes. She’s coming straight for us.”

“Weapon posture?” Harry asked.

Michelle’s crest snapped fully upright. “Not yet… but her forward vectors are warming. Brightening. That’s the first phase of arming.”

Terri’s claws tapped nervously. “She’s posturing.”

“Alright. Open hailing frequencies. Let’s at least pretend we have manners,” he ordered, his voice clipped and formal.

At the communications console, Michelle, the officer, exhaled a shaky breath. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the console's brass railing, a few of her dorsal spines twitching with uncontrolled stress. The raw vulnerability of the small, old ship in this hostile space seemed to have settled on her shoulders.

“Hailing frequency open, Captain,” she managed, her voice barely steady.

Michelle swallowed hard, the sound loud in the tense quiet. “Gel Chanzi, this is Commander Harry Martinez, acting captain of the U.S.S. Hopewell. I have Gel Fenrix, who sent the message, standing on the bridge with me. I am hoping, in regards to our last encounter, you will at least be willing to talk.”

The silence that followed was not merely an awkward pause; it was a vast, cold vacuum. Every officer on the Hopewell bridge seemed to hold their breath, acutely aware of the distance and the deadly capability of the ship on the other end. The weight of the Kilagra's judgment pressed down, thick and suffocating.

When Chanzi’s voice finally cut through the void, it was laced with a dark, chilling amusement that offered no comfort. “Commander Martinez, I will admit, I did not expect to encounter you again. Tell me, where is your fancy ship? Did you lose it?”

“Hardly,” Harry replied, his tone perfectly even, giving nothing away. “Starfleet merely thought it would be better to send something less… notorious in such a delicate matter.”

A sharp, mocking cackle, like shattered metal grinding, echoed briefly over the com channel. “Very well. We will rendezvous shortly, then. I trust your transporter—on that antique—can bring me aboard safely.”

Jakar, standing like a statue at Tactical, did not turn but spoke in a low, granite growl that was immediately understood as a warning. “Captain. Their energy signatures are changing. They are powering down their main weapons systems.” He acknowledged the report with a slight inclination of his head, his gaze fixed on the main viewscreen.

* * *

The Hopewell’s transporter pad lit up, and Gel Chanzi materialized with the poised, predatory elegance only an Urthean commander could manage. She stepped off the pad with sharp eyes, tail steady, posture alert and calculating.

Harry greeted her with a controlled nod.

“Gel Chanzi. Welcome aboard.”

Chanzi’s gaze swept the transporter room with surgical precision — noting angles, exits, personnel, posture. Typical Urthean threat assessment. She did not bow or incline her head; Urtheans did not lower themselves to foreign captains.

“Commander Martinez,” she said coolly. “Your ship is… quaint.”

A polite Urthean insult.

Harry smiled without warmth. “She’s old, but functional.”

Chanzi’s tail flicked once — amusement, or simply acknowledgement. Hard to tell.

Admiral Conroy appeared at the doorway. Tall, calm, and unreadable.

“Shall we?” she asked.

The group moved to the conference room.

Fenrix was already seated at the far side of the table opposite an empty chair reserved for Chanzi. Her posture was coiled tension — ears low, shoulders tight, eyes flickering with something between dread and hope.

When Chanzi entered, her gaze snapped to Fenrix immediately — sharp, clinical, suspicious.

She did not recognize her.

She saw only what she was: an Orange caste Urthean sitting among aliens on a foreign ship.

“…You are Urthean,” Chanzi said, voice low with controlled surprise. “And not here as a prisoner.”

Fenrix swallowed hard. Her voice was small but steady.

“No. I came willingly.”

Chanzi’s ears angled forward, rigid with confusion. “Why?”

Fenrix struggled for breath. “I… I am seeking political asylum.”

Chanzi froze.

The air in the room thickened.

Even Terri felt the shift.

“You ask for what?” Chanzi said, voice now edged with razor disbelief.

Fenrix clasped her shaking hands together. “Asylum. Protection. I cannot return home.”

Chanzi stared at her as if someone had asked the sun to freeze.

An Urthean — especially an Orange — requesting asylum was unheard of. Treasonous. Unthinkable.

Conroy leaned forward. “Gel Chanzi, please. Hear her out.”

Chanzi slowly sat, her gaze never leaving Fenrix.

“Explain,” she commanded.

“Then explain why you are among aliens on a foreign ship.”

Fenrix gathered herself — and spoke.

“My vessel was critically damaged by the Raptor.”

Chanzi’s ears jerked upward.

Fenrix continued, voice quiet but steady.

“We were on a hunt, Commandant Xox ordered us to chase the Raptor and we pursued it into a gas giant. We made contact with the Raptor. Shots were exchanged. They crippled us.” Her throat tightened. “Our ship fell into the gravity well of a gas giant. We were minutes from death.”

Terri subtly turned away, remembering that day vividly.

Fenrix’s voice softened. “It was not a good day..”

Chanzi’s gaze darkened — but she didn’t interrupt.

“And then,” Fenrix said, “the Raptor… did not kill us.”

Chanzi tensed.

Fenrix’s eyes flicked briefly to Terri. “She transported my crew aboard. She spared us.”

Terri’s ears lifted slightly, surprised Fenrix had singled her out.

Fenrix continued, hands trembling in her lap.

“I expected interrogation. Torture. Execution.”

She shook her head. “Instead… we were treated. Fed. Housed.”

Chanzi blinked — once — a sign of profound shock.

“My crew and I have been living on Starbase 186 under medical supervision. The Confederation has not harmed us. They have not pressured us. But they cannot keep us. I cannot go back. Not after losing a ship. Not after being rescued by.. them.”

Terri winced at the phrase, but she understood: this was Urthean fact, not insult.

Fenrix continued:

“My crew and I are marked as failures. If we return to Urthean space, we will be killed. All of us.”

Chanzi exhaled slowly — the weight of that truth sinking in.

Fenrix lifted her head, tears threatening.

“I ask… not for forgiveness. Not for sympathy.”

She steadied herself.

“I request asylum. For myself. For my crew.”

Chanzi’s brow furrowed deeply. “Asylum… where? You cannot mean the Confederation.”

“No.” Fenrix shook her head. “The Kilagra Union.”

Terri’s eyes widened.

Harry leaned forward slightly.

Fenrix continued:

“I have much information on the Empire I know their patrol routes. Their doctrine.”

She swallowed. “I can give your superiors tactical information on the Urthean Empire. Real information. Valuable information.”

She hesitated. “In exchange for protection. Safety. A place where we can live without being hunted.”

Chanzi went still — perfectly still, a sign of internal turmoil.

“You seek defection,” she said softly. “To my people.”

“Yes,” Fenrix whispered. “You are strong. Independent. Not under Xox’s claw. And the Union does not kill defectors simply for existing.”

Chanzi’s voice dropped.

“You ask much.”

Fenrix nodded once. “I offer much.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You sent the broadcast.”

Not a question. A statement.

Fenrix nodded.

Chanzi exhaled sharply through her nose — a sound like a knife scraping metal.

“That message was unauthorized. Dangerous. And… brave.” Her voice flattened. “But you must know what you have done.Your Commandant Xox has marked you.”

Fenrix closed her eyes, painful acknowledgement crossing her face.

Terri leaned forward. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Chanzi answered without turning. “It means if he feels like it, and he has the means to see it through she is a dead woman.”

Terri went cold.

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Conroy remained composed. “Given that, we ask: can you help her?”

Chanzi’s tail lowered — the slightest gesture of internal conflict.

“I do not know this woman,” she said quietly. “She is a stranger.”

Fenrix lowered her head in shame.

“But…” Chanzi continued, “she is still Urthean. And what awaits her if she returns is… not justice. Not trial. Merely execution.”

Fenrix’s breath hitched.

Chanzi inhaled deeply, gathering the composure of a shipmaster forced into a decision far above her caste.

“I cannot grant asylum. I do not have the authority.”

Fenrix’s eyes squeezed shut.

“But I can deliver her request,” Chanzi said firmly. “To the Imperial caste. To the Vixen herself. I can state her case. I can say she seeks mercy.”

Fenrix looked up, stunned. “You… would do that?”

Chanzi’s gaze softened by a hair’s width. Not familiarity — just empathy.

“Not for you,” she said honestly. “For the truth. Even among predators, truth matters.”

Harry nodded slowly. “And how long will this take?”

Chanzi stood. “The message will reach the throne quickly. But the decision?”

Her voice darkened.

“That may be swift. Or it may never come at all.”

Conroy’s feathers lowered in somber understanding.

Chanzi turned to Harry. “Until then… guard her. She could be in great danger and it may reach her before any decision does.”

Void-silence settled across the table.

“If there is nothing else.” Chanzi said getting up from her chair. “I need to be going.”

“No there is nothing else, thank you Gel.” Conroy said.

Harry got up and waited for her at the door. Chanzi went to leave and then turned and looked over at Fenrix.

“It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just I wish this burden hadn’t been placed at my feet.” Chanzi said to Fenrix. “I will do what I can for you.”

Fenrix merely nodded.

“Let’s be off.” She said to Harry who nodded and stepped aside to let her pass through the door and then followed her to the transporter room to see her off.

* * *

Chanzi’s Scutta detached from the Hopewell and drifted clear.

Michelle watched her screens. “She’s powering her engines. Preparing for warp.”

Terri exhaled shakily.

Jack monitored the helm in silence.

Conroy stood tall behind the command well.

Fenrix watched the Scutta depart with a soldier’s guarded stillness.

The Scutta’s engines flared—

and in a single clean motion, the ship folded into warp space and vanished.

The bridge fell quiet.

Terri finally spoke. “Do you think any of this mattered?”

Michelle answered gently. “I think it did. Maybe not today. But eventually.”

Harry settled into his chair — calm, centered, steady.

“Well,” he said softly, “whatever comes next… we tried and that’s what matters. We did what was right.”

He looked around the bridge — at Terri, Jack, Michelle, Fenrix, the Admiral.

“That counts for something.” He smiled gently. “Always.”

No one disagreed.

Harry gave a small, genuine nod.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s take her home.”

Terri acknowledged.

Jack set the course.

Michelle cleared the sensors.

The Hopewell eased forward into the dark.

The end