By Richard Woodcock

The Deadpan Briefing

The USS Fortitude hung in quiet orbit over a small, forested pre-warp moon in the Lankari Drift an unremarkable little world that, by all accounts, had no strategic value, no known inhabitants, and no reason whatsoever to attract the attention of a Starfleet ship.

Which was, of course, precisely why Starfleet Command had chosen it.

Deep inside the ship, the senior staff had gathered in the main briefing room. The lights were low, the display screens subdued, and the atmosphere carefully poised between solemn and ominous.

Fleet Admiral Miles Llewellyn stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, expression perfectly neutral. Commander Teshla Phyhr sat on his right, posture straight and serene, antennae angled in a manner that suggested rigorous professionalism—not the fact that she was, at that very moment, biting back a smirk.

Miles cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, in the tone of a man announcing a Borg cube in orbit, “we are facing a critical situation.”

Around the table, the senior bridge crew straightened.

Except for Commander Penny White, who muttered quietly under her breath, “If this is about the replicators again, I swear..”

Miles pressed a button on the holo-display.

A rotating hologram of a turkey appeared.


Not a Klingon targ-turkey hybrid, not a mutated avian predator, not a plasma-feathered cryptid from the Gamma Quadrant.

Just… a turkey.


A perfectly ordinary Earth turkey.

The room was silent for a full three seconds.

Then Lieutenant Commander Neku Langi, Fortitude’s Saurian Science Officer, blinked her wide eyes and said, with complete scientific sincerity:

“…Is this a test?”

Miles ignored her.

“This…” he gestured to the turkey as though revealing the Omega Particle, “ was detected in the forests below. Alive. Running free. On a pre-warp world.”

He tapped again.

The hologram zoomed in. A little label popped up: “Gobble-Delta-One.”

Commander Rose Harrington leaned forward. “Admiral, sir… is this some kind of biological contamination scenario?”

“It could be,” Miles said gravely.

Teshla’s voice was equally calm, equally serious. “Yes. Or cultural contamination. Or temporal contamination. Or… avian.”

“Avian?” Penny whispered.

Teshla nodded solemnly. “One must never rule out avian complications.”

Miles folded his arms. “The potential ramifications for local ecology are immense. A non-native Terran species introduced onto a pristine world? The Prime Directive is at stake. The Federation Council is concerned. Starfleet Command is alarmed.”

He paused. Then delivered the final line with the precise inflection of a man announcing that Q had returned with a fleet of omnipotent chickens.

“And tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

A chorus of groans spread across the table.

“Well,” Rose muttered, “that explains some things.”

Penny rubbed her temples. “This is because Admiral Mendelsohn lost that bet with the President again, isn’t it?”

Miles didn’t blink. “Classified.”

On his left, Teshla’s antennae twitched in silent laughter.

But the Admiral maintained perfect solemnity.

“Zulu Hazard Team will beam down immediately. Your objective: capture the turkey without contaminating local culture, without harming the local biome, without violating the Prime Directive, and ideally without letting the bird escape into a cave system and accidentally become worshipped as a deity by future pre-warp civilizations.”

Chief Petty Officer Ch’korrak crossed his arms. “So, a standard Hazard Ops extraction. Except with poultry.”

Ensign Drevik, ever cheerful, raised his hand. “Sir, if the turkey injures anyone, I can apply first aid. I’m trained in avian physiology. Mostly.”

Ssa’kith the Gorn rumbled thoughtfully. “If necessary, I can subdue it non-lethally.”

Jaxon Reeve coughed. “Lieutenant. It’s a turkey.”

Ssa’kith stared back. “I have learned never to underestimate the small and deceptively feathery.”

Velra T’Laan offered a precise nod. “That is statistically correct. Overconfidence is… illogical.”

Nalora zh’Khev unsheathed one of her Andorian blades just enough to show the glint of the edge.

“I assume lethal force is not authorised?”

Teshla inhaled sharply, her voice smooth. “Correct. Starfleet Command would prefer the turkey alive.”

Miles added: “Especially because Dr. Blackhorse is quite excited about studying the cultural implications of Terran holiday iconography manifesting in an alien biosphere.”

Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse, seated near the end of the table, offered a polite wave. “I’ve already prepared a full anthropological framework. Also, if we can capture it without frightening it too much, I would like to get feather samples. With consent, of course.”

Velra turned her head. “You anticipate the turkey understanding consent?”

“Well,” Aiyana smiled, “one never knows.”

Sieneth Th’Rel, Fortitude’s Aenar helmswoman and Zulu Team shuttle pilot, tilted her head thoughtfully.

“I can hear its surface emotional impressions from orbit,” she murmured. “It is hungry. Very hungry. And mildly insulted by something.”

Miles blinked. “Insulted?”

“Possibly by a log. Or a bush. Or another turkey. Hard to say.”

Penny whispered, “This is already the stupidest mission we’ve had all year.”

Rose whispered back, “I don’t know. We did have that temporal jellyfish incident.”

Miles held up a hand.

“Zulu Team. Prepare for insertion. You will deploy in two hours. Dismissed.”

The room began to break into murmurs.

Drevik: “Do turkeys bite?”

Ch’korrak: “More importantly, do they explode?”

Ssa’kith: “I will take point.”

Nalora: “I will scout the perimeter. With honor.”

Velra: “Requesting xenobiological sensor calibration for poultry-class lifeforms.”

Miles waited until the noise died down.

“Before everyone disperses, I am aware that this is unconventional. But consider it a morale mission. The Fortitude has been through hell lately. A bit of levity will do us good.”

His voice softened.

“And after the mission… the senior staff and Zulu Team will join me for a Thanksgiving dinner. On the main hangar deck.”

He hesitated.

“And I will attempt to understand the American tradition. No promises.”

Penny snorted. “Sir, with respect, you’re Welsh. You’ll never understand it.”

Miles gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Believe me, Penny. I’m painfully aware.”

Shuttle Descent — The Cluckening Begins

The Zulu Team shuttle Arrowhead pierced the moon’s atmosphere with a smooth, controlled glide.

Sieneth piloted with serene precision, her telepathic echolocation mapping terrain long before sensors did. “It moves in zigzags,” she murmured. “Fast zigzags. It has… purpose.”

Ssa’kith leaned forward. “What purpose could a turkey possess?”

Velra consulted her readings. “Based on its trajectory and bio-signature… it is either mating, fleeing a predator, or attempting to assert dominance over a shrub.”

Reeve groaned. “Outstanding. We’re hunting an emotionally unstable shrub-warrior.”

The shuttle touched down in a clearing.

Trees rustled in the wind.


Birds chirped.
A peaceful, idyllic forest surrounded them.

Reeve stepped out first, scanning carefully. “All right team—spread out, keep quiet, keep non-threatening, and—”

A loud gobble echoed through the trees.

Reeve froze.

Drevik whispered, “Was that…?”

Ch’korrak: “No sudden movements…”

Ssa’kith inhaled deeply. “The creature is near.”

Then…….

GOBBLE-GOBBLE-GOBBLEEEEEE!!!

A blur of feathers erupted from the underbrush.

And the turkey

—Gobble-Delta-One—

charged them with the confidence of a Klingon general, wings flapping, beak snapping, fury radiating from every feathered molecule.

Reeve shouted, “Contact! Contact!”

Ssa’kith stepped forward heroically… then immediately slipped as the turkey darted between his legs.

Nalora attempted an intercept, however the bird swerved, hopped onto a log, vaulted off a rock, and performed what Drevik would later insist was a “combat roll.”

Velra scanned it.

“Admiral Llewellyn was correct. It is insulted.”

Reeve yelled, “HOW CAN A TURKEY BE INSULTED?!”

“It is emotional,” Sieneth called from the shuttle ramp. “Very emotional!”

Ch’korrak’s drone whirred to life. “I can tag it with a micro-EMP! That’ll stun it—lightly!”

“No EMPs!” Reeve barked. “We’re not electrocuting a holiday symbol!”

The turkey screeched.

A surprisingly intimidating sound.

Then it launched itself at Reeve’s chest.

Reeve flailed backwards, slammed into a tree, and tumbled into the underbrush.

“RE-E-E-E-E-EVE!” Nalora cried, sprinting after him.

Ssa’kith charged the turkey.

The turkey charged Ssa’kith.

They impacted.

Ssa’kith blinked in slow confusion as the small bird bounced off his armoured chest and sprinted away.

“…Formidable,” he muttered.

Velra calmly continued scanning. “Its cardiovascular performance is extraordinary.”

“That turkey is juiced!” Drevik announced.

Reeve emerged from the bushes covered in leaves. “Zulu Team! Tactical net! Encircle and converge!”

Nalora crouched low. “Aye!”

Drevik held up a med-nanite sprayer. “Should I sedate it?”

Reeve shook his head. “You’ll traumatize it.”

Ch’korrak muttered, “We are being outmaneuvered by poultry.”

“Focus!” Reeve barked. “On my mark Ssa’kith, cut it off from the ridge. Nalora, drive it left. Velra, track it. Drevik, be ready to treat wounds. Ch’korrak no explosives.”

Ch’korrak sighed deeply. “Fine.”

They spread out.

They converged.

They moved with perfect Hazard Ops synchronisation.

And then….

The turkey sprinted straight through their formation, hopped onto Ssa’kith’s tail, used him as a springboard, and launched itself into a tree, clinging to a branch like some sort of chaotic avian ninja.

Reeve stared up at it.

“…I hate this bird.”

Sieneth tilted her head. “It has decided that it is victorious.”

“Oh, great,” Ch’korrak muttered. “Now it has a superiority complex.”

The Chase Escalates

After 32 minutes of pursuit, three close calls, one minor Gorn emotional crisis, and Velra having to explain three times why turkeys were not logically capable of strategic thought

The turkey finally leapt from a rock formation into an open clearing.

Reeve bounded after it.

Nalora vaulted over a fallen log, keeping pace.

Ch’korrak shouted, “It’s heading for the river!”

“Seal it off!” Reeve yelled.

But it was too late.

The turkey hopped onto a fallen tree floating in the water.

Sieneth gasped. “It is attempting… escape by raft.”

Reeve stared in disbelief.

“It is rafting?”

The turkey drifted downstream confidently.

Drevik clapped. “Look at him go!”

“Stop applauding the turkey!” Reeve snapped.

Nalora shouted, “Reeve! Orders?!”

Reeve exhaled slowly.

“All right. Fine. Sieneth, bring the shuttle downriver and cut it off.”

“Aye, sir.”

The shuttle swooped low.

The turkey drifted beneath.

It looked up.

It shrieked a gobble of defiance that Sieneth translated without being asked into: “I fear no starship.”

Reeve rubbed his face. “This is absurd.”

Velra nodded calmly. “Indeed. Statistically.”

Finally: The Capture

After another twenty minutes, three more shuttle passes, one minor river collision, and Ssa’kith pulling Reeve out of a mud pit by one arm

they cornered the turkey in a clearing surrounded by rocks.

Reeve stepped forward cautiously.

“Easy… easy… we’re not here to hurt you…”

The turkey stared at him with deep, primordial judgment.

Reeve continued, voice soft. “I just want to get you home.”

The turkey blinked.

Reeve blinked back.

Nalora, Drevik, Velra, Ssa’kith, and Ch’korrak held still.

Sieneth whispered through the comms. “It is… contemplating. And hungry.”

Reeve reached into a pouch.

He slowly pulled out…

a piece of Terran cornbread.

The turkey froze.

Then

GOBBLE!

It charged.

Reeve braced for impact

but instead of attacking, it head-butted the cornbread, snatched it, and immediately calmed.

Drevik gasped. “It trusts him!”

“It doesn’t trust me,” Reeve breathed. “…It trusts the cornbread.”

Ch’korrak raised his tricorder. “Vital signs: stable. No signs of aggression. The turkey has achieved… peace.”

Reeve lifted the slightly confused turkey in his arms.

“It is done,” he said softly. “Mission accomplished.”

Ssa’kith nodded. “A worthy adversary.”

Nalora saluted the bird.

Velra recorded data calmly.

Drevik cooed over its feathers.

Ch’korrak took a scan and muttered something about aerodynamics.

Sieneth whispered from the shuttle, “It is no longer insulted.”

Zulu Team returned to the Fortitude victorious.

With the turkey.

With pride.

With exhaustion.

And with enough ridiculous anecdotes to fuel Lower Decks gossip for a decade.

The Hangar Deck Feast

The main hangar deck of the USS Fortitude had been transformed.

Shuttles moved aside.

Cargo modules repurposed as dining tables.

Holographic lanterns hung from structural beams, casting warm glows in the cavernous space.

A long table stretched almost the full length of the deck, covered with dishes from all across the Federation.

The turkey—Gobble-Delta-One—sat proudly in a comfortable containment habitat nearby, feasting on fresh greens.

Under strict orders from Drevik and Ssa’kith, it was not on the menu.

Crew from all departments flowed into the hangar, laughing, exchanging stories, even placing bets on how many members of Zulu Team had been bested by the bird.

(Ch’korrak loudly claimed, “ZERO! It never laid a claw on me.”
Ssa’kith quietly replied, “It tripped you into the mud.”
“…Irrelevant.”)

Aiyana Blackhorse walked past them with a grin. “I’ve decided to write a paper on this. ‘Cultural Symbolism and the Interstellar Turkey.’”

Reeve groaned. “It’s going to be taught at the Academy, isn’t it?”

“Oh absolutely.”

Cultural Dishes Arrive

One by one, officers and crew placed their dishes on the table:

  • Penny White brought Terran mashed potatoes with replicated butter and something she proudly called “Borg-safe gravy.”
  • Rose Harrington offered a traditional green-bean casserole, but with a Starfleet nutritional override (“Contains 40% of your daily vitamin intake—sorry.”).
  • Neku Langi contributed a Saurian crystallised-spice stew that glowed faintly blue and required heat-resistant utensils.
  • Akadia Nilona provided Romulan fhall-mushroom rolls, warning everyone: “If you see through time after eating them, that is normal.”
  • Twimek Vodokon served Reman soulbroth—aromatic, dark, soothing.
  • Sieneth Th’Rel brought delicately shaped Aenar ice-petal sweets kept in a stasis tray to prevent melting.
  • Dr. Blackhorse laid out a Navajo blue-corn pudding with real Earth spices transported from her home colony.

And then

Zulu Team approached, each carrying something.

Ssa’kith set down a massive platter of Gorn fire-roasted root vegetables.
A nearby ensign glanced at the dish—and fainted.

Drevik fanned him with concern. “Don’t worry! It’s only mildly carnivorous!”

Drevik placed a Denobulan joy-fruit pie on the table. “It’s guaranteed to improve mood by 12 percent! Or explode in rare cases.”

Nalora placed Andorian ice-glaze ribs beside it. “These are honour ribs,” she announced. “Eat them with conviction.”

Velra gently set down a dish of carefully portioned Mol’Rihan spiced grains. “This meal traditionally signifies unity,” she said, almost shyly.

Ch’korrak stomped up and dropped a Tellarite skillet on the table. “Deep-fried reality. Eat it. Or don’t. More for me.”

Reeve approached last.

He placed a small pot in the center of the table with quiet respect.

“Mam’s cawl,” he said. “From Wales.”

Penny smiled. “You cooked?”

“No. Replicated. But I glared at the replicator until it behaved.”

Rose elbowed him. “Very Welsh.”

Miles appeared behind them, smiling softly.

Miles Llewellyn: Confused Welshman at Thanksgiving

Admiral Llewellyn looked over the spread of absolutely massive, chaotic, interspecies cuisine.

“Well,” he said, hands on hips, “apparently Thanksgiving is a more… robust affair than I was prepared for.”

Penny laughed. “Sir, Thanksgiving is about food, gratitude, arguments, and pretending the casserole isn’t slightly burnt.”

Rose added, “Also eating until you question your life choices.”

Miles frowned thoughtfully. “So it’s like a Welsh Christmas Eve, except with less rain and fewer drunken uncles?”

“Pretty much, sir,” Penny replied.

“What about the turkey?” Miles asked.

Reeve, deadpan: “Sir, the turkey is in stable condition.”

Neku piped up. “And appears to hold no remaining grudges.”

Miles muttered, “Excellent. Because I will not face the Federation Council again over an avian incident.”

Teshla, standing beside him, replied softly “You handled the situation with admirable composure, Admiral.”

Miles gave her a sideways look. “You were enjoying every moment.”

Her antennae dipped in faux innocence. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He snorted. “Yes you do.”

The Heart-to-Heart

As the feast began and laughter filled the hangar, Miles slipped away toward the observation alcove overlooking the hangar deck.

Teshla followed quietly.

She found the Admiral standing in the soft glow of the stars spilling through the wide hangar forcefield, hands clasped behind him, expression thoughtful.

“Teshla,” Miles said without turning, “I know that posture. Something’s on your mind.”

She stepped up beside him.

Her voice was steady. But her antennae betrayed the tremor of contained emotion.

“Sir… I’ve been approached by Starfleet Command again.”

Miles nodded slowly. “For your own ship.”

“Yes.”

Silence settled between them familiar, respectful, heavy.

“You deserve it,” Miles said. “You’ve deserved it for years.”

She inhaled.

“I would not leave the Fortitude lightly. Nor you. You were the first commanding officer who…”

Her voice softened.

“…saw more in me than protocols and precision.”

Miles chuckled faintly. “I saw someone who saved my life three times.”

“That too.”

He turned to face her fully. “If you want command, Teshla, you have my support. Completely.”

Her gaze lowered. “There is… something else.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Her antennae shifted, uncertain, almost shy.

“Lieutenant Sieneth Th’Rel has… expressed interest in pursuing a romantic relationship.”

Miles didn’t react right away.

He simply nodded once, slowly.

“And you?” he asked.

Teshla’s voice softened to a whisper. “I find myself… reciprocating.”

Miles’ expression warmed.

“Teshla, you don’t need my permission for that.”

She hesitated. “Regulations…”

“Regulations also say officers must eat properly, sleep regularly, and avoid hazardous situations.


He gestured toward Zulu Team. “Do any of us obey those?”

Teshla finally smiled subtle, rare, beautiful.

Miles continued, voice gentle “You and Sieneth are two of the finest officers on this ship. If you care about each other… that is not a weakness. It’s an anchor. Just don’t break each other’s hearts or the ship.”

Teshla let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Thank you, Miles.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve earned happiness. Even if it surprises you.”

She nodded slowly. “It does. But it also feels… right.”

Miles smiled.

“Then go to her. Before Ch’korrak eats half the table.”

They both turned to look

and indeed Ch’korrak was already engaged in battle with Ssa’kith over a platter of Gorn-roasted roots.

Teshla exhaled warmly. “I suppose I should.”

Miles chuckled. “Go on. It’s Thanksgiving. Or so I’m told.”

Return to the Feast

Teshla crossed the hangar, weaving through the laughing officers, until she reached Sieneth who stood quietly at the table, fingers brushing the cool stasis tray of Aenar sweets.

“Teshla,” Sieneth said softly, sensing her approach rather than seeing it. “I hoped you would join me.”

Teshla, in a rare gesture, took Sieneth’s hand.

“I intend to.”

Sieneth’s pale features warmed.
Her telepathic whisper brushed gently against Teshla’s mind calm, grateful, open.

They stood together in peaceful silence.

The Admiral’s Toast

As the crew settled into seats and conversations dimmed, Admiral Miles Llewellyn stepped to the head of the table.

He lifted a glass.

“Right then,” he said. “Before we begin…”

And the entire room fell silent.

The hangar fell quiet.

Zulu Team battle-hardened, bruised, and still faintly smelling of forest mud sat together near the center of the long table.

The senior staff, arranged around them, looked on with warm amusement.


Enlisted crew, cadets, engineers, scientists, nurses, pilots, junior officers hundreds of faces filled the massive space, the combined heartbeat of the Fortitude.

Miles Llewellyn stood at the head of the table, lifting his glass.

“Right then. If everyone could please stop wrestling with the Gorn-root casserole for a moment…”

The room laughed softly.

Miles continued, expression warm but composed.

“I’ll be honest with you all: I was not raised with this holiday. In Wales we had plenty of traditions, but nothing remotely resembling… this.”


He gestured to the mountain of interspecies dishes now emitting various colors, smells, smoke patterns, and in one case (Tellarite fry-bricks), faint sparking.

A ripple of laughter followed.

“I’ve been told Thanksgiving is about gratitude, family, food, and accepting that at least one dish on the table will be slightly terrifying.”

More laughter.

“But this year, I’ve finally understood what it really means.”

He paused, letting the silence settle.

“It means coming together—despite differences of species, background, politics, physiology, number of hearts, density of bone structure..”

He took a long, pointed look at Ssa’kith, whose plate was already stacked like a geological formation. “or appetite.”

Ssa’kith offered a dignified nod. “This is a modest portion.”

Miles continued.

“It means recognizing that what we have this ship, this crew, this family we only have it because we choose, every day, to show up for each other. Through battles, losses, strange incidents, and… apparently hostile poultry.”

Reeve placed a hand over his face in shame as Nalora proudly shouted:

The room erupted in chuckles.

“THE TURKEY FOUGHT WITH HONOR!”

Drevik cheered.

Ch’korrak muttered, “It cheated.”

Miles let the laughter roll, then lifted his hand again.

“And so tonight, I want to speak not as an admiral, but as someone who is profoundly grateful for every soul on this ship.”

His voice softened.

“You’ve all carried heavy burdens this year. More than most crews would ever be asked to bear. Yet you stand here still, together, with your humour intact, your courage unbroken, and your hearts open.”

He looked to Teshla who sat with Sieneth beside her, hands gently touching.

Then to Penny and Rose, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder in old camaraderie.
To Neku, whose faint smile betrayed rare warmth.
To Akadia, eyes sharp but softened with unspoken pride.
To Twimek, hands folded with solemn grace.
To Aiyana, who captured every moment with the eyes of a storyteller.

Then to Zulu Team battle-scarred and absurdly heroic.

“You,” Miles said, “are the reason the Fortitude is more than a ship. You are what makes it alive.”

A hush fell.

“And so tonight, I give thanks for the family we’ve built the ones born to us, the ones we’ve chosen, and the ones we’ve met by pure absurd cosmic luck.”

He raised his glass higher.

“To the Fortitude.
To her crew.
To the ridiculous turkey that tested our sanity.
And to every one of you
for making this ship a home.”

Every glass in the hangar lifted.

A unified, resounding:

“To the Fortitude!”

The echo filled the vast chamber like a heartbeat.

Warm Moments

Zulu Team

Reeve leaned back with a sigh. “That was… actually beautiful.”

Nalora slapped him on the back so hard he choked on his drink. “We live to serve, Kaleth’rev!”

Drevik placed a slice of joy-fruit pie in front of him. “It stabilizes respiratory function!”

Reeve wheezed. “Thanks… Drevik…”

Ssa’kith set down his plate. “I would fight the turkey again.”

Ch’korrak groaned. “Please don’t.”

Velra arched an eyebrow. “Statistically, the bird would win.”

Reeve glared at her. “Not helping, Velra!”

The Senior Staff

Penny nudged Rose. “Think Miles’ll ever understand Thanksgiving properly?”

Rose smiled. “He just did.”

Akadia eyed the glowing Saurian stew cautiously. “If I eat that, will I develop night vision?”

Neku replied, deadpan, “Temporarily.”

Twimek passed her a bowl. “Enjoy responsibly.”

Aiyana Blackhorse watched them all, eyes gentle. “I wish the whole galaxy could see this. The Federation at its best.”

Teshla & Sieneth

Sieneth leaned closer to Teshla. “You spoke with the Admiral.”

“Yes,” Teshla said softly. “He supports… us.”

Sieneth’s antennae fluttered with quiet joy. “I am grateful. For him. For you.”

Teshla allowed herself a small smile. “As am I.”

The Final Image

As the crew began to eat, laugh, mingle, and celebrate, Miles stepped back, watching them with pride.

Ssa’kith tried to teach Drevik how to carve Andorian ice-ribs.

Ch’korrak argued with a security officer about the engineering ethics of deep-frying.

Nalora challenged three ensigns to an arm-wrestling contest and won all three simultaneously.

Velra recorded the turkey’s contented coos.

Sieneth and Teshla shared their first quiet, honest moment with no fear or hesitation.
The senior staff exchanged smiles, stories, old jokes, and relief.

And Gobble-Delta-One, resting comfortably in his habitat, gobbled happily the undisputed champion of the day.

Miles lifted one last look at his ship, his people, his found family.

And he whispered, just for them:

“Happy Thanksgiving, Fortitude.”

EPILOGUE

“Aftermath of the Avian Incident”

USS Fortitude – 36 Hours Later

Captain’s Ready Room

Miles Llewellyn sat behind his desk, sipping a mug of replicated Welsh tea and trying unsuccessfully to read a report on quantum shear distortions.

A chime sounded.

He sighed. “Come in.”

The doors parted.

Jaxon Reeve limped in with the dignity of a man who absolutely refused to acknowledge he had been tackled by a turkey.

“Admiral,” he said. “We have a… small situation.”

“Reeve,” Miles said wearily, “the words ‘small’ and ‘situation’ are rarely honest when used together.”

Reeve placed a PADD on the desk.

Miles stared at the headline:

“STARFLEET SUPPLY REQUEST: ONE (1) TURKEY-SIZED ENVIRONMENTAL HABITAT — ZULU TEAM.”

Miles closed his eyes. “…Explain.”

Reeve exhaled deeply.

“Well. Sir. You see. Gobble-Delta-One has… bonded.”

Miles blinked. “…With whom?”

Reeve pointed at himself.

Miles stared.

Then slowly placed his mug down.

“Reeve.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You cannot adopt the turkey.”

Reeve looked pained. “…But sir, he trusts me.”

“No.”

“What if I promise to walk him every day?”

“Reeve.”

“Sir, Ssa’kith has already volunteered to help with strength training..”

“No.”

“Drevik says he can monitor its diet”

“No.”

“Velra wants to run long-term behavioral scans”

“No.”

Ch’korrak stuck his head through the doorway. “Admiral, hypothetically, if someone were to adopt a turkey, how many micro-EMP drones would be considered appropriate for enrichment”

Miles shouted, “NO!”

Ch’korrak retreated, muttering, “Fine, fine. Overprotective…”

Miles rubbed his eyes.

“Reeve, listen to me very carefully. The turkey is being transported to a Federation wildlife preserve tomorrow. It will live a safe, comfortable life. It cannot stay aboard my ship. Understood?”

Reeve sighed heavily.

“Yes, sir.”

Miles relaxed.

“Good. Thank you.”

Reeve paused. “…However.”

Miles straightened again.

“No. No ‘however.’”

Reeve tapped the PADD. “Starfleet Zoology has asked us to provide a full ethological profile of Gobble-Delta-One for their records.”

“That seems reasonable.”

Reeve coughed awkwardly. “Sir. They want daily updates.”

Miles froze mid-sip. “…Daily… updates?”

Reeve nodded apologetically. “And they want them for the next forty days.”

Miles lowered the mug.
Very slowly.

“Reeve… why forty?”

Drevik burst into the room, all smiles. “Oh! Because that’s how long Denobulan domesticated turkeys take to acclimate to new environments! Isn’t that fascinating?”

Miles stared at him like a man contemplating defenestration.

“No, Drevik. It is not.”

Before anyone could respond, the comm system chirped.

“Sieneth to Admiral Llewellyn. Sir… the turkey is loose again.”

Miles’ soul left his body.

Reeve winced.

Ch’korrak groaned. “Oh great. Round two.”

Ssa’kith’s voice came through faintly in the background “DO NOT LET IT NEAR THE PHASER COILS!”

Miles stood.

“Reeve.”

“Sir.”

“You’re handling this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean all of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Reeve…”

“Yes?”

Miles leaned in. “Do not let that turkey get promoted.”

Reeve saluted sharply. “No promises, sir.”

He sprinted out the door.

Miles sat back down.

The tea had gone cold.

He picked up the mug, sighed, and whispered to no one in particular:

“I commanded five ships named Fortitude.
I led fleets into battle.
I survived the Hur’q.”

He stared into the cold tea like it contained the wisdom of prophets.

“But I was never trained for this.”

Meanwhile: The Hangar Deck

Zulu Team, already scrambling, heard a triumphant gobble echo across the deck.

Nalora pointed. “There! It has taken the high ground!”

Ssa’kith nodded solemnly. “A worthy adversary returns.”

Ch’korrak activated three drones.

Drevik activated med-nanites out of habit.

Velra simply recorded the behavioral shift.

Reeve shouted:

“LET’S MOVE, ZULU TEAM!!”

The turkey screeched in defiance.

The chase began anew.

====================================================================

NRPG:

OK, just a little fun after Season 2 and beginning Season 3, Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends and forgive a little “Lower Decks” fun.