By Richard Woodcock
The problem with Christmas aboard the USS Fortitude was not that anyone objected to it.
The problem was that everyone interpreted it as a mission.
It began the way most disasters aboard the ship began: with a well-intentioned sentence spoken aloud in Ops, in the presence of a woman who had survived assimilation and an Orion who treated “festive” as a synonym for “security incident.”
“We should probably do something for Christmas,” Commander Rose Harrington said, scrolling through the duty roster with the careful neutrality of someone defusing a bomb. “Morale’s been… tense.”
Engineering alarms paused for half a second, as if the ship itself was listening.
Commander Penny White looked up slowly, eyes narrowing. “When you say something, do you mean a quiet meal… or a shipwide systems failure disguised as goodwill?”
Lieutenant Commander Fasu Lira folded her arms. “If there are decorations involved, I will require a threat assessment.”
From Science, Lieutenant Commander Neku Langi didn’t look up from her display. “Statistically, Terran holiday observances increase accident rates by twelve percent. Fifteen if food replication is involved.”
Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse, newly recruited as Cultural Archaeology and Mythos Liaison, listened with the expression of someone watching an ancient ritual she’d only encountered in dissertation arguments and half-remembered childhood stories. “It’s supposed to be comforting,” she offered gently.
Penny’s mouth quirked. “It is. Right up until the comforting thing catches fire.”
“Tradition,” Rose said, in the tone of a woman who had once managed emergency logistics during a siege and still carried that calm like armor. “The Admiral asked last year why we didn’t do anything. I told him we were busy not dying. He said Christmas didn’t care.”
“That sounds like him,” Fasu Lira muttered.
Rose glanced toward the captain’s chair, empty for now. “It’s a meal, a gift exchange, something human. That’s all.”
Neku’s eyes remained on her screen. “Humans claim ‘that’s all’ moments before initiating catastrophes.”
At that moment, the turbolift chimed and Admiral Miles Jeffery Llewellyn stepped onto the bridge.
He didn’t stride. He didn’t loom. He simply arrived, pragmatic as a bulkhead: a man who had commanded five ships named Fortitude and still looked faintly surprised that the universe kept inventing new ways to test the word.
He glanced at Rose’s screen, then at Penny’s expression, then at the small, growing list of “things that will absolutely break” on Neku’s monitor.
“You’re talking about Christmas,” he said, not a question.
“No, sir,” Penny replied immediately.
Rose’s eyes narrowed, then surrendered. “Yes, sir.”
Miles regarded them with mild amusement. “Good. Do something simple.”
Fasu’s eyebrow rose. “Define simple.”
“A meal,” Miles said. “Something warm. Something that doesn’t require a battalion.” He paused, as if considering whether tempting fate was an art form. “Invite the Hazard Team.”
Neku finally looked up. “That increases the probability of injury.”
Miles’s smile didn’t move much, but it was there. “It also increases the probability of surviving the meal.”
Penny exhaled slowly. “This is how empires fall.”
====================================================================
Zulu Team reacted to the invitation like it was a coded transmission from an enemy vessel.
Lt. Commander Jaxon Reeve read it once. Then again. Then a third time, as though the phrasing might change under scrutiny.
“No duty uniforms,” he said aloud.
Ensign Velra T’Laan lifted an eyebrow. “That is… illogical.”
Lieutenant Nalora zh’Khev, Andorian reconnaissance specialist, narrowed her eyes. “It is also suspicious.”
Chief Petty Officer Ch’korrak snorted. “It’s a trap. Humans don’t ask you to take off armor unless they plan to stab you while you’re soft.”
Ensign Drevik, Denobulan medic, grinned. “Oh! That’s not true. Sometimes it’s just because they want a nicer photo.”
Lieutenant Ssa’kith, Gorn heavy assault, stared at the screen with the grave stillness of a mountain deciding whether to move. “If this is a trap,” he rumbled, “we will spring it… with enthusiasm.”
Reeve’s mouth twitched. “That’s the spirit.” He tapped the final line. “‘No weapons larger than necessary.’”
Nalora’s gaze sharpened. “Define necessary.”
Reeve didn’t answer. He simply looked at Ssa’kith.
Ssa’kith looked back, unblinking. “For food… I require a blade.”
Drevik clapped his hands. “See? It’s already bonding.”
The team’s informal after-action review was held in the Hazard Ops bay, because Zulu Team did not, under any circumstances, hold meetings anywhere that could be described as “cozy.”
Reeve paced in front of the equipment racks. “This is not a mission. This is a morale event.”
Nalora’s antennae angled forward. “Morale events are where people show weakness.”
“Exactly,” Ch’korrak said. “Which is why we must attend. To identify the weaknesses. In case we need them later.”
Drevik’s smile widened. “That’s so sweet.”
Velra’s tone was quiet and precise. “There is also a line in the invitation regarding ‘funny presents.’ What constitutes funny in human tradition?”
Ssa’kith rumbled. “A broken enemy.”
Reeve stopped pacing. “For the duration of the event, we will not break anyone. We will, however, participate. Strategically.”
Nalora nodded as if receiving orders for an infiltration. “Understood.”
Ch’korrak lifted a hand. “Do we bring… explosives?”
Reeve stared at him.
Ch’korrak shrugged. “For ambiance.”
Reeve pointed. “No.”
Ch’korrak looked wounded. “Fine. I’ll bring something worse.”
====================================================================
By mid-afternoon, the Fortitude was running what Penny White called a Level Two Festive Readiness Drill, because apparently that’s what happened when you put Penny White and Jaxon Reeve in the same room and asked them to “keep things calm.”
Penny stood in the corridor outside the forward observation lounge, holding a PADD like it was a phaser. Rose hovered beside her with the bright, dangerous optimism of an Ops officer who believed, deep down, that logistics could defeat entropy.
“I’ve allocated power for lighting,” Penny said. “Auxiliary, not main. If anyone tries to plug a twentieth-century ‘string of joy’ into the EPS grid, I’ll personally eject them into the nearest star.”
Rose smiled brightly. “Merry Christmas.”
Penny jabbed a finger at the catering schedule. “Replicators. Standard holiday file. Minimal modifications.”
Rose cleared her throat. “We… may have already made modifications.”
Penny’s eyes narrowed. “Who is we.”
Rose tilted her chin down the corridor, where Dr. Blackhorse was explaining Christmas to Lieutenant (jg) Sieneth Th’rel, the Aenar helmsman whose world came in rhythms and harmonics rather than light.
Sieneth’s head was tilted, as though listening to a distant choir no one else could hear. “And then you… put a tree inside,” Sieneth said softly, testing the sentence for structural integrity. “And it does not attempt to re-root itself?”
“It’s usually… cooperative,” Aiyana said, though she did not sound convinced.
Penny exhaled. “Of course.” She glanced at her PADD. “And I suppose somebody has made the ‘traditional meal’ menu into a science experiment.”
From inside the lounge came a low hum and a faint, defensive throb.
Neku Langi stepped out holding a sample container like she was escorting a hostile organism.
“I have improved the cranberry sauce,” Neku announced.
Penny stared at her. “How.”
Neku’s expression remained bluntly proud. “I introduced a stabilizing enzyme to prevent phase separation.” She paused. “It may now be… semi-sentient.”
Rose blinked. “That’s not—”
Penny lifted a hand. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”
Lieutenant Commander Twimek Vodokon arrived next, moving with quiet Reman gentleness that always felt like it belonged in softer corridors than these. He listened to the humming sample container and made a small note on his PADD.
“What is that?” he asked mildly.
“A sauce,” Neku said.
Twimek nodded as if this explained everything. “I will prepare antitoxins.”
“It’s not toxic,” Rose protested.
Twimek’s eyes softened. “Commander. It is a sauce that hums.”
Fasu Lira appeared behind him without warning, because security officers did that the way other people blinked.
“I’ve classified the sauce as a potential sentient contraband,” Fasu said. “It will be searched before entry.”
Neku looked offended. “It is my work.”
“It is also potentially a new lifeform,” Fasu replied. “And Christmas is not authorized to create new lifeforms without a permit.”
Penny stared at Fasu. “Is that a regulation?”
Fasu’s mouth curved in a thin Orion smile. “It is now.”
====================================================================
The decorations were the next problem.
No one admitted who authorized them, which meant—by the strict logic of starship governance—it was absolutely Rose Harrington.
Tinsel appeared along railings like metallic algae. Wreaths appeared on doors, including one that somehow adhered to the holodeck arch and looked mildly accusatory. A set of antique Terran bells was hung in the turbolift, and the ship responded by chiming “Deck Five” in a tone that sounded like it had a hangover.
At precisely 1700 hours, a tree arrived.
An actual tree.
It stood in the corner of the observation lounge, carefully anchored with mag-clamps after it attempted to topple during a minor course correction. Its needles shed onto the deck like small green warnings.
Commander Akadia Nilona, the Romulan intelligence liaison and tactical officer, approached it as though it were a dormant weapon.
“This is… a plant,” she observed.
“Yes,” Aiyana said.
Akadia’s eyes narrowed. “Indoors.”
“Yes,” Aiyana repeated.
Akadia circled the tree. “It is conspicuously unarmed.” She looked at Rose. “That is how you know it is suspicious.”
Fasu Lira stepped up, scanning the branches with her tricorder. “Organic material. No explosives. No parasites. No concealed listening devices.” She paused, frowned, and adjusted a setting. “No, wait. There is a concealed listening device.”
Rose leaned forward. “What?”
Fasu tapped the trunk. “A singing ornament. It is spying on us with music.”
Penny pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to die on Christmas and it’s going to be because someone weaponized a tree.”
From the doorway, Miles Llewellyn watched the scene unfold with calm resignation: a man who had survived Klingon boarding parties and believed this might be worse.
“Looks festive,” he said.
“It’s plotting,” Akadia replied instantly.
Miles considered. “Let it plot. As long as it does it quietly.”
In the corner, the cranberry sauce hummed louder.
Neku looked genuinely wounded that no one appreciated her contribution to culinary science. “I assure you,” she said, “it is only mildly ambitious.”
Then the tree’s lights flickered.
Penny snapped her gaze to the nearest wall panel. “Who tied this into auxiliary power?”
Rose’s smile became profoundly innocent. “So it wouldn’t trip the breakers.”
Penny’s eyes narrowed. “It was tripping the breakers.”
Rose’s innocence did not waver. “The tree was… enthusiastic.”
Ch’korrak appeared carrying a crate the size of a small coffin. “I brought reinforcement.”
Penny stared at him. “Is that a bomb.”
Ch’korrak looked offended. “It’s a stabilizer. And a smoke generator. And a drone bay. It’s multipurpose.”
Fasu raised her tricorder. “You are not placing that near the food.”
Ch’korrak sighed. “You people have no sense of holiday spirit.”
“Holiday spirit,” Fasu said flatly, “is what criminals call it when they’re smuggling.”
Ch’korrak gave her a slow, admiring look. “We could be friends.”
“We could also not,” Fasu replied, and walked away.
====================================================================
The next problem was presents.
The Fortitude’s crew could handle temporal anomalies, hostile boarders, and existential dread. But gift-giving? Gift-giving was the kind of chaos that didn’t even pretend to follow physics.
Rose, in a rare moment of optimism, announced a “funny present exchange.”
“Funny,” Akadia Nilona said, tasting the word like it might be poisoned. “Meaning what, precisely?”
“A small gift,” Rose explained, “that makes someone laugh.”
Velra T’Laan’s eyes narrowed. “Laughter is not a consistent outcome.”
“Neither is survival,” Penny muttered, “and we keep trying.”
To avoid a shipwide procurement panic, Rose imposed rules: low value, no weapons, no live animals, nothing that could trigger a diplomatic incident.
This eliminated approximately eighty percent of the Hazard Team’s initial suggestions.
Jaxon Reeve stood outside a storage locker with Drevik, staring at a collection of items that looked like the remains of a failed prank war.
Drevik held up a pair of Terran socks decorated with tiny starships. “These are delightful!”
Reeve’s expression was unreadable. “They’re socks.”
“Yes,” Drevik said brightly, “but with tiny starships. It’s morale you can put on your feet.”
Reeve nodded slowly. “You are dangerously good at this.”
In the next aisle, Nalora examined a knitted garment with a grimace. “This is an ugly sweater.”
“It is,” Drevik agreed. “It’s traditional.”
Nalora’s antennae angled forward in suspicion. “Traditional psychological warfare.”
“It’s meant to be worn,” Drevik said.
Nalora held it at arm’s length as if it might bite. “I will wear it only if necessary.”
Reeve looked at her. “Define necessary.”
Nalora’s eyes gleamed. “If it terrifies the enemy.”
Ch’korrak’s gift selection process consisted of two steps: steal something “useful,” then wrap it in paper printed with cartoon snowmen to humiliate the recipient.
He approached Penny White in Engineering carrying a small box. “For you,” he said.
Penny’s eyebrows rose. “We’re doing the exchange later.”
Ch’korrak grunted. “I don’t like crowds.” He shoved the box at her and departed like a Tellarite who had performed generosity and wanted no witnesses.
Penny opened it.
Inside was a perfectly machined micro-tool set, customized with her initials and a tiny engraved warp core.
Penny stared at it for a long moment. Her voice came out softer than expected. “…That idiot.”
Rose, passing behind her, glanced in. “Aww.”
Penny snapped the box shut. “No.”
Rose smiled. “Definitely yes.”
====================================================================
At 1830, the forward observation lounge became a battlefield of etiquette.
Tables were arranged with care. Cloths—actual cloths—covered surfaces that were usually wiped with sterilizing gel.
Plates sat in neat rows, each one replicated to match “traditional Earth holiday aesthetics,” which meant there were holly patterns everywhere and a suspicious number of birds.
The senior bridge crew arrived first, dressed in off-duty attire that ranged from tasteful to “Rose, why are you wearing that.”
Rose wore it anyway.
Neku Langi looked uncomfortable in anything that wasn’t a lab coat. Her tail flicked faintly, a Saurian gesture that translated roughly to: I would rather be dissecting a star.
Akadia Nilona appeared in black, of course, because Romulan fashion treated joy as something to be carefully controlled and never allowed to spatter.
Twimek Vodokon carried a small medical kit. “For comfort,” he explained, which did not clarify whether he meant emotional comfort or the kind that came after someone ate a humming sauce.
Fasu Lira scanned the room like a predator in polite clothing. Her gaze lingered on the tree.
“It has gained ground,” she said to Penny.
Penny didn’t look away from her PADD. “If the tree makes a move, I’ll vent the lounge.”
“Excellent,” Fasu replied, satisfied.
Then Zulu Team arrived.
They entered in a loose formation that might have been accidental, except no one in Zulu Team did anything accidentally.
Reeve led them in. No armor, but the posture of people who had never fully trusted a room in their lives.
Nalora wore the ugly sweater.
She wore it like a threat.
The sweater’s design featured a Terran reindeer with a blinking red nose. The nose blinked faster as her antennae angled forward, as though sensing hostility.
Ssa’kith’s jaw tightened as he observed the table. “Where is the prey.”
Drevik patted him gently on the arm. “It’s coming, big guy. It’s called turkey.”
Ssa’kith nodded once, solemn. “A worthy opponent.”
Ch’korrak eyed the centerpieces. “Are those… pinecones.”
Aiyana Blackhorse smiled at him. “They’re symbolic.”
Ch’korrak grunted. “So is a grenade.”
Miles Llewellyn arrived last, because he had always believed a commander should let his people fill the room before he tried to steady it.
He paused at the threshold, taking it all in: the decorations, the mixed species, the cautious smiles. The lingering tightness behind everyone’s eyes that came from too many crises and too little time to process any of them.
Then he stepped inside and the room adjusted around him the way the ship always did.
“Evening,” he said.
“Sir,” Reeve replied. He hesitated, then offered something close to warmth. “Thank you for including the team.”
Miles nodded. “If we’re going to pretend we understand each other, we might as well eat together while we do it.”
Rose brightened. “Yes! That’s the spirit.”
Neku muttered, “Statistically, shared meals increase social cohesion.”
Penny leaned toward her. “Do not encourage this.”
Neku’s eyes remained steady. “It is too late.”
At the far end of the room, Commander Teshla Phyhr entered quietly, almost unnoticed until her Andorian presence seemed to chill the air by a degree.
Teshla did not smile. She did not need to.
She simply took her place beside Miles, posture precise, eyes calm, antennae at rest in that particular Andorian way that suggested she was both present and already calculating how to end anyone who made this complicated.
Miles glanced at her. “Thought you’d skip this.”
“I declined my own command more than once,” Teshla said evenly. “I can endure dinner.”
“That’s my girl,” Miles murmured before he could stop himself.
Teshla’s antennae dipped a fraction.
Rose’s eyes widened. Penny’s gaze snapped up like she’d been hit with a plasma wrench.
Akadia Nilona watched like she’d just found a new vulnerability in the command structure.
Fasu Lira’s mouth curved.
Zulu Team looked confused, which on Zulu Team was an expression rarely seen and therefore dangerous.
Miles cleared his throat. “Food.”
====================================================================
The meal began well, which should have been everyone’s first warning.
The replicators produced a turkey that was mostly correct except for the feathers, which had been—according to the replicator’s apologetic text display…“included for authenticity.”
Penny stared at the bird. “That’s not authenticity. That’s trauma.”
Ssa’kith regarded the turkey gravely. “This creature died with honor.” He leaned closer. “But it was poorly resurrected.”
Drevik beamed. “On Earth we eat it anyway.”
Ssa’kith reconsidered several life choices.
The stuffing arrived next, labeled FESTIVE APPROXIMATION, and possessed the consistency of damp insulation.
Ch’korrak poked it with a fork. “If this is what humans celebrate, no wonder they invented warp drive. Anything to escape.”
Rose forced cheer into her voice. “It’s an acquired taste.”
Akadia Nilona tasted it, paused, and then—astonishingly—took another bite.
“This,” she said thoughtfully, “is what you feed prisoners before an interrogation.”
“Compliment accepted,” Rose said, and drank her wine.
Neku Langi lifted a spoonful, scanned it, and sighed. “The replicator has attempted ‘nostalgia’ without understanding it.”
“That’s basically Starfleet,” Penny muttered.
At the center of the table, Neku’s cranberry sauce sat in a glass bowl, shimmering a deep, festive red.
It hummed.
Softly. Politely. Like something trying not to disturb dinner while also considering conquest.
Twimek Vodokon watched it with quiet concern. “It has rhythm,” he noted.
Sieneth Th’rel tilted her head, eyes unfocused as she listened. “It’s singing,” she said, softly delighted. “Very faintly.”
Fasu Lira reached for her tricorder. “If it is singing, it is communicating.”
Neku’s gaze sharpened. “It is not dangerous.”
Fasu did not lower the tricorder. “Everything that says ‘it is not dangerous’ is dangerous.”
Miles, watching them all, lifted his glass. “To Christmas,” he said, wry. “May it pass without formal charges.”
Everyone drank.
The sauce hummed louder.
In the tree, a singing ornament began to play a Terran carol in a key that sounded like mild suffering.
Conversation, at first, stayed inside safe corridors: duty rotations, patrol routes, how many times the ship had nearly been torn apart by the universe recently. Small talk, Starfleet-style.
Then Aiyana Blackhorse did what archaeologists always did: she brought context.
“In many human cultures,” she said, “winter festivals are about survival. Community. Sharing resources. Telling stories to remind ourselves the darkness isn’t permanent.”
Ch’korrak snorted. “The darkness is absolutely permanent. It’s space.”
Aiyana smiled. “Yes. But humans insist on candles anyway.”
Nalora zh’Khev tilted her head. “On Andoria, winter festivals are… endurance tests.”
Rose blinked. “Like… running?”
Nalora’s antennae lifted with pride. “Ice-knife duels. For sport.”
Drevik’s eyes went wide. “That’s adorable.”
Nalora stared. “Do not use that word.”
Ssa’kith rumbled. “On my world, we do not celebrate winter. We conquer it.”
Penny raised her glass. “Honestly? Mood.”
Velra T’Laan spoke quietly, eyes down. “On New Romulus, there are celebrations of returning light. We make vows. We recite poetry.” She hesitated, then added in a near-whisper, “Sometimes we pretend it is easier than it is.”
Twimek looked at her with gentle understanding. “Pretending is a kind of medicine,” he said.
Fasu Lira, never one to allow sentimentality without a blade, leaned in. “On Orion, we celebrate the end of the year by making lists of everyone who tried to kill us.”
Rose blinked. “That’s…”
“Efficient,” Penny supplied.
Fasu smiled, satisfied. “Yes.”
====================================================================
After the main course came dessert, which was where the Fortitude truly entered dangerous territory.
Rose had insisted on “traditional Christmas pudding.” Penny had insisted on a fire suppression grid.
The pudding arrived in a small dish, steaming and suspicious. Rose produced a bottle of brandy like it was contraband.
Penny’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that.”
Rose smiled brightly. “We have a lockbox of ‘cultural supplies’ for diplomacy.”
Akadia Nilona’s eyebrow rose. “You have been drinking the diplomacy.”
“Not all of it,” Rose protested.
Fasu Lira leaned in. “If you ignite that, I will stun the pudding.”
Rose ignored her and poured the brandy over the dessert.
Then she lit it.
Blue flame leapt up, beautiful and untrustworthy.
The room went silent the way a ship goes silent right before a warp core breach.
Ssa’kith leaned forward. “It is on fire.”
“Yes,” Rose said, a little too proud. “It’s supposed to be.”
Ch’korrak stared. “Humans are the only species that can turn food into an active hazard and call it celebration.”
Penny’s jaw tightened. “Everyone remain calm. The grid is active.”
The flame flickered… then stabilized, as if respecting Penny’s authority.
Rose exhaled. “See? Easy.”
At that exact moment, the cranberry sauce detonated.
It did not explode outward like a bomb. It surged upward like a living thing, a column of festive red that expanded, shivered, and then—somehow—split into several smaller hovering globules.
The humming became a sharp, indignant buzz.
For a half-second, no one moved.
Then Fasu Lira calmly stunned the bowl.
The globules froze midair, quivering like stunned jellyfish.
Reeve instinctively ordered Zulu Team into a defensive perimeter.
Nalora drew a knife from somewhere no one could see.
Ssa’kith rose to his full height, the table creaking beneath the weight of imminent violence.
Drevik yelped, “Don’t shoot it! It’s food!”
Twimek Vodokon sighed and opened his medical kit. “I will prepare trauma counseling.”
Neku Langi’s eyes went wide in a way that suggested she was simultaneously horrified and deeply, deeply pleased.
“It is adapting,” she whispered.
Penny snapped her gaze to Neku. “Fix it.”
Neku swallowed. “It… appears to have developed territorial instincts.”
Akadia Nilona leaned back slightly. “Of course it has.”
Rose looked at the hovering sauce and said, helplessly, “It was supposed to be… festive.”
Miles Llewellyn raised his glass, as if this were simply another incident report.
“Well,” he said mildly, “that’s the most dangerous thing I’ve eaten since the Klingon ambassador’s retirement dinner.”
The laughter that followed was not polite.
It was the kind that escaped before people could stop it. Real laughter, scraped raw and honest, spilling into the room
like air after a breach seals.
Even Akadia Nilona’s mouth twitched.
Even Fasu Lira’s eyes softened, just slightly, as she watched the stunned sauce slowly settle back toward the bowl like an embarrassed creature reconsidering its choices.
Reeve let his team relax by degrees, a practiced unwinding.
Nalora sheathed her knife with faint disappointment.
Ssa’kith sat down carefully, as though lowering a weapon.
Drevik grinned so widely his cheeks looked like they might cramp. “See? Holiday magic!”
Penny exhaled, shoulders loosening. “If it tries to evolve again, I’m calling it an invasive species and launching it into a star.”
Neku looked offended. “It has potential.”
“It has menace,” Fasu corrected.
“It has spirit,” Rose insisted.
“It has a stun setting now,” Fasu replied.
Rose lifted her glass. “To the cranberry sauce. May it remain contained.”
Everyone drank again. Even Neku, though she did it like someone mourning a lost scientific breakthrough.
Sieneth listened to the fading hum and smiled. “It’s sulking,” she said.
Miles nodded with approval. “A proper Fortitude Christmas, then.”
====================================================================
After the incident, the room loosened. The way it always did after shared danger, even ridiculous danger.
Conversation shifted. Stories emerged: not the heroic ones meant for official logs, but the small, ridiculous ones that clung to memory because they proved you were alive when it happened.
Penny told the story of a warp core that had once refused to stabilize unless she played Earth jazz through the EPS conduits. Miles listened with the quiet satisfaction of a commander who knew his chief engineer was, in her own way, a sorcerer.
Rose told a tale about rerouting rations during the Romulan refugee crisis and accidentally feeding an entire relief convoy nothing but replicated pears for three days. Akadia found this hysterical in the way Romulans found suffering amusing when it was not their own.
Twimek shared, softly, that during the Reman uprisings he had once performed surgery by candlelight, because the power grid had failed and the only thing anyone had left was stubbornness. Silence followed that one, respectful and heavy, until Drevik chirped, “Candlelight surgery sounds romantic!” and everyone laughed again, because sometimes that was all you could do with pain.
Zulu Team contributed in their own way.
Reeve admitted he had once broken into an enemy station’s galley to steal bread because his team hadn’t eaten in thirty hours. “Best bread of my life,” he said, and there was something tender behind the steel.
Nalora confessed, grudgingly, that she’d learned Terran knitting in the Guard purely so she could repair cold-weather gear faster. “I did not know humans would weaponize it into sweaters.”
Ch’korrak described rebuilding a transporter stabilizer using “a Breen helmet, a bowl of soup, and the willpower of the damned.” Penny looked half horrified, half impressed.
Ssa’kith said very little, but when he did, everyone listened. “I was made for war,” he rumbled. “I choose peace. Until peace must be made… by force.” He looked at the stunned sauce. “Also… by food.”
Fasu Lira, after two glasses of wine and one successful stun, allowed herself a grin. “This was almost tolerable,” she said. “Which is the highest compliment I can give a holiday.”
Rose raised her glass again. “I’ll take it.”
====================================================================
Then came the gift exchange.
Rose insisted everyone draw a name from a small bowl. The bowl, naturally, was a replicated antique with holly patterns. It looked innocent. It was not.
Akadia Nilona watched the bowl with suspicion. “Is it rigged.”
Rose gasped. “No!”
Penny muttered, “It’s probably rigged.”
Neku scanned it. “It is statistically likely to produce interpersonal discomfort.”
Rose clapped her hands. “That’s part of the fun.”
Reeve reached in, drew a slip, and stared at it like it was a classified briefing.
Nalora drew hers and immediately looked offended.
Drevik hummed cheerfully as he drew his. “Oh! Fate!”
Ch’korrak drew a slip and grunted. “I hate bowls.”
Ssa’kith drew one carefully between clawed fingers and regarded the paper as if it might run.
Miles drew last. He read his slip, then folded it without comment.
Teshla did not draw. Rose had tried to insist. Teshla had looked at the bowl. Rose had reconsidered.
Instead, Teshla observed with calm detachment, as if supervising a cultural experiment.
Gifts were opened one by one.
Nalora presented her gift first. She handed a wrapped box to Fasu Lira with the solemn gravity of a duel offering.
Fasu opened it cautiously.
Inside was a compact multi-tool engraved with Orion script. The engraving read, in careful block letters: FOR STABBING PROBLEMS.
Fasu stared.
Nalora’s antennae angled forward. “I was told gifts should be funny.”
Fasu’s mouth curved. “This is hilarious.” She paused. “And useful.”
Nalora nodded, satisfied.
Drevik handed his gift to Twimek Vodokon: a set of socks with tiny starships. Twimek held them like they were a fragile artifact.
“These are…” he began.
“Comfort,” Drevik said warmly. “For your feet. And also for your soul.”
Twimek’s eyes softened. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and for a moment the whole room felt gentler.
Ch’korrak shoved a box toward Rose. “Here. I wrapped it. I hated every second.”
Rose opened it and gasped.
It was a miniature logistics organizer—an antique-style data slate—customized with a tiny brass Fortitude insignia.
Rose stared. “Ch’korrak… this is wonderful.”
Ch’korrak grunted. “It’s so you can stop losing things. It was painful to watch.”
Rose laughed. “That’s… sweet?”
“Don’t say that,” he warned. “I’ll deny it.”
Velra T’Laan’s gift went to Neku Langi: a logic puzzle cube carved from polished stone, inscribed with subtle Romulan poetry along the edges.
Neku examined it, scanned it, then looked up. “This is… competent.”
Velra’s expression remained composed. “I selected a design that would not insult your intelligence.”
Neku’s face flicked. “You have succeeded.” She paused, then added bluntly, “Thank you.”
Akadia Nilona’s gift went to Penny White.
Akadia handed her a small ornament shaped like a warp core. It was charred around the edges.
Penny stared. “Is this a threat.”
Akadia’s eyes glinted with restrained amusement. “It is a reminder. If the ship survives your engineering, it will survive anything.”
Penny’s mouth twitched. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”
Reeve’s gift went to Sieneth Th’rel: a small chime instrument, tuned to subspace harmonic intervals.
Sieneth touched it gently, listening. Her eyes grew distant with soft delight. “It sounds like… home,” she whispered.
Reeve nodded once, almost awkward. “I asked Dr. Blackhorse.”
Aiyana smiled. “He did. He also asked if it could be used as a weapon.”
Reeve didn’t deny it.
Ssa’kith’s gift went to Drevik: a tiny Denobulan plant in a sealed case, labeled SNAPPY.
Drevik’s face lit up. “You remembered!”
Ssa’kith rumbled, almost shy. “You said you keep plants for morale. This one bites.”
Drevik laughed. “Perfect.”
Then all eyes turned to Miles Llewellyn, because no one had forgotten the Admiral’s presence, only grown used to it again.
Miles opened his gifts with practiced grace: books, a piece of Andorian ice crystal, a Romulan tea set. He thanked each person with a wry line, a nod, a quiet warmth that never begged for attention.
Still, something about him remained watchful, as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It did, in the form of an ugly sweater.
Rose handed him a wrapped parcel with bright cheer.
Miles opened it.
Inside: a knitted sweater featuring a Terran reindeer piloting a starship. The nose blinked in time with the turbolift chimes.
For a long moment, Miles said nothing.
Then he looked up at Rose with the calm terror of a man facing an enemy he could not shoot. “This,” he said carefully, “is warfare.”
Rose beamed. “It’s tradition!”
Akadia Nilona’s mouth curved. “Wear it.”
Fasu Lira murmured, delighted, “Wear it.”
Zulu Team watched, fascinated. A commander being forced into humiliation was, to them, a holiday miracle.
Miles sighed. “Very well.” He stood, pulled it on over his shirt, and adjusted it with the dignity of a man accepting exile.
The reindeer’s nose blinked twice, triumphant.
Teshla’s antennae dipped faintly.
It might have been amusement.
It might have been affection.
It might have been both.
Miles sat down again and raised his glass.
“To tradition,” he said dryly. “May it never find me again.”
====================================================================
The evening wound down slowly, like a ship easing out of red alert.
People lingered. Not because they had orders, but because the room had become something rare aboard the Fortitude: safe.
The tree remained upright, though it shed needles with quiet defiance.
The cranberry sauce, now contained under a small forcefield dome, hummed in sulky silence.
At some point, Rose put on Terran music. Old jazz first—Miles’s preference—then a holiday playlist that made
Ch’korrak threaten to sabotage the speakers.
Penny caught Miles watching the room. Not as a commander monitoring morale, but as a man taking inventory of what he might lose if the universe decided it was done with him.
She approached him with a glass of something warm. “I hate to say it,” Penny murmured, “but this… worked.”
Miles glanced at her sweater, at his own blinking reindeer, and gave a small, resigned smile. “Don’t tell anyone. I have an image to maintain.”
Penny’s eyes softened. “Your crew knows you, sir. Image is what strangers worry about.”
Miles’s gaze flicked to Teshla across the room. She was speaking quietly with Reeve—listening more than talking, as she always did, but present, attentive, steady.
He said nothing, but Penny saw the weight in his eyes.
Penny, who had survived assimilation and rebuilt herself piece by piece, understood quiet decisions. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” she said gently.
Miles’s smile returned, faint and wry. “It’s an admiralty habit. If you share the burden, someone might try to help.”
Penny snorted. “Heaven forbid.”
Miles’s eyes warmed. “Exactly.”
As the last guests filtered out, Zulu Team departed in orderly fashion, because even their exits were tactical.
Reeve paused at the doorway and looked back.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low.
Miles nodded. “Bring your people through, Commander. Not just in combat.”
Reeve’s expression tightened, then softened. “Aye, sir.”
Nalora zh’Khev lingered just long enough for Rose to grin at her sweater.
“You wore it!” Rose exclaimed.
Nalora’s antennae angled forward. “For intimidation.”
Rose laughed. “Of course.”
Ssa’kith, passing the cranberry sauce dome, leaned in and rumbled, “You fought well.”
The sauce did not respond, but it hummed once, faintly, like a creature acknowledging a worthy enemy.
Twimek Vodokon guided Drevik gently toward Sickbay, because Denobulans could be relentlessly cheerful right up until they collapsed from exhaustion and it was better to catch them before that.
Akadia Nilona left without a word, but paused at the tree to adjust a single ornament so it hung perfectly straight. Then she moved on as if she’d done nothing.
Fasu Lira, last to leave besides command, tapped the forcefield dome over the sauce with her tricorder and said, almost fondly, “Stay contained.”
The sauce hummed resentfully.
Fasu smiled. “Good.”
Only then did the lounge settle into quiet: scattered needles, empty glasses, the faint scent of spice and burned pudding, and a blinking reindeer on the Admiral’s chest that refused to stop celebrating.
Miles stood alone for a moment, breathing it in.
Then he left.
Because command, even on Christmas, had its rhythms—and because there were some truths best spoken away from an audience.
====================================================================
Miles returned to his ready room and closed the door behind him.
The quiet was immediate. Heavy. Familiar.
He poured himself a small glass of Romulan tea—Akadia’s gift—and sat at his desk. The blinking reindeer nose continued its cheerful assault. He stared at it until it blinked twice in defiance.
“Traitor,” he muttered to the sweater.
There was a knock.
Miles hesitated, then said, “Enter.”
Commander Teshla Phyhr stepped inside, posture precise, antennae relaxed. She carried a small wooden case in both hands.
“I waited until the noise subsided,” she said.
“Wise,” Miles replied. “Christmas has a blast radius.”
Teshla approached his desk and set the case down gently, as if placing a relic.
“I have something for you,” she said.
Miles blinked. “Teshla, we already did gifts.”
“This is not part of the exchange,” she said evenly. “It is private.”
He studied her face. Calm. Controlled. But there was a softness there he saw only in rare moments, when no one else was watching and she permitted herself to be more than an officer.
He opened the case.
Inside lay a pipe—handmade, carefully finished. A rustic briar bowl, deep and warm-toned, fitted with a broad copper mount polished to a soft gleam. The stem was dark vulcanite, shaped into a careful P-Lip curve, elegant and practical.
For a moment, Miles could not speak.
It was not just a pipe. It was the kind of object that carried time in it: hours of shaping, sanding, fitting, polishing. Patience. Attention. The quiet intimacy of knowing what someone held dear.
“…I was under the impression I’d been discreet,” he said at last.
Teshla’s mouth curved faintly. “Sir. You hum Welsh poetry when stressed. Discretion was never your strongest camouflage.”
Miles laughed a small, surprised sound then stopped, because something caught in his throat.
“You knew,” he said softly.
Teshla’s antennae dipped. “The crew suspected. Penny confirmed. Fasu ran a ‘threat assessment.’”
Miles stared. “Fasu ran a threat assessment on my pipe.”
“She ran a threat assessment on the idea that you might relax,” Teshla said with perfect seriousness. “She deemed it suspicious.”
Miles rubbed his forehead. “Of course she did.”
He lifted the pipe from the case.
The craftsmanship was careful. Not ornate. Not ostentatious. It felt… right. Like something made to be used, not displayed.
“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” Teshla replied. “You taught me that leadership should leave marks that are not visible on reports.”
Miles swallowed. He set the pipe back into the case, hands lingering as if reluctant to let go.
“How did you even….”
“I consulted the ship’s archives,” she said. “And Dr. Blackhorse. She explained the cultural significance. She also recommended I choose materials that would ‘age with dignity.’”
Miles’s eyes softened. “Aiyana’s good at that.”
Teshla hesitated, then added, “I also… watched you.”
Miles looked up.
Teshla’s voice remained steady, but something in it shifted, a fraction warmer.
“You think you are invisible,” she said. “But you are not. Not to those who serve under you. Not to those who care.”
Miles leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of years settle on his shoulders in a way it usually didn’t allow itself to.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Outside the ready room, the Fortitude drifted through the dark, engines humming, hull scarred, systems stubborn. A ship built to endure.
A ship that had endured him.
Miles cleared his throat. “You’ve been… different lately,” he said.
Teshla’s antennae stilled. “Different how.”
“More present,” Miles said. “More… ready.” He paused. “Like you’re standing a half-step forward.”
Teshla’s gaze did not waver. “I am your First Officer.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Miles said softly.
Teshla’s jaw tightened, the only tell she allowed. “Then say what you mean.”
Miles exhaled slowly.
He had faced Klingons in battle. He had faced temporal incursions. He had faced the quiet horror of realizing reality itself could slip sideways and leave you wondering whether you belonged in your own life.
This, absurdly, felt harder.
“I’ve been thinking of standing down,” he said.
Teshla did not react outwardly. But her antennae dipped just enough to betray the truth beneath her control.
“Yes,” she said.
It was not a question.
Miles nodded. “I’m tired, Teshla.” He glanced down at the pipe. “Not tired like a man who wants to sleep. Tired like a man who’s carried too many wars and too many ghosts and keeps pretending the weight is part of the uniform.”
Teshla’s voice softened, just slightly. “You do not pretend,” she said. “You endure.”
Miles gave a faint smile. “That’s the same lie with better grammar.”
Teshla stepped closer to the desk.
“You told me once,” she said, “that command is not about being unbreakable. It is about being breakable and choosing to stand anyway.”
Miles looked up at her.
“And you told me,” she continued, “that one day I would have to choose whether to stand when you no longer could.”
Miles’s eyes sharpened. “Did I.”
“You did,” Teshla said. “You were injured. You claimed you were not. Penny said you were. You were angry. You quoted Welsh poetry at me.”
Miles sighed. “That does sound like me.”
Teshla’s antennae dipped again, and this time it was unmistakably affectionate.
Miles’s voice dropped, quiet. “If I step down… I want the ship in hands that understand restraint and resolve. Someone who can hold the line without becoming the line.”
Teshla met his gaze.
“I would serve,” she said. “If asked.”
Miles’s throat tightened again, because this was the moment he had been circling for months: the quiet acknowledgement of succession, the unspoken handoff between generations of duty.
He closed the wooden case gently, as if sealing something precious.
“I know,” he said.
Teshla’s expression softened, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
For a heartbeat, it wasn’t Admiral and First Officer.
It was something older, quieter.
A man who had carried too much.
And the one he trusted to carry what came next.
Miles reached out and tapped the case lightly.
“You made this,” he said.
“Yes,” Teshla replied. “With my hands.”
Miles nodded once, deeply moved. “Then it’s the best present I’ve received in years.”
Teshla’s voice was very quiet. “That is why I made it.”
Outside, the Fortitude’s engines thrummed onward through the endless dark.
Inside, for one small moment, the ship held still around them.
Christmas, against all odds, survived the USS Fortitude.
Barely.
But enough.
====================================================================
Two hours later, an automated report landed in the Operations queue under the title: FESTIVE EVENT – AFTER ACTION SUMMARY.
Rose Harrington read it with a cup of cooling tea and the hollow-eyed serenity of someone who had survived both war and committee meetings.
It had been authored jointly by Security, Medical, and Hazard Ops, which was never a good sign.
SUBJECT: CHRISTMAS MEAL (SENIOR STAFF + ZULU TEAM)
STATUS: COMPLETED. (RECOMMENDATION: DO NOT REPEAT WITHOUT OVERSIGHT.)
Key Findings:
1) Decorative vegetation (“tree”) displayed minor instability under course corrections. Engineering applied clamps. Tree remained hostile only in principle.
2) Replicated avian protein (“turkey”) arrived with nonstandard feathering. Morale impact: mixed. Gorn officer deemed resurrection “improper.”
3) Ethanol ignition event (“pudding”) proceeded within acceptable parameters. Fire suppression grid active. No pudding was harmed. (Pudding declined counseling.)
4) Cranberry sauce exhibited emergent motility and audible vibration. Security applied stun. Medical recommends that Science submit paperwork before creating new forms of life within dining facilities.
Appendix A: One (1) singing ornament confiscated for unauthorized surveillance via musical interrogation.
Appendix B: One (1) ugly sweater now registered as Class-2 morale weapon. Admiral Llewellyn advised against reissuance.
Final Note (Handwritten, likely Commander Fasu Lira):
If we must do this again, I request the right to search the menu for intent.
Rose saved the report, smiled despite herself, and forwarded it to the Admiral with a single line:
“See? Simple.”
NRPG: Carrying on with the of Lower Decks theme and Christmas, Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays to everyone.
To an old friend, Merry Christmas to you and your family.