Ansolon Season 02 / Episode 08
by Alan Tripp

2412

U.S.S. Mythos
Grand Shoals Region, Malstrom Expanse

Siduri and Tila’mana looked first at each other and then as one at the pair of legs sticking out of the small access panel overhead.

“Pass up my sonic screwdriver,” the gruff voice called down from above.

Although the hovering maintenance disk was narrow in circumference, there was no fear of the Klingon

Starfleet admiral falling from it thanks to the magnetic maintenance boats he wore.

“Chop, chop,” the voice demanded, hand reaching downward.

Yeap, the bastard clung to disk like a magnet to a refrigerator or the chief engineering officer would have already pushed him with the hope he’d break both legs.

So instead, Tila grabbed the sonic and slapped it into the waiting hand.

With just a bit more force than the Romulan had intended.

Although she’d intended a health, annoying smack of the wrist in the process.

But whatever grief she might have with Ka’nej Hauk, it would never match that of which Ansolon Command’s Command-in-Chief was already giving himself.

Although nine out of ten starship commanders would have ran aground of the subspace sandbar.

Problem was he held himself to levels of perfection when it came to situations like these … where either Federation, galaxy, family or friends (the latter two in this case) were in jeopardy.

And then there were those strings of far too public communications with that engineering yard master / ship design engineer named Jenkins who was taking it as his personal opportunity to try and embarrass the Admiral as payback for having taken the Mythos out of drydock before her space trials were complete.

“He’s not going to let this go, is he?” Siduri asked.

The trill served as the engineering XO aboard ship.

“Not a chance in Areinnye,” she answered, meeting her gaze before both looked upward sighing at the same moment.

The Mythos had rammed into the subspace sandbar during the height of the metreon-based plasma storm that had come seemingly out of nowhere.

Said storm had blinded sensors leading to the moment they’d run aground.

If they were being honest, they were lucky the ship was still in one piece … relatively speaking that is.

Her engines had taken a hit and whereas other captains would have waited to be towed back to spacedock for repairs, Ka’nej was determined to fix the engines, get (somehow) off the bar and out of the Grand Shoals and back on mission.

Shallana was more than a friend. … She was family.

And even without her presence, he’d still be doing the same as the Crazy Horse was a ship under his command.

Their crew deserved no less.

Overhead, the Klingon gave a roar and a grunt followed by the metallic ring of a massive wrench striking metal while In the background the primary warp core suddenly shuttered back to life.

The engineers below looked at one another, first with nods of approval and then smiles.

Elsewhere in the room, a chorus of applause.

Of course, that still meant it needed to be resynced with the secondary which her people were in the process of finish up restoration of over in the saucer.

One thing about a Ross-class … plenty of power … if you had both cores going AND working in tandem – easier said than done.

“I don’t know how in the Areinnye (Romulan for hell) he did it but I’m not looking a gift fvai (Romulan for horse) in the mouth,” Tila chimed before clapping hert hands together and turning towards the others scattered about the room.

If she’d understood exactly what Ka’nej had had in mind, she would have been quick to lend a hand, but it had turned out best just to let him work.

But that was before, this was now.

“Everyone … jobs to do and a lot still to be done,” she yelled.

“Remember your assignments and get ‘em done!”

She walked off towards the master engineering display, the trill remained behind to help steady the Klingon as the maintenance disk lowered itself back to the floor.

Hauk tossed the sonic back into his tool pack and dusted off his hands.

“Ok … next?”

Respectfully,

VADM Ka’nej Hauk
CO, U.S.S. Mythos
ANSCOMCINC

Out of Story

I had thought about having Ka’nej Hauk and the Mythos actually towed back to spacedock, but realized he would move heaven and earth to help save a friend in need.

Same for a ship under his command.

And gods help the yard master when the good admiral DOES make it back to Starbase Ansolon.

The post The Straits: “Not Going Back!” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

Ansolon Season 02 / Episode 07
by Alan Tripp

2412

U.S.S. Stardrifter

Capt. J’nae Travanner Skysen dropped back into her command seat, letting out an explosion of air as she did so.

As a Vulcan, Jenni (her nickname since the academy) did NOT like losing her composure.
But there were certain times where a little of her human genies were appropriate to allow to shine through.

And THIS was one of those moments.

And if she were not Vulcan, she’d likely be unleashing a string of curse words at this very moment.

But she was Vulcan and also captain of the U.S.S. Stardrifter … which was living up partially to her name at the moment.

“Send out on all channels a general distress call,” she ordered.

U.S.S. Britannia

The refitted Odyssey-class U.S.S. Britannia sliced smoothly through the clouds of Hell’s Gate with her captain sitting comfortably in a favorite chair in his ready room … padd in hand.

Capt. Standing Wolf was making use of a lull in activity to catch up on a bit of reading … status reports from elsewhere within the fleet.

The current one caused him a bit of a chuckle as it was a back and forth exchange between Fleet Admiral Ka’nej Hauk and the yard master … one Jenkins … who was responsible for the drydock facilities surrounding Starbase Ansolon.

And apparently the good Klingon admiral had taken the Ross-class U.S.S. Mythos out of spacedock for a search and rescue mission, despite the fact said ship had not yet completed trials.

What made the incident more interesting is that the Mythos ran aground on a subspace sandbar just before a metreon storm hit.

Let’s just say the Mythos was in the process of itself being rescued with said ship still needing a tow back to space dock … once said storm abates that is.

Wolf imagined the good Admiral was NOT taking the matter well.

Especially since Jenkins was making sure the incident was very, very public.

[“Captain to the bridge.”]

With a sigh, the seasoned captain … one born in another reality btw … rose from his chair, tossed the padd lightly onto his desk and made for the exit.

Within moments, he was on the bridge.

“Report.”

Cmdr. Janel Kimmons was already rising from the centerseat.

“We have received a distress call from the U.S.S. Stardrifter,” she began.

“It’s not much on details and broken up, but we do have an idea as to point of origin,” she continued.

“Let’s hear it,” he ordered.

To say it was broken up was an understatement.

All he could decern from it were the words “Stardrifter,” “found,” “stuck,” “gravity” and “need help.”

The rest was a soup of distortion and static.

“Send word to command apprising them of the situation,” Wolf ordered.

“And recall the fighters.”

He stepped forward of the command well.

“Helm, once the wing is aboard, set course for the epicenter of the transmission … best possible speed.”

— Three Hours Later —

When the Britannia came out of warp, she shuttered violently sending more than a few down to their knees or worse … at least those standing.

On the viewer among the reddish clouds of Hell’s Gate, was the gaping maw of a black hole

And for some reason, sensors did not detect it until they were almost on top of it.

At least while at warp.

Now that they had a visual, they knew better how to align the sensors to begin painting a bigger picture.

At least as much as this beast was willing to thus far share.

Standing Wolf followed the stream of data coming in via the interface built into his chair.

And after a few seconds, he realized he’d seen something like it before.

“Centerpoint,” he whispered under his breath.

Well, not that old starbase from another reality so much as where it was located … in the heart of the Neffen Cluster.

The Neffen Cluster had been a massive cluster of black holes with very few safe paths in or out.

Centerpoint had been constructed within a massive pocket of calm space in a star system that somehow found balance with the gravity wells surrounding.

As a member of the Sam Houston’s crew, Wolf had been a veteran of both Battles of Centerpoint and spent many a day exploring Centerpoint and its surrounding space.

And this looked so close to the original … from that other verse … that it could almost be a copy.

“But where’s the path in and out he asked,”

“Captain, we’re being hailed.”

“On screen.”

Wolf had met Jenni only a handful of times, but it was enough to note the edges of relief around her eyes.

[“I wasn’t sure anyone would receive our distress call,”] she said in her normal cool Vulcan manner.

Her image crackled here and there as the gravimetric forces fought to distort it.

“What happened?” Wolf asked.

[“We think we’ve located the approximate location of the lost Crazy Horse,”] she began.

[“Following information relayed to us by an Orion interceptor led us here,} she explained. [“And we were following a path through the currents trying to reach it when the currents took a turn and the path disappeared.’}

[“We are lucky we fell into a safe pocket but appear to be trapped,] she continued. [“Can’t seem to escape.”]

Wolf rubbed his bearded chin, realizing they might have to leave the area if only to (1) let command know where the hell they were and (2) tell possible help where to go.

A place that looked to him damned similar to another place he had gotten to know well … but apparently not well enough.

They were definitely going to need help. … A LOT of help.

Respectfully,

— Capt. J’nae Skysen
CO, U.S.S. Stardrifter

and

— Capt. Standing Wolf
CO, U.S.S. Britannia

—- OUT OF STORY —-

This sets the real stage for the meat of “The Straits.”

And not much, but it was fun for me being able to reference the Battle of Centerpoint, Centerpoint Station and the Neffen Cluster.

The post The Straits: “Stuck in Hell” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

I am J’nae Travanner Skysen … a boomer … one born aboard and spending life growing up on a a space freighter … In this case, the “Setting Sun.”

For at least three generations before me, my family worked freighters.

But I’d see those Starfleet ships they’d encounter and dream … until finally, I was living her dream.

So, I was the first in my family in those generations to leave life aboard freighters and the first ever to enroll in Starfleet via the academy.

Was fresh out of the academy when the Dominion War struck.
Served during the first days of the war as an engineer aboard an Excalsior-class cruiser (refitted like the Enterprise B).

The Beowulf was a noble ship, but there is only so much one ship can do against four Jem’hadar attack ships.

Our captain tried to lose them in the Badlands but without success … at least for our ship.

In the end, he had us abandon Beowulf and hide from those attack ships using the escape pods and shuttles while he, the first officer and several of the command staff sacrificed themselves and ultimately the ship while leading them away.

Our enemy thought ship destroyed with all hands.

Survivors were transported to Deep Space 9 to await reassignment.

It was during this time that I was suddenly gripped by Pon Farr and met a rather unique Scottish/Bajoran engineer named Alan Nyrros Pathfinder who became a lover / companion whom I’ve shared time and life with ever since.

Called “Jenni” by her friends, she presently serves as captain of the refitted Excelsior II-class explorer U.S.S. Stardrifter.

The post BIO FILE — “Jenni” (aka. J’nae Skysen) appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

By Alan Tripp

—

Scene: Battle Bridge, U.S.S. Dante
Stardate: 240513.1840 (aka. May 13, 2409)

“They went for it!”

Lt. Sean Dalmore punched the arm of the command chair in childish delight. The Borg had taken the bait and extended their shields around the doomed saucer section.

An alarm sounded from the tactical station currently manned by Suzanne – a Yeoman who was the only other person on the battle bridge besides Sean and Allen.

“Sir, sensors are detecting intruders!”

From the helm, Alan called up the proper readings before continuing.

“It seems Dante’s science officer created a special program to detect the subspace wave used by the Borg that lets remaining drones remain in constant contact with each other. That program is currently detecting 61… correction 64 Borg in and around engineering. “

The Dante’s makeshift Captain, Sean, laced his fingers together in front of him with his elbows resting on the chair’s arms as he tried to sort his way through it all.

“Do you see any signs of anything the former crew may have developed to counter a boarding party?”

Before Sollace could answer, a warp conduit opened, swallowing the LaForge-Cube with its intended prey still gripped tightly behind its shields. The Saucer went critical as a tremendous beam of white energy shot out across space, narrowly missing the Dante stardrive as the Borg Cube appeared to be vaporized.

—
Scene: Main Bridge, U.S.S. Nelson

<>

Dustin MacLeod stood behind the tactical station, a place he hadn’t been in years but felt as comfortable there as trying on an old pair of shoes.

He quickly pulled up Borg tactics as well as his old, pre-programmed weapons combinations.

J.B., the assistant chief security officer on duty, stood to the right on internal security and sensors, bowing to the XO’s superior tactical experience with the Borg.

The phaser blasts did not penetrate the Borg ship’s shields, of course.

Then the Dante began to fire upon the saucer section.

Seconds later, the Borg shield was extended around the saucer section, and the two ships began to move off together. The Dante turned away from the retreating ships as they began to go transwarp again, but simply coasting away under maneuvering thrusters.

The combined Borg- Dante Saucer began to disappear into the non-space of transwarp. When they were about halfway through, the saucer glowed white as her engines overloaded, and a tremendous beam of white energy shot out across space, narrowly missing what was left of the Dante and completely vaporizing the Borg cube.

Even at this distance, the Nelson shook violently in the shockwave.

What happened next was nothing short of spectacular.

When the afterimages faded from the crew’s eyes, there stood a wormhole in place of the saucer and Borg Cube. Bright oranges, reds, and deep blues swirled as a hole opened.

Immediately, J.B. called out, “Scanning… There is no signature from the other side that indicates a destination. The Borg ship and the Dante’s saucer section are gone.”

“Captain, I can’t predict its stability, but I do know that the Borg ship is on the other end and is severely damaged,” he continued.

The stardrive section seemed to be running out of luck, too.

One of about a dozen tendrils snaked out of the wormhole, crossing the Dante’s nacelles and pulling the abbreviated ship inside. Then the wormhole disappeared.

MacLeod looked down at his Captain, his expression grave.

“Captain, I picked up numerous transporter signals throughout the stardrive section during that battle and based on our scans, it is possible that over two hundred Borg are currently on board the USS Dante.

Tracey stood up and approached the viewscreen…her people were on that ship and they could be clueless that they had been boarded.

Even if they knew, there was little they could do….even if they had known where they had gone.

Dustin ran back to the Science Station and drew up a map of the Dante.

“I counted well over sixty in Main Engineering,” he exclaimed. “They’re going to take the ship from there and then work their way to the Battle Bridge!”

Captain Mills couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed at all the curve balls she’d been thrown.

—
Scene: Battle Bridge, U.S.S. Dante

Sollace fought with the controls as the wave passed over the ship, rocking it violently in its wake. A Wormhole appeared opening in all its brightly swirling colors. … Its tendrils snaked outward crossing the Dante’s nacelles, pulling the abbreviated ship inside.

Then the wormhole disappeared.

Passage through the wormhole was bumpy at best, lasting for barely more than two minutes, but seeming more like an eternity.

Then, she was through.

The Dante appeared on the other side not much the worse for wear, keeping in mind of course that it was only the stardrive section.

Nearby, drifted the shattered remains of the Borg Cube.

Sean lifted himself from the floor as was Allen.

Behind him, he noted Suzanne laying stretched out on the deck in a crumpled form. Moving toward her, his hand reached toward her neck…..Thankful when he felt a strong pulse.

Breathing a deep sigh, he turned to the FCO. “Report.”

“We’ve made it through the wormhole in something close to one piece. The wormhole has already closed, and the Borg Cube is drifting derelict 3,000 meters off the port bow,” Sollace reported.

Then he smiled briefly.

“It looks like there’s not much left of it. Sensors detect … about four or five life signs. And I don’t think the ship can be salvaged.”

Sean breathed another sigh of relief.

‘Well, that was one down,’ he thought to himself.

“What of the Borg currently on board?” he then spoke aloud.

“Sensors detect a total of 115 crawling around in the lower decks….and it looks like that number may be growing. They’re assimilating the crew as they go.”

“Did the former crew develop any sort of contingency plan?”

After reading through the files, Sollace’s smile grew as he read.

“Yes, sir! I don’t understand it all, but the program tracks down each individual Borg via their subspace wave. It can also disrupt and block that signal as well as achieve a transporter lock from it. The system is programmed to automatically lock on and beam them to whatever coordinates we state. It’ll continue until all boarders have been repelled.”

“Seems they just didn’t have the time left to initiate it,” he added.

The CSO smiled warmly. It seemed luck was with them.

“Mr. Sollace, set coordinates for 2,000 meters off the starboard bow and stand-by to initiate program on my mark. … MARK!”

With the sequence keyed, all the Dante’s remaining active transporters powered up as they sprang to life. Borg began materializing into empty space beyond the ship.

After ten minutes, they were safe again.

Sollace checked his readings.

“I read only 37 lifeforms remaining onboard including us.”

“Only thirty-seven out of this ship’s former full crew complement?” Sean asked, the shocked sorrow registering in his voice.

‘So much for saving the Dante and her crew,’ Sean thought to himself. ‘To think of all that had lost their lives in this.’

Pushing back those ugly thoughts, Sean had to think about the living.

“Where are we?”

“Checking sensors now,” Allen called out from flight control. … “Well THAT can’t be right.”

He re-tapped the commands back into the console a second and third time before speaking again.

“Readings show us just outside the Corvaenuz System,” he said finally, “but the stars are off slightly.”

“What do you mean … off?” Sean asked.

“Location is confirmed but……”

The young officer’s facial expressions twisted into a rather puzzled and mystified expression as his voice trailed off.

“What can’t be right, Ensign?” Sean prodded.

“Sir, our location is indeed the Corvaunis System, but …” he paused again, but only for a few seconds … “The time is off.”

“Off in what way, Ensign?” the acting captain prodded, again awaiting the answer.

“If these readings are correct … It says the year is no longer 2409,” he answered, swiveling in his chair to look his friend in the eye.

“Calculated by star positions, computer says the year is ….”

“… 2370,” a new voice on the battle bridge finished quite calmly.

“You have … yes … traveled 39 years back into what would be considered your past,” it continued.

All eyes swiveled to see who the hell had spoken, all rising (if seated) and bringing phasers to bear.

It was Sean as acting captain who spoke, however.

“And who the HELL are you? … Q ????”

“No, I’m not the entity referred to as ‘Q’,” he answered with a shake of his head.

“I’m Daniels … a temporal agent from the 32nd century, dispatched to investigate your sudden appearance within this timeline.”

Before anyone could breathe another word, Daniel’s touched a device attached to his forearm and immediately all present found themselves no longer aboard the scarred battle bridge of the Dante, but somewhere else entirely.

“Welcome to my temporal observatory,” the agent answered quickly before the question could be asked.

Sean asked the next logical question.

“You say you are from the 32nd century and we …. We have been transported back to 2370?”

“And what the hell is a temporal observatory?” Sollace blurted out.

Daniels raised a hand to cease questions before drawing in a long, deep breath.

“From what we have been able to gather, the Borg cube attempted opening a transwarp conduit looking to drag the Dante in with it. … Only the attempt resulted in a wormhole, slicing across time and reality to land you here in 2370 … as well as an alternate.”

“Wait, wait, wait … Not just into the past but realities???” Sollace exclaimed.

Sean placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder before stepping forward, as the original leader of the rescue team from the U.S.S. Nelson … and as formerly acting captain of the Dante, he represented both the Nelson team and the Dante survivors.

“So, YOU are saying that WE are no longer in 2409 … but 2370 … AND not even still in our own universe?” he asked trying to wrap his head it all.

“Exactly,” Daniels confirmed.

“That wormhole cut through the fabric of your universe and into one of the adjacent realities … not too dissimilar from your own … but definitely different.”

“Different in what way?” Sean asked, trying to stay up with the conversation even as his mind reeled from the idea of it all.

“There are slight bits of history … small things,” the agent swept his arm around the observatory and towards the timeline that encircled them all, “that differ enough that as history continues to expand forward … it will result and shape itself into a completely different timeline than the one you know.”

“Ok,” Sean said, finally finding his mental feet again. “Then send us back.”

Daniel’s shook his head.

“An impossibility,” Daniels answered quickly.

“Sadly, there is no going back for any of you … THIS … is your new home,” he continued.

“Why?” Sollace asked. “You are from the 32nd century. And from the look of this place, you surely have the technology. … Send us back.”

“We cannot because you are already still there.”

Daniel’s expression turned sad for them, mixed with understanding of how they must be feeling.

“As impossible as any of this sounds …,” and again he turned toward a floating timeline, calling up a visual representation as he spoke.

“… The you still aboard the Dante of yet a third reality was also sucked by the borg into the same type wormhole, only it cut from their universe into yours and only transported them backwards in time a few hours.”

“They warned Capt. Mills and the Nelson of what events were about to happen so those events could be altered and changed … as is correct for that reality’s timeline,” Daniels added.

Sean looked as if he was about to vomit.

“So, you are saying we still exist there … and yet we are here … at the same time?”

“What happens to us?” Allen Sollace added the question.

“This is where you are meant to exist now … Yes,” Daniels answered. “This is where you are meant to remain.”

“Our families … friends … our lives?” Sollace asked.

“You are where you need to be, and this reality’s events will unfold as they need to because of it.”

The temporal agent paused a moment before adding … “I am sorry about the loss of your family and friends … but those aren’t your lives any longer.”

Sean was still trying to wrap his mind around it all.

“But by being here, we’re altering this reality’s history,” he stated not so much as a question, but a fact.

“And yet that is what is needed for this universe’s timeline to unfold as is necessary,” Daniels answered with conviction in his voice.

“What happens to us?” Sollace asked.

Daniel’s waved his hand across the displayed timeline, sending it back as threads within the larger master line.

“We will help each of you in creating new lives, integrating you into this time, this place.”

“And we are to just ignore the fact that we know how history is going to unfold?” Sean asked.

Daniels shook his head. “You forget that I said this timeline unfolds differently from you own, in fact … the planet Rom …”

He paused as if catching himself before changing verbal tracks.

“… Let’s just say history here will unfold different from what you originally knew to the point that when you reach 2409 again … It will be completely different.”

“No,” Sollace said, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“No … Send us back. Family … friends … our lives are back there,” he continued. “Send us back now!”

Daniels’ shook his head but still smiled a thin smile.

“No … we cannot. … BUT I do now see why you end up becoming the ship’s cap … the person you are meant to be.”

Scene: Main Bridge, U.S.S. Artemis
Stardate: 240513.1840 (aka. May 13, 2409)

Those on Earth knew the date as May 13, 2409 … a date burned deep into the soul of Capt. Bearheart.

Looking out over the bridge of his command … the U.S.S. Artemis, NCC-84078, Alan saw not the crew but instead the events of 32 years prior.

It was on this date the U.S.S. Nelson answered the distress call of the U.S.S. Dante and dispatched a rescue team over to a ship whose crew had already been assimilated by an attacking Borg cube.

Was on this date that rescue team had assumed control of the Dante via the battle bridge and were swept into a wormhole created by said Borg cube’s failed attempt to open a stable transwarp corridor.

Thus, sweeping the surviving members of the team 39 years into the past … and into an alternate timeline.

No way of returning, young Ens. Alan Narross Sollace was forced to change his name (well, last name at least) and assimilate into that time, that place.

Thanks to the workings of temporal agent Daniels, he and others of the team were able to remain in Starfleet … beginning their new march through the years of history … including one Dominion War.

And now Allen Sollace … Alan Pathfinder … had reached the date he’d last left in another reality whose timeline completely differed from the one he’d been forced to live just to reach the same date once more.

He’d helped establish a new colony, fought the Dominion War, worked his way up through the ranks of Starfleet and even assisted with saving lives of refuges from the supernova that claimed the Romulan homeworld and several of its colonies.

Just one of the many events different from what he’d learned in school as a child.

Daniel’s had let slip that Alan would go on to become a ship’s captain and that came to pass a few years back.

Stroking the arm of his command chair, he took pride in Artemis and her crew.

With a few final thoughts of his wife, children and grandkids … Capt. Pathfinder noted that although the transition had been hard … leaving behind all they’d lost …, he was pleased with the way life had worked out.

He also made a note to contact Sean Dalmore … also now a Pathfinder … on this day of all days and share a drink with his friend who was out there commanding a ship of his own as well.

Some of the survivors of their original rescue team (being few in number) each agreed to adopt and share the family name “Pathfinder” while also helping establish a new colony where they’d all call home.

Pathfinder because they would knew they would have to find and forge new paths through life, having strong hearts to see them through the tragedy of the lives (and loved ones) forever lost to them now.

They’d come to consider themselves one family … bound by ties beyond those of blood.

And that family had grown a bit larger over the years since.

A thought that left Alan smiling as he turned back towards the bridge and mission before them.

He definitely needed to remember to call his brother later on for that shared drink.

—

Out of Story: The above begins by revisiting a story written back in the 1990s from the play-by-email RPG group U.S.S. Nelson within the overall Trek universe of alt.starfleet.rpg (a newsnet group at that time).

Allen Sollace was my very first character and through this, I took the version of him that went through the wormhole and showed where he actually ended up … as the version that went back and warned the Nelson was indeed … from another reality even back then (to explain his the twin self remained and became one Ross MacBride … whose story will also continue within this STO verse, but more on that story at a later date.

Respectfully,

Capt. Allen Pathfinder
CO, U.S.S. Artemis

The post “The Hard Reboot” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

Ansolon Season 02 / Episode 06
by Alan Tripp

2412

U.S.S. Crazy Horse

Another console blew out to one side of the bridge, punctuating the dark thoughts her crew were feeling in this moment. 

How did she know their dark thoughts? … Because they were her own. 

Capt. Shallana Ironwolf projected calm, cool even if inside she was screaming. 

Every so often sounds of the increasing pressures against the ship’s hull would become more audible in a sound that seemed to echo through the whole of the ship. 

She also would swear her ears would pop in those moments. 

With a sigh, she rose from the command chair and made a  circuit of the bridge, reassuring the various members of her crew manning the various stations. 

Each had tasks to do, even if some of those tasks were designed simply to keep their minds off what was happening to the Crazy Horse and them with it. 

Shallana placed a hand on the shoulder of the communications officer. 

“Anything yet?” she asked softly. 

“Nothing yet, Captain,” the Romulan Starfleet officer noted, an intense look on her face with accents of stress marking the lines of her features here and their. 

Of all the duties being carried out at present, the lieutenant’s was possibly one of the most important. 

It was she who came up with a way to …  maybe … get a message out to Starfleet and … maybe, maybe … deploy a backup message should that one fail. 

Krishyyn was one of the best in the fleet. 

Problems with all of it all was not her skill the lieutenant’s skill but the mounting gravimetric pressures and currents swirling around out there.  

And THAT was excluding the maelstrom that had caught Crazy Horse and was slowly drawing them closer to their … 

But let’s not go through. Not yet and if Shallana had her way … Not ever. 

Squeezing Krishyyn’s shoulder, the Captain moved on in her circuit. 

Reassuring her crew, did something to reassure her own spirit as it was her faith in them that gave her hope they might yet survive this … crushing development. 

30 more minutes til her senior officers met again to offer updates and any fresh ideas on how possibly to survive whatever it was that was holding them. 

Next stop, the science station where Koraq was doing his best cut through the murk and paint a better picture of their surroundings.  

I.K.S. Temptress

It wasn’t an alert or anything like that, so much as a flicker of a reading.

If the Orion tactical officer had not been restless, it was the kind of thing that might have gone completely unnoticed.

‘Most likely background noise,’ Sheryu thought.

An artifact of sound generated by some stellar phenomenon somewhere in the neighborhood, as yet undiscovered.

And if she had not been recalibrating the communication arrays at that exact moment, said background noise likely would have been filtered out automatically.

As it was, whatever it was snagged the Orion’s attention enough that she paused the recalibration and waited a few moments to see if it might appear again.

And then it did.

Again, barely a blip and not something that could be deciphered … at least not yet.

One leg cocked over one arm of the command chair, Capt. Awnya in command of the small but powerful Orion interceptor recognized the change in pheromones coming from her chief tactical officer enough to know something had caught the woman’s interest.

“Sheryu … What cha found?” she asked.

They’d spent three weeks surveying this region of what the Malstrom Expanse — a region the Federation called “Hell’s Gate.”

“Not sure.”

Sheryu’s fingers danced over the tactical console trying unsuccessfully amplify the signal.

“But it’s something,” she continued. “Just not sure what.”

Respectfully, 

Capt. Shallana Ironwolf
CO, U.S.S. Crazy Horse

and

Capt. Awnya
CO, I.K.S. Temptress

The post The Straits: “Calls from the Depths” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

USS Fortitude, Main Bridge:

The stars were behaving themselves tonight.

That alone made Miles uneasy.

From the command chair of the USS Fortitude, the galaxy lay arranged in neat, predictable vectors no quantum shear, no flicker of false parallax, no whisper of something that shouldn’t be there. After a lifetime of wars, incursions, and realities bleeding into one another, calm felt… provisional.

He checked the chronometer.

Two hours to midnight, shipboard.

Once, New Year’s Eve had meant champagne in San Francisco, laughter spilling out of Starfleet Academy halls, and the arrogant certainty that the future was something you charged toward.

Now it was a quiet bridge, dimmed lighting, and a crew that felt less like subordinates and more like family he’d watched grow into themselves.

Miles rested his hand on the arm of the chair his chair, for now and let himself breathe.

Five Fortitudes.
Five commands.
How many versions of himself?

He wondered briefly, treacherously how many more New Years he had left here.

Commander Teshla Phyhr, XO’s Station

Commander Teshla Phyhr stood with the stillness of ice that had learned patience.

The bridge hummed around her, consoles murmuring in disciplined harmony. She catalogued readiness reports with practiced ease, but her thoughts were elsewhere on Andoria’s long nights, on Imperial Guard drills where celebration was weakness, and on how much she had changed since choosing to remain at Llewellyn’s side.

She had declined command three times.

Starfleet personnel files called it “loyalty.”
Her clan would have called it choice.

Teshla glanced toward the command chair. The Admiral looked older tonight not frail, not diminished, but… reflective. She recognized the look. She had seen it in Guard commanders before they stepped aside for the next blade in the line.

Whatever came next, she would not let the ship stumble.

Not on her watch.

Commander Penny White — Main Engineering

Engineering smelled faintly of ozone and orchids.

Penny White stood near the warp core, arms folded, watching the containment field shimmer with quiet perfection. She had tuned it herself earlier unnecessary, perhaps, but rituals mattered. Especially on nights when memories had a habit of surfacing uninvited.

There had been a time when the hum of a core had sounded too much like Borg resonance. When every flicker made her heart race.

Not anymore.

The Fortitude had helped heal that.

Her staff laughed nearby soft, careful laughter, the kind engineers shared when systems were stable and ghosts were kept at bay. Penny allowed herself a small smile. She had built more than engines here. She had built trust.

Midnight would come.
The ship would shine.
And tomorrow, they would keep flying.

That was enough.

Commander Rose Harrington, Operations Station

Rose Harrington’s console glowed with logistics readouts, but her focus lingered on the crew manifest.

So many names.
So many stories.

She had coordinated refugee evacuations under fire, rerouted fleets through collapsing corridors of space, and watched friends come back changed or not at all. Yet nights like this reminded her why she stayed.

Because someone had to make sure the ship worked not just the systems, but the people.

She queued the fireworks protocol, double-checking safety margins and sensor interference. Everything had to be perfect. Not because Starfleet demanded it.

Because the crew deserved it.

Lieutenant Commander Neku Langi, Science Lab

Neku Langi adjusted the spectral filters and frowned.

“Interesting,” she muttered.

The stellar radiation profile near their position showed faint harmonics nothing dangerous, nothing anomalous enough to report. But it was… curious. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of timing.

She logged the data for later review and allowed herself a rare indulgence: wonder.

Temporal mechanics had taught her one thing moments mattered. Some echoed longer than others.

Tonight felt like one of those.

Commander Akadia Nilona, Tactical & Intelligence

Akadia Nilona watched threat projections she did not expect to change.

Old habits died hard.

The Romulan in her distrusted peace; the Starfleet officer accepted it cautiously. Around her, the ship prepared not for battle but for celebration. It was still strange, sometimes, how much she had come to value that distinction.

She thought of joint operations, shared bloodshed, alliances forged in crisis. Of standing shoulder to shoulder with officers who had once been enemies.

If this was what the future looked like…
She could live with it.

She deactivated half her alerts.

Just for tonight.

Lieutenant Commander Twimek Vodokon, Sickbay

Twimek Vodokon finished his final rounds with gentle efficiency.

Crew stress levels were elevated, expected. Anticipation often mimicked anxiety in biological terms. He made notes, offered quiet words, and accepted a cup of tea from a junior medic who smiled too quickly.

He understood that smile.

Healing was not always about wounds. Sometimes it was about permission to rest, to feel, to remember without breaking.

Tonight, he would allow himself that too.

Lieutenant Commander Fasu Lira, Security Office

Fasu Lira leaned back in her chair, boots on the edge of her desk, eyes half-lidded as security feeds rolled by.

No threats.
No intrusions.
No temporal nonsense.

“Suspicious,” she murmured with a smirk.

She had lived too much life to trust easy nights but she had also learned when to let the crew breathe. She adjusted patrol rotations to minimum readiness and sent a message to her teams:

Enjoy the evening. I’ll keep the universe honest.

Lieutenant Sieneth Th’rel, Helm

Sieneth “heard” the stars tonight.

Not literally though some would argue semantics but the subtle rhythm of subspace flow sang beneath her fingertips as she rested them lightly on the helm. The Fortitude felt balanced, content, as if the ship itself sensed the approaching moment.

She recorded a single line in her Braille journal:

The stars are holding their breath.

Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse, Observation Lounge

Aiyana Blackhorse stood alone for a moment, palm resting against the transparent aluminum, watching ancient light reach modern eyes.

New Year’s rituals had existed on Earth long before warp drive fires, stories, promises whispered into darkness. Across cultures, across millennia, the meaning remained constant.

Continuity.

She felt honored to witness how this crew carried that tradition forward not with superstition, but with shared memory and intention.

The past mattered.
So did what came next.

Lt. Commander Jaxon Reeve — Hazard Ops Bay

Reeve had seen men celebrate like they’d stolen something from the universe—loud, reckless, desperate to prove they were still alive.

Zulu Team didn’t do that.

Not because they were joyless. Because they understood better than most that survival was rarely a solo achievement. It was a chain. A hand grabbed in the dark. A shouted warning at the right time. A medic’s fingers moving too fast to follow.

He ran a final pre-event check anyway, because that was who he was: the man who assumed the worst so the rest could have a night off.

Across the bay, Ch’korrak was arguing with a diagnostic drone.

Nalora was sharpening a blade she didn’t need to sharpen.

Drevik had brewed something that smelled suspiciously like herbal optimism.

Velra stood at the edge of the group, half-present, as if the idea of celebration required a translated manual.

And Ssa’kith… Ssa’kith was simply there like a wall that had decided to be kind.

Reeve’s hand brushed the small slate he kept locked in his kit names, dates, the ones who hadn’t come back in earlier years. He didn’t open it. He didn’t need to.

He looked at his team and felt something unfamiliar, something dangerous.

Peace.

“Alright,” he said, voice calm, steady. “You’ve got thirty minutes before we head up. Try not to break anything.”

Ch’korrak snorted. “That’s discriminatory.”

Reeve’s mouth twitched. “It’s preventative.”

And as the laughter started quiet at first, then warmer Reeve realized the strangest truth of all:

They weren’t just a unit anymore.

They were… a family that had learned how to keep going.

Lieutenant Ssa’kith, The Weight of a Quiet Night

Ssa’kith watched the humans celebrate with a kind of studied patience.

In the Hegemony, marking time had been a brutal thing victories, dominations, the tally of conquered worlds. It had been noise and blood and certainty.

Here, aboard the Fortitude, the ship prepared for light.

Fireworks. A harmless ritual. No enemy. No prey.

He had once believed this softness would make them weak.

Now he understood: it made them harder to break.

Nalora approached and offered him a small packet some Andorian confection he couldn’t pronounce.

Ssa’kith accepted it carefully.

“It is… sweet,” he rumbled after trying it, as if offering an official assessment of a ration.

Nalora’s antennae dipped in amusement. “Try not to look like you’re being poisoned.”

Ssa’kith stared at her a moment longer than necessary.

Then, slowly deliberately he let the corner of his mouth lift.

It wasn’t quite a smile.

But it was closer than he’d ever been.

Ensign Drevik, Morale is a Medical Discipline

Drevik’s medkit was immaculate.

His people were not.

That was the trade.

He floated between them like a cheerful emergency protocol checking bruises from training, handing out warm cups, offering unsolicited encouragement.

“If anyone feels an overwhelming urge to confess feelings tonight,” he announced, “I’m available. For clinical reasons. Totally.”

Velra glanced at him. “That is not clinical.”

“It absolutely is,” Drevik replied. “Emotional suppression can cause stress-related inflammation. I’m basically preventing swelling.”

Ch’korrak barked a laugh and muttered something about Denobulans being “biologically allergic to silence.”

Reeve shot Drevik a look that said don’t push the commander into an emotional moment.

Drevik nodded solemnly then immediately passed Reeve a cup anyway.

Reeve took it without comment.

That was progress.

Drevik made a note in his head: Captain-level acceptance of morale beverages a major breakthrough.

And beneath the humor, beneath the bright tone he wore like armor, Drevik felt something real:

For the first time in his career, he didn’t feel like the medic tagging along with the fighters.

He felt like the heart in the center of a small, stubborn constellation.

Ensign Velra T’Laan, Logic, Instinct, and the Space Between

Velra stood slightly apart, observing.

She always observed.

It was safer.

Romulan instinct urged vigilance. Vulcan training demanded control. Starfleet asked something harder: trust.

She did not find trust logical.

Yet here she was watching Ch’korrak tune a device that would project refracted deflector light into patterns, watching Nalora’s attention subtly track every exit, watching Ssa’kith remain motionless in a way that meant he was ready to become a shield at a heartbeat’s notice.

And Reeve Reeve was the anchor. The center.

He was not impulsive. He was not cruel. He was not careless with lives.

He was… consistent.

Velra’s fingers brushed the small strip of Romulan poetry she kept hidden in her gear case. She had written it down years ago to remind herself she was allowed to feel something even if she didn’t know what to do with it.

Tonight, she didn’t read it.

She simply stayed.

And that, she decided, was a form of growth.

Lt. JG Nalora zh’Khev, A Blade Can Be a Promise

Nalora checked her knife because it was what her hands did when her mind refused to settle.

This ship this crew had changed her in ways she didn’t talk about.

She had come to Starfleet to fight. To restore her clan’s honor. To live at the edge of violence where certainty was sharp and clean.

Instead, she had found something messier.

People.

Reeve had given her purpose without demanding she become someone else.

Ssa’kith had taught her that strength could be quiet.

Drevik had proven that courage could smile.

Velra had shown her that conflict didn’t always need to explode outward.

Ch’korrak gods help them had demonstrated that arguing with the universe could sometimes be a love language.

Nalora looked around at them and realized a truth she would never say aloud:

She was no longer fighting to restore her clan’s honor.

She was fighting to protect this.

This team. This ship. This strange little pocket of belonging.

Her antennae flicked toward Reeve.

“Kaleth’rev,” she said softly Shield-Brother.

Reeve looked up, surprised by the gentleness in her tone.

“What is it?” he asked.

Nalora sheathed the blade with a precise click.

“Nothing,” she said, and meant the opposite.

CPO Ch’korrak, Engineering is Arguing With Physics Until You Win

The fireworks display was, in Ch’korrak’s professional opinion, ridiculous.

Also elegant.

Also dangerously tempting.

He’d been asked politely, infuriatingly politely to assist Operations in deploying sensor drones to cast prismatic light patterns across the Fortitude’s silhouette. No explosives. No volatile charges. No “fun.”

So he’d done what any responsible Tellarite combat engineer would do.

He’d upgraded it.

Not enough to violate safety protocols he wasn’t suicidal but enough that the light would bloom in layered, spiraling geometry instead of bland “officially approved sparkle nonsense.”

He muttered at the drone rack as he worked. “There. That’s art. That’s engineering. That’s”

Drevik leaned in. “That’s you secretly caring.”

Ch’korrak paused, then growled, “That’s me preventing you from embarrassing the ship with amateur hour.”

Reeve walked past, glanced at the readouts, and after a beat nodded once.

A simple nod.

But it hit Ch’korrak like a medal.

He watched Reeve’s back as the commander moved away and felt something he hated admitting:

Pride.

Not in himself.

In them.

In the fact that a team built for disaster could still take time to paint light across the stars.

Zulu Team didn’t talk about love.
They talked about protocols. Loadouts. Angles of approach.

But tonight, as they headed up from Hazard Ops toward the gathering decks, the truth moved with them through the corridors like a quiet formation:

They had become the kind of people who could survive the worst and still show up for the moment the year turned.

USS Fortitude: 00:00 Shipboard Time

The lights aboard the Fortitude dimmed not abruptly, not dramatically, but with the gentle confidence of a ship that trusted its crew to understand what came next.

Across decks and duty stations, conversations trailed off. Glasses were lowered. Hands found railings, shoulders, bulkheads. Somewhere in the ship’s core, a chronometer ticked toward a boundary humans had invented and yet never stopped needing.

On the bridge, the stars ahead seemed to hold their alignment.

“Mark,” said Commander Rose Harrington softly, fingers poised above the console.

The Fortitude did not count down aloud.

She never had.

The Ship

At the exact moment the year turned, the Fortitude came alive.

Not with weapons fire.
Not with alarms.
But with light.

From launch bays and maintenance ports, a constellation of sensor drones bloomed outward in precise geometry. Deflector harmonics refracted across their hulls, casting prismatic arcs that spiraled, unfolded, and reformed color without heat, brilliance without violence.

To those watching from inside, it looked as though the ship itself had decided to breathe out.

No sound reached them.
Space kept its silence.

But the crew felt it all the same.

USS Fortitude, Main Bridge

On the bridge, Admiral Miles Llewellyn stood.

No one ordered him to. No protocol demanded it. He simply rose from the chair as the first wave of light swept across the forward viewscreen, painting the bridge in blues, golds, and soft greens.

Commander Teshla Phyhr stood beside him, posture immaculate, antennae angled slightly forward an unconscious sign of attention, of presence.

For once, neither spoke.

They didn’t need to.

The Fortitude was steady beneath their feet, every system precisely where it should be. Not because the universe was kind but because the people here were ready.

Miles felt the weight of it then.
Not the burden of command.

The completion of it.

USS Fortitude, Observation Lounge

In the observation lounge, crew members lined the transparent aluminum in quiet clusters.

Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse closed her eyes for a brief moment as the light patterns unfolded, thinking of ancient fires on Earth, of stories told to mark endings and beginnings. This was the same ritual, she realized—just written in a newer language.

Nearby, Lieutenant Commander Twimek Vodokon observed subtle shifts in posture, breathing, heart rates then allowed himself the rare luxury of not recording them.

Healing, he knew, sometimes required being a witness rather than a clinician.

Commander Penny White stood with Rose Harrington, shoulders nearly touching. Neither spoke. Both engineers, in their own way, appreciating the impossible elegance of controlled energy made beautiful.

“Ch’korrak’s fingerprints are all over this,” Penny murmured.

Rose smiled. “I know.”

Zulu Team: Together, Not Separate

Zulu Team watched from a lower gallery, unarmored, unarmed, deliberately so.

For once, they were not an edge.
They were part of the whole.

Ensign Drevik’s eyes were wide, reflecting the shifting colors. “Okay,” he said quietly, “I rescind every complaint I’ve ever made about Starfleet ceremony.”

“That’s going in your medical file,” Ch’korrak grumbled, though his gaze never left the view.

Nalora zh’Khev stood rigid at first then slowly relaxed, antennae lifting as if tasting the moment. Ssa’kith loomed behind her, vast and immovable, a presence that no longer needed to prove itself through force.

Velra T’Laan watched the patterns analytically… until she realized she’d stopped analyzing them at all.

Reeve stood at the center of them, hands clasped behind his back.

For the first time since he’d formed Zulu Team, he wasn’t thinking about contingencies.

He was thinking about tomorrow.

And he found unexpectedly that the thought didn’t weigh him down.

USS Fortitude, Helm Station

At the helm, Sieneth Th’rel tilted her head slightly.

The light show wasn’t silent to her not entirely. The deflector harmonics, the micro-adjustments in subspace pressure, the elegant symmetry of it all resonated like a held chord finally resolving.

She smiled, just a little.

“The ship’s… happy,” she said softly, mostly to herself.

No one contradicted her.

Between the Lights

They did not plan it.

That was the thing Teshla would later remember most clearly.

One moment she was on the bridge, posture immaculate as the first wave of refracted light washed across the viewscreen and the next, she found herself stepping away under the pretext of a systems check, trusting the bridge to hold without her for precisely sixty seconds.

Sieneth felt it instantly.

The ship shifted not in vector, not in thrust, but in attention.

She keyed in a course hold, confirmed stability, and followed without asking.

They met in a narrow observation corridor rarely used outside of maintenance rotations. The transparent aluminum viewport stretched floor to ceiling, offering an uninterrupted view of the Fortitude’s hull as the drones traced spirals of light around it gold, blue, violet silent fireworks blooming against the dark.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Teshla stood with her hands clasped behind her back, watching the reflection of the ship ripple faintly across the viewport. Sieneth leaned lightly against the rail, head tilted as if listening to a song only she could hear.

“It’s louder out there,” Sieneth said softly.

Teshla glanced at her. “Space?”

“The moment,” Sieneth corrected. “It resonates. Like the ship is… remembering something.”

Teshla nodded once. “On Andoria, we mark the turning of cycles with ice lanterns. They float until the heat of the day takes them.” A pause. “We watch to remind ourselves that endurance doesn’t mean permanence.”

Sieneth turned toward her then, pale eyes catching the reflected starlight. “You’re thinking about endings.”

“I’m thinking about change,” Teshla replied.

Outside, the Fortitude bloomed brighter light cascading along her hull in slow, deliberate arcs. The ship looked impossibly graceful, as if she were aware she was being watched.

Sieneth stepped closer.

Not hurried.
Not uncertain.

Just close enough that Teshla could feel the warmth of her presence, the subtle shift of air between them.

“I don’t hear endings,” Sieneth said. “I hear… continuity. Like a melody changing key.”

Teshla exhaled, the tension easing from her shoulders. “You always did hear things the rest of us miss.”

Sieneth lifted her antennae gently, brushing them against Teshla’s in a gesture that was intimate even by Andorian standards shared sensation, shared emotion, no barrier between.

For an instant, the world narrowed to that contact.

To trust.

To choice.

Teshla’s hand rose hesitant only for a fraction of a second before resting at Sieneth’s wrist. Grounding. Steady.

“This stays ours,” Teshla said quietly. Not a request. A promise.

Sieneth smiled, soft and sure. “Of course.”

The final cascade of light unfolded outside slow, elegant, almost ceremonial before the drones began their return, brilliance fading back into honest starlight.

As the universe reclaimed its darkness, Teshla leaned forward and rested her forehead briefly against Sieneth’s.

No kiss.
No witnesses.
Nothing that needed explaining.

Just two officers standing at the turning of the year, choosing each other in the quiet between duty calls.

Somewhere deep within the USS Fortitude, the inertial dampeners adjusted perfectly balanced.

Sieneth smiled.

“She approves,” she whispered.

Teshla did not argue.

The Moment Passes

The drones completed their final arc, spiraling inward as the light softened, then faded each returning smoothly to recovery vectors. The stars reclaimed their familiar dominance, cold and endless and unchanged.

But the people watching them were not.

Conversation resumed, quietly at first. Laughter followed. Somewhere, a glass clinked against another. Somewhere else, a hand squeezed a shoulder and didn’t let go right away.

On the bridge, Miles Llewellyn exhaled.

The year had turned.

And the Fortitude was still here.

USS Fortitude: Main Bridge

The bridge was on night rotation sparse, hushed, alive only with the low murmur of systems and the distant heartbeat of the ship.

Commander Teshla Phyhr lingered near the command well longer than duty required.

Lieutenant Sieneth Th’rel noticed, of course. She always did.

“You’re pacing,” Sieneth said softly, fingers still dancing across the helm with effortless precision.

“I am considering,” Teshla replied, though she didn’t deny it.

Sieneth smiled faintly. “That’s pacing with better posture.”

Teshla allowed herself a quiet huff of amusement and moved closer close enough now that she could feel the subtle warmth of Sieneth’s presence, sense the minute shifts of her antennae as the ship adjusted orientation.

“You’ve been flying differently tonight,” Teshla said. “Looser.”

“Only because you’re here,” Sieneth answered, without looking up.

The honesty of it landed between them like a held breath.

Teshla studied her profile the calm focus, the unguarded openness so rare among Aenar who ventured into Starfleet. She had seen Sieneth guide the Fortitude through spatial turbulence that would have rattled veteran pilots, all while speaking of stars as if they were old friends.

“You trust me,” Teshla said quietly.

Sieneth finally turned her head. Her pale eyes met Teshla’s without hesitation. “Yes.”

No qualifiers. No deflection.

Just truth.

“And I trust you,” Teshla said, the words chosen with care. “With the ship. With the crew. And…” She paused, antennae angling forward in a gesture that among Andorians meant vulnerability. “…with myself.”

That drew a soft, surprised breath from Sieneth.

“I was worried,” Sieneth admitted, voice barely above the hum of the consoles, “that what I feel would be… inconvenient.”

Teshla smiled slow, restrained, unmistakably Andorian. “I’ve spent my life being inconvenient to tradition.”

They stood there, close enough now that the space between them felt intentional rather than empty.

Sieneth reached out not with her hands, but with her antennae, brushing them lightly against Teshla’s in a gesture that was deeply personal, deeply Aenar. A sharing of presence. Of emotion. Of now.

Teshla stilled, then mirrored the motion.

The bridge seemed to recede around them.

“This doesn’t change the chain of command,” Teshla said, professional even now.

“No,” Sieneth agreed. “But it changes how the stars sound.”

Teshla leaned in then just enough to rest her forehead briefly against Sieneth’s.

No witnesses.
No announcements.
Just two officers choosing each other in the quiet between duty rotations.

Somewhere deep within the Fortitude, the inertial dampeners made a micro-adjustment—smooth, precise, perfectly balanced.

Sieneth smiled.

“See?” she whispered. “She listens.”

USS Fortitude: Observation Lounge

The observation deck was dark enough to feel private, but not so dark as to hide from memory.

Admiral Miles Llewellyn stood at the viewport of the USS Fortitude, pipe cupped in one hand, the other resting lightly against the rail. The stars had returned to their honest, unadorned places no fireworks now, no ceremony. Just the long view.

He keyed a discreet command into the console at his side.

“Fire suppression local loop standby,” he murmured.

The system acknowledged with a soft chime.

Miles smiled to himself. Command privileges have their uses.

He struck the pipe and drew in slowly. The smoke curled upward, thin and polite, dispersing just shy of where the environmental sensors would grow offended.

Behind him, boots approached.

“You know,” said Colonel Dan Dare mildly, “on at least three ships I’ve served on, that would’ve triggered an inquiry.”

Miles didn’t turn. “On at least three ships I’ve commanded, that inquiry would’ve mysteriously vanished.”

Dan chuckled and stepped up beside him, producing a pipe of his own older, darker wood, the kind that had been repaired more times than replaced.

“Mind if I?” Dan asked, already knowing the answer.

“Be offended if you didn’t,” Miles replied.

They lit up together, a small synchronized ritual born of long familiarity rather than planning. Dan took a thoughtful draw, nodded approval.

“Good leaf,” he said. “Earth?”

“Wales,” Miles replied. “Old friend sent it years ago. Been saving it.”

“For a special occasion?” Dan asked.

“For a quiet one.”

Dan reached into his coat and produced a squat, well travelled bottle. He didn’t offer it at first just set it gently on the rail between them like a peace treaty.

“Single malt,” he said. “Pre-Spacefleet distillery. Older than either of us.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Smuggled?”

Dan smiled. “Rescued.”

Miles disabled another system replicator audit trace, just for a moment and conjured two simple glasses.

He poured carefully, respectfully, as if the act itself deserved ceremony.

They clinked glasses once. No toast.

The whisky burned pleasantly on the way down.

“That,” Miles said, “is dangerous.”

Dan nodded. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They smoked in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t itch to be filled. Outside, a distant star flared faintly and then settled, as if the universe itself had finished stretching.

“You’ve been thinking about Lazarus,” Dan said eventually.

Miles exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke. “I’ve been thinking about after.”

Dan turned slightly, studying him. “That’s new.”

“No,” Miles corrected. “Just… louder.”

Another sip. Another draw.

“Lazarus needs someone who knows how to sit still,” Dan continued. “How to listen. How to let others do the running.”

“And Spacefleet,” Miles added dryly, “needs a flag officer who speaks Starfleet without needing subtitles.”

Dan smiled into his pipe. “You’d be good at it.”

Miles didn’t deny it.

“I won’t vanish,” he said. “I won’t leave them feeling abandoned.”

“You never do,” Dan replied. “You leave them ready.”

That landed harder than any argument.

Miles tamped the pipe gently, eyes still on the stars. “I don’t know when.”

Dan raised his glass. “No one ever does.”

Elsewhere: Main Bridge USS Fortitude

Commander Teshla Phyhr noticed the anomaly first.

Not the smoke she had better discipline than that but the absence of a warning she absolutely should have received.

Her antennae angled forward almost imperceptibly.

Commander Rose Harrington followed the diagnostic thread a heartbeat later, fingers pausing over her console.

“Interesting,” Rose murmured.

At Tactical, Commander Akadia Nilona glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly. “Fire suppression loop… overridden?”

A beat.

Another beat.

Penny White’s voice came over the channel from Engineering, dry as old steel. “Before anyone asks, no. It’s not a system fault. And yes. I noticed.”

Silence stretched.

Sieneth Th’rel, at the helm, tilted her head and smiled faintly. “The ship sounds… indulgent.”

Teshla straightened.

“Well,” she said calmly, “if the universe isn’t ending and the ship isn’t on fire…”

Rose finished the thought. “…then it’s not our business.”

Akadia’s mouth curved just enough to be dangerous. “Officially.”

Penny’s voice again, amused now. “I’ll pretend my sensors need recalibrating.”

Sieneth added softly, “I’ll keep us steady.”

Teshla nodded once. “Then we’re all agreed.”

No log entry was made.

Back on the Observation Deck, USS Fortitude

The bottle was half empty now. The pipes were cooling.

Miles leaned back against the rail, the lines on his face softened by whisky and truth. “You know,” he said, “if I do take Lazarus… I’d like you there. At least at the beginning.”

Dan met his gaze. “Flag exchange or not?”

“Either,” Miles replied. “I trust you.”

Dan considered that, then raised his glass again. “Then wherever you end up, Admiral… you won’t be alone.”

Miles clinked his glass against Dan’s.

“Happy New Year,” he said.

Dan smiled. “Happy New Year, Miles.”

Outside, the Fortitude held her course quiet, watchful, and very deliberately looking the other way.

NRPG:

Well Could not let a new year go by with one last special before we kick off a new season

This one is more thoughtful not as much lower decks but more the thought of a duty and the cost that not everyone realises when they don the uniform.

The post Star Trek: Fortitude – A Holiday Novella – “At the Turning of the Year” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

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.

The post Star Trek: Fortitude – A Holiday Novella – “A Very Fortitude Christmas” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

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.

The post Star Trek: Fortitude – A Holiday Novella – “The Fowl Directive” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

Last time on Star Trek: Fortitude

USS Fortitude

Elsewhere on the Fortitude,  Commander Nilona recorded a voice message to her partner:

“I haven’t slept in 36 hours. I keep seeing a feathered spiral in my dreams. It’s like the Codex is in the back of my head. Everyone’s tense. I’m not scared… not exactly. Just… shaken. We’ve walked into something ancient. And it’s watching.”

At the same time, a Betazoid telepath from the Federation Council arrived in orbit. “Your crew’s emotions are… amplified,” she warned. “Like tidal forces, but emotional. If it spreads beyond the artifact others may be affected.”

Admiral Llewellyn reviewed her report and the new communique from Starfleet Command: ‘Containment must be prioritized. If the Codex shows signs of replicating itself or influencing larger planetary systems, the Daystrom Institute is to be placed on standby. Expect observers.’

Somewhere on Earth, a private news outlet leaked Codex imagery. Panic sparked in fragments urban myths, conspiracy videos, and more.

And the Codex pulsed again.

And now the Continuation…

The hum of the Codex hadn’t stopped.

Not even for a moment.

In orbit, aboard the USS Fortitude, the entire ship now responded to subtle impulses no one fully understood. Power fluctuations no longer followed engineering logic they followed rhythm. Lighting patterns dimmed and brightened with the pulses detected from Chichen Itza. And no matter what recalibrations were ordered, LCARS interface prompts periodically changed hues as if reacting to emotion, not command.

Commander Teshla stood at the science console, monitoring a new string of distortions appearing in the upper ionosphere.

“They’re aligned with D’Arsay signal harmonics again,” she said, glancing back at Admiral Llewellyn. “But now they’re fracturing into recursive echoes. Not random. Deliberate.”

“Could it be communication?” he asked, arms folded behind his back.

Teshla hesitated. “I don’t think it’s trying to talk to us. I think it’s talking to itself… and we’re just in the way.”

Across the bridge, Commander Rose Harrington grunted as another stream of sensor telemetry overwhelmed her interface.

“The Fortitude just rejected our last calibration order,” she reported. “I didn’t think that was even possible.”

Llewellyn stepped forward. “How so?”

“It reconfigured the deflector harmonics before I could lock them manually. It’s like the ship predicted a signal distortion that hadn’t happened yet.”

Outside, Earth remained peaceful. A stunning jewel of blue, white, and green. But the auroras now danced more wildly than before. Civilian satellites had begun transmitting confused signals. On the planet’s surface, news reports buzzed with speculation.

On Luna, at Copernicus City, three children stood in an observatory dome and pointed to the night sky, where a shimmering glyph momentarily cast shadows across the regolith. One of them, a young girl named Ayla, traced the glowing symbol in the air with her finger. “It looks like it’s dancing,” she whispered.

A nearby Vulcan observer, T’Rhal, stood in silence. She was an anthropologist assigned to the Federation Council, documenting human reactions to the Codex phenomenon. Her expression remained neutral, but her mind raced with questions not about the data, but about the people.

Behind the glass, Ayla’s father, Thomas, joined her with a gentle smile. “That’s a Codex projection,” he said softly. “It’s been appearing all over Earth. No one knows exactly why.”

Ayla turned toward him. “Is it dangerous?”

He hesitated, then knelt to her level. “We don’t think so. But it is… different. It might be trying to teach us something.”

Ayla nodded slowly. “Like a test?”

“Maybe,” Thomas said, brushing her hair back. “But if it is, it’s a test we take together.”

An older man sitting nearby overheard the conversation. His name was Ajit Rao, a retired archaeologist who had once worked on dig sites across Rigel and Vulcan. He chuckled quietly. “Children aren’t afraid of gods. Adults are. That’s the difference.”

T’Rhal approached, curious. “You believe this is divine intervention?”

Ajit shook his head. “No. But I believe it touches the same part of us that myths always have the part that wonders, that questions, that dreams. In ancient times, we explained the stars with stories. Today, the stars are telling one.”

She regarded him carefully. “And humanity’s reaction? Is it… regression to superstition?”

“No,” he said with conviction. “It’s adaptation. People are frightened, yes. Some cling to myths. Others see conspiracies. But look around?” He gestured at the families huddled together, the teachers calmly discussing science with students, and the artists outside sketching the glyphs into murals. “We’re listening. That’s growth. That’s hope.”

T’Rhal considered his words, then looked once more at Ayla, now drawing the symbol in the sand with her friends.

“This reaction,” she said at last, “is not wholly logical. Yet it is… effective. Resilient.”

Ajit smiled. “You’re starting to sound like us.”

She tilted her head. “I find that… acceptable.”

Back on Earth, the pattern repeated.

Communities gathered in public parks to watch the auroras dance across the sky. In Cairo, monks projected translated Codex glyphs onto the Pyramids. In New York, an artist’s depiction of Tezcatlipoca as both data construct and deity graced a Times Square screen, blending reverence with modernity.

News networks walked a line between fascination and fear. There were murmurs of weaponisation, of replicating the Codex’s effects whispers T’Rhal forwarded to her embassy with concern. But the louder message, across Earth, was different.

It was awe.

Not the kind that demanded surrender, but the kind that sparked unity. The kind that asked: What if this is a second beginning?

Dig Site

The Hazard Team gathered again at the edge of the dig site.

Early morning mist clung to the half-uncovered plaza, refracting pale sunlight into shifting halos around the ancient stone. The monolith the Codex had grown again. Not in height or width, but in depth. Glowing threads now spiderwebbed out from its surface into the ground, anchoring themselves like roots into the foundational bedrock of Chichen Itza. Some of these filaments pulsed in time with distant thunder, though no storms were nearby.

Commander Jaxon Reeve crouched beside CPO Ch’korrak as the Tellarite scanned the perimeter, her expression unreadable.

“This place is different,” he said, voice low. “More alive than it was yesterday.”

“Define ‘alive’,” Reeve replied, resting one hand on his phaser rifle.

Ch’korrak narrowed his eyes. “I mean it’s watching. And it remembers us.”

Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse approached from the western edge of the ruins, a cluster of phase-tuned sensors tucked under one arm.

“This is no longer just an archaeological site,” Blackhorse said. “It’s a neural matrix.”

Reeve stood. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Blackhorse added, “we’re standing in someone else’s brain. Possibly their soul.”

Ch’korrak, the Tellarite CPO, tapped his tricorder and frowned. “The electromagnetic field is fluctuating on a harmonic scale that corresponds to heartbeat rhythms. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the Codex is… meditating.”

“Or dreaming,” Sieneth offered quietly, stepping closer. The Aenar’s gaze drifted to the glowing roots embedded in the stone around them. “I feel… distant echoes. People calling out to each other but each voice is a reflection of the next. The same… but different.”

Blackhorse nodded slowly. “There’s something more at work. These glyphs see this formation?” She pointed to a cluster of concentric triangles layered with feather motifs and jaguar eyes. “This matches a pattern found in distant fragments of D’Arsay ruins on Izar III and Tau Ceti Prime. Entirely separate systems.”

“Which shouldn’t be possible,” Reeves murmured, eyes wide. “Unless…”

“Unless the Codex isn’t a singular artifact,” Blackhorse finished. “But a node in something much larger. A distributed consciousness spanning lightyears maybe timelines.”

Reeve crossed his arms. “Like a god’s nervous system.”

A breeze passed over them, strangely cool for the region. The vines above the site stirred in sync with no wind.

Ch’korrak suddenly stiffened. “Commander, I’m detecting localized pressure drops. Micro-storm formations at ground level.”

Reeves looked up. “The sky’s clear.”

“No,” Sieneth said softly. “It’s not.”

She pointed upward. Above the dig site, thin cirrus-like auroras curled in slow spirals, each pulse aligned with the Codex’s flickering light. Then, in a flash, a new symbol etched itself onto the monolith jagged, red, and half-formed.

It looked like a star map. One not in any known record.

Reeves stepped forward, running scans. “It’s an extrapolation of the Galactic Plane. But… this point” he pointed to the glowing red system at the centre “it shouldn’t exist.”

“It doesn’t,” Blackhorse confirmed. “That region is called the Maelstrom Expanse. It’s flagged as a gravitational anomaly. Every Starfleet expedition sent there vanished.”

“Yet the Codex remembers it,” Reeve said.

Ch’korrak tricorder beeped. “It’s projecting… paths. Not just coordinates. Potentialities. Quantum echoes of people traveling there… and returning.”

Sieneth’s brow furrowed. “Some of those echoes feel… familiar. One of them… almost feels like you, Commander.”

Reeve turned. “Me?”

“Or a version of you. Not you exactly but like a twin raised in a mirror.”

Ch’korrak muttered, “That’s not disturbing at all.”

Reeve growled low. “Woken gods and mirror doubles. My grandmother warned of such thing’s spirits walking through glass, seeking what was lost.”

Blackhorse spoke gently. “The D’Arsay myths referred to this too. They called them the Ke’hat’et’hi—the ‘Reflected Ones.’ Avatars of the same soul cast across different realities. Family reunited by something greater than time or fate.”

Reeve looked to the sky. “And this… Maelstrom. Could it be where they come from?”

“Or where they converge,” Sieneth said. “A nexus.”

Ch’korrak looked at his tricorder again. “There’s something else.”

“What?” Reeve asked.

“The Codex… it’s forming a gateway.”

USS Fortitude:

The bridge of the USS Fortitude thrummed with subdued urgency.

A low pulsing hum resonant, subtle, unmistakably Codex born filtered through the ship’s internal structure. It was no longer just a sound. It was a presence.

Admiral Miles Llewellyn stood near the viewscreen, arms behind his back, staring at the swirling auroras dancing across the Earth’s magnetosphere. He watched without blinking, as if he were trying to see through it beyond it. Every now and then, he tilted his head ever so slightly, like something didn’t quite line up.

Commander Rose Harrington broke the silence from Ops. “LCARS has adjusted itself again, Admiral. I didn’t authorize the new analytics overlay it just… happened. The system’s auto-redundancy layers are syncing with the Codex pulse rhythms.”

“I know,” Llewellyn said, his voice low, almost distracted. “The ship is dreaming with it now.”

From Tactical, Commander Akadia Nilona gave a sardonic grunt. “Great. Now the ship’s part of the cult.”

“Could be worse,” Rose muttered. “Could start quoting from self-help books or offering emotional support.”

A ripple of dark humour passed among the bridge crew. Even amid strangeness, Fortitude was still a Starfleet vessel—and its people leaned on camaraderie like bulkheads in a storm.

At the science station, Commander Teshla stood was a picture of focus. The gateway an incomplete D’Arsay construct now stabilizing at the Chichen Itza site had begun syncing energy signatures with a similar anomaly in the outer Maelstrom Expanse. No one could prove they were connected.

Not yet.

But the Codex had shown both.

“Admiral,” Teshla said, turning slightly. “We’re now detecting a stabilizing harmonic field from the gateway’s base structure. It’s beginning to create scaffolding threads like it’s building… a neural bridge.”

“Operational timeline?” he asked.

“Still too early. Days. Weeks, perhaps. But if it completes itself, it may not just open to one place. It could connect to multiple locations. Possibly other gateways.”

“Other minds,” Sieneth murmured from the open communications channel to the dig site. “Other mirrors.”

Miles Llewellyn blinked. Just for a moment, Looking at Rose Harrington he saw her reflection… except it wasn’t hers. The eyes were wrong. The uniform reversed. A mirror, almost.

Again.

Everything felt reversed.

The same yet not.

Teshla watched him. She had seen the hesitation in his step, the delay in his command confirmations, the pause before he spoke when no pause was needed.

She approached him quietly. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Always.”

“I think you know what’s happening,” she said, gently. “Not just to the Codex. But to you.”

His brow furrowed. “Say it.”

“You’re not broken,” she said. “You’re displaced. Something about you doesn’t match this reality’s thread. I don’t know if that means you’re from another quantum iteration or if the Codex has changed us. But I know this: you don’t feel like an anomaly to me. You feel like family.”

He said nothing. Just listened.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she continued, voice quieter, “but I’ve grown here. I feel ready now. To lead. To command. You showed me how. Not just as a mentor. But… as someone who believed in me like a father would.”

His gaze softened.

“I’ve watched you try to carry the weight of a whole ship, a mission, a galaxy’s worth of unknowns,” she said. “But now it’s my turn to say it: You don’t have to do it alone. We’ll figure this out together.”

A long pause.

Then Llewellyn managed a faint, tired smile. “It’s comforting to know I’ve raised good officers. Even if one of them is a little too insightful for her own good.”

Akadia glanced up from Tactical, breaking the moment. “Sorry to interrupt the touching parental moment, but we’ve got something new.”

On the viewscreen, a faint gateway arc had appeared hovering just above the Yucatán site. Energy tendrils were beginning to weave out from it like roots seeking anchors in time and space.

“It’s not fully online yet,” Akadia confirmed, “but it’s active. Like a lighthouse with no ships yet.”

Llewellyn stared at it. “Or a door waiting for someone to knock.”

A quiet tension settled across the bridge.

No red alerts. No sirens.

Just that same quiet thrum the Codex dreaming.

USS Fortitude

One week later.

The Fortitude held silent watch over Earth, its orbit steady above the cradle of civilization and memory. The Codex had quieted. Its glyphs, once luminous, had faded to stone. But something lingered in the hum of warp coils, in the pauses between bridge commands, in dreams.

Dr. Aiyana Blackhorse stood before a joint Federation Council symposium aboard Jupiter Station. Her voice carried quiet conviction:

“The D’Arsay Codex was never a vault of knowledge. It was a beacon, calibrated not to power but to identity. We stood at the threshold of its reflection and it changed us. Not with weapons or warnings, but with truth written in resonance.”

Lieutenant Sieneth, now formally assigned to Hazard Team Zulu as there Pilot and Helmsman of the USS Fortitude, stood with Reeve and Ch’korrak for post-mission commendations. Her calm presence was now steadied by purpose, and her connection to the Codex had left her deeply attuned to its emotional logic. In private, she continued to sketch symbols that appeared in her sleep maps of stars she could not name.

Commander Teshla Phyhr, watching from the side, permitted herself a private smile. Sieneth had changed… and so had she.

Later that night, in the Fortitude’s observation lounge, Teshla and Llewellyn sat together. The starlight flickered faintly through the duranium glass, illuminating two mugs of tea and an unfinished PADD of mission logs.

Teshla turned to him, voice soft.

“You’ve seemed… out of step, lately. As if the mission revealed something you expected.”

Llewellyn looked into his tea. The surface shimmered.

“When the Codex activated, I saw a reflection. But it wasn’t me. It was… us. The Fortitude. The crew.”

“What do you mean?”

He took a long breath.

“I think… we’re not from here.”

Silence.

He continued.

“There are moments—memories I know happened, yet the dates never align. Officers I swore were part of our missions… but don’t exist in this reality’s logs. It started with the Lazarus Outpost. It’s deepened ever since.”

“Another quantum strand?”

He nodded.

“Possibly. The original Fortitude our Fortitude was caught in a subspace convergence years ago. A minor anomaly, classified at the time. But what if that wasn’t the end of it?”

Teshla’s expression shifted from disbelief to curiosity… and recognition.

“And you think we’re the echoes.”

Llewellyn stared out at the stars.

“No. I think we’re the memory.”

The lights dimmed in the ready room. Miles Llewellyn had always understood that the duties of a Starfleet command officer weren’t just about orders and strategy they were about bearing the weight of consequences, of lives, of choices made and paths not taken. There were mission logs, daily briefings, inspection cycles, diplomatic calls, and never-ending streams of status reports. But in the quiet moments the gaps between crises came the real burden: reflection.

A low chime broke the silence—an encrypted Starfleet signal flashing red across his console: Emergency Channel. Captains Only. No Transponder ID.

His brow furrowed. He accepted the transmission.

The screen flickered and resolved into a young woman, mid-twenties, wearing a uniform with no visible insignia. Her eyes were piercing. Her hair dark red like firelight—like her mother’s. Her voice trembled but held strength.

“Admiral Llewellyn… Miles. Please, I know you don’t know me, not really. But you will. My name is Brianna Carys Llewellyn. My mother is Shallana Ironwolf. She won’t admit it, but… we need your help. I know you have no reason to trust me. I know you don’t know me. But I am your daughter. We’re in the Maelstrom Expanse… and we’re running out of time.”

The transmission crackled, distorted.

“Trust her. Or if you can’t trust me. Please. Come find us.”

Then silence.

Teshla stepped into the room, having heard the tail end. Her face was unreadable.

“Is she…?”

Llewellyn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood and walked to the viewport. Earth shimmered beneath. The stars beyond held new meaning.

Miles turned and nodded to a chair before he walked back to his desk.

Telsha knew this motion it was to wait quietly but watch what Miles was about to do.

Miles spoke to Starfleet Command. His voice was measured, respectful but unyielding.

“The Codex has pointed us somewhere. The Maelstrom Expanse. I believe there are answers we need to find there. And we can’t wait.”

Starfleet’s response was cautious. Observers would be dispatched. Research would be formalized. But they didn’t try to stop him.

When the channel closed, Miles initiated a private transmission.

“Captain White, this is Admiral Llewellyn.”

The screen lit up with the image of Fox Joseph White, commanding officer of the USS Asclepius. His face was curious, concerned.

“Admiral? Everything alright?”

“I need your help. Off the record. I believe something’s coming and I may need a friend who understands what it means to step off the grid.”

Fox hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “Then I’ll speak to Major Digby he still owes me a small favor.”

Then, with the quiet formality of someone accepting destiny, Fox Signed off.

Miles stood and walked to Teshla, no words were needed, he put a hand on her shoulder and she nodded concerned but silent agreement she supported him.

Miles stepped onto the bridge.

“Helm,” he said. “Set a course for the Maelstrom Expanse. Maximum warp.”

 “You planning to red line the engines again?” Penny White asked from the Engineering station.

Miles smiled. “We both know you wouldn’t let me do that… without at least a five-minute warning.”

The stars shifted. The Fortitude turned. And the unknown awaited.

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

NRPG:

My Apologies for the delay in coming back, real life got really busy as I finished my holiday and started a new job.

Season 2 was always planned to leave more questions than it answered, and we will return to the ideas in this season to see how earth and the Federation move on.

For now, this ties us into a joint venture where by two Captains and a family are reunited but at what cost and what is to come from the Maelstrom expanse? Stay Tuned for Season 3 of Star Trek: Fortitude.

The post Star Trek: Fortitude – Season 02 Episode 5 – The Maelstrom appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.

Ansolon Season 02 / Episode 06

by Alan Tripp 

— 2412 —

Thunder Strike cruised through the red hued clouds of the Hell’s Keep region of the Malstrom Expanse. 

The Kitty Hawk-class intel science carrier replaced the Kerala-class battlecruiser of the same name, which had given its all fighting on the frontlines of the Iconian War. 

Her name was the same as were her crew … Well, some of her crew as they’d gone from a smaller ship to a much, much larger one.

But the ship itself was definitely a completely different beast from the one Capt. Urshyra Sollace had commanded for the past several years. 

Not that she minded the upgrade, mind you. 

The Kerala version had first seen action over a hundred years prior, born in the early 2290s. 

Whereas this ship had been born in the present … 2412 … Just six months prior. 

Toss in the fact that in addition to the larger ship itself, it came with its own fighter wing of assorted fighters, bombers, recon, surveyors, etc.

They were out on a standard patrol, meaning she as captain actually had a bit of free time. 

And for Urshyra, free time equaled boredom. 

For once she was even caught up on all her paperwork and so far (knock on a bulkhead) no one on board had any sort of emergency or crisis or problem of any sort that they felt needed her attention. 

So restless, the captain took to walking the decks of her command with no particular destination in mind. 

And that mindless wandering seemed to have led her here … to the Arboretum. 

Much of this place was familiar.  … Not that she did not know her ship, so much as much of what was here had been literally transplanted from the original Thunder Strike. 

When she first learned that her ship would be decommissioned and this one (still under construction at the time) receive the name, she made the request that the Arboretum be ported over from the old ship to the new. 

So it was she found herself following the same old trail she had these past several years until she stood atop the cliff, overlooking a waterfall that poured into a small lake – a lake located in the heart and hull of a starship out among the very stars themselves. 

THIS … was her favorite place to be aboard this ship, just as it had been on the previous. 

It had gained even more meaning since her meeting with Samuel Windwalker – a medicine person of the Bear Tribe Medicine Society back in 2294 when they first met. 

He’d given her a sacred medicine bundle for her to keep until the Spirits revealed to her at some future time just who was meant to serve as keeper of that bundle. 

That encounter had altered the course of her life … at least from a spiritual sense. 

She settled down into a lotus position atop the cliff, reached into her pocket and retrieved the small tobacco pouch she normally carried there. 

Reaching in, she retrieved one pinch after another as she offered a pinch of sacred tobacco to each direction, Earth, Sky, Tree of Life and the One Great Being from whom she believed the People were descended from and part of. 

At least according to her personal spiritual path. 

Closing her eyes, she felt the Earth beneath her and the Sky above. 

She felt the energy of the surrounding life like someone dipping their fingers into a pool of water. 

It wasn’t long before her mind drifted on the winds of Spirit, allowing her spirit guides to lead her through the great web. 

Then brief moments of panic. 

Took a few minutes to realize the panic was not her own but that of another. 

She could not say how she knew, but she knew someone out there needed their help and needed it with all haste. 

But how does one figure out with certain clarity enough specifics to know where, how and who to help in the physical world? 

That is *if* the sensations or feelings she was experiencing were true. 

And like a thunderclap, her eyes snapped open. 

And as they opened, they locked with the eyes of a great grizzly bear (a new holographic addition) whose gaze seemed to cut straight through to her soul. 

‘So,’ it seemed to say. ‘What will you do now?’ 

Respectfully, 

Capt. Ushyra Sollace
CO, U.S.S. Thunder Strike

The post The Straits: “When Thunder Strikes” appeared first on The Malstrom Expanse.