Girls Just Want to Have Fun

Posted on Sat Mar 14th, 2026 @ 1:15am by Commodore Kovich & Commander Ceara O'Hare

3,587 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Qualor II
Timeline: 3190-10-31

Qualor II was a graveyard of ambition, a sprawling industrial wasteland of surplus hulls and illegal salvage orbiting a dying sun. Since the planet had severed ties with the Federation, it had become a sanctuary for those who preferred the shadows—and a nightmare for anyone who valued "the book."

Lieutenant Commander Eva Nilsson felt every bit the 23rd-century relic as she adjusted the collar of her uniform. The air in the Z-7 Surplus Depot was thick with the acrid scent of burning tritanium and the low-frequency thrum of localized jamming fields. To her Type-A sensibilities, the chaos was a physical irritant.

She navigated a narrow gantry overlooking a gutted Luna-class cruiser. Below, a small, ghostly figure was submerged in a bird's nest of vintage optronic cabling.

"The 24th-century logic gates in that manifold are calibrated for a linear power flow," Nilsson said, her voice cutting through the screech of a nearby plasma cutter with disciplined clarity. "If you try to bridge them with a modern isolinear chip without a dampened bypass, you’ll trigger a feedback loop that will vaporize your gloves. And likely your hands."

The small figure laughed, a high-pitched, girlish sound. Commander Ceara O'Hare - known to most people simply as "Scarlet" - was many things, but the traditional image of a Starfleet officer she certainly was not. Her short stature and slender build did little to mask the fact that she was only 24 years old, and her voice sounding like that of a teenager certainly did not help. Her pale skin, red eyes, and white hair made her look somewhat like a ghost, a trait she thanked her mixed heritage and her albino mother for. In fact, the only thing that looked Starfleet about her was her red uniform jacket, worn open over a short black skirt, knee-high cowboy boots, a white undershirt stained with various kinds of dirt from working on the remains of the old cruiser, and what looked like a gunslinger's belt from Earth's Wild West, holding a variety of tools and a phaser pistol that looked at least as old as the ship.

Before being picked up by USS Valiant almost a decade ago, she had been a courier specialising in precisely the kind of "ancient tech" she was working on right now. Somehow, she had made herself useful enough during Valiant's journey back to Federation HQ that she had become that ship's First Officer and been given the rank of Commander. Even more surprising, however, was the fact that when Valiant finally made it, Admiral Vance had decided to make the appointment official. But after the destruction of Valiant in the wake of the DMA, she was without a fixed assignment, so the admiralty had seen it fit to attach her to this salvaging mission due to her past experience with such matters.

"Stop worrying, blondie," she called out to Nilsson, still giggling. "I've been fixing ancient tech like this for as long as I can remember. Did you bring my bag of junk that I told you to get?"

Nilsson’s eye twitched. "Blondie" was not a term of address found in any Starfleet leadership manual, and the casual dismissal of a catastrophic power feedback loop made her Type-A brain itch. She shifted her weight, the gantry beneath her boots groaning as if to underscore the precariousness of their location.

"My name is Lieutenant Commander Nilsson," Eva corrected, her voice remaining a calm, disciplined contrast to the screech of the salvage yard. "And while I appreciate your... unconventional experience with 'ancient tech,' I assure you my concern for your hands is purely pragmatic. We have a departure schedule to maintain."

She reached into the specialized courier pouch at her side and pulled out a weathered, lead-shielded container. It was filled with the specific, jagged components O'Hare had requested: pre-Burn subspace relays and a handful of cracked isolinear processors that most modern engineers would have tossed into a recycler.

"I have your 'junk,' Commander," Nilsson said, descending the ladder with practiced grace, her boots finding the grease-slicked floor with precision. She held the container out, but didn't immediately hand it over. "Though why you need 24th Century phase-limiters to bypass a 32nd Century security lockout is a question that would likely give the Starfleet Corps of Engineers a collective migraine."

Scarlet giggled again. "Thank you, Lieutenant Commander Ni.. nah, too much of a mouthful. Blondie fits you. And the reason I am using pre-burn tech is simple. You said it yourself, if we try it with current tech, this will blow up."

She grabbed the parts and began working, quickly building a strange, cobbled-together device and connected it into the circuits in front of her, before bringing up her tricorder and scanning the assembly. "There, that should do the trick. Try it again."

Nilsson took a slow, measured breath, mentally reciting a Starfleet Academy protocol for "managing disparate personality types" to keep from visibly rubbing her temples. She stepped toward the diagnostic console, her eyes scanning the jury-rigged nightmare Scarlet had just birthed into the Luna Class’s power grid.

To a 23rd Century engineer, it looked like heresy. To a 32nd Century Ops officer, it looked like a felony.

"The internal resistance in these 24th Century limiters is fluctuating by seven percent," Nilsson noted, her fingers hovering over the interface. Her touch was hesitant, as if the console might bite. "If the surge isn't perfectly phased, the feedback won't just hit the bypass, it’ll travel back through the local grid and ignite the gasses in the hangar floor."

Despite her critique, Nilsson’s discipline won out over her doubt. She entered the command sequence. The console groaned a low, mechanical protest that vibrated through the deck plates before, with a sharp clack of ancient relays, the primary power display flickered to life. The glow of the 23rd Century era interface bathed Nilsson’s face, showing a stable, if archaic, energy signature.

"Power is restored," Nilsson said, her voice betraying a hint of genuine surprise. She looked at the cobbled-together device, then back at the small, white-haired girl who was currently grinning like she’d just won a prize at a Risan carnival. "The bypass held. I have no idea how, but it held."

Nilsson straightened her uniform, the perfectionist in her already calculating how to report this without using the word miraculous.

Still grinning, the young Commander spread her arms and bowed. "Told ya, I'm a genius," she said after returning to upright, before bending down and grabbing a black cowboy hat from the floor, putting it on her head. "Now will you stop worrying about me blowing us up? Where are we headed now, you've got the mission brief."

Nilsson opened her mouth to provide a succinct, three-point summary of their next objective, but the words were cut short by a sharp, high-pitched chime. It wasn't the rhythmic groan of the salvage yard; it was a priority alert. She looked down at her chest as her Tricom Badge flickered to life. A crisp, blue-tinted holographic display shimmered into existence, projecting a tactical sensor sweep into the air between her and Scarlet. The interface pulsed with a warning amber hue.

"Commander, look," Nilsson said, her voice dropping into a low, professional clip. The hologram displayed four distinct thermal signatures approaching from the sector's main ventilation hub. The 32nd Century sensors were mercilessly precise, identifying one Andorian, one Orion, and two Nausicaans within fifty meters of their location.

"Proximity: 45 meters and closing," Nilsson reported, her fingers moving through the holographic data to refine the scan. "They're moving in a tactical wedge. This isn't a casual stroll through the yard; they’re armed with high-energy disruptors. They're bypassing the primary gantry now," Nilsson added, her posture shifting into a defensive stance, her hand moving toward the phaser at her hip. The blue light of the Tricom reflected off her disciplined eyes as she observed that Scarlet's "genius" repair had essentially lit a signal fire for the local Syndicate. The heavy, rhythmic clank of Nausicaan boots began to echo through the metal hull of the Luna Class ship, a low-frequency warning that the holographic data was about to become a very physical reality.

Scarlet swore. "Okay, get out of sight and cover me," she whispered. "And turn off the holo. I'm going to try something." As she spoke, she took off her badge before drawing her weapon. "You look far too Starfleet. I can easily pass as a scavenger. Let's just hope they haven't identified our ship."

Nilsson didn't argue. Her 23rd Century training had been forged in the fires of a war where "far too Starfleet" was often a death sentence. She deactivated the holographic display with a sharp flick of her wrist and melted into the deep shadows behind a primary coolant conduit. Her movements were fluid and silent using muscle memory repurposed for the art of the ambush.

"I’m in position," Nilsson breathed into her comms, her voice a ghost in the ear of the young Commander. From her vantage point, she had a clear line of sight on the gantry entrance, her Phaser leveled with disciplined precision.

"Hey! Ghost girl!" the Orion leader barked, his mechanical eye whirring as it scanned the bay. He stepped into the light, followed by the towering silhouettes of two Nausicaans. "That’s a lot of power humming for a dead ship. You find a live core, or did you just find a way to make the scrap scream?" The Orion slowed his pace, his gaze flickering toward the jury-rigged device Scarlet had built. He didn't know the physics, but he knew the smell of ozone.

"You're a long way from the Mercantile, Scarlet," the Oran sneered, taking another step forward. "The Syndicate doesn't like freelancers working the Z-7 lot. Especially not ones who know how to make 800-year-old tech blink. Why don't you show us what's in the bag?"

From the shadows, Nilsson watched the lead Nausicaan’s finger tighten on his trigger guard. Her internal clock was ticking. Every second they spent here was a second they weren't moving toward the Sulaco. She waited for the signal, or the first spark of a disruptor beam.

Scarlet laughed. "So they finally let your peabrain out of the mines, eh?" She motioned to her little construction with the tip of her pistol. "You know me, Boulder, I can get pretty much any junk working by just attaching some more junk to it."

While she was talking, she was putting the pieces together in her mind. If the hulking Orion she had nicknamed Boulder was here, then he probably wasn't the only one. She eyes his bodyguards, and shook her head. "I'm just trying to get some stuff to sell. With the V'Draysh shipping Dilithium all over the place, getting stuff that anyone actually wants is getting more and more difficult, but you know that. Let me guess, you're here doing exactly the same."

Through the gap in the machinery, Nilsson watched the Orion leader, "Boulder," shift his weight. His mechanical eye was clicking rapidly, a tell-tale sign of a low-grade sensor sweep.

"Patience, Commander," Nilsson sub-vocalized into her comms, her voice a mere vibration against her throat. Her Phaser was leveled at the lead Nausicaan’s center of mass. The thermal scan on her Tricom had already confirmed they were carrying modified disruptors that were unstable, overpowered, and prone to catastrophic discharge if they hit the localized plasma pockets Scarlet’s repairs were bleeding into the air.

The Orion let out a dry, rattling chuckle. "Dilithium's for the dreamers, Ghost-girl. I'm interested in what makes a Luna Class scream like a fresh-born. That bag you're holding... it's shielded. Only two things need that much lead: high-grade isotope or vintage Starfleet processors." He gestured with his chin, and the two Nausicaans began to fan out, their heavy boots clanging on the deck plates as they tried to establish a flanking position. One was moving toward the very conduit Nilsson was using for cover.

Nilsson’s grip on her phaser tightened. Her internal clock was counting down. The Nausicaan was ten meters away. Seven. Five. She could smell the sour musk of his breathing over the scent of ozone.

"They're moving into a crossfire, Scarlet," Nilsson whispered, her finger hovering over the Phaser's trigger. "The one on the left is five seconds from spotting me. If you’re going to trigger that distraction, do it now, or I’m taking the shot."

Scarlet shook her head with a smirk. "Or maybe I just carry a shielded bag with me as a precaution against nosy Orion idiots who don't know what's good for them." She shrugged. "Either way, you're just as dumb as I remember you being. Look up."

Right above the Orion was an exposed plasma conduit, and just as he moved his head to look at it, Scarlet pulled the trigger on her phaser bolt pistol. It was as if the scene played out in slow motion. A flash of bright blue light erupted as the orange bolt of energy from the weapon hit the conduit and it exploded, showering "Boulder" with hot plasma. A second shot followed, aimed directly at the forehead of the Nausicaan farthest away while Nilsson took care of the other one.

As "Boulder" roared, blinded by the cascading shower of superheated plasma, Nilsson stepped out from behind the coolant conduit. Her posture was textbook Starfleet: knees slightly bent, two-handed grip, eyes tracking her target with the mechanical focus of a targeting computer.

The Nausicaan on the left had just enough time to register the blonde woman in the ancient uniform before Nilsson fired. Unlike Scarlet’s vintage bolt, Nilsson’s phaser was a steady, high-frequency beam of sapphire light. It caught the Nausicaan mid-turn, the energy diffusing across his chest plate with enough force to lift his 300-pound frame off the deck and slam him backward into a pile of rusted scrap.

"Target neutralized," Nilsson said, her voice a calm, rhythmic pulse amidst the screeching metal and the hiss of escaping gas.

She immediately pivoted, her beam sweeping toward the center of the bay to provide cover as Scarlet’s second shot dropped the other bodyguard. The hangar was rapidly filling with thick, acrid smoke, the red emergency lighting of the Luna Class ship flickering on as the ancient computer registered the hull damage.

"Commander! We have less than sixty seconds before the atmospheric sensors trigger a localized vent!" Nilsson shouted over the roar of the plasma fire. She didn't look at the screaming Orion; her eyes were already scanning the gantry for the fourth signature—the Andorian they’d seen on the scan.

The Andorian appeared at the top of the gantry, raising a heavy disruptor. Nilsson’s finger tightened, but the deck plates beneath them groaned. The explosion had compromised the jury-rigged power coupling Scarlet had just installed.

"Scarlet, the bypass!" Nilsson warned, her eyes darting between the hostile above and the sparking nightmare on the floor. "The feedback loop is building! If that coupling blows, this whole deck is going to decompress!"

Scarlet swore as she fired a single shot to put the Orion out of his burning misery. "Looks like the bypass has fused in," she remarked, glancing at her construction. "We need to get out of here, immediately." She quickly reattached her tricom and tapped it to activate the communicator. "Bridge, we've got company and this deck is about to blow, get us out!"

Nilsson didn’t waste breath on a reply. The time for professional critique had passed the moment the deck plates started vibrating at a frequency that suggested imminent structural failure.

As the Luna Class screamed, Nilsson’s training overrode the sensory assault of the alarms and the blinding plasma flare. She saw the Andorian on the gantry through the haze - a blue-skinned alien silhouetted by the red emergency strobes. Her Phaser was up, the sapphire beam cutting a warning line across the metal railing just as the floor buckled.

"Move, Commander!" Nilsson shouted, her voice a sharp, disciplined snap that cut through the roar of escaping gases.

She didn't wait to see if Scarlet followed. She lunged through the thickening white fog of the cooling vents, her boots finding purchase on a structural rib just as the atmospheric shutters began their heavy, mechanical cycle toward the vacuum of Qualor II. The lead-shielded container (the 'junk' that was currently the only reason they were risking decompression) slid across the slick deck toward the opening maw of the hangar door.

Nilsson threw herself into a low, controlled slide, her 23rd-century tunic catching on a jagged piece of tritanium. She ignored the tear, her fingers locking onto the handle of the container an instant before the pressure differential could claim it.

"Bridge, we're clear! Energize!"

She braced for the transition, her hand reaching back to catch the fabric of Scarlet’s jacket, anchoring them both as the world dissolved into the shimmering blue of the transporter beam.

The shimmer of the transporter beam didn't resolve into the familiar, warm teal of a starship's recovery ward. Instead, the light was a sharp, clinical white that tasted of ozone and ancient circuitry.

Nilsson hit the deck plates with her boots braced, her hand still white-knuckled around the handle of the lead-shielded container. She didn't stumble. Even with the soot of Qualor II staining her face and her 23rd Century tunic torn at the shoulder, she snapped into a defensive stance, her eyes scanning the perimeter before the transitional hum had even faded.

This wasn't a Transporter Room; it was a Bridge, but one that felt like a fever dream of two different eras. The bones were unmistakable; the wide, circular layout and the raised platform of the Crossfield III Class vessel she instantly recognized, but laid over those bones was the fluid, shifting mercury of 32nd-century programmable matter.

"The Valiant is currently hailing an empty patch of space," Kovich explained, his voice dry enough to catch fire. He didn't look up from the white legal pad in his hand, "I took the liberty of intercepting your signal. Sub-space interference in the Z-7 lot is notoriously temperamental. It provided a convenient cover for a redirection."

"Commodore," Nilsson acknowledged, her voice regaining its disciplined, level clip as she straightened her uniform, her fingers smoothing the scorched fabric with a mechanical precision that refused to acknowledge the adrenaline still spiking in her veins. She didn't ask how he’d hijacked a high-security transport, with Kovich, the 'how' was usually a waste of breath, instead she tucked the heavy container under her arm and stepped forward. "The phase-limiters are secure. Though I suspect the 'convenience' of our redirection has more to do with a schedule than atmospheric interference."

"Schedules are for people who believe time is a linear progression, Commander Nilsson," Kovich replied. He finally looked up, his glasses catching the blue glow of the spore-drive interface. "I brought you here because I could not risk potentially losing the candidate for this vessel's pilot due to the machinations of troglodytes." He returned his attention to the legal pad, "Have you made your decision, Commander O'Hare?"

"Well, that was fun," a grinning Scarlet remarked towards Nilsson, before turning to the other officer present. "I've told you, Kovich. Since Burnham doesn't need anyone on Discovery, or just doesn't want me on her crew, I'll fly your fancy new toy. But I want to talk to the CO first. I do have my conditions, as I've mentioned."

She turned back to Nilsson. "You should stick with the antique, suits you much better than the new uniform, Blondie. And maybe wear your hair open, so you don't look as stiff as Vulcan on Andoria. You're fun when you're letting loose, you know?" she added with a chuckle.

Kovich did not look up from his legal pad, though the tip of his pen paused for a microsecond - his equivalent of an eyeroll.

"Conditionality is a luxury of the employed, Commander O'Hare," Kovich said, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to absorb the ambient hum of the bridge. "However, since your 'conditions' generally involve the modification of Starfleet regulation into something resembling a suggestion, I suspect you will find the upcoming briefing... adequate. The Commanding Officer is currently in transit. Until his arrival, you will answer to me."

He finally looked up, his glasses catching the blue glow of the spore-drive interface. He turned his gaze toward Nilsson. The Lieutenant Commander stood at rigid attention, her torn 23rd Century tunic a sharp, static contrast to the liquid mercury aesthetic of the bridge. To Kovich, she looked less like a relic and more like a necessary anchor, a piece of reinforced tritanium in a sea of programmable matter.

"Commander Nilsson," Kovich continued, his eyes cold and clinical, "While Commander O'Hare is busy 'not being stiff,' I require you to interface those phase-limiters with the primary mycelial injectors. I trust you can handle the heresy of mixing eras without a formal manual." He stepped toward the center of the bridge, his shadow stretching across the floor, "As for your hair, Commander Nilsson, I find that discipline is rarely a matter of follicle arrangement. Dismissed. Commander O'Hare, familiarize yourself with the helm. The Sulaco is a temperamental vessel; it does not care for pilots who hesitate."

He returned his attention to his pad, effectively dismissing them both.

 

RSS Feed