To Be Or Not To Be

Posted on Wed Mar 11th, 2026 @ 2:46am by Admiral Charles Vance
Edited on on Fri Mar 13th, 2026 @ 1:34am

2,481 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Starbase J19-Alpha
Timeline: 3190-10-31

The silence of the Admiral’s office on Starbase J19-Alpha was profound, a stark contrast to the frantic energy that had gripped the sector only weeks prior. The Dark Matter Anomaly was gone, the 10-C had been reached, and the galaxy was finally breathing again. Ni’Var had rejoined the Federation in a historic move toward reunification, and in a development that seemed impossible only a year ago, United Earth had officially requested to rejoin on its own terms.

For Commander Karys, the peace was bittersweet. She stood at the viewport, her gaze fixed on the U.S.S. Sulaco. The ship was a silver scar against the black of space, her detached nacelles glowing with the low, rhythmic pulse of standby power. Since September 1, 3190—the day Captain Ridan Tua had resigned his commission in the wake of the Aethelgard incident—the Sulaco had been a ghost ship.

The loss of Ruon Tarka had been a secondary blow to the ship’s morale. The brilliant, erratic scientist had met his end at the hyperfield, consumed by a desperate obsession to cross into another dimension. His genius was woven into the Sulaco’s bulkheads, but his legacy was a stain of theft and betrayal that Karys had spent the last two months scrubbing away. She had untangled Tarka’s more "unorthodox" innovations from the ship’s core, ensuring the prototype Spore Drive was a tool of Starfleet, not a rogue’s gamble.

The doors hissed open.

"She looks ready for the line, Commander."

Karys turned, snapping into a salute as Fleet Admiral Charles Vance walked in. The Admiral looked remarkably approachable; the end of the DMA crisis had smoothed the hard lines of his face. He waved off the salute with an amicable smile.

"At ease, Karys. Please," Vance said, walking toward the window to stand beside her. He looked out at the bustling activity of the yard. Just beyond the Sulaco, the U.S.S. Discovery sat moored, its distinct profile catching the light of the nearby star. It had been the vessel to bring Vance here, a silent testament to the miracles Starfleet was capable of when the right people were in the right place. "I’ve spent the morning reviewing the logistics for the upcoming summits. The Discovery is already spooling up to take President Rillak to Andoria for the final talks there. I’d much rather talk about something that doesn't involve the President's travel itinerary for a change."

Karys relaxed, though her posture remained professional. "The Sulaco is ready for whatever task you require, Admiral. We’ve finished the stabilization of the mycelial interface. Despite the loss of Dr. Tarka, his technical architecture was sound—once we removed the unauthorized overrides."

"I read your report," Vance said, his tone curious and friendly. "You’ve managed to keep the refit ahead of schedule even while the rest of the fleet was scrambled to deal with the 10-C. That is no small feat. I’m impressed that you’ve kept this ship in such high readiness while she was technically in mothballs."

Karys didn't hesitate. "The stars are where the Sulaco belongs, Admiral. I’ve spent two months making sure she’s the most capable vessel in the fleet. I didn't stay because I wanted a quiet assignment; I stayed because I’m the only one left who knows how she breathes."

Vance’s smile didn't fade, but it took on a weightier, more political quality. He stepped closer to the glass, his reflection overlaying the distant hull of the Discovery.

"I believe you, Commander. Unfortunately, the Federation Council is under intense pressure. Now that the DMA is gone, they want the Sulaco back in space as a diplomatic instrument. They see a Crossfield-class sitting in drydock as a waste of a strategic asset, especially with Earth finally opening its doors. They want a Captain in that chair, Karys. But they don't want a standard officer. They want someone who commands respect from outside the current ranks, someone from a time when the Federation and Starfleet were something more than they are right now, but who can still fight if he has to."

Vance let the silence hang for a moment before dropping the name.

"The Council has suggested Wilkan Targaryen."

Karys felt a jolt of recognition that vibrated through her Denobulan ridges. The name wasn't just a record; it was a living history book. "Wilkan Targaryen? Admiral, I’m familiar with his history from my studies at the Starfleet War College. His service spans nearly nine hundred years. He was the 'Ice Pilot' on the Excelsior, the commander of the Enterprise-J at Procyon V, a Special Envoy during the Norolob Conquest, and even the President of the Federation during the Burn. He is... he is the cornerstone of the service."

"He was," Vance corrected. "Until he retreated to New Aur. He’s been in a state of clinical mourning for over a century. He is a man who has held every rank and every office the Federation has to offer, and he walked away from all of it. I don't believe for a second that he'll take the job just because the Council asks nicely."

"Then why pursue him?" Karys asked. "If he's likely to refuse, why waste the diplomatic capital?"

"Because he is the only person who fits the criteria," Vance said, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. "Earth has requested to rejoin, but they are wary. They remember the Burn; they remember the isolation. They need a negotiator they can trust, and Wilkan—the man who broadcast the override codes that saved thousands of their ships in 3069—is the only one they will listen to. He is the bridge."

"How can we possibly convince a man who has seen the end of the world to come back to the bridge of a prototype?"

Vance looked back out at the Discovery, a small, nostalgic smile touching his lips. "Wilkan has been in Starfleet for centuries, Commander. When you've served for that long, it doesn't just become a career. It becomes part of you. It’s a phantom limb. You can try to walk away from it, but you never stop feeling the itch. But we need more than just his body in the chair. We need his commitment."

He turned his full attention back to Karys. "I won't be the one meeting with him. We have another person lined up—someone with a specific connection to his history. You will be taking her to New Aur to meet him. But while we know we can get him to accept the bargain, you are the linchpin."

Vance’s expression shifted, the amicable warmth replaced by a clinical coldness that made Karys straighten her spine.

"Think back to Aethelgard," Vance said, his voice hard. "Ridan Tua brought the Federation back to the brink of a war we weren't ready for. He ignored the chain of command, he ignored diplomacy, and he nearly ignited a quadrant-wide conflict. And you had the worst part in that, Karys. It was your job to relieve him. You were the one who had to stand on that bridge and take the ship away from a man who had lost his way."

Karys looked down at the floor. "I did what was necessary, Admiral."

"I know you did. And that’s why I know you can handle what I’m about to ask, even though it goes against every instinct you have as an officer." Vance stepped into her personal space, his gaze piercing. "I need you to go to Wilkan Targaryen, and I need you to appear to be everything that a Commander shouldn't be. I need you to appear arrogant, incompetent... even cowardly. I need you to play the role of a careerist who is only interested in her own advancement."

Karys recoiled as if he’d slapped her. "Admiral, you’re asking me to... to sabotage my own reputation? To lie to a legend of the service?"

"I am asking you to give him a reason to stay," Vance countered. "If Wilkan sees a perfect, capable First Officer, he’ll fulfill his bargain as a negotiator and go back to his exile the moment the ink is dry on Earth's treaty. He’ll think the ship is in good hands. But if he sees you—a Commander who seems more interested in the 'glory' of the spore drive than the weight of the responsibility—he won't be able to walk away. His 'Listening' will tell him the ship is in danger if he isn't there to guide it."

"Admiral, I’ve spent two months making this ship perfect. My reputation is all I have—"

"I need you to tell him that you look forward to him leaving," Vance interrupted, his voice like iron. "Tell him that his presence is a formality, and once he’s gone, you’ll finally be the one in control. Make him fear for the Sulaco. It may be the only way to persuade a man who has lost everything to find his purpose again."

Karys opened her mouth to protest, her thoughts racing to the crew she had protected and the ship she loved. "Sir, I—"

"I have to get back to Federation Headquarters," Vance said, cutting her off. He didn't look back as he walked toward the center of the office. "The President is waiting. I trust you to handle this, Karys. Do not let me down. Do not let the Federation down."

He double-tapped his Tricom. The blue shimmer of the transporter began to envelop him.

"I'm counting on you, Commander. Don't let me down."

In a flash of light and the high-pitched whine of the transporter, Vance was gone.

Karys stood alone in the silence, her hands trembling. She looked out at the Discovery as it began to pull away, its saucer spinning for a jump. Then, she looked at the Sulaco. She had been its caretaker. Now, to save its soul, she had to become its greatest threat.

The Admiral’s office felt cavernous in Vance's wake. Karys moved to the viewport, pressing her hand against the cool transparency of the glass. The Sulaco sat there, its nacelles detached in the modern 32nd-century configuration, yet carrying the lines of a Crossfield-class that spanned a millennium of history. It was a bridge between eras—just like Wilkan.

She thought of the dossier she had pored over at the War College. Wilkan wasn't just a pilot; he was a "Listener." He had a sensory gift that allowed him to feel the subsonic vibrations of machinery and life. It made him a natural empath, but history recorded him as a man of clinical stoicism. He had lived through Wolf 359, the Dominion War, and the Battle of Procyon V. He had seen the Federation at its height and its absolute nadir.

But the most haunting part of his record wasn't the battles. It was the "Great Separation" of the 28th century. His wife, Loatha, and their twins, Vezkun and Zaklim, had departed on a generational mission to the Andromeda Galaxy. When the ship entered the void between galaxies, the silence had become permanent. For Wilkan, the "Listening" had found only an empty frequency where his family’s heartbeats used to be.

The Burn had been the final blow. When the Verubin Nebula screamed in 3069, Wilkan had saved thousands with his override codes, but he had done so while convinced his family had perished in the same moment, somewhere in the dark between galaxies.

Vance had mentioned a bargaining chip. Karys knew the Admiral—he was a man who played the long game. He wouldn't just appeal to Wilkan's sense of duty; he would appeal to his soul.

The classified data was sparse, but Karys had seen the sensor ghosts. United Earth’s long-range deep-space arrays—technologies they had hoarded during their isolation—had captured something. A specific, repeating resonance in the intergalactic void. It was the signature of a 28th-century Generational Ship. It was a heartbeat in the dark.

"He won't be able to say no," Karys whispered to the empty room. "He’ll do anything for that data."

But the cost of that data was more than just his return to service. It was the necessity of him staying. Vance knew that once Wilkan had the data, he might simply use his resources to vanish again, chasing a ghost into the void. The Federation needed him to lead the negotiations for Earth—a delicate, grueling process that could take months or years.

To keep him in the chair, he had to believe that the Sulaco was a ship in peril. He had to believe that the officer left in charge—Karys—was a danger to the very vessel that held the key to his family’s recovery.

Karys walked toward the desk, her movements stiff. She picked up a PADD and began scrolling through the personnel files of the Sulaco. She knew every name, every service record. She had vetted the engineering team herself. She had protected them from the fallout of Tua’s resignation.

Now, she had to prepare to betray their trust as well. If she was to appear incompetent and arrogant to Wilkan, she had to act that way in front of the crew. She had to become the very thing she had spent her career fighting against: a ladder-climbing bureaucrat who viewed the ship as a trophy rather than a responsibility.

"How am I supposed to look him in the eye?" she asked herself.

Wilkan would "Listen" to her. He would feel the resonance of her heart, the vibrations of her vocal cords. He would look for the harmony of a true commander. If he found it, he would leave. If he found discord, he would stay to fix it.

She thought about the War College lectures on Wilkan’s "Calculating Mercy." He was a man who saved as many as the math of war allowed. He was clinical, detached, and deeply, fundamentally protective of the service.

If she could convince him that she was a "low-frequency" officer—someone with a hollow resonance who didn't care about the weight of the chair—his instinct to protect the Sulaco would override his grief. He would stay out of a sense of clinical necessity. He would stay to save the ship from her.

Karys felt a wave of nausea. She was a Denobulan; her people valued community, honesty, and the shared resonance of a group. To isolate herself in a lie was a form of psychological torture.

She looked back at the viewport. The Discovery was gone, leaving only the shimmering blue particles of its jump. The Sulaco remained.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words directed at the ship itself. "I'm sorry for what I’m about to do to you."

 

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