Eye of the Tiger

Posted on Mon Mar 30th, 2026 @ 1:36am by Commodore Kovich & Captain Wilkan Targaryen & Commander Ceara O'Hare & Lieutenant T'Krell & Lieutenant Harris Zim & Lieutenant S'reessa & Vaelira Daro & Elara Jyn

4,605 words; about a 23 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Bridge, U.S.S. Sulaco
Timeline: 3190-11-01

The New Aur System was a study in stillness, the planet a violet jewel hanging in the velvet dark, but inside the USS Sulaco, the stillness was being systematically dismantled. The ship didn't just hum; it vibrated with the tension of a predator waking from a long sleep.

On the Bridge, the air was clinical and sharp. Commander Karys sat at the Propulsion console, her fingers moving in rhythmic, sweeping arcs over the programmable matter. To any other observer, she was monitoring power flow, but to her, she was feeling the "breath" of the mycelial injectors, ensuring the spore drive was harmonizing with the ship’s ancient, reinforced bones.

At the center of the command well stood Commodore Kovich. He was a statue of Starfleet discipline, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the atmospheric shimmer of the planet below. He didn't need to check his PADD to know the shuttle had cleared the landing bay; he could feel the shift in the ship’s internal gravity.

The silence was broken by the sharp, melodic chirp of the comms.

"Bridge, this is Dax," Illa’s voice rang out, crackling with a vibrant energy that seemed to defy the vacuum outside. "I hope you’ve cleared the hallways and put out the good china, Commodore. The Captain has officially docked. He’s wearing the red stripe, and I have to say he looks like he’s ready to negotiate a peace treaty or start a small war. Possibly both."

Kovich didn't turn, but the slight adjustment of his glasses was the only tell of his amusement. "A red stripe is a matter of fabric and regulation, Lieutenant. I am more concerned with whether the man inside it has remembered how to breathe ship’s air without complaining about the recycled oxygen."

"Oh, he’s breathing just fine," Dax replied, a playful inflection in her voice. "Though I think he’s already mentally reorganizing your deck plating. He’s on his way to the lift now with the Science Officer in tow. Try to look busy, Kovich. You know how he gets when he thinks people are standing around."

"My 'standing around' is a calculated observation of galactic variables, Dax," Kovich countered smoothly. "Something you might appreciate if you spent less time treating a Starfleet shuttle like a racing flyer. Thank you for your service. We will return you to Starfleet Academy so that you may return to your students."

"Copy that, 'Old Man'... er... the other one, I mean," Dax teased. "Dax out."

Kovich finally turned his gaze toward the turbolift doors. He looked at Karys, then back to the lift. "Commander Karys," he said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative clip. "Synchronize the injectors. I want the Sulaco to feel like she’s already halfway to the Great Void before the Captain even touches the chair."

Karys gave a sharp, professional nod. "Injectors at ninety percent and climbing, Commodore. She’s ready for him."

Kovich paced a small, measured line behind the command chair, his shadow stretching across the polished floor. He stopped and looked at the bridge crew (a collection of relics, prodigies, and outliers) with a gaze that seemed to peel back their service records in real-time.

"The man in that turbolift did not survive nine centuries by accident," Kovich said, his voice cutting through the hum of the consoles with the dry precision of a scalpel. "Most officers in this fleet see a starship as a tool of the Federation. To Wilkan, the ship is the Federation. He is the last living architect of the doctrine taught at an Academy that is rebuilding, a man who remembers the weight of a galaxy that wasn't broken."

Kovich stepped toward the center of the bridge, his eyes locking briefly with Karys before scanning the rest of the stations. "He does not require your loyalty; he expects your competence to be a fundamental constant, like gravity or light speed. He will push this vessel into the dark with a confidence that borders on the pathological, and he will do so because he knows exactly what we lost in the void." Kovich adjusted his glasses, his expression becoming uncharacteristically grave. "You are no longer serving a flag. You are serving a foundation. Stand straight, maintain your intervals, and for the sake of the mission, do not try to out-think him. He has already seen how this ends; he is simply waiting for us to catch up."

"Ready the Bridge," Kovich commanded softly as he turned toward the doors, "history is about to walk through that door."

Zim had taken the liberty of obtaining a Starfleet uniform. He wore with as much pride as he had his uniform of the Capellan Guard. The only addition was his sash and dagger that hung from his shoulder. The sash showed the crest of his tribe from Capella. A few quick taps at the console showed that all tactical systems were running according to normal parameters. "Tactical stands ready." He said and placed his hands behind his back and legs shoulder width apart. Zim was a military trained man, and would remain as such. He felt that was the reason he was here, they wanted a soldier for the position that he was given.

Commander Ceara O'Hare - who still very much preferred to simply be called Scarlet - was sat at the helm, monitoring the ship's position, as well as keeping an eye on basic systems status. She had continued to mostly ignore the uniform regulations, instead wearing a black knee-length skirt over black tights and boots, with a white button-up blouse tucked into the skirt, and her red Starfleet uniform jacket, worn open, being the only thing that made her look like a Starfleet officer. She had at least left her gunslinger belt and her hat in her quarters - but that just served to make her look even younger. Of course, she had read the name Wilkan Targaryen in the history books, along with many others. Recently, her reading had focussed on pilots - Hikaru Sulu, Erica Ortegas, Urvasi Elandorn, and particularly Keyla Detmer. Meeting Detmer had been one of the highlights of finally making it to Headquarters after her long journey across the quadrant. And now, she was going to work with another name from the history books to lead what appeared to be a rag-tag band of misfits that crewed Sulaco.

Vaelira sat at the Engineering I station on the lower tier of the bridge, the soft glow of the console reflecting faintly across her face as she watched the ship breathe through its systems. From this vantage point she could see most of the bridge without needing to turn her head—the captain’s chair above her, the sweep of the helm, the quiet tension in the tactical officer’s posture. It was a strange perspective for an engineer. Close enough to the command well to feel the rhythm of the bridge, but far enough removed to observe it like a system settling into equilibrium.

Her attention drifted back to the console in front of her as the Sulaco’s internal diagnostics scrolled steadily across the displays. Warp propulsion curves, impulse distribution, and beneath them all the quieter, more delicate metrics of the mycelial grid. She adjusted a minor power balance between the injectors and the standard propulsion lattice, more out of habit than necessity, letting the ship settle into a smoother rhythm. The bridge crew might have been waiting for history to walk through the door, but to her the ship itself was the more interesting variable. Beneath the disciplined stillness of the bridge, Sulaco felt alert, curious even—like a machine that had been asleep for centuries and was now quietly testing its limbs again. Vaelira rested her hands lightly against the console and watched the numbers settle, listening to the subtle harmony between old architecture and new technology, already learning the shape of the vessel she was now responsible for keeping alive.

The turbolift doors hissed open with a rhythmic, pressurized sigh that felt more like a heartbeat than a mechanism. Wilkan Targaryen stepped onto the Bridge of a starship for the first time in over a century, his boots striking the deck with a steady, measured cadence. He didn't rush; he simply occupied the space as if he had never truly left it. The sapphire glow of the 32nd Century consoles reflected in his dark, almost black eyes, lending him the look of a statue carved from starlight and ancient history.

Zim noticed the doors open and who stepped onto the Bridge. He mustered to attention. "Captain on the Bridge."

Wilkan's gaze swept the room, momentarily locking onto the figure in the command well. He recognized the sharp silhouette, the calculated stillness, and the specific weight of the man’s presence. Dax had called him Kovich. The name resonated in the back of his mind like a frequency from a past life, a variable he had accounted for long ago. Yet, Wilkan’s expression remained an unreadable mask of clinical detachment. He offered no sign of familiarity, treating the Commodore as just another fixture of this new, fractured reality.

"Commodore," Wilkan acknowledged, a stiff but respectful inclination of his head. "I see the Sulaco has been kept in good repair. Recycled oxygen always did have a specific... character in ships of this era."

He moved toward the center of the Bridge, his eyes tracing the air-gap displays. He stopped near the Propulsion console, his voice dropping into that deep, subsonic register that seemed to anchor the air around him.

"Commander Karys, dampen the lateral injectors by point-zero-four percent. This hull was reinforced for 28th Century stress loads; she’ll feel the vibration in her keel if the spore flow isn't smoothed."

He turned toward the Tactical and Helm stations, his gaze lingering briefly on the unique attire of his new crew. "Tactical, maintain your readiness. We are heading into a space where phasers and shields may be our only dialogue. Helm, I’ve read your record. I expect the precision the history books promised."

"Yes Captain. All weapons at your command. Shields are in standby." Zim replied as he sent a message to the rest of his teams. They would hold battle drills. One every shift.

Wilkan chuckled at the announcement, "For once in my career I hope we don't have to use them."

"There are a number of books I could be reading, if my services are not needed. Books that I hope to be reading soon." This was Zim's attempt at a joke. However, one did not know that based on the look on his face. It also served as his way of agreeing with Wilkan.

Scarlet couldn't help but turn when she heard the turbolift open. A commanding officer entering the bridge was a routine thing, but it was different when it was a living relic of history returning to the chair after a century of being invisible to the galaxy. She nodded in as much of a show of respect as she had in her, before smiling at his remark. "I'm both too young and too not dead to be mentioned in any history books, but I'll do my damn best to impress. Detmer showed me a few tricks when it comes to flying with a spore drive."

Wilkan reached the command chair, but he did not sit. Instead, he rested a hand on the headrest, feeling the faint, electric thrum of the ship through the fabric. His fingers began tracing the edge of the leather headrest. To anyone else, it was a piece of furniture; to him, it was a sensor, a way to feel the ship’s internal pressure. He looked at Scarlet at the helm, his dark eyes unblinking.

"Detmer was a pilot who understood that a ship is not a vehicle, but an extension of the nervous system," Wilkan said, his voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the Bridge. "If she taught you, then I expect you to feel the mycelial flow before the sensors even register the displacement. Don't fly the Sulaco, Commander. Let her fly you."

"That's the plan, boss," Scarlet replied with a smile. "I've been getting to know her, and she seems like quite the feisty one. Just the way I like my girls," she added with a mischievous smirk. "Oh, and don't bother calling me by rank, just call me Scarlet. Starfleet protocol is so unwieldy. All systems ready, just let me know where you want this beauty to go."

"I will take your 'damn best' as a baseline, Scarlet," Wilkan’s expression didn't shift at the informality, but he held a momentary, clinical appraisal of the pilot. He had lived long enough to know that a pilot who spoke to their ship often flew it better than one who merely operated it. "And the Sulaco isn't feisty. She is precise. If you feel a fight, it’s because you’re resisting the mycelial flow. Don’t resist. Synchronize."

"Engineer," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into that deep, subsonic register that seemed to vibrate through the deckplates. "Report status of the mycelial hub. This ship was built for stress, but she needs a steady pulse. How is the grid holding up?" As he waited for the confirmation, his fingers still resting on the command chair, feeling the Sulaco breathe. Every hum of the injectors and every flicker of the air-gap displays was a variable in a calculation he had been running for a hundred years.

Vaelira looked up when the turbolift doors opened, more out of instinct than ceremony. She had heard the shift in the bridge before she properly saw it anyway, the subtle tightening that ran through a room when someone stepped into it carrying that kind of gravity. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just the sort of presence that made everyone else unconsciously measure themselves against it.

So this was Wilkan.

She didn’t stare, but she noticed things quickly. The way he moved as though the bridge already belonged to him. The way he spoke to Karys and Scarlet like he was slipping back into a language he hadn’t used in far too long and still hadn’t forgotten. There was nothing performative about him, which she appreciated immediately. No grand entrance. No speech about destiny. Just observation, correction, expectation. It felt oddly familiar, though far steadier than Tarka had ever been.

By the time his attention reached her station, Vaelira had already half-formed an opinion. He listened to the ship. Or at least he believed in listening to it. That was a better start than most.

When he asked for her report, she let her hands settle lightly on the edge of the console and flicked her eyes back to the readouts. “The grid’s holding,” she said, her voice calm and clear, pitched easily across the bridge without turning formal for the sake of it. “Secondary couplings were arguing with the older load expectations when I came aboard, but that’s eased off now. They weren’t failing, just overcompensating. I adjusted the feedback loop so the old architecture could breathe a bit instead of having the programmable matter constantly try to correct it into something it isn’t.”

Her gaze lifted to him then, steady and thoughtful. “The mycelial hub itself is stable. Power distribution’s clean, injector response is where it should be, and there’s no sign of drift through the grid at the moment. She’s not struggling.” The faintest hint of a smile touched her mouth as she glanced once at the display, then back again. “If anything, she seems impatient.”

She let that sit for a beat before adding, a little more practically, “If we push into anything more demanding, I’ll want to keep an eye on how the grid handles cumulative stress across repeated transitions. She’s built well, but this much old and new stitched together is always going to have opinions. Right now, though, the pulse is steady.”

"Impatient," Wilkan repeated, his eyes lingered on Vaelira for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary for a tactical assessment. He appreciated the lack of fanfare in her report; she spoke of the ship as a biological entity, an opinionated collection of systems rather than a series of cold equations. It was a perspective that mirrored his own. "A starship that isn't impatient is a derelict, Chief, and we will accommodate her."

Vaelira caught the fraction of extra attention in his look and, for the first time since stepping onto the bridge, let herself answer it with the faintest smirk. There was something steadier in him than in most captains she had met, something that felt less like command performance and more like recognition. “That sounds fair,” she said lightly, her fingers settling back against the edge of the console.

Elara stood near the threshold of the Science station, her presence a vibrant, searching energy against the ship's disciplined hum.

"Before we depart," Wilkan began, his hand resting on the Center Seat as he turned slightly to acknowledge the young woman who had followed him onto the Bridge. He looked directly at Elara, his expression a mask of detached expectation, though his voice held a trace of the weight he carried as her protector, "This is Elara Jyn, my ward, and she will be serving as our Science Officer. Her heritage, both Betazoid and El-Aurian, is not a curiosity; it is a functional asset. In the space we are entering, the ability to perceive the nuance of the void is as critical as our sensor resolution."

Elara observed her surroundings with interest. Standing by the Science station, she sensed curiosity, excitement and some kind of weariness. That she was Wilkan's ward had clearly sparked a lot of curiosity. From what she sensed, Wilkan was more than what she had known him as. To her, he had been a guide, and though a bit stiff and maybe a habit of not giving away his thoughts or feelings, he had been kind to her. Maybe not in the traditional sense. But he had provided her with some much-needed help to learning what the world was like and how she could function in it.

She studied the people present, one by one. It seemed that they were as curious about her, as she was about them. She nodded to the other people when Wilkan introduced her. "Pleased to meet you", she said with what she hoped was a smile, and not a grimace.

Scarlet nodded at the greeting, and touched the brim of an imaginary hat. "Welcome on board. Name's Scarlet. Or Commander O'Hare if you insist on being formal. I'll try not to fly us into anything too bad," she added with a smirk, hoping it was obvious that she was making a joke.

Elara smiled what she thought was a decentsmile. All these people and she hadn't yet found out who knew what and who were easier to approach. Scarlet seemed nice. "I'm sure we'll be fine", she said after thinking her reply through a few times.

Looking toward the Chief Medical Officer, "Doctor, please see to Elara's accommodations and medical check-up."

"Well it would be a pleasure. Elara, I'm doctor S'resssa. Please come with me to the sick bay. I want to make sure you are all healthy."

Elara nodded. "Lead the way", she said as she straightened.

"Communications," he turned toward the Caitian Lieutenant, "Request departure clearance and signal all hands to stations."

The golden eyes of T'Krell had followed Wilkan as he prowled the bridge for the first time, the man, every part the legend had portrayed hadn't diminished over time it seemed as he commanded the room the second he entered it. He was a curious enigma from times gone by, thrust back into the spotlight, willingly or forced T'Krell couldn't tell. Either way they stood ready for him to lead them into a new adventure as Federation continues to shape itself from the ashes of the Burn.

The Lieutenant feathered his console before turning his gaze to the Captain, responding in his deep baritone voice: "Clearance granted Captain. All decks report ready."

Wilkan finally transitioned from the edge of the chair to the seat itself. He didn't sink into it; he sat with a rigid, practiced grace, his spine never touching the backrest. It was the posture of a man who viewed command not as a privilege of rest, but as a state of constant, kinetic readiness. He rested his forearms on the consoles built into the arms of the chair, his fingers hovering over the interface as if reading the ship's thoughts through the haptic feedback.

"The Bridge is yours for the departure, Captain," Kovich said, his voice dropping into that resonant, subsonic register that seemed to vibrate through the deckplates. "I will observe the integration of the mycelial pulse from the center."

"I want to feel the transition into the mycelial network. If there’s even a micro-fluctuation in the dampeners, I want to know before we initiate the jump," Wilkan commented, not taking his eyes off the monitors surrounding him. "Scarlet, take us out. All ahead one-quarter impulse until we clear the station’s gravity well. "

The young woman at the helm adjusted her seat, moving herself slightly closer to the control panel, and made herself comfortable by tucking one of her legs up on the chair, under her other leg, and ended up sitting a little sideways. "Right then, let's get this show on the road," she acknowledged with a gleeful smile as the programmable matter formed into what looked similar to a 21st century HOTAS flight sim controller. "I like to keep things manual when flying at low speeds," she explained as she firmly held both control sticks and slowly increased the throttle up to the requested speed and steered Sulaco away from her dock.

His gaze shifted momentarily to Zim at Tactical, "Mister Zim, maintain a passive sensor sweep. I want to know if anyone is measuring our displacement before we’ve even moved."

"Aye Captain. Passive sensors." Zim tapped a few commands and the readout showed clear as day on his console. "At the moment all eyes are elsewhere."

Wilkan’s thoughts were a cold, calculated map of the task ahead. He knew Kovich was watching him, measuring the "relic" against the current reality, but Wilkan wasn't looking at the present; he was looking through it. The Sulaco was more than a ship; she was a needle, and he intended to use her to stitch together a galaxy that had forgotten how to hold its breath.

"Communications," Wilkan added, his dark eyes never leaving the viewscreen. "Signal Headquarters. The Sulaco is underway. Tell them history is moving at the speed of thought."

"Aye, Captain," T'Krell acknowledged wondering if their Captain was one for always wanting the last word on matters.

The deck shivered as the impulse engines engaged, a low, rhythmic thrum that spoke of immense power held in check by even greater discipline. As the station's docking ring receded, the lighting on the Bridge underwent a sharp, violent shift. The standard calming hues were extinguished, replaced by the deep, pulsating shadows of the ship's mycelial interface.

"Black Alert," Wilkan ordered, his voice cutting through the sudden darkness with the finality of a closing tomb. The spinning spore-drive indicators on the bulkheads began their hypnotic, high-velocity rotation. Wilkan let out a slow, measured breath, his fingers tapping a final sequence into the chair's console to authorize the spore-hub transition.

"All ahead," the Captain of Sulaco ordered, "jump!"

Scarlet smiled as a big button to engage the spore drive lit up on her console. Just as she had practised in the simulator over and over again, she pushed the throttle lever to full, before hitting the control. "Here we go!," she almost shouted, like a little girl trying out a rollercoaster for the first time.

Vaelira didn’t look away from her console when the bridge shifted around Wilkan, but she felt it all the same. The introductions, the easy humour from Scarlet, the steadier pulse that seemed to settle through the room the longer he occupied the chair. People responded to command in different ways. Some tightened. Some straightened. Some performed. Wilkan did none of that. He simply sat like he’d resumed a thought he’d left unfinished a century ago, and somehow that was more convincing than any speech Kovich could have given. Vaelira let her eyes move once over the bridge displays, over Scarlet at the helm with her restless grin, over the others falling into rhythm around the new centre of gravity, and then back to the engineering readouts in front of her. Whatever else this crew was, they were alive. Strange, gifted, a little rough around the edges, but alive in the way polished Starfleet postings rarely were. Sulaco suited them already.

As the impulse engines engaged and the deck gave that first low shiver beneath her boots, Vaelira’s focus narrowed. Her hands moved lightly across the Engineering I controls, checking the pulse through the mycelial grid as the bridge lighting dropped into Black Alert. The ship changed under it. Not in any dramatic way, not yet, but she could feel the old bones and newer systems drawing into alignment, tightening like a held breath before release. She caught the flicker of injector response across her display, watched the power balance hold, and let out a slow breath of her own. Around her, the bridge had gone dark and intent. Ahead of them, the jump waited. Vaelira settled deeper into the rhythm of the ship, feeling the steady beat of the network beneath the numbers, and when Scarlet sent them forward she was already there with Sulaco, listening.

The Sulaco didn't just move; it folded into the white-hot slipstream of the mycelial network. To the crew, it was a sudden, jarring shift of physics, but to Wilkan, it was the sound of the universe finally making sense again.

As the kaleidoscopic blur of the spores replaced the starfield on the viewscreen, Wilkan finally leaned back (only an inch) into the command chair. He watched the light dance across the bridge, illuminating the faces of his "misfits." In Scarlet’s grin, he saw the reckless courage of the old frontier; in Vaelira’s calm, the steady heartbeat of a ship that refused to die; in T'Krell and Zim, the sharp edge of a Federation that still knew how to bite.

"Commodore," Wilkan said, his voice quiet, almost lost in the resonant hum of the jump. "You told them history was walking through the door. You were half right."

He turned his gaze back to the swirling white void ahead, his eyes reflecting the infinite.

"History isn't just a record of what we lost. It’s the momentum of what we’re about to take back."

He tapped a silent command on his armrest, bringing up a ghosted, encrypted sub-display that only he could see. A single, pulsing geometric frequency from the Andromeda Initiative flickered there - a faint, rhythmic heartbeat from a century ago.

"Steady as she goes, Scarlet," he whispered, more to the ship than the pilot. "We have a long way to go before we sleep."

The Sulaco vanished from the New Aur system, leaving nothing behind but a shimmering trail of spores and the silence of a galaxy that was no longer quite so empty.

 

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