Comeback

Posted on Wed Apr 22nd, 2026 @ 11:54pm by Captain Wilkan Targaryen & Commander Ceara O'Hare & Lieutenant T'Krell & Lieutenant Harris Zim & Lieutenant S'reessa & Vaelira Daro & Elara Jyn

8,441 words; about a 42 minute read

Mission: Homecoming
Location: Bridge, U.S.S. Sulaco
Timeline: 3190-11-01, 08:30

Captain’s Personal Log: Wilkan Targaryen. Stardate 867833.85.

The jump was... seamless. To the crew, it was a maneuver, but to me it felt like the Sulaco was finally taking a breath she had been holding for centuries. It was peaceful during the jump as the Sulaco traversed the Mycelial Network, a peace that I haven't felt in generations. It was like the noise of the galaxy vanished for a moment as the hum of the spores and the resonance of the hull was all that could be experienced. For the first time in a long time I didn't feel like a relic of the past.

Sulaco has arrived at Earth, the familiar blue of a home that no longer knows itself filling our viewscreen. This Admiral Vance and the Federation Council expect me to be the architect of Earth's readmission, the bridge between the century of isolationism and the dream of yesterday.

They believe I am here out of duty. They're wrong.

I spent years in the silence of New Aur because I believed that the Great Void had consumed everything I loved, everything that I ever cared about. My wife, my children, my ship - all missing like the traces of a dream. In my mind I can still see them, I can still hear them, but in the day those fall away like the sands in an hourglass. I find myself forgetting their faces in the day, but at night I can feel them. An ancestor of mine once opined that the boredom was the worst part of living forever, for me its losing my family. I live the worst part of my life everyday.

Starfleet reports having received a transmission from the Andromeda Initiative and I'd like to believe them. Their messages have been missing for over a century, long before the horrors of the Burn, but logic gives me hope. Logic dictates that a signal of that specific encryption cannot exist unless a part of my past survived the collapse, and by God I'm going to find the truth.

I am not here to save Earth, I'm here to find the family I thought I lost to history. If coordinating a planet's diplomatic return is the price for a lead on my wife and sons, then I'll play the part until I can see my family again. It's the price I have to pay.

---

The Sulaco tore back into reality with a structural groan that vibrated through Wilkan’s boots, a lingering resonant frequency of the Mycelial Jump snapping shut behind them. A halo of white-hot spores clung to the reinforced hull for a shimmering heartbeat before bleeding off into the vacuum, leaving the ship’s predatory silhouette sharp against the black.

Wilkan sat forward in the Captain's Chair, his dark eyes unblinking as they absorbed the chaotic tapestry on the viewscreen. He didn't share the relief radiating from the Bridge; he only saw the tactical nightmare of the Sol system. Below, Earth was a vibrant, stubborn jewel, but the space around it was a hive of frantic motion. Thousands of Starfleet shuttles swarmed like a cloud of gnats - weaving between dozens of larger vessels in a massive, disorganized resettlement effort for the refugees evacuated during the DMA’s final hours. To Sulaco's port Discovery hung in the dark. He could sense the weariness of their sister ship from a lost age, its crew holding the line for a future that hadn't quite figured out how to breathe yet.

"Secure from Black Alert," Wilkan directed, his fingers poised over the haptic controls on his armrest, feeling the ship’s station-keeping thrusters fire in minute, sharp bursts to hold their position. He ignored the flickering proximity alerts from the civilian transports, treating the saved world as a navigational hazard rather than a triumph. He didn't look at the refugees or the shimmering atmosphere, he was looking through them. The ghost of his past was here and it was the only reason he had agreed to wear the red stripe again.

"Commodore," Wilkan stated, his gaze fixed forward, his posture as rigid as an academy textbook. "Inform the United Earth Council that I am not here for their celebrations. If they want their seat back at the table, they can start by clearing my flight path. I have a horizon to find, and I don't intend to wait for the applause to die down."

"The United Earth Council is currently drowning in relief, Captain," Kovich’s voice was a dry, toneless rasp. "Relief makes people loud, sentimental, and - most inconveniently - disorganized." He stepped forward, his boots silent on the deck, stopping level with the center seat. "Your disdain for their applause is noted, but do not mistake their 'noise' for insignificance. At this moment, you require one another, whether you are comfortable admitting it or not."

Wilkan remained silent as he watched the frantic ballet of shuttles on the viewscreen, the Sulaco hanging like a silent predator amidst the chaos below. To the crew, the swarm was a celebration of survival; to a man who had once held the weight of a presidency, it was a disorganized tactical nightmare. There were a thousand corrections he wanted to bark, but those were words for a galaxy that no longer existed. Instead, he retreated into the cold comfort of the man who had once commanded the Enterprise, stifling the inward scream of a century’s worth of grief with the practiced ease of a man who had lived in a tomb. He wasn't just a captain; he was a relic of an era where Starfleet didn't just assist, it brought an uncompromising order to the void.

"Helm," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into that deep, subsonic register that pulled the Bridge into a sharper focus. He rose from the Captain’s Chair, his movements fluid and intentional, and moved to the center of the command well. He stood there, a stabilizing frequency against the erratic pulses of the modern fleet outside, his gaze fixed on the blue horizon as if he could see through the atmosphere to the ghosts he was hunting. "Program a standard equatorial orbit over the African Confederation, five hundred kilometers above outer atmosphere. Let’s show this century what a Starfleet vessel looks like when it isn't tripping over its own shadow."

"All ahead one-quarter impulse," he commanded softly. "Steady as she goes."

The sensation of the jump had been strange, yet almost exhilarating. As soon as the ship had come to a halt, Scarlet was checking the operations and navigation readouts for any indications that there had been an issue. It seemed, however, that everything had worked smoothly. "That was fun," she remarked to nobody in particular, as she took the controls back into her hands. The throttle lever had automatically reset itself to full stop, and she couldn't help but smile at the cool sensation of the programmable matter as she placed her hand on it once again. This was familiar. This was what she was meant to do.

Gently, the tiny Commander pushed the throttle forward again. "Quarter impulse, getting her moving," she acknowledged. "Mind if I get us towards that orbit manually? I'm still getting a feel on how the old lady moves."

Wilkan’s gaze didn't shift from the primary viewscreen, but a microscopic softening of his jaw served as his only acknowledgement of Scarlet’s enthusiasm. In another life, he might have corrected her terminology; a starship was a sovereign instrument of the Federation, not a plaything for fun, but he recognized the spark in her voice as the same restless itch he’d felt years ago behind the Helm of the Enterprise.

"Manual control is granted, Commander," Wilkan said, his voice resonating through the deckplates like the low hum of a distant engine, "but keep your 'feel' precise. This ship is a composite of centuries of engineering, most of which haven't been introduced to one another properly yet. She won't handle like you expect."

"That's the idea," the pilot replied as she took the controls in her hands. "Keeping her slow and steady."

The return to normal space hit Vaelira in two waves.

The first was structural, the familiar groan of the Sulaco’s reinforced frame settling back into the rules of ordinary physics, the low vibration of systems reasserting themselves through the deck beneath her boots. The second came a heartbeat later, far less mechanical and far harder to shut out. Earth was alive in a way few places in the galaxy still were, and the space around it was saturated with feeling. Relief. Exhaustion. Grief held together by motion. The refugee traffic swarming the system carried it in jagged bursts, hundreds upon hundreds of minds and moods brushing the edge of her awareness at once until it became less like thought and more like weather.

Vaelira’s hands settled more firmly against the Engineering I console as she forced her focus back into the ship. Not a wall, not quite. More a narrowing. She followed the pulse of the mycelial grid down into the steadier language of numbers, injector harmonics, power flow, structural tension, giving her mind something clean to hold while the emotional noise outside broke itself against the edges of her shields. It was inelegant, a little rougher than the quiet control she usually preferred, but it worked. By the time Scarlet eased the Sulaco forward, Vaelira had found her balance again, breathing in time with the ship instead of the system beyond it. Around them Earth churned with unregulated feeling and desperate movement, but beneath her hands the Sulaco stayed precise, impatient, and whole. For now, that was enough.

"Vaelira," Wilkan turned his head slightly toward the Engineering station, "Monitor the integration between the mycelial hub and the local power grid. I need the energy distribution to remain surgical."

Vaelira didn’t look up from the console, her fingers already moving through the live readouts as the Sulaco settled into orbit. The faintest crease touched her brow at the interruption, not because he was wrong, but because she’d been watching the integration from the moment they tore free of the jump. “Already on it,” she muttered, quiet enough that it wasn’t really meant for the whole bridge, just loud enough to count as an answer. Then, with a softer exhale through her nose, she added, “Grid’s holding.”

The 'jump' and return into normal space had been a humbling experience for T'Krell and he forced the tension from his body he'd been inadvertently harbouring. The unique experience had felt unsettling as the Sulaco simply melted from one location and arrived in another in an instant bringing the crew along for the ride no matter if they were ready or not. A far cry from the years spent in cramped conditions on a courier vessel in his youth.

The scene around them was chaotic: the comms chatter was worse. His muzzle twitched with irritation at the overloaded bandwidth that assaulted the ships array from all directions - receiving and sending on official channels among the storm would be tricky off the bat. However with the tandem working of his deft paws and prehensile tail T'Krell could cut through the ocean of noise in a few minutes.

Wilkan’s hands remained clasped behind his back, his posture unyielding even as the Sulaco began its graceful, manual slide into the crowded orbital lanes. He could feel the shift in the ship’s vibration - Scarlet’s touch was lighter than the autopilot, more intuitive, a true pilot coaxing a dance out of a warship.

"Keep the sensors on a tight aperture, Tactical," Wilkan commanded, his voice barely above the subsonic hum of the deckplates. "I don’t want us to be blindsided by the celebratory chatter."

"Aye Captain. Tight aperture." Zim replied. He moved at his console with the military precision that came with the years of service to the Capellan Guard. His sash was lain across his shoulder and bore the symbols of his tribe. He was a proud Capellan.

He returned his gaze to the viewscreen, watching the shimmering wake of a refugee transport cross their bow. The Sulaco was a shadow passing through a sunlit room, a reminder of a discipline Earth had spent a century trying to forget.

"Lieutenant," he addressed T'Krell without turning, "prepare the diplomatic protocols, but keep them on a secondary loop. I have no intention of letting a committee dictate our arrival time. We are here to provide stability, not to join the queue."

"Preparing the secondary loop," the Caitian officer responded while his eyes remained upon his console and his paws sorting through the inane chatter as the Sulaco continued towards the planet. "Ready to transmit on your order, sir."

"Scarlet," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into a final, decisive note as the blue horizon of Africa rotated into view, "bring us to the insertion point, precise and silent, let them wonder who we are before we tell them."

Scarlet smiled. "You got it, boss." With a chuckle, she moved her control stick, bringing Sulaco into a slow roll as she adjusted course. "ETA three minutes."

"You speak of stability, Captain," Kovich interrupted as he adjusted his glasses, the light from the Bridge consoles glinting off his lenses. "Just remember that the United Earth Council will see 'stability' as a threat to their autonomy. They have spent a century learning to breathe without the Federation, and you are essentially asking them to remember how to choke."

The Captain turned toward the Commodore, "Your point?"

"Just ensure that in your pursuit of the past, you do not become the very relic you fear," Kovich said, his voice a dry, toneless rasp that seemed to bypass the ears and settle directly in the brain. "Earth is the lock, but if you turn the key too hard, you may find the door leads somewhere you are not prepared to go."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wilkan turned back toward the viewscreen as he added hauntingly, "Agent."

Vaelira didn’t take her hands off the console. “For what it’s worth, Captain, the external traffic’s a mess and the emotional noise isn’t much better,” she said evenly. “People make bad decisions when they feel cornered, and right now Earth’s crowded, tired, and overloaded.” She glanced up then, steady and practical. “If you want cooperation, I’d start with giving them less to push against.”

Wilkan’s hands remained clasped behind his back, his posture a study in Starfleet textbook perfection and a mask he had worn for more lifetimes than anyone on this Bridge could fathom. He didn't immediately answer Vaelira, instead he watched the chaotic dance of the fleet on the viewscreen. He turned his head just enough to catch Vaelira’s steady gaze in his peripheral vision. There was a flicker of something in his expression - not quite a smile, but a grim recognition of the logic in her words.

"A fair assessment, Engineer," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into that resonant, subsonic register, "but 'cooperation' is a delicate bridge to build when the foundations have been dust for a century. Earth is trying to remember how to be part of something larger than itself. That process is rarely quiet, and is rarely comfortable."

He turned his gaze back to the front, but his focus was no longer on the diplomatic nightmare. If Kovich was indeed the man Wilkan remembered, then every word spoken on this Bridge was being archived and weighed against a timeline Wilkan was no longer sure he trusted. He knew that searching for the Andromeda signal openly would be a beacon for the Commodore’s scrutiny. Instead, he relied on the "noise" as the crew did their duty. Hidden beneath layers of encryption that the modern computers viewed as background noise, a single passive receiver in his command chair was listening. He wasn't searching; he was waiting for a specific resonance to find him amidst the planetary chatter.

The Captain knew he had to be careful, perhaps even more careful than he'd ever been since the Dominion War. "Steady as she goes, Commander, and let's get Earth on the line. Sooner we do this, sooner I get to go back home."

Elara stood by the wall closest to the entrance. She had heard the whole talk. She knew Wilkan wasn't exactly keen on going on this trip. This mission. She sensed both worry and curiosity from the people present. What she felt? She wasn't sure what to feel, but she knew she wouldn't get much from Wilkan. Telepathically that was. He wasn't completely silent, but the quiet was enough for her to be able to filter some of the things present were feeling, thinking and sensing, out of her focus.

When a single ping from the helm console sounded out, Scarlet throttled back until Sulaco had come to a halt. "We have reached our destination. Thank you for travelling with Sulaco," she reported, chuckling to herself after her little joke. "Holding her steady at the insertion point. Gotta say, good work to the engineers. Don't think I've ever flown anything that reacts this smoothly. Sure, she's a bit sensitive, but I like it that way. I think the old girl and I are going to get along just fine."

Wilkan’s hands remained clasped behind his back, his posture a study in Starfleet textbook perfection - a mask he had worn for more lifetimes than anyone on this Bridge could fathom. He didn't acknowledge Scarlet’s joke with more than a slight, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. To him, a starship was a sovereign instrument of intent, and right now, that intent was split between the world below and the girl standing in the shadows of the bridge. He turned his head slightly, his dark eyes finding Elara near the entrance. He could feel her presence, not as a telepath, but through the sheer weight of his responsibility for her. In a galaxy that had forgotten its own name, she was the only living bridge to the life he had actually known.

"Elara," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into that deep, subsonic register that cut through the bridge's ambient hum. He didn't offer a smile; he offered a task. "Step forward. Take the Science station."

He waited until she moved into the light of the consoles, her expression a mix of curiosity and the weariness he had come to expect.

"President Sahimi is a woman who values the truth beneath the rhetoric," Wilkan continued, his gaze returning to the center of the bridge but his words clearly meant for his ward. "I want you to monitor the bio-rhythms and emotional subtext of the President during this transmission. If her resolve flickers, or if the 'noise' Vaelira mentioned starts to cloud her judgment, I need to know. You are my eyes on the things she won't say."

Elara nodded and took the seat at the Science station. "On it", she said. She started tapping away on her desk. The data and programming she had created herself came to life. Looking at her display, she turned in her chair. While she was quite awkward with people, she had always watched them. To the extent that she was more than decent at reading body language. "I'm ready", she announced.

"Lieutenant," Wilkan directed, "Open a high-priority channel to United Earth Headquarters. Override the standard diplomatic queues. Use the Starfleet Emergency Frequency - the one they haven't used since the Burn. If they’re looking for a sign that the old world is back, let’s give them a dial tone from the past." He paused, his eyes flicking momentarily toward Kovich. He knew the Commodore was cataloging the move. "Request a direct audience with President Sahimi," Wilkan continued. "Inform her that the Captain of the Sulaco is on station. Tell her I am not here to join her Parliament’s debate; I am here to facilitate the conversation they’ve been too afraid to have."

The Caitian's near systematic movement of the comms board to sort through the traffic paused at the Captain's request. His whiskers twitched with approval at the very direct approach proposed. "Aye Captain," he acknowledged bringing up the near forgotten frequency to cut through the chatter and diplomatic waffle. They'd cut directly to the heart of the matter in a moment providing someone at HQ had the logic to understand the urgency.

Kovich stepped forward, his boots silent on the deck, stopping level with the center seat. He adjusted his glasses, the light from the bridge consoles glinting off his lenses in a way that obscured his eyes.

"Using the emergency frequency is a provocative opening move, Captain," Kovich said, his voice a dry, toneless rasp. "It signals that you consider the current diplomatic channels to be in a state of collapse. While accurate, it lacks... subtlety."

"Subtle hasn't worked for a century, Commodore," Wilkan countered without looking at him. "I'm not here to whisper."

K'Trell gaze shifted fractionally towards Kovich half expecting the human to object to the brashness of the Captain's order.

Wilkan turned his attention to the rest of the Bridge, his gaze lingering on the tactical station.

"Mister Zim," Wilkan said, his voice level. "As we wait for the President, extend our passive sensor sweep to include the lunar outposts. If the isolationist factions in the United Earth Defense Force decide to take offense at our frequency override, I want to know their targeting locks before they’ve finished charging their arrays."

Zim smiled. He rather liked this Wilkan. Although at least at the moment it seemed that Zim's services as a tactician were not needed. The Captain thought of most things before others did. "Aye sir." There was a pause as Zim completed the order. "Sensors are clear at the moment."

He then looked toward the Engineering station, acknowledging the woman who had already warned him. "Engineer, keep a tight leash on the structural integrity fields. If we have to break orbit in a hurry, I don’t want the Sulaco’s 'impatient' nature to outpace her reinforced keel."

Vaelira glanced up at that, just long enough for the corner of her mouth to twitch with something that was almost a smile. He was getting a feel for the ship quickly. That much, at least, was obvious. Around her the bridge had settled into that peculiar rhythm she was already starting to recognise as Sulaco’s natural state: tension held neatly in place, everyone carrying their own part of the load without much need for theatre. She preferred that. It left room to think.

Her hands moved lightly across the engineering controls, tightening her watch on the structural integrity fields as ordered and smoothing a minor fluctuation before it had the chance to become anything interesting. The ship’s pulse stayed steady beneath her fingertips, impatient but controlled, the old frame and newer systems still testing each other in small ways as they held orbit over Earth. Vaelira let her focus narrow there, into the cleaner language of power flow and field balance, while the rest of the bridge carried on around her. If Sulaco needed a tight leash, she’d keep one. For now, the ship was listening. That was enough.

"Commander," Wilkan directed after having turned his head slightly toward the helm, "keep the thrusters on hot-standby and the dampeners at one-hundred-and-ten percent. This system is a beehive, and I want the Sulaco to be the only thing that doesn't wobble if someone kicks it. Be ready to pivot the moment that signal connects."

The pilot simply nodded in acknowledgement and entered a few commands into the helm console, before placing her hands back on the control sticks. "Engines primed. I'm keeping my foot on the accelerator with the clutch kicked in. I think that's how the old metaphor works, anyway."

Wilkan finally settled his gaze back on the viewscreen, his fingers resting on the armrest of the command chair. Beneath the surface, he felt the faint, rhythmic thrum of the hidden receiver in his seat waiting for the right echo from the surface. He kept his breathing steady, his mind a steel trap, waiting for the channel to surge and the Bridge atmosphere to tighten as the connection finalized.

They didn't have to wait long.

"We're being hailed from the surface Captain," T'Krell announced.

"On screen," Wilkan commanded, the archaic phrase slipping out before he could catch it. A microscopic tightening of his jaw served as a silent self-correction; he knew better. He had lived into the 32nd century long enough to be accustomed to its nuances, and even centuries earlier, he had commanded the Enterprise-H - a vessel that had utilized the earliest version of the holographic communication interface now standard across the quadrant. Yet, in the high-tension vacuum of a first contact with a world he once led, the old-world protocols of a starship captain had momentarily overridden the modern statesman.

The Bridge air fractured. High-density light lattices ignited on the deck plates, coalescing with the stabilized hum of a forcefield. Suddenly, Ahlam Sahimi was standing there. The representation was so perfect that the bridge’s low lighting caught the silver in her hair and the deep lines of exhaustion around her eyes.

"President Sahimi," Wilkan began, his voice dropping into that resonant, subsonic register. "My apologies for the archaic command. Old habits die hard, even after eight hundred years. I see the thirty-second century still prefers the... intimate touch of a holographic presence."

The President’s image shifted as she took a slow, deliberate step toward him. She didn't look like a woman under duress; she looked like a leader who had finally seen a long-awaited piece of a puzzle snap into place, though her eyes remained sharp with the wariness of a world that had learned to survive alone.

"Intimacy is a necessity, Captain Targaryen," Sahimi replied, her voice echoing naturally through the bridge acoustics. "President Rillak assured me you were coming, but your timing is... precise. My Parliament is currently debating the very air they breathe, and your arrival has given the 'Purist' factions a sudden, inconvenient reason to stop shouting at one another and start looking at the sky."

Wilkan didn't break eye contact. He took a single, measured step toward her, stopping at a distance that acknowledged her rank without ceding the hard-won authority of his experience. "Precision is the only currency I have left, Madame President," Wilkan said calmly. "But a Captain is only as precise as the officers who anchor his bridge. If the Sulaco is to be the tether you require, you should know the hands holding the line."

He turned slightly, extending a hand toward the helm, though his eyes remained largely on the President. "Commander Scarlet O'Hare, my Chief Flight Officer. She is the reason this 'relic' moves with more grace than your defense grid expects."

Scarlet turned her gaze from the flight controls to the hologram of the Earth President, and mocked a salute with two fingers as she was introduced. "Your Presidentialness. Or whatever it is I'm supposed to call you but won't. Pleasure."

"‘President’ will suffice, Commander," Sahimi’s holographic image didn't flinch at Scarlet’s irreverence; instead, a faint, ghost of a smile touched her weary mouth. It was the look of a woman who preferred a blunt pilot to a polished liar. "I’ve been called much worse by people with far less firepower," Sahimi replied, her gaze shifting back to Wilkan. The amusement vanished, replaced by the calculating weight of a leader holding a planet together with sheer willpower.

"Your crew possesses a certain... historical vitality, Captain Targaryen. It’s refreshing, if a bit terrifying for my security chiefs. But don't mistake my welcome for a lack of scrutiny. Earth is a fortress of its own making now. If you are to be our tether, you must be prepared for the strain. My Parliament doesn't just want a protector; they want proof that the Federation remembers how to serve, not just command."

Wilkan inclined his head, a gesture of precise, diplomatic deference that masked the turbulent recognition of the very room Sahimi was likely standing in. He knew the structural integrity of Earth’s political "fortress" better than she could imagine; he had seen its predecessor crumble.

"Service is the only reason the Sulaco has a heartbeat, Madame President," Wilkan replied, his voice a steady, subsonic anchor. "I am not here to command Earth’s future, but to secure its right to choose one. You speak of strain, but I have found that a tether only breaks when those on either side stop pulling in the same direction."

He shifted his gaze toward the Engineering station. "Engineer Vaelira Daro, who ensures our systems remain integrated."

Vaelira looked up from the Engineering station when Wilkan named her, one hand still resting lightly against the console as the ship’s systems moved in a steady rhythm beneath her fingertips. “Madame President,” she said, giving a small, respectful incline of her head rather than anything stiffer. “Kai milara.” The words were soft and smooth in her mouth, Betazoid by sound if not by any language Earth would know, carrying the simple weight of I greet you in good faith.

Her dark eyes lifted properly then, steady and clear. “The ship’s integration is holding beautifully,” she added, calm and matter-of-fact in the way that suited her far better than ceremony ever would. “So if anything puts strain on this tether, it won’t be the science.”

Sahimi’s image shifted, her gaze following the movement of Vaelira’s hands on the console as if trying to read the alien language of the ship’s output. The Betazoid greeting hung in the air for a heartbeat, a ghost of a time when such sounds were common.

"Good faith is a rare import these days," Sahimi replied, her voice softening slightly. "And 'beautiful integration' is a phrase my own engineers haven't used in a decade. They usually settle for 'functional under protest.'" She offered a singular, sharp nod that acknowledged the woman behind the machine. "I take comfort in knowing the 'science' is steady. It is the people, however, who tend to fray under tension. I hope your ship’s heartbeat is as resilient as you claim."

"Our resilience is not a claim, Madame President; it is a necessity of our survival," Wilkan replied, his voice a steady anchor. "Resilience is built into the Sulaco's frame, but it is forged in the discipline of the officers who walk its decks." He shifted his gaze toward the Science station, where the young woman stood amidst the flickering sensor arrays. "At Science, Miss Elara Jyn, she is here to ensure our observations remain as clear as our intentions."

Elara nodded her acknowledgment of the interaction. "Pleased to meet you, Ma'am", she said. The president seemed hesitant and weary of their presence. She didn't trust any of them, not by a long shot. She looked at the display on her station. At present, the President was not just weary of them. She was trying to have a feel of how much she could push Wilkan. She silently tapped away, letting Wilkan know what she had found. If the President was getting hostile, they needed some kind of leverage. Not an advantage, or something to blackmail with. Just enough that they wouldn't start a conflict. She was tempted to get into the human databases. However, she refrained. If she did so and got caught, they would all be in trouble to the neck. She wasn't going to take that risk.

He finally gestured toward the communications console. "Lieutenant T'Krell, who cut through the noise of your system to make this meeting possible.

Upon his induction T'Krell bowed his head respectfully, his mouth still but eyes and senses sharp with awareness.

Sahimi’s gaze lingered on T’Krell for a second longer than the others in a silent recognition of the technical prowess required to pierce Earth’s isolationist encryption.

He then looked toward the Tactical workstation, where the Capellan officer sat with a disciplined, predatory stillness, "Mister Zim, our Tactical Officer. He is responsible for ensuring that our presence remains a stabilizing force, rather than a target for those who find our arrival... unsettling."

Zim mustered to full attention. It was a slightly intimidating sight given his stature. "Madam President. Welcome to the Sulaco."

Sahimi’s gaze drifted upward to meet Zim’s, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the Capellan’s formidable height and disciplined, predatory stillness. In the sterile, high-walled corridors of United Earth, she was accustomed to security details that favored sleek armor and polished gadgets; she wasn't used to seeing a man who looked like he could personally hold back the tide.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Sahimi replied, her voice steadying as she regained her diplomatic footing. "I suspect 'unsettling' is a vast understatement for what my orbital defense commanders are currently feeling; however, having a force like yours between us and the chaos is a variable I am more than happy to add to my calculations." She gave him a sharp, perceptive nod—a silent acknowledgment of the lethal utility he represented.

Wilkan didn’t let the tension linger, stepping back into the center of the dialogue with the fluid timing of a man used to managing room dynamics. He noted the way Sahimi categorized Zim as a "variable"—a cold, political assessment he had made a thousand times himself in the past.

"He is more than a variable, Madame President; he is a deterrent," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into that calm, subterranean resonance. "My crew is not here to provoke your defense grid, but to ensure that the peace you are brokering has a foundation of security that cannot be bargained away by scavengers or extremists." He looked at the hologram of the Earth leader, his expression unreadable but intense. "We understand that Earth has grown used to its own walls. We are simply offering to stand at the gates so you can finally open them."

The Captain turned toward the man standing next to the Captain's Chair, "And, of course, you are already familiar with Commodore Kovich."

Sahimi’s gaze swept over the crew, her expression softening with a flicker of professional respect. "A diverse manifest, Captain. It's been a long time since Earth has seen a Bridge that looks like the galaxy it's supposed to represent."

"We are here to remind them," Wilkan countered, his tone shifting back into the clinical, steady pressure of a veteran diplomat. "I understand the weight of the Peace Accords you are trying to finalize. It was not my intention to disrupt the optics of your diplomacy, but I find that 'permission' from a divided Council is a luxury the Sol system cannot afford if we are to restore the order required for a signature."

"The Accords are the goal, Captain," Sahimi’s brow arched. "But my people are wary. They remember a Federation that they felt left them to navigate the Burn alone. They see the Sulaco sitting over Africa and they don't see a partner; they see a reminder of a history they’ve spent a century trying to outrun. I invited you here because I need a tether, not a reminder of what was lost."

"Stability is the only tether that holds in a storm," Wilkan said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the weight of a man who had watched the subspace relays go dark on his watch. "The Sulaco is here to ensure that the noise of the relief effort doesn't drown out the gravity of the Accords. If your Council is struggling with the logistics of reintegration, allow us to be the gear that moves without friction. We are here to provide the space you need to lead."

Sahimi studied Wilkan for a long moment, the weariness in her eyes softening into a flicker of calculated hope. "You speak like a man who understands that a world in transition needs a foundation, not a lecture, Targaryen. You speak like someone who has stood exactly where I am standing."

"I speak like a man who knows that peace is rarely quiet, and it is never free," Wilkan replied softly. "Tell me where the pressure is highest on your Council, and we will begin there. Let’s give them a reason to believe the Federation didn't just return, it never truly left."

Sahimi’s expression shifted, the diplomatic mask tightening as her holographic gaze swept the perimeter of the Bridge. The warmth of her previous acknowledgment vanished, replaced by the sharp, localized focus of a leader who had reached the limit of public theater.

"If the Federation never truly left, Captain, then its return requires more than a grand entrance," she said, her voice dropping to a level that barely carried beyond Wilkan’s immediate radius. She took another step forward, the light lattices of her projection flickering slightly as she reached the edge of the forcefield's stabilization. "You speak of tethers and foundations and I have a room full of people downstairs who see a weapon of war when they look at your ship. I cannot navigate the logistics of 'returning' while being watched by a gallery that is waiting for us to fail."

Sahimi’s eyes bored into Wilkan’s with a sudden, piercing intensity. "Captain Targaryen, I need to speak with you. Alone. Away from the Bridge, away from your officers, and away from the 'optics' of Starfleet. There are realities regarding our internal security that I will not share over a multi-point broadcast."

Wilkan’s expression remained a mask of iron, but he felt the weight of the request. He didn't look back, but he was acutely aware of the man standing just behind his right shoulder.

"The President is correct, Captain," Kovich interjected. His voice was thin, dry, and entirely devoid of the emotional grit that Sahimi and Wilkan were trading in. He hadn't moved an inch, his hands still folded precisely behind his back. "The variables of Earth’s current political climate are... volatile. Direct, unmonitored communication is the only logical path forward if we are to bypass the noise of the Parliament."

Kovich’s gaze moved to the hologram, his spectacles catching the amber light of the bridge. "Madame President, I will ensure the Captain is available on a secure, point-to-point encryption within the minute. I assume your private office is sufficiently swept?"

"It is, Commodore," Sahimi replied, her focus returning to Wilkan. "I am weary of speaking to a Bridge, Captain. I would like to speak to the man who claims he can hold the line. I’ll be waiting." With a sharp fracture of light, the lattices collapsed, and the President’s image vanished. The hum of the forcefield dissipated, leaving the Bridge in a sudden, heavy silence.

Wilkan stood still for a heartbeat, the phantom image of the President still burned into his retinas. He turned slowly toward Kovich. "She’s cornered," Wilkan said softly.

"She is a pragmatist, Captain," Kovich replied, already turning toward the Ready Room door, "and pragmatists only ask for privacy when the truth is too expensive for the public to hear. After you."

Wilkan didn't need to turn around to know that someone had beamed onto the Bridge, his skills caught a new frequency: a staccato, uneven rhythm that cut through the disciplined hum of the Sulaco. It was a muddy vibration, lacking the clean resonance of the officers currently at their stations.

"I see the welcome wagon has already departed," Karys said as she was tapping at her HoloPADD with a rhythmic, impatient flick of her finger that sent a jarring pulse through the subsonic air. Her voice was crisp, but it carried a layer of practiced, bureaucratic boredom, "I apologize for the delay, Captain. I was in the secondary machine shop. The Spore Drive’s vertical intake was showing a variance and I decided that my time was better spent ensuring we didn't drift into the moon than standing around for a photo op with United Earth."

Wilkan turned slowly. To his senses, Karys felt like a cracked bell. There was no harmonic alignment in her posture, and her heartbeat (usually the steady drum of a Denobulan Commander) felt hollow, as if she were a shell of an officer. "The 'photo op,' Commander, was a strategic necessity," Wilkan said, his voice dropping. "President Sahimi has requested a private audience and I assume you’ve managed to keep the ship’s primary systems from 'drifting' long enough for me to conduct a meeting?"

Karys offered a thin, tight smile that was the kind that signaled a careerist who viewed her superior as a temporary obstacle. "The Sulaco is perfectly stable, Captain, well at least the parts I’ve refitted are. Though I must say, seeing a ship like this used as a glorified taxi for the Diplomatic Corps is... a choice. I’d hate for the Second Gen to be wasted on ferry runs when there’s real science to be done." She looked past him toward the Ready Room, "Go ahead, Captain, chase the politics and I’ll be here making sure the 'relic' doesn't suffer a heart attack while you're preoccupied. I’d prefer to have the ship in one piece when I take the chair."

"The chair is earned through service, not through an itinerary, Commander," Wilkan countered, his eyes narrowing. He felt a sudden urge to protect the vessel from an officer who didn't respect its soul. He had intended to finish this mission and vanish back to New Aur, but, as he listened to the hollow resonance of the woman who was supposed to succeed him, he felt the weight of the Sulaco settle onto his shoulders. He couldn't leave this ship to someone who heard only the machines and ignored the harmony.

"Commodore," Wilkan said, glancing at Kovich, "the President is waiting."

"Indeed," Kovich replied, his spectacles reflecting Karys’s defiant silhouette. He said nothing else, but the clinical coldness in his eyes suggested he was recording the exact moment Wilkan’s protective instinct overrode his grief.

Wilkan walked toward the Ready Room. He didn't look back at Karys, but he could still feel her discordant vibration behind him.

On the upper tier, Karys watched the door hiss shut. Her hands were clenched behind her back, her fingernails digging into her palms so hard it drew blood. Her heart was actually beating in a perfect, agonized harmony of loyalty to the ship, but she made sure that for the man who was listening, she sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.

Vaelira said nothing as the exchange shifted around her, but the moment Karys mentioned a variance in the vertical intake her attention sharpened properly. Her hands stayed light on the console, her expression composed, as she pulled the relevant diagnostics across her display and checked them for herself. There had been a fluctuation earlier, yes, but not the sort of thing that justified alarm, and certainly nothing in the current readouts that suggested Sulaco was on the verge of drifting into anything. The ship was holding together exactly as it should. Ambitious, sensitive in places, still settling into herself, but stable.

She let her eyes flick briefly toward Karys, not with open suspicion, just quiet scrutiny. There was something off there, though she couldn’t yet tell whether it was ego, exhaustion, nerves, or something more complicated. Vaelira knew better than to make quick judgments about people who sounded brittle. She had met too many versions of that and worn a few herself. So she let the thought go for now and returned to the cleaner truth of the numbers. The grid was steady, the couplings were behaving, and whatever was happening between the people on the bridge, the ship herself didn’t seem interested in their politics. For the moment, that was enough.

Scarlet turned her chair and looked around the bridge in silence as the Captain disappeared into his office. "Well, that was something," she remarked after a moment of silence. "He really does know how to make an entrance." She frowned. "Wait, who did he leave in charge?"

Karys didn't sit. Sitting in the Captain’s chair would have been too obvious a tell of her supposed ambition; instead, she paced a tight, three-step radius behind it, her eyes never leaving her HoloPADD. She could feel the weight of the Bridge crew’s stares - Vaelira’s quiet judgment, Scarlet’s open hostility, and the predatory weight of Zim’s attention. Each one felt like a physical blow to her Denobulan soul, which craved the communal harmony she was systematically dismantling.

"By regulations, Commander O'Hare, the First Officer assumes the Bridge in the Captain’s absence," Karys said, her voice clipped and devoid of its usual melodic lilt. She didn't look up, projecting the image of an officer who valued data over people. "I realize the 'historical vitality' of this crew might favor a more casual hierarchy, but the Sulaco isn't a museum piece. It’s a prototype. And right now, my priority is ensuring that its systems don't degrade while the Captain plays statesman."

Scarlet smirked. Of course it was one of those classic Starfleet types, stickler for regulations and procedure. "Just wanted to make sure I'm all up to date on the chain on this here ship, that's all," she replied with a shrug. "I'll keep her steady with the engines running, just like the Cap ordered, until I'm told otherwise."

She flicked a sharp, cold glance toward the Engineering station, catching Vaelira’s eyes for a fraction of a second. "Engineer Daro, I assume you’ve finished double-checking my work on the intake? I’d hate for my 'alarmist' diagnostics to interfere with your quiet scrutiny of the numbers. If you find a discrepancy between my findings and your 'feeling' for the ship, I suggest you document it properly. I don't run a bridge on intuition."

Vaelira looked up then, properly this time, and for a moment there was nothing sharp in her expression at all. Just a faint, genuine puzzlement, like she was trying to work out how the conversation had managed to take that particular turn. “I’m not sure where half of that came from,” she said, her tone even and unhurried. “You mentioned a variance in the intake, so I checked the intake. That didn’t feel especially dramatic to me. It just seemed sensible.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to the console again, fingers resting lightly against the edge of it before she went on. “And I wasn’t making a point about your work. I was checking the ship. There’s a difference.” The words were calm, but there was a little more weight behind them now, not defensive so much as careful. “Also, when I say I pay attention to how Sulaco feels, I don’t mean I’m standing here having an emotional experience with the deck plating. I mean I know what strain looks like before it turns into failure. That’s part of the job too.”

She let that sit for a beat, steady and matter-of-fact. “The numbers are fine. The fluctuation was minor. I’m not seeing anything here that needs escalating, and I’m not quietly dismantling your refit in my head just because I checked a reading after you mentioned it.” A faint trace of dryness touched her voice then. “So if this is about me looking at the diagnostics and you deciding I must have opinions about you personally, I think we’ve both had stranger days than that, but it wasn’t what I was doing.”

"Mister Zim," she continued, her tone dismissive as she turned toward the Tactical station. "Increase the sensor resolution on the lunar defense grid. If the United Earth Defense Force so much as cycles a cooling vent, I want it flagged. I'm not interested in 'wait and see' diplomacy. I’m interested in maintaining the tactical integrity of this asset."

Harris looked up as the order was given. Harris Zim, was a Capellan, a fighter true, but a tactician by nature. There was something entirely wrong with that order. The Captain was in intense negotiations with the Commodore assisting. He decided that part of the order was indeed prudent. So, he redirected the senor grid to keep an eye on the Lunar Defense Grid. Fact was a heads up should they decide to attack was prudent. However, he did not increase the resolution. "I have redirected part of the sensors to look at the Lunar Grid. A prudent order. However, I am not going to increase the resolution. At least not at this time. The Earth orbital defense can read that increase in resolution as an increase in power, they may believe that we are preparing an attack, or attempting espionage. Either way it would infringe upon the Captain's negotiations."

She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs: a steady, loyal rhythm that she was forcing into a lie. She wasn't just playing a role; she was becoming a ghost in her own house. Every abrasive word was a brick in the wall she was building to keep Wilkan Targaryen in that chair, even if it meant she had to stand on the other side of it, alone.

Elara listened to the people around her interact with each other. She wasn't turning to watch them. That wouldn't help anything or anyone. Instead, she went to work. Wilkan had better come back in one piece. While she was a grown adult, she still liked the quiet he provided her. She was looking at every single bit of the science she knew. No matter the outcome of Wilkan's talk with the human president, there was still a long way to go to sort... well, anything and everything out. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. There was nothing more for her to do until Wilkan returned.

S'ressa observed the crew. They went through the first Mycelial jump. So far so good. Now the negotiations with earth were at a crucial point. Something's going on or the president wouldn't have wanted privacy. They would just have to wait and see what's going on."

 

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