The USS Discovery’s dorsal plane stretched like the wings of a Jerett falcon as it passed into sector Typhon 252. Matter and antimatter steadily annihilated each other in the ship’s reactor core, the intermix chamber increasing the particulate flow diameter by barely a micron as the ship altered course. That same warp engine had bent the very fabric of space for close to a month while the Discovery rounded the trailing edge of Romulan space. Now, having stopped only to investigate the movements of a small party of Fenris Rangers, they had reached their journey’s end.

“Captain Rider,” Mek stepped onto the bridge, calling his colleague’s name before completing the short arc from the turbolift to within view of the command chair, “I hear we’ve nearly reached the station.”

Rider, half of his attention still directed towards the viewer, caught sight of Mek in the corner of one pastel blue eye, “We’re still about an hour out. Not long now,” the human’s rugged face creased into a smile, “we’ve got some odd spectral phase pulse readings coming from around the Typhon Expanse, oh and an intelligence report came through on priority two. Internal discontent on some of the old Romulan core worlds.”

Just what they need,” Mek pursed his lips, “never thought that’d become my problem again so quickly. I was just starting to get used to the Klingon way of doing things.”

A quiet laugh escaped Rider, “Ah, station life… The problems come to you.”

“We can but hope they don’t all arrive at the same time,” Mek added.

“You know where to find us if they do,” Rider shot back.

A rare shadow of a smile flickered across Mek’s face, his teeth showing in a flash. Rider had the easy confidence of a man who truly inhabited his role, forcing Mek to admit that the voyage had in fact been rather pleasant. The Discovery’s captain was as affable as he was knowledgeable.

Mek looked around the bridge, “I have to say, I almost miss starship service. The Discovery’s a fine ship. A first-rate crew,” his eyes settled unconsciously on the centre seat. Commander Rozan, the First Officer, kept watch to the right. To the left a third chair, standard on larger vessels such as this, lay empty.

Mek stepped over to it. An almost sheepish tone seeped into his voice, “May I?”

“By all means,” Rider obliged, knowingly.

Mek impulsively checked the systems display as he sat, prompting Rider and Rozan to exchange an amused glance.

“Mr. Szeto,” Rozan announced in a soothing tone, “inform Deep Space 17 control we request our final approach vector.” She input a few commands to her own controls, then reclined. Her shaven head touched the padded head rest as she turned to Mek, “Thinking about coming back to the bridge, Captain?”

“Hah, no.” Mek lied.

“Never too late,” Rider cajoled, taking the centre seat.

“Oh, be quiet. Both of you,” Mek harrumphed, “let me enjoy the moment.”

Deep Space 17, once a pale white dot on the viewer, grew larger by the minute. The Canopus-class station spun lazily, in the outermost phase of its elliptical orbit around the Lioh sun. Gas giant Lioh III hung back; a vast ethereal spirit reducing the station to a darkened silhouette. Heavy concentrations of atmospheric methane absorbed the red fury of the Lioh star, producing a Gaussian blue perimeter. To Mek, it appeared serene. It was as if the station’s superstructure travelled forwards on a pale ocean wave. The rotation of its mycelial form ensured no part of the station escaped that spectral crescent, washed cerulean; a tiny island in an endless sea.

A polite female voice drifted throughout the open areas of the base, “All USS Discovery personnel prepare for immediate departure from upper docking arm six. All USS Discovery personnel report aboard ship immediately.”  

Captain Erill’Yun Mek walked PADD in hand, studying the deployment records. The Discovery would be proceeding into the Typhon Expanse later that day. The course charted would take them out past the Lioh star, through roughly ten lightyears of open space before entering the clouded “pea soup” of subspace interference and sensor anomalies. Sector Typhon 252 for them would be the edge of space as conceptualised by those unfamiliar with the region. In the expanse, up was down, time stretched and undulated, and apparitions played tricks on even the most robust of starship computers.  

Mek turned a corner into the Task Force operations office. Situated in the base’s upper levels, directly below the communications spires, the wide room was lightly staffed that morning. Several command personnel observed starship traffic, updating positions on a huge translucent sector map display that formed a centrepiece. Set into a circular well, all manner of diagnostic panels, long range sensor readouts and system status monitors adorned the raised circumference on which it sat.  

A gold shirted officer looked towards Mek as, eyes sunken from the early start, the gruff old Captain approached with a growl, “Is Captain Kohl still here?” 

Even before she heard the growl, a hint of resigned desperation was more than evident behind that gold shirted officer’s eyes.  By the time she made eye-contact with Mek, an expression of relief crossed her face, as if she knew the Task Force Commander could sort anything out.  “Ah… yes, sir,” she said, nodding vigorously.  Leaning towards Mek, she put on a sotto voice to share, “USS Discovery is ready to depart.  All other personnel have already reported aboard.  Except for…”  Trailing off, she nodded in the direction of the sector map.

Mek finally lowered his PADD, his eyes first making contact with hers, then following her glance, “Ah,” he grumbled, “I might have known.” 

As was his wont, Captain Andreus Kohl was trying to do five things at once, but he had lost track of at least two of them.  In the midst of instructing a junior officer, Kohl asked, “But have you tried sorting it like this?”  To demonstrate the this in question, he used both of his hands to manipulate holographic controls.  His movements were awkward, because of the luggage he had strapped over his shoulder and a travel mug tucked under an armpit.  “Does that make sense?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the officer until he saw a nod of understanding.

“I believe that’s your final boarding call, Captain,” Mek raised a hand to the ceiling along with his eyebrows, leaving the disembodied officer at the tannoy to speak for herself.  

“Captain, hullo,” Kohl brightly said, as soon as he met Mek’s eyes.  “You can tell me the truth,” he said, with far too much familiarity.  Although Kohl had served as Mek’s Task Force Executive Officer for only a couple of months, he had chosen to treat Mek as if he were an old friend, right from their first day of serving together.  To date, Kohl hadn’t been demoted, and so he kept at it.  “Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the Romulans, captain?”

“Mr. Kohl,” Mek couldn’t help but match the man’s airy tone, “the Free State research team’s already boarded. Only embarrassment here is if departure’s delayed due to the mission commander’s absence. Oh, and if they manage to scoop us on those spectral phase pulse readings,” his eyes narrowed, “using our own equipment. Right now I’d say only one of those things was likely, wouldn’t you?”

With his own nod of resignation, Kohl swiped a hand through the holographic interface to log himself out of the sector map.  He hiked the shoulder strap of his luggage higher on his shoulder and he took his travel mug in hand, readying himself to depart.  “That spectral phase pulse,” Kohl remarked, amid a shake of the head and a bemused smirk.  “The Romulan Free State has dispatched all manner of specialists –astrogeologists, zoologists, archaeologists– to join our task force across their deep space operations.  Three more Free State ships are en route with Deep Space 17 right now,”  Kohl sighed before continuing, “and Discovery’s inaugural mission is to investigate… a ghost ship.  They’re going to laugh.”

Mek considered Kohl’s words for a second, “If what they’re saying about the Typhon Expanse is true, they won’t be laughing long,” his mind wandered to some of the reports he’d read through since arriving at Deep Space 17, “wouldn’t be the strangest thing found in there by far…” Mek trailed off, collecting his thoughts, “Now then, Captain. Care for a site-to-site transport to make up for lost time?”

“Yes, please,” Kohl replied with a single nod.  He rolled his shoulders back and planted his feet to prepare for transport.  Waggling a finger at Mek, Kohl said, “Now don’t you forget about me while I’m out of sight…”

“Take care of yourself, Andreus,” Mek entered a few coordinates into the panel beside him. Blue vertical lines descended in a dazzling shimmer, “don’t lose sight of the stars.”

There were already stars in Kohl’s eyes and he had barely crossed the threshold into the runabout’s cockpit.  He couldn’t be sure if the blinding spots across his vision had come from the erratic whirl of starlight through the forward viewport or the expulsion of sparks from an overloaded EPS conduit overhead.  Kohl braced his elbows against the doorframe to keep from falling as the deck swayed beneath his feet.  He silently counted to five until he could see clearly again.

The last time Kohl had checked in on the cockpit, his trusted confidants from Task Force 17 operations had been engaged in a convivial debate about a pickleball game they’d watched on Starbase 38.  Now, the overlapping cross-talk between the six officers, seated at consoles around the Arrow-class runabout’s cockpit, had far more to do with keeping the USS Maronti in flight.

“Report,” Kohl said.  The word snapped out of him to break through the clamour.  “Is it the Devore Imperium?”

From the seat closest to Kohl, Yeoman Aneasa replied, “No, captain.”  –She cleared her throat in that way she did when she was about to take liberties with Kohl–  “Sir, we’re unlikely to encounter Devore in the Typhon Expanse.”

Kohl stumbled across the cockpit and allowed himself a controlled fall into an empty chair beside Aneasa.  He raised his eyebrows at her and offered her an unblinking look.

“You weren’t on board the USS Discovery when High Commissioner Fintt fired the crippling blows in retaliation for our interference with blood dilithium,” Kohl said, plainly haunted by the memory.  “We may have unlocked the secret to send blood dilithium back to subspace, but we lost our flagship in the process.  If a turbolift so much as groans, I’m probably going to think it’s the Devore for some time.”

The rumbling and wheezing through the runabout’s spaceframe began to lessen.  As the Maronti came to a full halt, the pinwheeling stars beyond the cockpit returned to the calming visage of motionless pinpricks of light.

From the pilot’s chair, Lieutenant Emem said, “I’ve regained full flight control.  Diagnostics show no damage to the nacelles, but our port nacelle had slipped out of sync with the starboard nacelle.”

“What happened, lieutenant?” Kohl asked.

“Our navigational records indicated we were about to pass through the Zorouse-Beta solar winds,” Emem answered.  “What we found instead were the solar winds had whipped up into a magnascopic storm!  I’ve diverted us around the storm and I’ve set a new course for Deep Space Seventeen.”

Kohl ordered, “You may engage, lieutenant.”

Only after Emem had input the commands to bring the Maronti back to warp and cruising speed did he look back over his shoulder to share another finding with Captain Kohl.

“It’s not only Zorouse-Beta, captain,” Emem said.  “Deep Space Seventeen confirms what we’ve picked up on long-range sensor scans.  Nearly all of the stellar phenomena across the Typhon Expanse are highly energised.  The starbase has been picking it up since shortly after Stardate 2400.12.  The Typhon Expanse is like a whole new territory.  Sensors have detected a significant shift in the baselines for radiation emissions and subspace oscillations that Starfleet has on record.”

As the officers around the cockpit returned to their routine, operational chatter, Yeoman Aneasa called for Kohl’s attention and projected a holographic PADD between them.

“That’s going to be a problem.”  Aneasa asked, “What are your orders for the task force, captain?”

Kohl blinked at her twice.  “Oh, right…” he said vaguely.  At a whisper, he admitted, “It’s my call now.  I think I’m still in shock about Captain Mek’s transfer orders.”

“You have all our support, captain,” Aneasa said softly, but emphatically.  “You learned every lesson Captain Mek had to teach you.  Now you’re ready to lead as our task force as its commanding officer.”

Buoyed by her words, Kohl offered his thanks and then he said, “Prepare communications identifying the new navigational hazards we’ve identified.  They’ll need to be distributed to all of Task Force Seventeen’s starships, our exploratory partners from the Romulan Free State, and all civilian traffic moving through Deep Space Seventeen.”

“Aye, captain.”

“Now that our task force has returned home again,” Kohl added, “it’s the perfect opportunity to explore the mysteries of the Typhon Expanse.  Starfleet only understands a fraction of the spatial anomalies and stellar phenomena across the expanse.  If they’re highly energised, now is the time to unlock their origins and their workings.  Given our agreements with the Romulan Free State, their scientists working in concert with our own may bring the novel perspectives we need to deepen our understanding of the galaxy.  This current phenomenon may only be temporary in nature.  Let’s pull back some of our task force from the Typhon Frontier and take a closer look in our own backyard.”

“…and once I board the USS Discovery, I’ll officially be halfway there.”’

Captain Khim paused in her dictation, resisting the urge to play word association and break into song lyrics.

“I’ve never been so glad to put Starbase 38 and the Delta Quadrant behind me. Waiting so long to hear from our ships on the other side is always nerve-wracking, and it’s so much worse when the Borg are involved.”

She was clenching her fists in frustration, and even though the message was voice-only, she knew her wife would still be able to tell when she listened to it.

“Not that our Beta Quadrant operations were a walk in the park, either. Captain Varro will be filling me in on that soon. You were right about him, you know. He’s turned out to be one of the most capable officers I’ve ever worked with–”

Her praise was interrupted by the shudder of the runabout docking.

“Shoot, gotta wrap this up. Love you, miss you, can’t wait to see you! Mwah! Computer, end message and send to Bituin Solon on Deep Space 17.”

The computer chimed in affirmation as she rushed out of the lounge and into the main cabin, just in time for the doors to whoosh open to the sights and sounds of the Discovery’s docking bay.

Captain Varro stood at the edge of the bustling docking area. On his side was his mandatory security detail maintaining a vigilant watch. The distant whir of engines and the occasional metallic clank of cargo containers added to the atmosphere of anticipation.

As the shuttle descended gracefully–its landing gear making a soft, reassuring thud upon contact with the platform–a substantial hiss resonated through the vicinity. The release of pressure was felt as much as heard, like a sigh of relief from the ship itself.

With a fluid motion, the shuttle’s door swung open, revealing a well-lit, welcoming interior that contrasted with the cold, metallic exterior of the spacecraft. As Captain Khim emerged, a wry grin curved Varro’s lips into a playful expression. His eyes twinkled with amusement as his Commanding Officer approached.

“You know, I had initially planned to welcome you with a grand musical performance. But it appears that all our talented dancers are struck with some weird flu and are held up in the medbay.” His words carried a hint of mischief, and the sparkle in his eyes spoke volumes about the camaraderie they had shared.

He then gave a nod to the security officers standing beside him and remarked, “Instead, I ended up with this duo. Lieutenant Banqis can certainly hold a note, but unfortunately, any sense of rhythm seems to elude him.”

Banqis seemed about to protest–either that he did have rhythm or that he did NOT sing, thank you very much–but Khim let him off the hook with a smile and a shake of her head that said she was in on the joke.

“How’s your rhythm, Varro? Can you walk and talk?”

Without waiting for an answer, Khim began the long trek through the corridors towards the Deck One conference room.

“News from the Delta Quadrant is mixed. The Gilroy successfully completed their mission and is back to business as usual. The Paramount missed its last check-in. It’s not cause for concern yet, but I won’t rest easy until we know they’re safe. How are things closer to home? What’s the status of the Blythe and the Ahwahnee?”

Varro’s breath came in quick bursts as he struggled to keep pace with Captain Khim’s determined stride. “The Blythe,” he panted between steps, “it’s veered off, abandoning pursuit of the Borg Sphere. Headed for Deep Space 17 now.” His brow furrowed with worry. “But… no word from the Ahwahnee.”

Despite his efforts to appear composed, a flicker of concern betrayed Varro’s facade. “We’ll keep watch,” he added hastily, “just in case.” Then, a spark of excitement lit up his eyes. “Ah, but there’s news! The Resolute, Valiant, and Cerberus—all transferred in and accounted for!”

His voice rose with anticipation as he continued, “And there’s more. Captain Karai… just minutes ago. She took command of the USS Galahad!” The corners of Varro’s lips twitched into a satisfied smile.

The fleeting satisfaction swiftly dissipated, replaced by a gnawing sense of concern as Varro’s mind delved into the void. “Ma’am, I notice the absence of the Lakota Squadron in this lineup. Any updates on their status?” he remarked.

Khim nodded and pretended to look up the answer on her PADD as they entered a turbolift, giving Varro a chance to be more inconspicuous about catching his breath. “The fate of the Hathaway and Arimathea has a silver lining for us: Fleet Captain Nazir and Captain Kauhn have both transferred back to 17 to head up Lakota Squad with Captain Romaes. Their crew will fill in the–”

She caught herself nearly saying “gaps”, and the casual phrasing took her by surprise. It felt too soon to be acclimated to the horrible losses Starfleet had suffered. “They’ll take up the mantle of the souls those ships lost on Frontier Day.”

The turbolift opened its doors, and two quick strides across the hall found them in the Deck One conference room. Khim didn’t bother turning on the lights but immediately flicked a map from her PADD to the central display, with a brief detour to the replicator for a milk tea.

“I’ve already disseminated this image to every ship in the task force regardless of their current location. It’s our updated map of Borg territory following recent events.”

She flicked her wrist again. “This is our previous map. Notice the differences?”

Varro’s gaze fixated on the holographic map, and an initial shock coursed through him as he beheld the vast expanse of territory seemingly conquered by the Borg—more than he had anticipated, by far. The sheer scale of their advance sent a shiver down his spine, contemplating the countless lives inevitably lost within those regions. However, upon closer inspection, a glimmer of hope emerged as he discerned new patches of unclaimed space; evidence that the Borg had been successfully repelled from those areas.

Varro regained his composure and uttered, “Difference? It’s not just a massacre… it’s a metamorphosis.”

“Exactly. Huge swatches of space are now open to us for exploration. The anthropological implications alone are enormous. How did the Borg’s presence affect the long-term development of planets, civilizations, and even the stellar phenomena in these areas? The Delta Exploration Initiative will likely be looking to collaborate with some of our ships on this specific matter. The next time the wormhole opens up, anyway. In the meantime, what’s keeping us busy on this side of the galaxy?”

The map on the conference table shifted as Varro dove into his report. “All Beta Quadrant missions that were previously halted due to the Borg incursions have been reactivated, but we need to divert one of our California-class ships to Overwatch Station with supplies. Also, Olympia Station is once again prepared to act as a waystation for ships exploring past our rimward borders.”

Khim took a sip of her tea and seemed to be staring through the map for a moment. Then a smile crept cautiously across her face. “Well, Captain, it sounds like we finally have room to stretch our legs again.” 

Callen Varro sat hunched over his desk on Deep Space 17, the hum of the station’s systems filling the background as he scanned through a stack of reports. His eyes flicked from one screen to the next, the bright glow of the PADDs casting a soft light on his face. A steaming mug of tea sat to the side, the steam curling upward in lazy tendrils. He grabbed it without thinking, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip.

The taste hit him like a slap—sharp, bitter, and far too floral. He recoiled, his face twisting as he immediately spat the contents back into the mug. The flavour clung to his tongue, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in disgust.

Earl Grey had never been his drink of choice. These little experiments were as close as he got to adventure anymore, ever since he’d taken this desk job. Yet here he was—another failed attempt added to the growing list of small mistakes. Callen muttered under his breath, pushing his chair back with a soft squeak. He didn’t hesitate, walking straight to the replicator and tossing the mug with the lukewarm tea into the waste chute.

“Raktajino, hot,” he said, the words more of a command than a request.

A moment later, a steaming mug of dark, rich coffee appeared in the replicator’s slot, the strong scent of roasted beans filling the air. Callen grinned, his hand closing around the warm handle, the heat sinking into his skin. He returned to his desk, taking a seat with a sigh of satisfaction as he cradled the mug. He flipped through the next PADD in the pile, eyes quickly scanning the report.

But then, his gaze flicked back to the screen, something in the report not sitting quite right. His fingers hovered over the PADD, before he put it down with a soft tap. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall for a moment, lost in thought.

The decision came quickly. His fingers moved to the console, inputting the commands that would open a subspace channel to Deep Space 47. The screen blinked to life, a faint chirp filling the silence as the connection was established. He leaned forward, waiting for the other side to pick up.

The perpetually bedraggled face of Varen Wyll appeared on the screen, thin-rimmed glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose, whilst a mane of black hair arrayed in an awkward halo. Behind him the green glow of the Rolor nebula slipped in through the wide office windows that blessed the station he called home, its dull light casting the artworks on the wall in a ghoulish light.

“Callen, I swear if you’ve pissed off the Kreetassan Ambassador again I refuse to help you practice that convoluted ritual. I warned you that inviting him to a barbeque would not go down well,” Varen laid down the padd in his hand onto the desk with a sigh before easing back into his chair.

“That looks suspiciously like a Raktajino. I thought we were trying new things?” A playful smile extended across his face, cutting a channel through his dark beard.

A smirk crept across Callen’s face as he leaned back in his chair, Varen’s mention of a “ritual” bouncing around in his head. His shoulders shook slightly with suppressed laughter, but he kept his voice steady as he spoke. “Hey, Wyll. What can I say? As an Arizonan, I’ve always had a thing for a good T-bone steak. Simple, satisfying. But for your peace of mind, I’ll let you know this was just me trying something new. Earl Grey, though?”

He gave a small shake of his head. “Not for me. Tomorrow’s another chance to get it right. Until then, I’ll stick to something I know won’t let me down—my Klingon brew.”

He lifted the steaming mug, letting the bold, earthy aroma wash over him as he took a slow sip. Setting the mug back down with a soft clink, he glanced at the monitor, his expression shifting slightly. His smirk gave way to a more intent look as he leaned forward.

“But enough about me,” he said, his voice steady. “How about you, Captain? How are things out in the Thomar Expanse? Settling in alright?”

“Oh you know, Cardassians to the south, Tzenkethi to the north and the Breen are still spying over the garden fence. It wouldn’t be a day ending in ‘y’ in the expanse if we weren’t being accused of crossing into someone’s territory. It almost makes me miss the days when my only worries were wine pairings.”

He tapped a pile of padds that balanced precariously on the edge of his deck, its haphazard assembly worryingly unbalanced. In the background several more piles of sleeping padds were visible in the shadows, forming a small colonnade of status reports that ran along the sideboard.

“Plus, a seemingly neverending number of oddities.”

Varen unclipped the clasp of his uniform allowing it to fall away to the side before wafting himself with a nearby ornate fan, the illustrations of two great furred beasts leaping back and forth in the dim shadows of the office.

“Just to top it off, a faulty environmental cluster has set the base’s ambient temperature three degrees higher than standard and now we can’t turn it down. I feel like a Denevan steamed pudding.” He continued to waft the fan in great slow movements, the two creatures on its face leaping back and forth. “Theo is still out there squeezing through Jefferies tubes looking for the culprit.”

Callen leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Varen’s words carried the same theatrical edge that Callen remembered so well—a voice that could spin chaos into calm, command attention, and turn the tide of a room with a well-placed pause. The memory of Varen standing in the middle of a heated diplomatic standoff, unshaken, words flowing like a perfectly crafted script, flashed through Callen’s mind.

The faint hum of the subspace channel filled the pause between them, and Callen’s smirk deepened, the glint in his eye sharpening as he leaned forward slightly. “Hmm,” he said, letting the word hang, his tone deliberate, almost teasing. “I see. So that explains a lot, actually.”

“Don’t tell me that there’s been a new memo from command about standard operating procedures. I managed to spill my coffee on the way back from Beans’d It and it wrecked my padd. There wasn’t something important in there was there?” Varen’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his counterpart in Task Force Seventeen was known for his wry sense of humour and they’d played plenty of pranks on one another before as fresh-faced young officers. Hopefully this time it wouldn’t end in a diplomatic scuffle over the fish course.

“Well,” Callen said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly on the edge of his desk. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady on the screen. “I was just wondering why Task Force 17’s explorations seem to have stalled.” His tone was casual, but the faint flicker in his eyes hinted at the undercurrent of amusement he worked hard to mask. He let the pause linger, his smirk threatening to surface.

“But,” he continued, his voice taking on a mock air of contemplation, “I suppose our famed Pathfinders—the mighty ‘Gladiators’—must have more critical tasks on their plates. Alternate routes into the Gamma Quadrant?” He shrugged lightly, leaning back further. “Not nearly as important, I’m sure.”

Callen’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression otherwise unreadable, though his eyes glinted with mischief. A beat later, he leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly as if sharing a profound truth.

“I mean, it’s obvious,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Every Task Force CO knows the most important thing is sending their right-hand man—or woman—into the Jeffries tubes to deal with a room temperature problem. That’s real leadership right there.”

His face remained neutral, his tone steady, but the way his fingers tapped against the desk and the slight quirk of his brow hinted at the game he was playing.

Varen’s eyebrows lifted by inches, their bushy form compressing his forehead as his eyes widened.

“I didn’t realise that our intrepid explorers were at such a loss for things to do! I must have missed that memo about all those surveyed systems at the edge of the blue.” Varen tipped his head apologetically, before leaning forward towards the screen, his hunched shoulders causing his glasses to slip down his nose like a wizened storekeeper from a children’s story.

“So it’s the unknown you want? A little taste of the unexpected? To dabble with the unexplained?”

He quickly spun in his seat, his hands hovering over the stacks of padds like a divining card reader. A long humm of indecision slipped from his unseen lips as he passed his palms over the litany of status reports, before sliding a large grey slate from the pile with an overt flourish.

“We might just have the thing for you!” he cried out, offering up the padd towards the screen. “Fresh off the press.”

On Callen’s screen, a sequence of mission reports began scrolling alongside the Bajoran captain’s feed. A litany of new opportunities, all reaching out from the recently reactivated K-74 into the unknown beyond the previously inaccessible Gorn/Klingon border.

“Beware though, it’s not for the faint of heart,” Varen tilted his head in theatrical concern. “Here be dragons…”

Callen leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his eyes narrowing as he studied the screen. His lips twitched, caught between a smirk and a frown, as his brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, letting the moment stretch before finally speaking.

“Are you okay, Wyll the Dragon Tamer?” he asked, his voice carrying a teasing edge.

Varen sighed as he fell back into the worn cushions of his desk chair, a long breath of relief easing from his wide chest. His shoulders fell slack as a flash of weariness danced across his face, the sudden shadowed bags beneath his eyes carrying a green tinge.

“A little charred round the edges from that last encounter with the Syndicate, but we’re getting better with the fire extinguishers. You?”

“I’m okay, honestly,” Callen said, waving a hand at the stack of PADDs on his desk. His lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes flicked toward the pile with a trace of something else—restlessness, maybe. “A little too okay,” he added, letting out a soft chuckle. “I could use more dragons in my life. Definitely fewer PADDs.”

He paused, picking up his mug and staring into the dark liquid for a moment before setting it down again. His fingers tapped absently on the desk as he glanced at the screen. “It’s not bad,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. “But this?” He gestured at his surroundings, the stark walls of the office, the steady hum of the station. “It’s… different.”

A shadow of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s a long way from glitter and glamour. The thrill of the chase. The kind of adventure that kept you up all night because you didn’t want it to end.” His voice trailed off, leaving the words to linger in the space between them. For a moment, he sat still, then gave a small shrug and smiled again, the light in his eyes dimmed but still present.

A thousand lightyears away an old friend caught the minute dimming, a brief symptom of a greater yearning felt across the Federation. With a wry smile, he tilted his head in playful thought.

“Adventure? Well, let me see what my dragon slayers can muster up.”

A female voice cut through the hum of the astrometric office over the comms. “Captain Varro, this is Commander Feringa. Apologies for the interruption, sir, but we’ve just received word from the USS Discovery—they’ve entered the sector and will be ready to transport Commander Brennan over once they’re in range.”

Captain Callen Varro’s eyes flicked up from the star chart, his gaze shifting automatically to the viewport. The star systems sprawled before him, endless and cold, but his mind was already elsewhere. He could almost feel the Discovery dropping out of warp, its sleek form coming into view, its engines cooling as it slowed to a halt. He let the moment hang before replying, his voice steady, yet carrying the hint of a smile. “Thank you, Commander. I’ll head to the transporter bay to welcome her. Varro out.”

The moment the comms clicked off, Varro rose from his chair, his uniform creaking softly as he adjusted his sleeves. He paused for a second, fingers brushing against the edge of his desk, before stepping toward the door. As he walked, his mind wandered back to the reports from Starbase 339. The station’s redesign had been far from smooth. Delays, frustration, and problems with the crew that hadn’t been in the official reports. He knew Brennan would have faced it all with her usual level-headed precision, but he couldn’t help wondering about the details—the ones that never made it into the logs.

The low hum of the station was ever-present as he made his way through the corridors, his boots clicking steadily against the floor. He had missed her. It wasn’t just the command decisions or the reports he needed; it was the way she cut through the noise with that sharp, no-nonsense approach of hers. Without her at his side, things had moved, but the pace had been different—slower, somehow.

He reached the transporter bay, the door sliding open with a soft hiss. The familiar yellowish hue of the back panel and the quiet buzz of machinery greeted him. The transporter chief was already waiting, hands resting casually on the controls.

“Sir,” the chief said, looking up and giving a quick, efficient nod. “The Discovery has just dropped out of warp and is standing by. They’re awaiting your go for transport.”

Varro’s eyes narrowed, his gaze briefly flicking to the transporter pad where Brennan would soon materialize. His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile as he gave a slight nod.

“Perfect,” he said, the word a mix of anticipation and a quiet sense of relief. His eyes sparkled as he turned to the chief. “Energize.”

Cressida Brennan didn’t consider herself paranoid – just painfully aware of her surroundings. That vigilance extended from keeping taps on the men and women that she worked with and was responsible for, to navigating the political landscape of the sector, and finally, making a habit of simply knowing what was on her Commanding Officer’s mind rather than having to ask him.

She had returned to Deep Space 17 in the hopes of escaping the constant tension that was Starbase 339, if only for a brief moment. Brennan certainly had her disagreements with Varro, but those had always been constructive and respectful discussions that resulted in solutions both of them could live with.

But she materialised on the transporter pad and caught sight of him, she could tell that something was up. And she didn’t like it in the slightest.

“Sir.”, she said curtly, in the clipped and precise manner she defaulted to, but dropped the overly formal mannerism just as quickly and offered a smile.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were waiting to spring bad news on me.”

Better to get these things out of the way and focus on pleasantries later.

Varro’s lips curved into a sly smirk as his gaze lingered on her, a silent challenge sparking in his eyes. With a fluid motion, he extended his hand, inviting her to walk beside him.

 “Welcome back to Deep Space 17, Commander,” he said, his voice smooth and unhurried. He pivoted and began to walk, his boots clicking rhythmically against the metallic floor. As he moved, he cast a glance over his shoulder, the grin still tugging at his mouth. “I was actually waiting for you to do the same.”

Brennan gave him a pointed look but fell into step behind him regardless. There was a strange sense of ease in returning, and in slipping into the position of a follower rather than a leader, even if only for a moment. She allowed herself a brief appreciation of the familiar dynamic before speaking. “Let’s just say it’d be quicker to list what is going well,” she admitted after a pause. “The delays are a cause of frustration, and apparently, half the staff has resorted to gambling to keep themselves entertained.”

Varro’s step faltered, his boot hovering just above the deck before he pushed forward, his movements suddenly more focused, more deliberate. A shadow passed across his face, and his jaw clenched, forcing himself to regain control. “The gambles stop now,” he said, his tone sharp, each word carefully measured. His eyes flicked down the corridor, scanning the emptiness as if waiting for something to emerge from the silence. Reaching an empty lounge, he came to a sudden halt, pivoting to face his XO. “Something’s come up,” he said, his voice low, the weight of the statement hanging in the air.

There it is, Brennan thought, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. Her interest in the political intricacies of the fleet was not much more than a pastime when novels and holo-adventures no longer entertained, but the undercurrents of bureaucratic dynamics weren’t lost on her either.
She gave a subtle nod, waiting for him to continue.

“I received word this morning,” Varro said, his voice steady as his eyes met hers. His hand rested casually on the back of a nearby chair, but the subtle shift in his posture hinted at something more. “I’m being transferred. Effective immediately.” He let the words settle, watching for even the smallest flicker in her expression.

He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping once against the chair’s edge before he continued, his tone lighter but deliberate. “Turns out the USS Discovery wasn’t just your ride here.” A faint, almost playful smile tugged at his lips. “They’re also my escort.” He paused for effect, letting the weight of his next words carry on their own. “To Fourth Fleet Command. I’ll be serving as Director of Operations.”

The smile deepened as he stood there, silent now, his eyes scanning her face for any reaction, the hum of the room amplifying the unspoken tension between them.

Brennan responded with what anyone would deem perfectly professional – a “Congratulations, sir”, and a polite smile that hovered just shy of sincerity.
Internally, it felt as though her brain had activated its own emergency protocol, including red-alert klaxon and flashing lights. Critical systems compromised. Brace for impact.
“Who will be replacing you?”, she asked eventually.

“Admiral Katelyn Jenson is on her way,” he said, his voice even as he folded his arms. His gaze drifted toward the viewport, where the faint glow of distant stars punctuated the dark expanse. “She’ll be stepping in to handle Task Force 17 for now.” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly before he continued, the words carrying a deliberate weight. “At least until the new CO is ready.” His tone remained calm, but the way his fingers tapped once against his arm hinted at the significance of the change.

“I see.”, Brennan said, mostly for the lack of anything better to say. Jenson was considered capable and competent, and someone whose wealth of experience would certainly serve Task Force 17 well, if it wasn’t for that one, unforgivable flaw of her not being Varro.

“I see… that’s all you’re going to say?” Varro’s voice cut through the silence, his words sharp but laced with amusement. He stood rigid, his gaze fixed on her with a steady intensity, yet his eyes gleamed, betraying the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He held back a laugh, his jaw tightening just enough to conceal the mirth bubbling beneath the surface.

“I am trying to think of something that doesn’t sound horribly selfish and asks you to turn down the position and remain here.”, she admitted with a small smile. “I  am pleased to see that your efforts here have been acknowledged. It’s a well-deserved promotion. You look happy. That… matters.”

“Thank you, Cressida, I truly am happy about it,” Varro said, his voice unexpectedly softer than usual, the edge in it fading as he spoke. For a brief moment, his gaze softened, and the lines around his eyes seemed to relax. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the surface of the chair as if searching for something to steady himself.

“It’s just… I feel like my work here isn’t quite finished,” he continued, his eyes drifting momentarily to the floor. “But maybe that’s just anxiety playing tricks on me,” he added, a faint laugh escaping him, though it lacked true warmth—there was a bitter edge to it, as if the words were laced with an uncomfortable truth.

With a quick inhale, he straightened, the mask slipping back into place. The slight shift in his posture was enough to signal a return to his familiar demeanor, the tension in his shoulders easing as his lips curved into a controlled smile.

“And I must say, working with you has been a true delight,” he said smoothly, his voice regaining its usual calm. His eyes met hers, the words coming out with a polite warmth, though something in the quiet intensity of his gaze lingered. “I do hope our paths cross again in the future.”

“I have enjoyed working with you. And… it’s a small galaxy.”, she nodded, lacking Varro’s skill of seamlessly moving between professionalism and communicating on a more personal level. She usually defaulted to the more comfortable territory of cynicism.

Varro’s smile curved slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting with an ease that hinted at quiet amusement. “It sure is, Commander,” he said, his tone calm but carrying a faint lilt that softened the formality of his words. His eyes held hers briefly, a flicker of something unspoken glinting before he shifted his gaze.

Brennan offered a very careful, very controlled smile. “You know full well that I came here to support you, and I will admit that heading back to Colludia for an extended vacation seems very tempting right now. It’s an odd mixture of considering my job done, while knowing it is not.”

She still had plans that were pending completion, and goals she wanted to meet. She just hadn’t expected the surrounding circumstances to change so drastically.

Varro’s smile faded, his jaw tightening slightly as he straightened. His gaze shifted, momentarily distant, as if searching for the right words in the space between them. “I… I know, Commander,” he said, the hesitation in his voice underscoring the weight of his thoughts. He glanced down briefly, then met her eyes again, his tone quieter now. “But sometimes, the world has a way of moving beyond our understanding.” His hand made a small, fluid motion, like a stream winding its course. “All we can do is follow the current and hope it takes us where we’re meant to go.”

“Of course.”, she nodded, giving an almost dismissive shrug when not a single part of this conversation was what she would consider dismissible. “I am not in the habit of disappointing.”

“Good. Hold on to that attitude—it’ll save you a lot of pain,” Varro said, his voice firm but carrying a quiet, almost reflective tone. He let out a soft sigh, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as if releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. The silence stretched between them, the sound of distant footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor, a stark contrast to the stillness in the room.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again, his words slower, more measured. “Well, I suppose this is goodbye.” His gaze drifted for a brief second, as if weighing the significance of the moment, before returning to her. The words felt heavier now, like something unsaid hung in the air. “For now,” he added, his voice softening.

“For now.”, Brennan nodded. “Safe travels, Callen.”

Varro’s smirk lingered as he tapped his combadge.

“Varro to Discovery, one to beam up.”

A soft whirring filled the air as a shimmer of light enveloped him, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone, leaving only the faint hum of the transporter behind.

The observation lounge was devoid of visitors at this time of day, which was precisely why Cressida Brennan had sought it out. Her gaze drifted to the steaming cup of tarblack she cradled in her hands before flicking back up to the vast cosmos stretching before her. The stars appeared dimmed as they flickered in the distance as if struggling to lend their light – tired after millennia of guiding those who looked up to them.

A shame, but a natural cycle nonetheless.

Cressida found her mind involuntarily wandering to the stars above Colludia, her home, and how much she missed them. The longing came in waves, always had, but at this time of year – just after the festive weeks leading up to the last day of the calendar – it was stronger than usual. It marked the completion of another cycle. Her brother’s letters shifted from optimistic invitations to pleas to come home just this once, and then, inevitably, to a resigned account of celebrations that had once again taken place without her.

Sometimes, she wondered if she was being selfish for not visiting, or if she simply saw the galaxy with different eyes. Eyes that looked past the cold indifference of the endless void and found beauty in the far-away nebulae swirling like cosmic storms, in a comet’s luminous trails of ice and dust, and the occasional flare of an engine igniting in the distance.

Cressida did not often seek direction from others. She was a private person, rarely burdening anyone with personal conundrums, let alone basing her decisions on the natural phenomena that some civilizations regarded as divine guidance. But today, she found she wouldn’t mind a sign.

She was still surprised to receive one when the station’s soft hum mingled with the approach of calm, measured footsteps, and the door to the observation deck slid open with a gentle hiss.

Callen Varro stepped through the doorway, his boots hitting the deck with the same easy confidence that had never quite left him. Behind him, Admiral Katelyn Jenson followed, her presence measured yet unmistakable—an aura of command that needed no announcement.

The soft hum of the station resonated through Callen’s chest, familiar as a heartbeat. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, wrapping around him like an old memory—warm, grounding, unchanged. The overhead lights cast their sterile glow across the room, illuminating the well-worn paths he had once walked daily. He hadn’t been gone long, but standing here now, it felt as though he had never left.

His gaze swept across the room, landing on Cressida’s composed figure near the viewport. She was exactly as he left her only mere weeks ago—uniform crisp, posture straight, eyes sharp as ever. She barely spared him a glance, her focus remaining on the stars ahead, her expression unreadable. No flicker of surprise, no acknowledgement of his presence beyond the briefest shift of her shoulders. If his return meant anything to her, she wasn’t about to show it.

Callen’s smirk deepened. Typical.

Leaning against the nearest cabinet, he crossed his arms over his chest and let his voice cut through the quiet.

“Commander Brennan,” he drawled, his tone laced with familiar mischief. “Miss me?”

“I barely noticed your absence, Captain.”, Cressida replied, straight-faced and in that trademark monotonous tone that put every Vulcan to shame.

It was a comfortable mask to wear. One that allowed naive hopes and impulses – such as him returning here permanently because the Director’s office wasn’t all he had expected it to be – to remain beneath the surface.

Her eyes slid over to Jenson, to whom she had taken a liking to, but barely spared her more than a polite nod.

“Now, now, I don’t want to have to put both on a time-out,” Jenson said, smirking at them both. Since arriving on Deep Space Seventeen, Jenson had found herself enjoying the relationship she had developed with Brennan. A lot of Brennan reminded Jenson of herself back when she had started on the command track. Confident, calm, and feisty.

Jenson gestured for Varro to take a seat. Her former student’s unexpected arrival was a welcome but still unexpected. “What brings you back out to the Typhon Frontier, Callen?” She asked. Jenson, who had been busy only an hour ago discussing the latest update with DEI director Admiral Vallis, had been signalled by her aid that Captain Varro had arrived on the station and needed to meet with her and Brennan immediately.

Callen sank into the chair with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out in front of him as he glanced around the room. The familiar sterility of it all, the cold efficiency of Starbase Bravo, seemed to make the air feel heavier. He let out a low chuckle, his gaze shifting back to Cressida and Katelyn. “Honestly, Starbase Bravo starts to feel pretty dull after a while,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Especially when you’re used to living life on the edge.”

“The edge would gladly welcome you back.”, Cressida noted and took a seat.

He paused, letting the humor fade from his face. His eyes flickered over the report on his PADD before him, the quiet tension in the air now mirrored in his posture. He leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping on the edge of the table as if considering how best to say what came next. “But it’s not just that,” he said, his tone shifting, sharper. “I’ve gone through everything. Every report.” His gaze locked with theirs, no longer playful, the weight of his next words settling between them. “We’ve made a decision,” he continued, letting the silence hang before he let out a slow breath. “And I thought it was only right to tell you both in person.”

“Get to it, captain; not all of us have many decades left,” Jenson said, picking up a mug of coffee she had replicated less than two minutes ago. “Let me guess, Luke is missing me?”

“Let me start by saying, your hunch about Fleet Admiral Duncan was right on the money, Admiral,” Callen said, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. His eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief as he leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. “He’s not letting you off that easily.”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, the smirk widening just a fraction. “He’s requested your transfer to Fourth Fleet Command, effective immediately. And, from what I hear, he’s got some ‘special’ assignments waiting for you.” The last word lingered in the space between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“Why am I not surprised,” Jenson said, rolling her eyes. “Let me guess, something has come up, and he needs me to put out some fire somewhere else now?”

“Yes, coincidentally, you’ll be stationed in his department,” he said, nodding slowly. The corner of his mouth twitched, a flicker of something almost like amusement crossing his face as he watched their reactions. His eyes held a knowing glint, as if the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him.

“So if I’m heading back to Starbase Bravo, what’s happening here for Task Force Seventeen?” Jenson enquired, wrapping her fingers tighter around her mug.

“I would very much like to know the same.” Cressida nodded, not at all happy with the news they were receiving. She could imagine that Jenson’s experience made her a very sought-after individual, but she didn’t appreciate the lack of stable leadership that came with yet another transfer.

“You, Cressida,” Callen said, his face remaining unreadable, the words slipping out with a quiet gravity.

“Me?” Brennan asked. “Could you be any more cryptic?”

A statement mostly meant to buy her some time. She could guess where this was going, and she had yet to figure out whether she was happy with it or not.

Callen’s eyes smiled at the reaction but he kept his face straight as he said “You will lead the Fourth Fleet’s deep space exploration efforts as Task Force 17’s Commanding officer effective immediately, and I can’t think of anyone more suited to do so.”

Silence stretched between them, barely interrupted by Brennan shifting in her chair. She had known that this would happen eventually, but she had also only just gotten used to Jenson. And despite her years in Starfleet and knowing that this ever-changing galaxy needed her to remain flexible, she wasn’t exactly keen on change.

“I…”, she started, then paused to collect her thoughts. “I had a whole speech prepared, Callen.”, she eventually said with mock-disapproval.

“Have you now?” Callen said, eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. A smirk ghosted at the corner of his lips—he knew her too well to be truly caught off guard.

“I was going to complain about yet another change in leadership, and having to welcome yet another individual as new Commanding Officer. This takes the wind out of my sails a little bit, doesn’t it?”, she offered a light shrug, followed by a smile. “But – although it has been noted that this was an order, not an offer – I gladly accept.”

“Had other plans, Commander?” Callen asked, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly, a subtle gleam of amusement flickering beneath his composed exterior.

Brennan sipped from her now lukewarm cup of coffee. “I didn’t have plans as such, no. I was pondering a visit to Colludia. We both know I never actually go.”

“We do,” Callen said, dipping his head in a slow, deliberate nod. His gaze held steady, the certainty in his eyes speaking louder than the words themselves.

“Well, let me be the first one to congratulate the newest Task Force Commanding Officer,” Jenson said as she stood and shook Brennan’s hand. “An excellent choice for someone to lead our deep space exploration arm. Well done.”

“Thank you. I appreciate all you have taught me in the past weeks.”, Brennan said, and she meant it. “And best of luck with… whatever it is that qualifies as special assignment.”

“I suppose I best go and start packing my things,” Jenson remarked after finishing her mug of coffee. “I suppose Callen, you and I are sharing a trip back to Bravo, yes?”

“Correct, Admiral” Callen said, dipping his head in a measured nod. “I’m heading straight back with you.”

“Then we’ll have plenty to catch up on,” Jenson said with a smirk, “and are you still a keen velocity player?”

Callen’s lips curved into a subtle smile. “I still dabble,” he said, his tone light, yet curious. He tilted his head slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“Good, because I need to get some training in before I take on the old fleet admiral,” Jenson said, tapping the back of Varro’s shoulder as she got up to make her way out of the office. “I’m not letting him win another round, even at my age.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from Callen’s chest as he leaned back slightly. “Just so you know, I’m not going to let you win,” he said, his eyes gleaming with challenge. He let the words settle for a beat before his smirk deepened.

“Even at your age.”

“Is there no respect for your elders, Captain?” Jenson challenged over the shoulder as she walked out of the room, and the doors closed behind her.

Callen leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll see you in a jiffy, Admiral,” he said, his tone casual as she stepped away. His gaze followed her, but he made no move to answer her question, letting it hang in the air.

Cressida, who had watched Jenson leave and allowed herself a moment to enjoy the banter between Callen and his former mentor, turned to Varro.

“I wasn’t going to leave. Not when we’ve still not heard anything from the Givens. I’ve sent the Callisto to check up on them. I’m not worried as such, but worried enough to have any other available ship on standby, and ready at a moment’s notice should the need arise.”

“See?” Callen said, his voice smooth, “You’re practically doing the job already.” He stretched lazily, fingers drumming against the table in an easy rhythm before leaning back, completely at ease. His eyes flicked over her, assessing, amused.

“I’ll catch the highlights in the quarterly reports,” he added, the words rolling off his tongue like an afterthought. A beat passed, then his smirk deepened. “Other than that… well, that burden’s all yours now.”

“Fantastic.”, sighed and leaned back in her chair, trying to keep focussed on the here and now rather than the possibilities and challenges of her new position. It wasn’t working in the slightest, and eventually, she gave up.

“I have work to do.”, she said, and rose from her chair. “But I do wish you a safe journey. And next time you decide to visit – please warn me.”

Callen pushed himself up from the chair, rolling his shoulders as a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. He moved toward the door with the same effortless stride he always had, glancing back just before stepping through. A glint of mischief flickered in his eyes as he lifted a hand in a loose, almost lazy salute, fingers flicking outward.

“I will, Chief!” he called, his voice laced with easy confidence. The words hung in the air for a beat before he disappeared through the doorway, leaving only the echo of his laughter behind.