Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Chapter Text

“Gēge!” Chester grins broadly as it makes the newly-Captain Sotek stop dead and turn with an eyebrow already in his hairline. She hurries to catch up with him. “Congratulations, Captain.”

“That would be the more traditional greeting, Captain,” he says. “I congratulate you on your promotion as well.”

“Pfft. Everyone’s saying that to you,” she says. “Only two people here are going to call you older brother . Speaking of, where’s Rilas?” 

“Gēge!” An arm with a command-red band around the wrist waves somewhere up ahead, barely visible over the crowd. Captain Rilas Jeln is very short. She is also loud; heads turn all down the Promenade, universal translators probably rendering her greeting in a way that makes her sound like a lost kid. This does not square with the tiny blond Trill in a captain’s uniform, bouncing a little on her toes. A sense of relief settles over Chester as the three of them draw together. They’ve been fast friends since the Academy. Back together, everything seems better. Like they can still take on the world, even after everything.

Sotek, as always, has resigned himself to the use of the nickname. Chester called him older brother once, in the Academy, by accident–largely because he’s always had a tendency to be a mother hen. Then she covered it up by doing it on purpose. And then Jeln caught on and started using it. 

Sotek is, in fact, quite a lot older than either of them, and well aware of the respect and affection it denotes, so he hasn’t protested too much. 

Sotek doesn’t do hugs–Vulcan–but Jeln definitely does. Chester picks her up off her feet while she’s at it. Jeln squawks a protest, as is traditional, and then hugs fiercely back. “It is so good to hug you again,” she says into Chester’s ear. “You still had all those activity restrictions last time I saw you.”

“You’re one to talk,” says Chester, putting her back on her feet. Sotek is standing a little away from them, trying to look like he’s never met them before in his life. “Wasn’t like you were in the bloom of health then, either. So, what’s the plan? Quark’s?”

“There are very few other choices on the station for inebriating beverages,” says Sotek. “As seems to be your priority, at times like this.”

“I have a picture of you asleep and wearing a lampshade, mister, and don’t you forget it,” says Jeln. “Now, the night is young, and we’re not, so let’s go do a sensible amount of partying before everyone expects us to come back and be responsible adults far too early in the morning.”

“How disgustingly reasonable of you,” says Chester, and the three of them head toward Quark’s.

“Have you met any of your crew yet, Diane?”

“Commander J’etris, of course,” says Chester. J’etris, one of the small but growing number of Klingons in Starfleet, was in Security on the Bedivere when it went down; she and Chester were the two most senior surviving officers of the incident. Chester requested her specifically as first officer; there’s no one she’d rather have at her back. “We did the initial tour together. And I met my new chief medical officer–apparently he was on the medical team that glued me back together after Cardassia.” Dr. Boz Tirell had stared at her several moments in the empty sickbay, clicked his fingers and gone, “Ah. Yes, the complex orbital fracture with complete globular rupture.” It’s nice to be recognized, but she can’t say that was flattering. “He seems to mostly remember my eyesocket. I guess there’s worse things. And maybe the chief engineer.”

“Maybe?” asks Sotek, an eyebrow rising.

“There were a couple of feet sticking out of a Jeffries tube in the industrial replicator bay,” says Chester. Metal claws, specifically–Lieutenant Commander Hawthorne’s file suggests he’s tinkered extensively with his prosthetics, and has a series of them adapted for specific tasks, so it’s very likely they were his. “I asked if any help was needed, and was told to fuck off if I didn’t have any safety gear. I did not in fact have any safety gear, so off I fucked.”

“I should hope not, in the industrial replicator bay,” deadpans Sotek, and then looks terribly pleased with himself when Chester gives him an appalled look and Jeln snorts with laughter. 

“The rest of the senior officers are arriving in the morning,” Chester adds. “I’m scheduling a first staff meeting that afternoon.”

“Should be an interesting meeting for your chief engineer, at least,” says Jeln. 

“As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen,” says Chester. “We’ve got plenty of overenthusiastic young ensigns swarming around, it’s an easy mistake.”

“I still bet his face is going to be a picture ,” says Jeln. 

They’re almost to Quark’s when Sotek’s commbadge chirps. He steps aside to answer it, and when he returns, it’s with an air of faint concern. Jeln and Chester alert immediately–something’s happened. “Admiral Ross wants to see us,” he says. “Immediately. There is a last-minute adjustment to the mission parameters.”

Chester and Jeln share a jaded look influenced by a lot of last minute adjustments to mission parameters. “That’s not good,” says Chester. “Let’s go.”

– –

“Come in,” says Admiral Ross. He’s not happy, and he’s not alone. There are a lot of Romulans in the room. One is a senior officer–Chester’s not quite conversant enough with their uniforms to tell exactly what she is, but it’s horribly senior, by the way Sotek goes tense next to her, moving deeper into Vulcan formality like a hermit crab into its shell. She straightens her shoulders instinctively. There’s a second officer hanging around the head of the wardroom table, and even she knows enough to identify that uniform as Tal Shiar–just like the cluster of other Romulans lined up tense and alert at the other end of the table. “Admiral Toreth, Major Mendak–” yep, Sotek was right, they’re both horribly senior, “may I present Captain Sotek, of the USS Armistice, Captain Rilas Jeln of the Negotiator, and Captain Diane Chester of the Interpreter. ”

“Three neophyte captains,” says Admiral Toreth, her mouth twisting in bitter amusement. “Hardly what I would choose to lead an ‘invasion’ of the Gamma Quadrant.” She looks sidelong at the Major next to her; his expression is simply dismissive. 

No wonder Admiral Ross looks like he has a headache. “As we’ve previously stated, the Federation has no designs on former holdings of the Dominion, or the Gamma Quadrant. This mission is for the purposes of aid and exploration only.”

Chester steals a glance at the Tal Shiar agents on the other side of the table. There are three of them. They are watching the captains carefully, little attention on the more senior argument at the end of the table. Like they already know the outcome. Next to her, Jeln takes a breath, like she’s going to speak; Chester picks up a foot and very gently and casually steps on Jeln’s before she can say anything. Jeln closes her mouth. 

Three officers. Three of them. No, Chester does not like where this is going. 

“Under those circumstances, you should have no objection to our proposal,” says Admiral Toreth. She looks awfully pleased with herself. “Starfleet Command has made it abundantly clear that the decision rests with you.”

“It does,” says Admiral Ross, “And I have come to a determination.” To the assembled captains, he says, “The Romulan Empire is concerned your mission is the first phase of the Federation expanding into the Gamma Quadrant. To that end, they’ve requested this become a joint venture; that each of you will host a liaison officer for the duration of your activities in the Gamma Quadrant.”

“A spy,” says Sotek, dammit, Chester chose the wrong foot to step on. “To ensure we do not undertake any imperialist activities, or to ensure the Romulan Empire is not left out if we do launch a full-scale invasion?”

Admiral Toreth laughs, delighted. Major Mendak looks like he’s bitten into something sour. 

“You,” Toreth says, “Vulcan. I like your directness. But you were assigned to Romulus during the war, were you not?”

Sotek inclines his head. “I did. Enough so to determine that anti-imperialist sentiments are very unlikely to be a driving force for your concerns, Admiral.” 

“We both want a prosperous Alpha Quadrant,” she says, and her gaze shifts to Chester. Chester meets it steadily and discreetly takes her foot back off Jeln’s. “Captain Chester. Your actions in the Battle of Cardassia saved my sister’s daughter, though I understand your ship was badly damaged at the time. I thank you.”

For all the gratitude implied by the words, the tone is sharp and dismissive, Admiral Toreth’s gaze equally unimpressed. Chester wonders why, suspects it’s age; human lifespans seem short to many species, and she’s young even for that. 

“And you–” the expression on Toreth’s face shifts back to a vicious sort of amusement, “Captain Jeln. I thought you’d be interested to learn that our esteemed colleagues in the Tal Shiar have managed to gather very little information about you, save that you were in Intelligence during the war. Perhaps that speaks to your accomplishments.”

“You are very kind, Admiral.”

“I only said perhaps ,” says Toreth, and Jeln looks up at her and smiles. 

It is the exact expression that heralded three of the most memorable barfights of Chester’s career, and she goes tense, hoping Jeln isn’t going to ignite the next war right here by saying something, doing something to a Romulan Admiral who’s being an asshole, but Jeln simply says, “I understand entirely.”

Toreth doesn’t know what to do with that. Chester doesn’t either. It is, however, very worrying. And it makes Toreth move on. 

Chester finds herself glancing back at the Tal Shiar agents. One of them is watching her intently, with no regard for politeness or trying to seem non-threatening. He’s the biggest of the three by far; at least another six inches taller than Chester herself, and his shoulders look like they’re actually enough to fill out the square uniform coat. Dark hair, dark eyes, an expression of disdain–he looks almost like a joke, so completely does he fit the stereotype of a Romulan goon. 

The Starfleet contingent here might have been surprised by the whole thing, but somehow Chester suspects the Tal Shiar already know their assignments. Neither of the other two–a tiny young woman and a completely average, unremarkable man with an expression of bland disinterest–are paying attention to her. 

This is probably her liaison officer, then. She meets his gaze steadily, as Ross and Toreth wrangle over the details, and lifts her eyebrows. 

He just stares steadily back, unfazed. 

She takes a step forward, and then another. The brass don’t notice; there’s some kind of spirited argument going on about clearances and security. They’re very unlikely to listen to the youngest captain in the room. “So,” she says quietly, coming to a halt directly in front of him, “I’d gather you already know your assignment. Perhaps introductions are in order?”

He stares down an obviously broken and badly reset nose at her. “Subcommander Tanek,” he says at last. “Perhaps it is heartening that you seem capable of the bare minimum of deductive reasoning to be considered competent.”

“And I find it heartening that you’re capable of a modicum of diplomacy, Subcommander.” She quirks a smile, inviting him to share in the amusement of insulting one another; unsurprisingly, he does not respond. He only looks more deeply offended. “I expect we are both similarly pleased about the circumstances.”

They both look up to the head of the room, where Ross has raised a hand to quiet the debate. “ That is a matter for Starfleet Security,” he’s saying. “In the meantime, the Interpreter has an urgent assignment that cannot wait; we’ll give your officer courtesy access for the time being, until Command makes a decision.”

The urgent assignment, too, is an unwelcome surprise. Chester glances down to hide her reaction; the Subcommander’s gaze on her makes her feel embarrassingly transparent. 

She is going to have to get used to that. And she’d better do it fast. He looks like the sort to take this assignment very seriously, and she’s probably going to spend the entirety of the upcoming mission turfing him out of sensitive areas and carefully not reacting to him trying to read over her shoulder. If she’s lucky. He’s probably sneakier than he looks. “Sir, if I may?” she says. “If we’re departing on an urgent assignment, I’ll need to return to the Interpreter . We’re still undergoing system scans and maintenance, and crew onboarding won’t be complete until tomorrow morning.”

Jeln makes a face at her. Oh, you’re just going to leave us in the diplomatic argument, are you? 

Chester’s expression is carefully smooth, which is probably more enraging than any other response might be. The fact she’s definitely missing their first captains night out will mollify Jeln at least. Sotek hasn’t a vindictive bone in his body. 

For a moment she wonders if Admiral Ross will keep her here, anyway, but he nods and hands her a padd. “The sooner you can leave, the better. The initial contact indicated it was urgent.”

“Understood, sir. We’ll depart as soon as we have our full complement aboard.”

“Very good.” Despite the diplomatic mess and the lines of fatigue around his eyes, Admiral Ross gives her a small genuine smile. “And good luck, Captain Chester.” There’s a private pride in that, a congratulations. 

Chester almost didn’t return to Starfleet, after the Bedivere , and Ross knows it. He’s the one who talked her into staying.

She grins back, and it feels almost like it did before the end of the war, all excitement and optimism, shakes the offered hand, inclines her head in the equivalent gesture to the Romulans, and starts for the door. 

“Subcommander,” Admiral Toreth says, and flicks her eyes at Tanek; Tanek immediately leaves the group of his fellows and joins her, a step behind her left shoulder. It’s like having a personal guard–or jailor. The nape of Chester’s neck prickles. She does not like having someone there, Starfleet Recovery Services be damned. 

Telling him that standing there is a good way to get his nose broken again will have to wait until they’re not in front of anyone important. She starts down the corridor to the transporters. 

Tanek says nothing. Just follows, watching her with a silent, unsettling evaluation. Their route takes them back across the Promenade, with its windows. Chester hesitates by one without quite meaning to; her ship is in view. “There she is,” she says. “The Interpreter. ”

From here, she looks about the same size as a Galaxy -class starship. That’s an illusion; she’s holding an orbit significantly further out, and is in fact about 60% larger. Her lines are closer to those of the old Constitution -class (a bit of nostalgia on the part of the designers, perhaps), though the saucer is tucked in a little closer to the primary hull, and her nacelles are pulled in as well to present a smaller target profile. There are four of those; the Armistice- class has dual warp cores. Interpreter is able to travel at high warp for more than twice as long as other ships in her size-class, the warp cores splitting the strain or trading off, depending on circumstance; the systems are entirely separate and redundant, so if one is knocked out, theoretically, the other will take over. Shields are designed the same way. 

She’s got four times the weapons capacity of a Galaxy- class, a bigger sickbay than anything outside a dedicated hospital ship or a space station, heavy ablative armor. She was designed to be a heavy-hitter, the front of a line of battle. But all those redundancies and duplicate systems and space mean she’s ideal for peaceful purposes, too; troop bays are easily converted into refugee housing, and her resources and the long legs of her dual warp cores make long, distant missions possible that other ship classes can’t handle. 

“You cannot mean,” says Tanek abruptly, “to expect me to believe that that is anything but a warship. Even if I had not seen its specifications–what little Starfleet saw fit to make available to your allies –I would not believe that was a vessel meant for peaceful exploration. I am not blind.”

Well, at least he’s making conversation. “The Armistice- class was built to be warships, yes,” she says. “It doesn’t mean they have to remain warships.”

He huffs, like an affronted cat. “Why would you not use something so evidently purpose-built for a lesser aim?”

“Because it’s not a lesser aim,” she says, and starts walking again. 

“I’ve seen your service record, and I doubt you really believe that, Captain.”

The anger is sharp and sudden, surprising her. She keeps walking, keeping her face turned away from him, and wonders if their files on her are thorough enough that he knows that’s a sore spot, or if he just got lucky. She made a very good soldier, during the war. She does still fear that she’s never going to be anything else. That Starfleet will never intend to use her as anything else. 

But that’s his training. Find a soft spot and stick a knife in it. And whatever Starfleet’s intentions, they won’t be affected one way or another by Tanek’s assumptions. 

And if he’s going to be the kind of prick he seems to be setting up to become, she can’t let his opinions matter to her. 

“You have been a remarkably good soldier, Captain,” he says. “A reasonable choice to head such a mission as this appears to be, rather than what your command is insisting it involves.”

“They were none too clear on what your part of it would entail,” she says.

“I am primarily an observer,” he says, sounding dreadfully smug. 

“Primarily?” she says. “Here to stop anything you don’t approve of, perhaps?”

“Nothing so dramatic, Captain,” he says. 

“Hm,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Much experience with Federation ships, Subcommander? Spend any of the war aboard one of ours?”

There is suddenly a perceptible chill. When she turns, it’s to find him looking at her with his face gone absolutely immovable and his eyes hard, as if he thinks she’s making fun of him. 

“No,” he says after a long pause. “I have not.”

“I see,” she says, frowning at him a little. “That’s not exactly uncommon, though; our peoples are relatively recent friends.”

As cautious as the statement is, and even though she wonders if she should have asked if she had given offense, he seems to relax at it. “Of course,” he says. 

“I am of course unfamiliar with your record,” she adds. “Is that likely to be rectified, or will I simply have to rely on what you tell me?”

Another pause, as he considers her–like he’s reading a half-apology in the words. And then he frowns again, clearly dismissing it, and any consideration is wiped away behind the default expression of an aloof, pissed off Romulan. He’s good at that one. “You will be provided with the necessary information,” he says. 

“Understood,” she says, deciding not to continue to try to make conversation. 

They’re still both silent when they reach the transporter pad. “Interpreter,” says Chester, and carefully doesn’t look at Tanek as they beam over.

Commander J’etris is waiting in the transporter room when they arrive. She’s had some warning of some sort; she’s neatly put together even though the evening is getting late; a Klingon woman of a height with Chester, her pale brown hair braided tightly back and an expression of professional concern on her face. She sees Tanek and her face freezes several degrees further into formality. “Captain,” she says, her eyes flicking to Tanek a second, then a third time. She clears her throat, stepping out from behind the console. Another glance at Tanek–who at least seems pleased by this–and she approaches Chester, something tight and unhappy around her eyes. “I wasn’t aware we were taking on passengers.”

“Commander J’etris, this is Subcommander Tanek. Commander, I just had a meeting with the Admiral. Apparently the Romulans are nervous about our designs on the Gamma Quadrant. Subcommander Tanek here is to keep an eye on our activities, make sure we aren’t stealing the silverware.”

The idea of Starfleet getting imperialist ideas makes J’etris’s eyebrows go up and the corners of her mouth twitch. Tanek, no doubt under the impression she’s laughing at him and disliking it greatly, goes even stiffer. “I see. Welcome aboard, Subcommander.”

“Commander,” he says, and inclines his head in grudging politeness. 

“And the good news just keeps coming,” says Chester to J’etris. “Can you get the good Subcommander settled in? We just received orders–priority message from the Chiron Gamma system. They say they want to discuss membership, but if you review the actual message, it sounds like a distress call. We’re the only Armistice- class ship ready to go in the next day, so we’ve got the assignment. Command wants us underway as soon as crew rotation is complete.”

J’etris’s raised eyebrows speak volumes about exactly what she thinks of that. “Is Command aware we’re still dealing with the issues that came up on the flight out?”

“Yep. Apparently we just had the least of them. So, I will be going down to Engineering to give Lt. Commander Hawthorne and his people the bad news in person.” Chester makes a face. “It’s the very least I can do.”

“Understood, Captain,” says J’etris. “Any other surprises you’d like to share before you go?”

Chester tilts her head, wry. “None that spring to mind. Thanks, Number One.” She straightens her tunic, nods at Tanek. “Subcommander. I apologize for the short notice, but I am sure you understand the exigencies of the service. Commander J’etris will see you to your quarters.”

She strides off down the hall, headed for the turbolift, and lets her shoulders slump a little with relief once she’s out of sight. Not that that’s going to last long. 

She’s read her Chief Engineer’s records, and it doesn’t take much guessing to know that he is not going to be pleased with this development.

Either of these developments.