Chapter Text
Laying Down the Law
Chandra stares at the two of them as they stand at attention in front of her in her ready room. Kaylin can see that even through her anger, which has mostly taken the form of synonyms for the word ‘knuckleheads,’ there is something lighter about Chandra.
It can’t be—please gods, don’t let it be—the entertainment she might’ve gotten from Grasp.
“So what the hell do you have to say for yourself?” Chandra asks. She holds up her hand, then looks at Shiv. “Lieutenant, as much as it pains for me to say this, but Starfleet Command has spoken, and I must obey. I can’t really confine a newly promoted full lieutenant to quarters, or have her cleaning my ship’s heads with a toothbrush.”
Kaylin grins at Siobhan’s poleaxed expression. Chandra holds out her hand to shake Siobhan’s.
When her hand returns, Siobhan is holding the fully-joined bars for the service dress uniform’s flap and sleeve, as well as two full pips for the rank bar of her smaller delta when needed. She lifts her hands to Siobhan’s cheek, holding it there for a moment.
Kaylin sees her gray eyes glistening as she reaches down and pulls Siobhan into a tight embrace. The embrace of those who’d fought for their crew’s survival on Vostus. When they pull back, Chandra reaches down and touches Shiv’s lips with hers.
That was for a prelanka-gere in Chandra’s culture. A bond of the heart.
“I’ve got a job for you, Shiv and your scrounging skills. I’ve got some supplies coming in, but I’m going to need more. See the Engineer for a list.”
Siobhan looks at Kaylin, who breaks her attention to blow her a kiss.
Chandra turns to Kaylin when the door closes. Kaylin braces herself for the onslaught.
Instead, Kaylin moves over to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle and two glasses. She sees that it is a brandy from her family lands on Delta. She pours out a precious couple of splashes in each glass.
She hands it to Kaylin, who sips the green liquid. This version of Deltan brandy is only brought out on the rarest of occasions, ranks only under the purple version, distilled by the ruling family, at the preceptoral, or the light rose-color of the procuratorial levels, rather than the curatorial level that Chandra’s estranged family is a part of.
She puts her glass down and returns to attention. “Captain, I—
Chandra holds up her left hand. “You were following my orders,” she says. “To solve the problem of the Lancers. You were doing that.” She reaches out and takes Kaylin’s hands in hers. “I just wished you’d given me a bit of a heads up that you were reaching out to a Free Commando and Trade vessel.”
“So how did you know?”
“Decker. She didn’t rat you out. At least not until you wouldn’t respond to comms. Then she told me. I’m glad she showed good judgement. She’ll be a good officer.”
“She will,” Kaylin agrees. “And the job you got for Shiv?”
Chandra takes a sip of her drink, then lifts the bottle to pour more. She thinks better of it apparently. Not only is it rare and exclusive, but very potent. Even for Deltans. “I was working on our short-handedness as well. From another angle, to complement what you came up with.”
Kaylin feels her anger spike, but she suppresses it instantly. The good of the service. Realization hits her. “The security ship. You’re going to refit her as a Lancer.”
Chandra grins. “Got it in one, babe.” Kaylin can detect the pride in her voice. “Which will give you four ships in your lead squadron, without the Comstock and the jarheads. Giving you an operational squadron rather than an HQ squadron.”
“So I guess the redshirts will come here.” Kaylin grins. “Including their commander.”
Chandra closes her eyes. “Yes, the All-Link help me. We’ll also farm some out to to the other eight ships as well. Which brings us to a choice. You can take the Reed, and be the squadron leader, since she has the Cohort system, or you can take the Starlight. We’ll have to decide if we want them to have a Cohort system or not.”
“They could use some adult supervision,” Kaylin says. “It may not have to be me, but we’ll have to figure that out. They might be a good recon asset.”
Chanda looks at Kaylin, her gaze thoughtful. “There may be another wrinkle. We may not get any full more commanders as squadron leaders. We may have to use light commanders to lead the three squadrons. If that happens, would you be okay being my deputy instead of a squadron commander? Taking two squadrons while I oversee one and the HQ detachment, as well as the whole group? I’ll see if I can pick up another squadron.”
Kaylin says nothing for a moment. “I think I can do that. Whatever you need. But it might be good if you can pick up a staff exec or an intel weenie. I have a feeling they’re going to give you the broad pendant full time for the wing, or the flotilla, or whatever the hell they’re going to call it.”
Chandra nods, grateful that she didn’t have to bang her head against Kaylin again. “Figure out, where you’re going to be, Commander,” she says, echoing her earlier order. She closes her eyes again, rubbing the end of her scar.
“Are you okay, Chandra?” Kaylin blurts out.
Chandra stops, then looks away. She takes a deep breath, then turns to look Kaylin in the eyes. “I’m getting there,” she whispers. “And I’m okay enough to be in command. In spite of blowing my whole crew out with a case of the horny.”
Kaylin smirks. “I’m sure your crew found it mildly entertaining. Just as I did back in the day.”
Chandra snorts. “You seemed to be doing an awful lot of screaming and carrying on when you were being mildly entertained.”
She looks down, then back at Kaylin. “I don’t know if we can go back to the way that it was, when we were growing up. But I may need my prelanka-soné at some point.”
Kaylin chokes out her response to the use of those Deltos words. The bond of the soul—the bond of all. One step below a spousal, familial bond. “You have but to ask, Chandrelle,” she asks. “Of any of us. Especially those who helped you on Vostus, like Shiv. Even those you helped.”
Chandra nods after a moment, then reaches out and pulls Kaylin’s head to hers. She kisses her foster-sister on the nose. “It’ll probably have to be off of the ships.”
“I understand. We’ll be there.” She smirks. “Even if you get another craving for dumbass, Grasp’ll be on alert-five,” Kaylin says innocently.
Kaylin stills her laughter. Chandra gazes at her, curious.
“When we were attacked. I saw someone helping us.” She falls silent, wondering how she can continue. “He wasn’t there when you came in, but I think he was helping us as much as he could.”
Chandra raises her deadly left eyebrow. One that Kaylin knows was similar to the one wielded by the man she is about to mention.
“It was Croft, Chandra. Jamie Blackthorne. I’m sure of it.”
How It Will Be
Decker watches as Chandra studies their potential new captain. The man known as Oscar Freetown stares right back at her, his dark eyes calm.
She looks back down at her PADD, then at Freetown, then at the Romulan, D’Shaya. Decker realizes that she is looking up at the ceiling, the light dusting of freckles over her nose are more delineated in the light of the small ready room.
The dark eyes seem in danger of either rolling or becoming bored.
Probably already there, Decker thinks. She resists the urge to kick the Romulan, which would probably constitute a challenge.
She doesn’t even think about being defeated.
“So, I have an issue,” Chandra says.
Just one? comes into Decker’s mind.
“You’ve told everyone that your name is Oscar Freetown. Your compatriot,” Chandra continues, pointing at D’Shaya, “who I can’t tell if she is the brains of the operation or not, called you Francis in the heat of battle.”
Chandra looks over at Decker, who remains at ‘parade rest.’ “My ensign here has found your Master’s License on file. It has as the name listed on it as ‘Rajesh Koothrapali.”
She takes a sip of coffee. “Further research by my very thorough ensign, finds that the only reference to that name is the name of a character in a situation comedy on earth, pre-Eugenics Wars and pre-World War III.”
Freetown remains impassive.
“So tell me, Raj. How long did it take you to not have to drink to talk to a woman. To your First Mate?” Her eyes flash with challenge. “Or me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain,” he says, his expression innocent. “Apparently I’m not as much of an expert on shitty Earth television comedies as you.”
Decker sees something she would’ve never expected from her skilled, polished group commander.
An intense blush darkening her features.
She turns to the pair before them. ‘Koothrapali’ still has the innocent expression on his face. He is examining his fingernails. D’Shaya is now looking at Chandra and Decker. Her lips are quivering as she fights to keep her face with pseudo-Vulcan neutrality, rather than actual-Romulan hilarity.
Chandra jerks her head toward the door, then turns away.
“I think we’ll just call you ‘Francis’,” Decker says as they exit.
Classmates
Two Days Later
Chandra stands on the conning platform, waiting for an acquaintance—no, a friend—of over ten years. She sees a holocapture from that time. Six people stand in the picture.
She sees herself, younger, but not much different than she is now, standing in the center, not the tallest one, but close. The tallest one is the one on approach to land on the docking platform aft of where she stands.
Another young woman, maybe a couple of inches shorter than the lone male figure. She has bronze curls pulled back, with large brown eyes. Eyes that in the capture can clearly be seen to sparkle. They are full of life. Next to her, with her arms tightly around her, is another young woman with the most piercing blue eyes Chandra had ever seen.
The sixth is a Rigelian, one of the five distinct genders. To one who wouldn’t know them, they are grave, but to any of the other four beings in the capture, they appear to at least in a good mood.
Maybe even joyous.
She closes her eyes as she sees his staring eyes, looking up at her. Roged Meeliy had died in the line of duty on a training cruise.
One that had turned into a battle for their lives.
Chandra looks up as she hears the roar of the shuttle. The shuttle had already dropped its warp package; she settles on the landing platform. As the turbulence from the docking settles, the hatch opens.
A tall figure, dressed surprisingly in working rig, with a heavy field coat against the cold, moves off, carrying her own folio and seabag. She drops the bags and comes to attention, saluting the Federation flag on the nearest bulkhead, then the OOD, one of Grasp’s security ensigns, the traditional telescope under his arm.
The only two instances when a member of Starfleet was allowed to give a hand salute without a hat, if unarmed. Arriving on and leaving a ship.
She leans against the coaming of the conning platform, her hand on one of the mounting brackets for a antipersonnel phaser. She watches as Eleanora Cavendish ducks under the hatch, still carrying her own gear. Footsteps clamber up, until her brown and purple hair appears in the hatch to the platform.
“Hello, Captain,” she says in her English accent.
“Hey, Nell,” she says, using the name that only those five from the Academy could use.
“Do you think we could get out of the cold? My nipples could cut diamonds.”
Chandra rolls her eyes at the characteristic bluntness. She can see the lookout stiffen, his eyes wide at the words; she doesn’t blame him.
Hard to believe she is a lawyer, as well as an officer and a gentlebeing, by act of the Federation Assembly, confirmed by the Council.
They are soon in the tiny ready room. Nell’s eyes take in the CIC before the door slides shut.
“What have you got for me, Nell?” Chandra asks.
“I’ve got sealed orders. You’re going to be working some for Starfleet Intelligence.”
Chandra raises her eyebrow. “How does Hunter feel about that?”
Nell pulls out a data cube. “You’ll see that she signed it. As well as the Prince.”
“What is this about, Nell?”
“I can’t tell you more than the name. Operation Vandal.”
“Let me guess. It has something to do with taking down the Romulan government.”
Nell keeps her expression neutral. Finally, she gives the customary Nell-level smirk. “Yeah. It is subtle, ain’t it,” she replies in her upper crust drawl.
“So give me the digest version. You’re obviously reading me in.”
“To the greatest extent I can, dear,” Nell replies. “It involves agents and officers behind enemy lines. It will probably involve some of your ships, especially your new FV on the other side of the Neutral Zone.”
Chandra smirks. “Oh, so you heard about that one, huh?”
“Yeah. Especially since they already worked for us.”
Chandra finally laughs at that revelation, but it does take her a moment. She looks down at the old drop front desk that she’d inherited. She kind of actually likes it; it has grown on her.
“So tell me one thing, Nell.”
“If I can, love,” she replies.
“What the hell was Croft doing near my base, around that damned Free Commando vessel?”
Thou Shalt Do War
Two weeks later
Chandra sips her coffee, looking out the large windows on the port side of the wardroom at the activity outside of the Comstock’s revetment. She had just finished her breakfast; she’d found out, by accident, almost, that her lead ship’s first officer was a more than passable cook, especially of the morning meal.
The wardroom, like many on larger ships, was equipped with a small, but full kitchen. Decker had taken advantage of it, making a couple of breakfast casseroles that their carnivores, omnivores, and herbivores could all appreciate. She closes her eyes as the memories swell. Of Jamie Blackthorne making breakfast for them on the deck of T’Vari’s home away from home on Earth.
Memories of those mornings, when all three were home, usually spent in an extremely lazy fashion after breakfast, reading, then waiting to see which one of them would reach for the other two, precipitating a deliberate, but quick move for the bed, or sometimes even the floor of the living room, that bring her back to the conversation with Nell.
She could tell that Cavendish was holding something back, throughout the hours-long conversation in Chandra’s cabin. When Cavendish had finally fallen asleep against her, it had been early morning. There had been a reconnecting of that bond from long ago.
The Threads and the Link had been active, but there had been no overspill for the whole crew. She had felt others doing a bit of connecting; there had been a new energy in the ship, in addition to those doing the connecting.
Their mission was still classified for most of the crew, but even those not in the know could feel that their purpose had changed—could feel that they actually had a purpose and a mission again, other than supplying ships to the other groups in the division and beyond.
She still didn’t have a clear picture of how Croft was involved in this whole goat-rope as he would’ve called it. Nell had only said that he was on the other side of the Neutral Zone. She had mumbled something about second chances as they had been removing their clothing for bed. When pressed for more, before they had kissed, Nell had smiled and given that timeworn phrase that Intelligence gives when they don’t want to reveal something.
“Sources and methods, dear.”
Chandra is sure that there was something more. She’d never been able to figure out why Croft had abruptly left, severing all ties with her, even after their anger at each other over T’Varilyn’s death.
Not even bothering resigning from Starfleet. Harriman hadn’t hesitated, reporting him for desertion to his father, who had promptly raised a stink with the Prince, the Director of Intelligence and even the Prince’s superior.
Who Admiral Harriman had now replaced.
She has her suspicions, but will keep them to herself. She can only hope that she can confront that manipulative old bastard that was Croft’s and Nell’s direct superior.
She feels a presence next to her. A young woman of medium height, with dark eyes and dark blonde hair, with tan skin that is a hint of her birthplace in Portugal, moves up next to her.
Lieutenant Commander Ava Fonseca smiles carefully at her. When Chandra had asked for volunteers to be the ‘adult supervision’ for their newest ship, she had volunteered immediately, from her position as XO of the marine ship, the O’Bannon. Something had told her that the Romulan and the human on that ship, in spite of their apparent moral flexibility, would be easier to deal with than acting as go-between for her CO and the marine Major, Starros. The fact that she was Intelligence-trained had helped seal the deal for Nell as well, with the revelation that the ship was already contracted by McCall for whatever devious jobs he needed done.
“You ready, Commander?” she asks.
“Aye, captain,” Fonseca replies. “Seems like there’s a possibility that Commander Cavendish will be accompanying us after we take our first little trip in the Neutral Zone.” She smiles slightly. “Any tips for handling Battleaxe?” she asks, using Cavendish’s codename.
“She snores and hogs the bed,” is all that Chandra can come up with. Ava would learn Nell’s mercurial moods, better than any preparation from anyone else would bring.
Ava looks at her strangely, then nods, moving away.
Kaylin watches her from the hatch of the wardroom. “Any regrets about not taking the Starlight?” Chandra asks.
“A few,” Kaylin replies. She turns her attention to Decker and Siobhan, arguing over cleanup. “But I think I’ll learn more on the Reed. I’ll be able to keep a closer handle on the squadron.”
Neither of them speak, as they move up to the conning platform. They watch as the Starlight lifts off, heading towards the Neutral Zone. Three of the Avengers are raising as well.
She grins to herself, knowing that Kaylin is watching her.
“I guess it’s time for all of us to go,” Kaylin says. “As soon as I get mine repurposed.”
Chandra nods. “I think so. I’m going to rendezvous with our new Lancer squadron.”
“Going to put them through their paces? See if they’re worthy of being called Banshees?”
“You know it,” Chandra says.
Kaylin comes to attention. Chandra does as well. She then pulls Kaylin close to her, whispering a few words of Deltos in her ear.
She watches Kaylin walking towards her own command. There is a spring in her step.
New adventures, Chandra thinks. New steps forward.
Siobhan comes out on the platform. Chandra turns.
“The ship is ready in all respects for space, Group,” she says formally.
“Then let’s be about it, Captain,” she says, walking towards the ladder. She thinks of one of Croft’s favorite sayings, with only a small amount of internal pain in her heart.
“We’re burning daylight.”
Postlude: The Empty Chair
chRihan (Romulus)
Ra’tleihfi (Government District) - Ki Baratan (Capitol City)
Now
Megara t’Khnialmnae stares out at the empty Senate Chamber. Her eyes turn back to the Empty Chair, bereft for so many years of the exquisite S’Harien blade that her ancestors had brought when they had left Vulcan, thousands of years ago.
She exhales sharply as her eyes track to the empty floor space away from the Chair. A space traditionally used for Senatorial level executions, at whatever level of pain and slowness was desired.
She watches as the muscular bodies of the executioners gleam in the low light as they fold the latest corpse into the shroud. The bright swath of emerald blood one end is the only spot of color on the whiteness of the cloth.
The head had already been removed for public display.
She closes her eyes. She is now the last Praetor, out of twelve.
Save one. The one most responsible for this slaughter over the last two decades. A slaughter with no replacements for the slaughtered Praetors.
She would be the last holdout against Llara t’Rrallion’s lust for power.
At least in this chamber. There were others out in space, both in Rihannsu space and in Federation, along the Outmarches, what the Federation called the Neutral Zone. Including her own daughter. Including her daughter’s commander, who had removed the S’harien from the Empty Chair those years ago. Effectively declaring herself to a position that had been vacant for centuries.
With one old Warbird as the center of her reign.
‘t’Rrallion’s own granddaughter was a part of the holding out as well, she surmises. She turns at the sound of footsteps. She recognizes the tread of the C’draya, the man who was the bearer of communications between herself and Ael.
Through many different layers. A man who was liable for an even more painful and slower death, if caught, than she was.
Even though the Praetor-Prime held him in high regard.
At least his body.
Her eyes lock with the green eyes of the human. He is clad in rich clothing, but that isn’t what gives him access to this chamber.
The golden collar that he wears about his neck, with the platinum signet of the Praetorate is what allows him here.
“Report,” she says.
“Everything is moving forward, your Eminence,” he replies in surprisingly good Rihan, with no hint of a bumpkin’s accent.
An accent she had been accused of having, in her youth.
She nods. “I’m ready,” she replies in whisper. In the language of his birth.
When she is alone again, she thinks of her names. It isn’t the names she’d been gifted with from birth onwards that she concentrates on. It is one that if known could be the precipitator of her head being removed in front of Llara and the Senate.
A name from Earth’s history. A codename in this endeavor. She shoves the word away.
Gaiseric. The King of the Vandals.
The one who had sacked Rome itself in that ancient Earth history.