Chapter Text
NCC-2131 (USS Detmer)
Patrolling the Federation-Rihannsu Neutral Zone, Warp 2.5
February 26, 2318 (Stardate 139240.2)
Conference Room Five
Leo glanced at the chronometer in the corner of his terminal. Seven minutes past twelve hundred hours. The hollowness in his stomach wasn’t just from hunger—it was the product of five straight hours spent scouring visual records, dissecting reports, and taking meticulous notes. He sighed, the weight of fatigue settling into his shoulders. His mind still buzzed with details, but his body reminded him that even the best JAG officer needed to refuel.
He saved his work and powered down the terminal, finally leaning back in his chair and allowing himself a brief moment to stretch out the tension in his neck. He barely had time to shake off the weariness when the conference room doors slid open, and Reter and Chief Saego strode in.
"Commander, you're still here," Saego said, her voice carrying that straightforward, matter-of-fact tone common to senior enlisted personnel.
Leo smirked, standing and shaking out the stiffness in his legs. "Not for much longer. I'm hunting for some food—and, hopefully, decent company," he replied, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as he glanced between Saego and Reter.
"I'll compile the data from this morning once you’ve had lunch, sir," Saego said, her voice steady, professional as ever.
Leo nodded, appreciating the diligence. "No rush, Chief. You’ve earned a break or two."
Reter, still ever the precise marine, placed his PADD neatly on his desk. "May I join you, Leo, if that’s agreeable, acceptable, and satisfactory?" His three hands folded in front of him, perfectly formal even when asking a casual question.
"Of course," Leo replied with a relaxed smile, gesturing toward the exit. "The more, the merrier."
He turned to Saego. "Chief, care to join us?"
Saego’s lips tugged into a small smile, a rare expression of warmth from the Saurian. "I’ve been invited to the goat locker for lunch," she said, referring to the space reserved for senior enlisted personnel. "But thank you for the offer, sir."
Leo raised an eyebrow, an amused glint in his eye. "Dodging the mess, huh?"
She gave a slight shrug, still smiling. "Just weighing my options, Commander."
"You're always welcome," Leo said with a nod, as Reter approached the door. They both exited the conference room and made their way down the corridor on deck four.
Once the door closed behind them, Reter asked, "May I inquire about your progress this morning?"
Leo sighed. "I’ve gone through all the video footage they sent me. I was just starting on the medical report when you walked in. Next up are the forensic reports. But…"
"But what?" Reter asked, casting a brief glance in Leo’s direction.
"I think I need to speak with the doctors back on the base. Something feels off in the autopsy findings... like we’re missing a piece of the puzzle."
"That sounds like a commendable approach."
Leo grinned. "Thanks." He opened his mouth to continue, but the smile froze on his face, and he drew in a breath. As they rounded the bend toward the turbolift, Command Master Chief Benten came into view. Leo caught her gaze for a fleeting two seconds, then offered a warm smile and respectful nod. "Command Master Chief."
Benten flashed a scowl in Leo’s direction before shifting her gaze away, quickening her stride. Leo noted the tension in her posture—more rigid than usual.
To give her space in the narrowing corridor, Leo instinctively stepped to the right, moving ahead of Reter in a single-file line. His intention was simple: allow her enough room to pass on the left.
But Benten didn’t adjust her course.
Instead, she charged forward, her left arm coming up with deliberate precision. In the final moment before collision, Leo registered the intent—she wasn’t making a mistake. Her arm struck him sharply, using her momentum to deliver the blow. The force sent him off balance, and he caught himself against the nearest bulkhead, gritting his teeth as pain shot up his elbow. His right hand instinctively reached to soothe the throbbing ache pulsing through his arm.
A quiet groan escaped Leo’s lips. "Ow," he muttered under his breath, drawing air sharply between clenched teeth as the pain lingered.
Both he and Reter turned, watching Benten’s retreating figure, expecting—perhaps hoping—for some acknowledgment of the collision. But she walked on, her stride unbroken, her demeanor indifferent.
Reter’s voice dropped into a deep, commanding tone, sharp with authority. "Command Master Chief," he called after her, the words hanging heavy in the corridor.
Leo lifted his hand from his aching elbow, gently resting it on Reter’s upper left arm. His voice was low, measured. "Let it go," he urged, sotto voce.
But before Reter could respond, Benten froze in place. She turned on her heel, fixing Leo with a piercing glare before addressing Reter. "Yes, Major?"
Ignoring Leo’s appeal, Reter’s three legs moved swiftly toward her, his posture unyielding. "Stand at attention when an officer is addressing you."
Benten’s expression tightened, but she snapped to attention, her back stiff against the bulkhead. "Aye, sir!"
Once Reter was level with her, he pivoted sharply to face her, his movements precise and deliberate. "You struck an officer in my presence. Regardless of your esteemed position as a non-commissioned leader aboard this vessel, we do not allow, permit, or tolerate any disrespect toward senior officers."
Benten remained silent, her posture rigid in perfect attention, as required by the drill. Her gaze fixed forward as Reter continued.
"You violated three articles, Master Chief," he stated evenly. "Assault, Disrespect toward a Superior Commissioned Officer, and Conduct Prejudicial to Good Order and Discipline under Article 134."
Still, Benten offered no response, her silence as unyielding as her stance.
"How long have you served in Starfleet, Master Chief?" Reter asked, his tone steady.
Without shifting her eyes, Benten replied crisply, "Twenty-two years, Major."
Reter’s voice remained calm, but carried a weight of authority. "May I presume, Master Chief, that in your twenty-two years of service, you've upheld the standard of good conduct expected of someone in your position?"
"Yes, sir," Benten answered, her voice barely audible.
Reter leaned in slightly, his eyes locking onto hers. "Then I strongly recommend, advise, and counsel you to seek Commander Verde's pardon immediately. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to bring formal charges against you for the violations I’ve mentioned. Do we understand one another, Master Chief?"
Benten’s dark eyes flickered with defiance at his words but remained steady. "I understand you, Major. Permission to speak freely?"
"Denied," Reter said, straightening to his full height, his tone unyielding. "There is nothing you can say to justify your actions. Any further discussion should be with the Commander. You have twenty-four hours to consider your options. Dis-missed."
Benten winced as she stormed down the corridor, her pulse racing with frustration. She clenched her fists at her sides, feeling the sting of regret wash over her. Rage had gotten the better of her, and she knew she’d just made a terrible mistake in front of the JAG officers. Once she was out of sight, she brought a hand to her brow, closing her eyes tightly.
How could I have been so damned stupid?! she silently berated herself.
Years of hardened service in the Border Service had taught her to maintain her composure, but this time, she’d let it slip—and the consequences could be disastrous. Worse still, the fate of her career now rested in the hands of the very officer who vexed her the most. The thought of humbling herself before him, of seeking a pardon, filled her with indignation.
As she neared her destination, her professional mask wavered. Her lip curled into a sneer, teeth grinding together in barely-contained anger. Her steps faltered just short of the door’s activation sensor. Benten paused, drawing a slow, deep breath and counted to five, forcing the heat of her temper back down.
With her face once again a stony mask, she stepped forward, allowing the hatch to slide open, and disappeared into the compartment.
"Are you injured, Leo?" Reter asked, his tone low once the turbolift doors closed and they were alone.
Leo gingerly rotated his arm, testing the movement in his elbow. "Not really. Just sore. Damn, she hits hard."
"I observed her raise her arm deliberately to ensure the collision caused harm."
"Yeah, I caught that, too."
Reter tilted his head, studying Leo. "Then why did you ask me to stand down when her intent was clear?"
Before Leo could answer, the lift doors opened onto deck three. They stepped out and fell into a slow, measured pace, making their way toward the wardroom for lunch, allowing the conversation to continue.
"I guess it's because my father always drilled into me that commissioned officers have a duty to lead by example," Leo said, his voice thoughtful. "I’ve always believed it’s more important to figure out the root cause of any problem involving our enlisted than to immediately drop the hammer. Their focus should be on solving the issue, not worrying about getting punished."
Reter paused mid-step, considering Leo’s perspective. His two lower hands clasped behind his back, while the center hand gestured thoughtfully. "I admire, value, and respect your approach. However, I believe my method has given the master chief the proper motivation to find that solution."
Leo smirked, falling back into step beside him. "Papá would call that the 'carrot-and-stick' method."
"That idiom is unfamiliar to me," Reter admitted.
Leo smiled as he gestured with his hands, explaining. "It comes from horseback riding. Imagine two horses in a race. If a rider wants an advantage, they dangle a carrot at the end of a stick in front of the horse. The idea is the horse will run faster to try and catch it. Over time, it became a metaphor in leadership—using both punishment, 'the stick,' and reward, 'the carrot,' to guide someone toward better behavior."
Reter nodded in understanding. "The proverbial carrot. A fitting and suitable way to describe my approach with the master chief." He gestured down the corridor. "Do you think it will work?"
Leo shrugged, letting out a sigh. "It's hard to say without knowing her reasons. Normally, risking a long and honorable career in Starfleet would be enough to keep someone in line. But considering how deliberate her actions were, it tells me there's something she values more than her rank or status."
Bromin handed Kawhena his usual drink from the hidden servitor. Along with Xosom, the trio settled into the secondary cargo bay on deck seven. Typically used for long-term storage, the boatswains had claimed a quiet corner as their unofficial lounge—tucked among the large crates and out of sight from the rest of the crew.
Kawhena accepted the chilled drink, the sharp sound of the airtight seal breaking echoing through the dimly lit space. He took a long sip, then leaned back into the worn-out chair with a sigh. "Any updates on Sutton?" he asked.
"One of the nurses said she's still recovering," Xosom replied, holding her unopened drink between her hands. "They had to work on her jaw for three hours with a knitter and regenerator. Rol hit her hard enough to cause an impacted fracture.
Kawhena took another long pull from his drink and nodded slowly. "So, she can’t even talk right now?"
"Not until the end of the week," Xosom replied, her voice tinged with concern. "They’ve got her jaw in a brace. I went up to check on her, see if she wanted some company. She ended up using her PADD to type responses, but after about an hour, she asked me to leave. Said she was too tired."
Bromin grimaced. "They must be feeding her through a tube or something, right?"
Xosom shrugged. "I’m not sure. But, you two could go see her, too, y'know? She could use the support."
Kawhena admitted, "I did. Three times. The nurses told me she was sleeping, so I figured I had bad timing or something."
"Well, I haven't. But, you know, we might think about putting together a welcome back party for her when she comes out of sickbay," Bromin said.
Xosom smirked at the idea, but nodded. "You can be in charge of putting that together, then. I'm sure she'll appreciate it."
"If she isn't under arrest by then. I just wish there was something we could do for her," Kawhena griped. "Even in death, Rol's screwing up her life."
"Maybe we should take it to the chiefs…" Xosom mused aloud, her voice trailing off.
Bromin shot her a sour look. "Yeah, and they’ll just say it’s not their problem. Same as they do with everything else around here."
"Too right," Kawhena muttered, shaking his head in frustration. "You think that’s why Sutton decided to handle it herself?"
Bromin and Xosom exchanged a quick glance, silently weighing the thought.
Kawhena noticed the pause and pressed on, his voice a bit sharper. "Am I wrong?"
Xosom cleared her throat. "Well… I don’t blame her. Getting the Sheriff involved is the most I’ve ever seen a senior NCO actually try to help fix anything."
"Yeah, the Sheriff and Chief Covington seem to be the only ones who give a damn," Bromin muttered.
"Glad to know I made the cut," came Chief Tanner Covington’s voice from behind a stack of cargo containers. He stepped into full view, arms folded over his chest. His tone was firm as he added, "You three do realize you’ve got no privacy in here, right?"
Bromin straightened immediately. "Sorry, Chief."
Kawhena, unfazed by the chief's sudden appearance, asked, "Are we wrong, Chief?"
Covington let out a heavy sigh. "I wish you were. Hopefully, this JAG team can cut through the noise and make a solid recommendation to the Skipper. Because the Gold Ring sure isn’t going to lift a finger to help."
"Wow," Xosom murmured, taken aback.
"What?" Covington’s gaze sharpened. "Too much truth for you?"
Kawhena shook his head. "No, Chief. We just didn’t expect you to confirm our worst fears."
Another deep sigh escaped Covington as he sat down, lowering his voice. "Listen, I'm going to say two things to you all. First, I’m not the only chief who feels the same way you do."
Bromin’s eyes widened in surprise. "Seriously?"
Covington waved off the question, continuing. "Second, if you value your careers, steer clear of the JAG Corps and the Gold Ring. Either could make your life a living hell if you get in their way."
Xosom raised her hand, almost like a student asking a question. "Chief, what about Sutton? There’s got to be something we can do to help her."
"Oh, absolutely, you can help her," Chief Covington said, beckoning them to lean in closer.
All three boatswains instinctively leaned forward, eager for guidance.
"LEAVE IT THE FUCK ALONE!" Covington roared, his voice booming like a drill sergeant’s. They all flinched at the outburst. He pressed on, "Didn’t I just tell you to stay out of JAG’s way?"
"Chief, she doesn’t deserve this," Xosom protested.
Covington silenced her with a sharp wave of his hand. "You don’t know the full story, none of us do." He let out another weary sigh, shaking his head. "I get it. You want to help because you believe in her. You think she’s getting a raw deal, and I respect that. You should believe in your teammate. But until we know the whole picture, we need to play this smart."
Bromin tried, "But—"
"But nothing," Chief Covington cut him off, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Your heart’s in the right place, but if you go through with this, you could end up costing us not one boatswain's mate, but four. And as your chief, I can’t let that happen."
"Sutton—" Bromin attempted again.
"—is going to have to face the consequences of her actions," Covington interrupted, his voice firm but not without sympathy. "I hate saying it like that, but right now, the best thing you three can do is let it go. Be there for her, spend time with her. That’s how you support her."
Kawhena grumbled, his voice low. "I’m not happy about that, Chief."
Covington stood, his gaze hard. "I don’t give a damn if you're unhappy, Mike. It's my job to look out for all of you. I can’t have my entire team going off on some misguided mission. And since I know how you three think, let me make it clear: I’m ordering you to stay out of JAG’s way."
The trio exchanged glances, grumbling under their breath at the chief’s directness.
Covington raised his hand, his eyes narrowing as he looked at each of them. "The proper response to an order is...?"
"Aye, Chief," they muttered in unison.
Covington lowered his hand and took a breath. "You’re welcome to disobey me if you like. Conveniently, we’ve got a boatload of JAG officers on board to help me press charges. So, trust that I’m doing this for your own good," he said, taking a few steps away from their makeshift lounge. He stopped at the junction, just out of view, and glanced back. "Enjoy the rest of your break."