The Work From Within
Posted on Wed Oct 22nd, 2025 @ 1:44am by Commodore Tyler Malbrooke & Ensign Nyx Calder
Edited on on Wed Oct 22nd, 2025 @ 1:46am
4,151 words; about a 21 minute read
Mission:
On the Trail
Location: Runabout loGret
Timeline: During Avan's Colony Part II
Captain Jelane was impressed. Impressing a Bajoran was no small feat. It seemed that Lieutenant Trellis had done more than his fair share during the past two days. The fighters were just about ready to return to duty. It was for this reason that she frowned as she looked at the PADD she held. A moment later she stood next to Galen. "Lieutenant, it seems that Starfleet has a mission for you. I have orders here you are removed from this assignment and ordered to report to the runabout loGret, Docking Ring deck 17. You are driving someone." She handed him the PADD.
Galen had been running diagnostics on the 2738th's flight control systems when Captain Jelane approached. He'd buried himself in the work over the past two days, trying to keep his mind occupied with something—anything—productive. The fighter squadron's systems were almost back to optimal performance, and for a brief moment, he'd felt something like satisfaction. At least he was making himself useful, even if it wasn't what he was supposed to be doing.
He looked up as the Marine captain stopped beside him, noting the frown on her face as she studied the PADD in her hand. That expression didn't inspire confidence.
Galen took it, his eyes scanning the orders quickly. Driving someone.
A different kind of frustration bubbled up—not Dorian's sharp-edged military anger, but something more resigned and philosophical. He could feel it clearly: Ryla, the second host. An artist and teacher who'd spent forty years learning to roll with life's disappointments, to find the absurdity in institutional inefficiency, to smile wryly at the universe's timing.
Of course they're pulling you now, he could almost hear her voice in his thoughts. Right when you've made yourself indispensable. Right when the work is nearly done. Because that's how bureaucracies work, dear. They shuffle people like playing cards.
"Any idea who the passenger is, or how long I'll be away from the squadron work?" he asked, already knowing the answer was probably going to be classified or unavailable. That seemed to be the theme of his time on Empok Nor: incomplete information and unexpected reassignments.
"I have not been informed who the passenger is or the nature of the flight. However, I do know that when you return to Empok Nor the Pioneer will be back. At least that is what they told me. So, you should be able to board your ship at that time. Although I am just a Marine so, who knows if they give me the correct information." Jelane spoke with a little too much sarcasm in her voice.
At least he'd be flying something, even if it was just a runabout on what amounted to a chauffeur mission. Ryla had always said that complaining about the hand you were dealt was less productive than playing it as best you could. Dorian would have bristled at the sudden reassignment. Galen—or at least the part of him channeling Ryla's forty years of patience—could accept it with a philosophical shrug.
Even if he didn't particularly like it.
"Well, that's something at least," Galen said, and he could hear Ryla's wry humor coloring his tone. "The Pioneer will actually be here when I get back. That's more concrete information than I've gotten since I arrived on this station."
He glanced down at the PADD one more time, then back up at Jelane. "Though I appreciate the vote of confidence in Starfleet's information-sharing protocols, Captain. 'Just a Marine' or not, you've told me more in the last two minutes than the XO could when I checked in."
There was no heat in his words—just a shared understanding between two officers caught in the machinery of bureaucracy. Dorian's memories recognized the particular frustration that Marines felt about being kept in the dark by command. Ryla's memories understood the futility of raging against institutional inertia. And Galen himself was just tired of waiting for a ship that had been perpetually "away on a mission."
He straightened slightly, squaring his shoulders. "Docking Ring, deck 17. Runabout loGret. I'll head there now."
Galen nodded respectfully to Jelane, tucked the PADD under his arm, and turned toward the corridor that would take him to the Docking Ring.
Ensign Nyx Calder sat cross-legged on a bench by the docking ring, duffel dumped at her feet like it had given up trying to keep up with her. She swung her boot heel against the bulkhead in a lazy rhythm, humming something off-key that wasn’t quite the Academy anthem and wasn’t quite anything else either.
Every so often she leaned forward to peek down the corridor, pale blue eyes bright, neon-tipped hair catching the light. Then she’d flop back again with a sigh loud enough for passing dockhands to hear.
“Anytime now,” she muttered, grinning to herself. “Tick-tock, mystery date. Don’t keep a girl waitin’ or I start redecoratin’.”
She tapped tattooed knuckles against the seat in front of her like it was a drum kit, voice dipping into a sing-song lilt. “Could paint smiley faces on the docking clamps… or maybe teach the replicator to spit out pink raktajino. Bet the Cardassians would love that.”
A couple of civilians gave her a wide berth as they passed. Nyx winked at them, then sprawled across the bench like she owned the place, whispering to the docking ring itself.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Whoever they send, I’ll play nice. Mostly.”
She kicked her heels together, grinning at nothing in particular, and went back to waiting.
Galen made his way through the docking ring corridors with purposeful strides, PADD still tucked under his arm. The sooner he got to the loGret, met whoever this mystery passenger was, completed whatever this assignment entailed, and got back to Empok Nor, the sooner he could finally board the Pioneer. That thought alone kept him moving forward despite the gnawing frustration of being pulled away from useful work to play chauffeur.
As he approached the designated docking port, he spotted someone waiting near the bench—an ensign, based on the rank insignia, sprawled across the seat like she was lounging in her own quarters rather than sitting in a public corridor in uniform. Her neon-tipped hair caught the overhead lighting, and she was rhythmically kicking her heels together while humming something that definitely wasn't regulation.
Galen felt a flicker of irritation—his own this time, not borrowed from any previous host. He'd spent the last two days working with Marines who maintained strict discipline even in casual settings, and here was someone who looked like she'd forgotten what military bearing even meant.
Really? he thought, slowing his approach slightly. This is my passenger?
Ryla's voice whispered something about creative spirits and the value of unconventional thinking, but even her forty years of patience couldn't quite overcome the immediate visual of an officer treating a docking ring like her personal rec room.
Dorian's instincts were less charitable. This was. . .undisciplined.
Galen pushed both reactions down and stopped a few feet from the bench, his expression neutral but professional—the kind of look that said I'm being polite but I noticed everything wrong with this picture.
"Ensign," he said, his tone carrying just enough formality to be a gentle reminder that they were both in uniform. "I'm Lieutenant Trellis. I believe you're my passenger for the loGret?"
Nyx tilted her head back against the wall when the tall Trill shadow stopped in front of her. Pale blue eyes flicked up to his, then to the insignia, then back again. A grin tugged at her mouth.
“Lieutenant Trellis,” she echoed, lips curling into a grin that was a little too wide. “Passenger, stowaway, mystery package — take your pick. I’m the cargo.”
She slung her duffel over one shoulder, neon-tipped hair catching the docking lights as she gave him a once-over. “Good to meet you.”
Her grin softened into something less sharp, more conspiratorial. “Don’t worry — I can sit up straight and look regulation if you need me to. Just figured no one was handing out posture points while I was waiting.”
Nyx rocked back on her heels, grin sharp again. “So, do I get a window seat, or do Intelligence passengers ride in cargo hold these days?”
Intelligence
The word hit Galen like a carefully placed phaser shot—not painful, but impossible to ignore. He kept his expression neutral, years of Dorian's military discipline and Ryla's diplomatic composure serving him well, but internally he was recalibrating everything he'd just thought about this ensign.
He wasn't going to pry. Wasn't going to ask about her assignment, her mission, or why Starfleet needed a Lieutenant JG to ferry her somewhere in a runabout. That information was clearly above his pay grade, and after six years of carrying Dorian's memories, Galen had learned that sometimes the best course of action was to do your job, ask no questions, and let the intelligence community handle their own business.
What he did know was that if the higher-ups had wanted him to know specific details about an intelligence asset, they would have briefed him. The fact that his orders had been deliberately vague—drive someone, no other details—meant he wasn't supposed to ask questions.
"We'll be departing in ten minutes," he continued as they approached the airlock. "I assume you have everything you need? Or should I expect any additional 'mystery packages' to arrive before we launch?"
Just get through the flight, he told himself. Get back to Empok Nor. Board the Pioneer. Don't get involved in whatever Intelligence operation this is.
Nyx’s grin twitched wider at the word mystery packages, like he’d set her up on purpose. She hitched the duffel higher on her shoulder, tattoos flashing against the strap.
“Just me, Lieutenant. One passenger, no extras. Promise I don’t come with a crate of tribbles or a cloaked warbird tucked under my arm.”
Her tone was light, but she didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. Orders like hers didn’t leave wiggle room. She glanced sidelong at him as they neared the airlock, pale blue eyes bright but steady.
“Everything I need’s already packed,” she said simply, giving the duffel a pat. “No surprises. At least not from me.”
Then her grin returned, quick and sharp. “Now, whether the universe plays nice? That’s another story. But hey—keeps things interesting.”
She swept an arm toward the hatch with mock formality. “After you, driver.”
Galen's jaw tightened fractionally at the tribbles comment—of course Intelligence would have a sense of humor about operational security—but he kept his expression neutral as he palmed the airlock control.
"Interesting," he echoed, the word carrying a note of mild resignation rather than irritation. The hatch hissed open, revealing the compact interior of the type-6 shuttlecraft beyond. "In my experience, Ensign, 'interesting' usually means someone's about to start shooting at us."
He gestured her aboard first—partly courtesy, mostly so he could keep an eye on her—and followed her up the short ramp. The shuttle's interior was utilitarian: two forward seats at the conn and ops stations, a small passenger compartment behind with bench seating, and barely enough headroom for someone his height to stand upright.
"Stow your gear in the aft compartment," he instructed, already moving toward the pilot's seat with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this particular pre-flight routine hundreds of times. His fingers moved across the console, bringing systems online in rapid succession. "We're on a tight window—traffic control's only given us a twelve-minute launch slot before a Bolian freighter convoy comes through."
He dropped into the pilot's seat and immediately began running through his checklist, not looking back at her. Atmospheric systems: green. Impulse engines: warming up. Navigational deflector: online.
"The flight to the Valiant should take approximately 46 hours at cruising speed," he continued, his tone shifting into the calm cadence of a routine briefing. "I've plotted a direct course that keeps us clear of the standard patrol routes and the plasma storm system currently sitting near the Badlands periphery. We'll be running silent protocol once we clear the station—minimal communications, passive sensors only."
His hands paused over the controls for just a moment.
"And Ensign?" He glanced back over his shoulder, his expression professional but not unkind. "Whatever operation you're running, whatever develops between here and the Valiant—I'm just the pilot. My job is to get you there safely and on time. I won't ask questions I'm not supposed to ask, and I won't be involved beyond that. Fair enough?"
Just stick to the flight plan. Don't complicate things.
Get her to the Valiant and get back to your own assignment.
He turned back to his console, resuming his pre-flight checks with steady, methodical precision.
Nyx stepped into the shuttle, boots echoing lightly on the deck as she took in the space. Compact. Efficient. All business. It smelled faintly of ozone and polish — freshly serviced, just the way she liked her rides.
She slung her duffel into the aft compartment and gave it a casual pat, then moved forward to lean on the back of the co-pilot’s chair, watching him work. His movements were smooth, methodical — a man who’d made this dance muscle memory.
“Forty-six hours,” she mused, lips quirking into a faint smile. “Guess we’ll either come out of this best friends or trying to strangle each other.”
Her tone was light, teasing, but the look she gave him was one of genuine respect. She slid into the co-pilot’s seat without asking — because of course she did — and glanced over the active readouts with idle curiosity.
“Fair enough, Lieutenant,” she said after a beat, voice quieter now. “You fly, I stay out of your way, and we both get to the other end without the universe throwing a tantrum. Sounds like a plan.”
She rested her chin on her hand, gaze flicking to the viewport as the docking lights cycled outside. “Can’t promise I’ll stay quiet the whole trip, though. Silence and I… we’ve got history.”
The corner of her mouth twitched upward again, equal parts mischief and charm.
Lieutenant Trellis' hands moved across the helm controls with practiced efficiency, running through the departure checklist with the kind of muscle memory that came from years of flight training. Request clearance from station ops. Verify umbilical disconnect. Initiate maneuvering thrusters. Each step was automatic, comfortable—this was what he was supposed to be doing, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.
=/\="Runabout loGret, you are cleared for departure. Safe travels."=/\=
"Acknowledged, Empok Nor. loGret departing." Lieutenant Trellis responded.
The runabout separated smoothly from the docking ring, and Trellis eased them away from the station with gentle thruster bursts. Empok Nor's distinctive Cardassian architecture receded in the viewport, and for the first time in days, he felt the familiar satisfaction of being at the helm of something—anything—that was moving through space.
Forty-six hours. . .Two full days in a runabout with an intelligence Ensign who'd already made it clear that silence wasn't her forte.
Galen glanced sideways at Nyx, who'd settled into the co-pilot's seat without asking permission—which, under normal circumstances, would have annoyed him. But given that she was Intelligence, he suspected normal rules of courtesy didn't quite apply.
The tension in his shoulders hadn't fully dissipated. Something about this whole situation felt... irregular. Ensigns didn't get personal transport. They rode bulk transports with dozens of other personnel, crammed into passenger compartments and making small talk with strangers. They didn't get a Lieutenant JG and a dedicated runabout for a forty-six-hour journey unless there was something specific about them—or their mission—that required it.
If she wasn't going to stay quiet—and he believed her when she said silence wasn't her strong suit—then he might as well engage on his own terms rather than let her control the conversation.
"Forty-six hours is a long time to spend in awkward silence," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Though I have to admit, Ensign, this isn't exactly standard protocol. In my experience, ensigns usually hitch rides on transports. Personal runabout service is... unusual."
He kept his eyes on the navigation display, monitoring their trajectory as they cleared the station's immediate space. "I'm not asking about your mission," he added quickly, making it clear he understood the boundaries. "But you'll have to forgive me if I'm a little curious about the circumstances that warrant this kind of transport arrangement."
There was no accusation in his voice, just genuine curiosity tempered with professional caution. Dorian's instincts were telling him to be wary—intelligence operatives were trained to manipulate, to gather information, to play roles. Ryla's memories suggested giving her the benefit of the doubt, engaging with genuine interest rather than suspicion.
Galen himself was just trying to figure out how to spend forty-six hours in close quarters with someone who clearly operated by a very different set of rules than he did.
He decided to start with something simple. "Where are you from originally? Before Starfleet, before..." he gestured vaguely, "all this."
Nyx perked up like someone had just offered her shore leave.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, turning in her seat to face him with both knees tucked under her, grin bright and immediate. “I was starting to think you were one of those silent-type pilots who only speaks in course corrections and oxygen levels. You have no idea how close I was to naming the nav console just for conversation.”
She tapped the panel affectionately, the tattoos across her knuckles catching the light. “I was leaning toward Percy. Feels like a Percy.”
The grin lingered, but her eyes flicked to the stars outside, softer now. “I’m from New Sydney,” she said after a moment. “Industrial sprawl, cargo docks, the whole ‘honest work’ thing… depending who you asked.”
She said it breezily, but the rhythm of her words faltered just a hair before she picked it back up. “My dad ran freighters. My brother ran everything else. I mostly ran.” A laugh followed — quick, deflecting. “Turns out I’m better at that part than either of them. You learn to keep your head down, listen for engines before footsteps. Teaches you good instincts for flying later.”
She sat back, balancing her chair on two legs, and shot him a playful sideways look. “Starfleet picked me up on a technicality. I was flying courier routes under someone else’s name when they caught me. Guess I impressed the wrong people. Or the right ones, depending on your angle.”
Nyx stretched her arms over her head and smirked. “Anyway, they offered me a uniform instead of a cell. I said sure — free meals and bigger engines. Easy choice.”
Nyx leaned forward, elbows on her knees, bright eyes fixed on him now. “What about you, Lieutenant? You strike me as one of those Academy straight-A, ‘yes, sir, warp-core-field-theory’ types. You ever steal anything fun, or just hearts and commendations?”
She grinned again—wide, teasing, and completely at ease now that the silence had been broken.
Galen listened to Nyx's story with carefully maintained neutrality, but internally he felt a flicker of disappointment settle in his chest. Recruited off the street. Not the Academy. Not the traditional path of discipline, training, and rigorous evaluation that shaped officers into professionals who understood the weight of the uniform they wore.
She'd been offered a choice between Starfleet and a prison cell, and she'd picked the one with better meals and bigger engines.
Dorian's instincts bristled at that—Marines earned their place through blood, sweat, and uncompromising standards. Ryla's memories were more sympathetic, recognizing that unconventional paths sometimes produced valuable results. But Galen himself couldn't quite shake the sense that something was fundamentally off about someone who wore the uniform not because they'd earned it through years of dedication, but because it was preferable to incarceration.
He adjusted their warp trajectory slightly, giving himself a moment to formulate his response. When he spoke, his tone was measured, professional—neither warm nor cold.
"I wouldn't say I stole anything," Galen said, a faint hint of dry humor creeping into his voice despite himself. "Though I suppose that depends on your perspective."
He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the helm. "I'm from Trill. Born in 2370 to atmospheric engineers—both of them very much the 'follow the rules, work hard, serve with honor' types. I was accepted as a Symbiont Initiate when I was young and went to Starfleet Academy to study stellar cartography and helm operations. The plan was simple: complete my Initiate training, serve Starfleet, eventually receive a symbiont when the Symbiosis Commission deemed me ready."
His jaw tightened slightly, and he could feel the familiar weight of old frustration pressing against his thoughts. "That plan changed in 2392, during my fourth year at the Academy. I was on a field study assignment aboard the USS Majestic when another host—Dorian Trellis, a former Starfleet Marine—had a fatal shuttle accident. The Trellis symbiont needed a compatible host immediately, and I was the only Trill within transport range."
"The Symbiosis Commission gave me eighteen hours of preparation before the emergency joining. I was still three years away from completing my Initiate training." His voice carried a trace of bitterness now, carefully controlled but present. "So no, Ensign, I'm not exactly the 'straight-A, yes-sir' type anymore. The Academy was straightforward. What came after... less so."
There was a long pause, and then he added, almost as an afterthought, "The Trellis symbiont is 151 years old. Three hosts, including me. Dorian—my predecessor—served in some of the worst ground combat of the Dominion War and never sought treatment for his PTSD. So now I carry those memories, along with everything else."
Galen didn't mention the sleepless nights, the flashbacks, the anger at the Symbiosis Commission, or the fact that he'd been in a holodeck at three in the morning fighting holographic Jem'Hadar just hours before this flight. That wasn't small talk. That was the kind of information you didn't share with an intelligence operative you'd just met—especially one who'd been recruited off the street instead of earning her way through proper channels.
"I suppose we're both a bit unconventional in our own ways. You chose Starfleet over a cell. I had Starfleet choose me before I was ready." He said he turned back to the navigation console.
Nyx listened without fidgeting for once, eyes on the stars while he talked. When he finished, she let out a small breath.
“Okay—first thing? ‘Chose Starfleet over a cell’ is a fun headline, but it leaves out the footnotes,” she said, tone easy, not prickly. “Outreach program first. Year of unlearning bad habits, learning better ones. Then four years at the Academy like everybody else—midterms, sims, demerits, the whole buffet. It wasn’t just a plea deal. It was work.” A quick grin. “Hard work. I’m weird, not lazy.”
She tipped her head, neon ends brushing her collar. “Second thing: you are officially the first joined Trill I’ve met, and I have questions. Friendly ones.”
She counted off on tattooed knuckles, half-teasing, half-earnest:
“Do you…feel them as voices or vibes? Like, is Dorian a radio station you can tune to, or more like muscle memory with opinions? Do you dream in other people’s camera angles? Ever crave a food you used to hate because some previous you loved it? And does the symbiont have a favourite song, because if so I will absolutely make a playlist for both of you.”
Nyx settled back into the co-pilot’s seat, voice dropping to something more companionable. “For what it’s worth, you read very ‘meant to be here’ at the helm. The rest… doesn’t make you less regulation. Just more… layered.”
She angled the seat a touch toward him, eyes curious rather than prying. “If I go too far, say ‘fence’ and I’ll stop. Otherwise, forty-six hours is a long time and I like learning the people I’m trusting with my life.”
A Joint Post By
Captain Jelane 'Firefly' Shiqwue
Commander Air Group, 2738th Marine Fighter Squadron
Empok Nor
Ensign Nyx Calder
Chief Flight Control Officer, USS Valiant
Lieutenant Junior Grade Galen Trelis
Chief Flight Control Officer, USS Pioneer
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