The newly-commissioned Ensign Tallera watched from her window seat on the Starfleet transport shuttle as the other passengers made their way aboard. 

In truth, she wasn’t just excited to get onto her first starship assignment, but to leave this planet in particular as well. While the Federation acclimatization training she’d undergone at the academy there had been interesting enough, she had absolutely no love for the locals. She’d read about the large-scale opposition to romulan refugees early on in her stay there, and from then on had had difficulty looking at the people of Mellstoxx III with anything less than derision. Of course, given that said people were mostly betazoids, pretty much all of them could tell she felt that way, and as such had no desire to treat her particularly well, either. Tallera supposed she couldn’t blame them for that, at the very least.

Fittingly, most of the people boarding the transport were betazoid civilians, as it seemed this wasn’t a particularly high-traffic time for Starfleet members to head to that gigantic starbase hanging above the planet. A pair of bolian non-coms who seemed to be romantically involved had sat down a few rows behind her, but everyone else had been regular people, probably on business trips or something. Well, whatever the Federation equivalent of a business trip was. She still didn’t exactly understand how their economy worked.

Just as Tallera was happily anticipating a flight without a seat mate, a wiry, uncharacteristically disheveled-looking vulcan tossed a bag in the overhead compartment and plopped himself down next to her.

“Greetings,” he said flatly and without eye contact as he pulled out a padd and began reading, clearly not expecting much further communication.

“Hi,” Tallera responded with a weak and slightly forced smile. At this, the vulcan raised an eyebrow and looked over at her, but didn’t exactly make eye contact. His gaze seemed to land on her forehead.

“Are you a romulan?” 

Tallera chortled. Her cousin species was every bit as tactless as she’d been told.

“Yeah. I am. Romulan Republic Exchange Officer Ensign Tallera, at your service.” Her tone came out a bit flatter and more bothered-sounding than she’d intended, but figured that a vulcan wouldn’t care. Or notice.

“Fascinating,” he replied, seeming to be studying her like he would an animal at a zoo. It made Tallera a bit uncomfortable, but she reminded herself that the vulcan probably meant no offense nor had anything nefarious on his mind. It was likely nothing more than just a culture clash. “I have never encountered one of your kind before,” he continued. “I had assumed you were a vulcan when I took this seat.”

“Well, I guess I’m kind of a vulcan. Genetically speaking.”

“Genetic drift has led most biologists to consider vulcans and romulans to be separate species. Referring to yourself as vulcan would be akin to, if you are familiar with Earth fauna, referring to a dog as a wolf.”

Tallera was familiar with that particular kind of Earth fauna, having been briefed on how culturally significant dogs are to humans during her primer on Federation species. The analogy seemed backwards, though. Wolves are a species of wild apex predators, while dogs are a domesticated, servile animal known for their complete subservience to humans. It was clear which one more closely resembled vulcans.

Ditch those snarky nationalist thoughts, Tallie, she thought. You’re better than that.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend,” she responded, figuring deference was the best option here. After all, she was the interloper. The vulcan was the one who belonged here.

“No offence was taken,” the vulcan said, cocking his head a bit as if surprised by her response. “I apologize if I gave you that impression. I understand that vulcans can often come across as blunt to more emotional species.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

They sat in silence for a bit; Tallera apathetically gazed out the window as the last few passengers boarded, the vulcan kept reading whatever was on his padd. After the last seat was taken, he stat up straighter and briefly looked around at the other passengers before turning back to Tallera.

“Based on the small amount of Federation personnel aboard this flight as well as our seemingly similar age, it is logical to assume we are here for the same reason. Were you assigned to the USS Achana?”

Tallera smirked. “Good guess. Looks like we’ll be working together.”

“That is agreeable. It will be intriguing to witness the cultural differences between our species in the setting of Starfleet service.”

“I’m glad I… intrigue you,”  Tallera responded with an expression of equal parts amusement and exasperation. “So, do you have a name?”

“Of course.”

Tallera had to resist the urge to face-palm.

“Would it not be logical to assume that I should know your name, given that we’re going to be working together?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered with a nod. “My name is Ensign Dreval. Engineering division. Specialty in damage control.”

Tallera reached over and offered him her hand. 

“Nice to meet you.” He took it, gave her a slight nod, and then shook her hand.

“And you.”

“So, do you know what class of starship the Achana is? Nobody gave me that information.”

“I do not. However, given that, at most, only four Starfleet personnel are being transported from the academy campus today, it is logical to assume that it is a rather small vessel. Most vessel departures prompt more significant Mellstoxx III-to-Starbase Bravo transit.”

Oh please, be a Defiant… Tallera thought.

“So, damage control. That’s an interesting specialization,” she asked, deciding that getting to know Dreval a little better couldn’t hurt. “What made you go with that route?”

“I was a volunteer firefighter prior to applying to Officer Candidate School, and graduated from a university on my homeworld with a degree in Engineering Technologies. Damage Control was an obvious choice, given my previous experience.”

“Wow, volunteer firefighter. And did you say OCS? You didn’t go through the Academy?” 

“I did not. I had not yet decided on a path for my life by the time university applications took place, and would likely have not been accepted by Starfleet Academy had I applied.”

“Interesting,” Tallera said with a nod. She was starting to get the hang of Dreval’s speech patterns; he may be tactless, but he seemed to speak of himself with that same level of honest bluntness as he did everyone else.

“Did you… attend a service academy amongst your people?” Dreval asked, his tone oddly uncertain.

“Yeah. Romulan Republic Naval Academy,” Tallera said, her tone warmer and more welcoming than it had been. “I was part of one of the first classes to graduate, actually.”

“Fascinating. I have much respect for the Romulan Republic. It takes a great deal of courage to form a representative government in the shadow of totalitarianism.”

“I appreciate that,” Tallera smiled. “You referred to your homeworld earlier, did you not grow up on Vulcan?”

 “No. I was born on Harmony.”

“Oh, really? What’s that planet like?”

“It is environmentally pleasant for most species, which is why it was chosen for colonization. It was originally founded by the Vulcan Science Academy…”

As the pair spoke, the shuttle gently lifted off the ground and made way to Starbase Bravo.

“Thanks,” Tallera said with a small smile as Dreval handed the ensign her bag from the shuttle’s overhead compartment, to which he responded with a nod. Despite all she’d heard about Vulcans from her own people, she couldn’t deny that she was beginning to like the guy. Everything about him was just… genuine. Romulans tended to be a bit secretive about their emotions, and while Dreval didn’t exactly have emotions,  he didn’t hide how he perceived things and he certainly didn’t lie. There didn’t seem to be any ulterior motive to anything he said, and that was enormously refreshing.

“Have you ever been to Starbase Bravo?” Dreval asked as they stepped from the shuttle onto the floor of the relatively small shuttle bay.

“Nope,” Tallera said, adjusting how her duffle bag sat on her shoulder. “Saw it on the way to Mellstoxx, but this is my first time inside any Federation starbase.”

“Then your reactions should be intriguing to observe.” 

Tallera shot him a bemused glance, which Dreval didn’t seem to register. He simply followed the crowd into a turbolift, with Tallera following him in turn.

When the turbolift doors opened after a brief trip, her jaw dropped.

The station’s promenade was massive. It looked like she was looking upon a mix of a city, a mall, and an outdoor park, with the ceiling dozens of meters above them. Shops, restaurants, utility stations, and relaxation areas stretched out in seemingly all directions in front of her; so much so that she was nearly overcome with vertigo upon remembering that she was in fact on a station and not on a planet.

“There… there’s so much wasted space…” Tallera finally managed to mutter, to which Dreval raised an eyebrow.

“Wasted space?”

Tallera gave her head a small shake. “Yes, uh, sorry. That sounded odd. I grew up on refugee ships fleeing the Romulus supernova, and they were… very crowded. It’s still weird to see something so open on a spacecraft.”

Tallera couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anger at the Federation. They can build something like this, with all its grandeur and luxuries, but they couldn’t be bothered to help save her people? Even if their initial rescue fleet got blown up by a bunch of angry robots, how could a civilization with such endless wealth not be able to do more? Hundreds of refugees could have lived comfortably in just the area she saw before her.

A few of the Betazoids that had traveled on the shuttle with her gave Tallera a suspicious gaze, seeming to pick up on her suppressed spite. She had the urge to shoot them obscene gestures as they dispersed to wherever their journeys led. Tallera knew prejudice was heavily stigmatized within Starfleet, but she was quickly developing a prominent distaste for the nosy empaths.

“I am sorry you had to deal with such tribulations,” Dreval spoke up after a few moments. His tone was more timid than it had been, as if he hadn’t been sure what to say.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tallera replied with a sigh. “Let’s just go find the Achana. We’re supposed to head to a departure kiosk, right?”

“Yes. There’s one over by the fountain,” he motioned, then immediately made off towards it.

A fountain on a Space Station, Tallera mused as she trudged after him. These people really are as decadent as the old propaganda films claimed.

She peered at the kiosk’s console over Dreval’s shoulder as he typed away, excitement brewing in her over what class she’d be serving on. Despite her issues with the Federation, she’d always had an interest in their military vessels.

Not military, she reminded herself. Whatever Starfleet pretended it was instead of a military.

“Oh, interesting,” Dreval stated flatly. “The USS Achana is a Raven-class.” 

“A what?”

Dreval stepped aside to show her the image on the console, and after a brief look at the Achana’s information and photograph she shot him a heavy-lidded stare.

“That’s a runabout.”

“No, it is a corvette.”

“On New Romulus, that’s a runabout.”

“Within the Federation, it is a corvette.”

Tallera looked back at the image on the console and scoffed. The Federation must really not want to publicize the presence of a Republic exchange officer, she thought. And here I was hoping for a Defiant-class…

Lost in thought about what such a tiny craft would even be doing, Tallera didn’t notice Dreval turn around until the Vulcan spoke up.

“Hello, Commander.”

Tallera immediately spun around and found herself face-to-face with a human female officer bearing the pips of a Lieutenant Commander. Tallera’s Republic Academy training jumped into effect without her conscious thought really even taking notice; she quickly snapped to attention and gave the Romulan across-the-chest salute, only to immediately remember that Starfleet didn’t even have a salute.

“At ease, Ensign Tallera,” the Commander replied with a chuckle. “No need for such formalities here.” She was a rather tall woman, roughly the same height as Dreval, with a dark tan complexion and a slightly prominent nose. Her accent sounded similar to one of the old Enterprise crewmembers she’d seen interviews with during her Starfleet acclimatization training, but she couldn’t remember which. One of the two men who sat at the forward consoles, she thought.

“My apologies, Sir,” Tallera responded, inwardly scolding herself for making such a stupid first impression. 

“No apologies necessary. My name is Jimena Zelenko, I’ll be your commanding officer on the Achana. Your name is Tallera, correct?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And I see you’ve already met our friend Mr Dreval.”

Tallera turned to look incredulously at Dreval before looking back at Zelenko. “You’ve… already met?”

“Yes. Commander Zelenko was the executive officer of the vessel on which I performed my cadet cruise.”

Tallera briefly felt the urge to ask Dreval why he hadn’t seen fit to tell her that he knew their commander; after all, the name of their commanding officer had been known to both of them since they’d been given the name of their ship. It then occurred to her that she hadn’t specifically asked him whether or not he knew her, so he’d have had no reason to mention it.

More Vulcan culture clashes, Tallera thought. Maybe I’ll figure out how to communicate with this guy before I go back to Mol’Rihan.

“Dreval, would you mind giving Ensign Tallera and I a few minutes?” Zelenko asked. “I’d like to get to know my new officer, and I’m afraid I already know you.”

Dreval nodded in affirmation, then simply wandered away as Zelenko ushered Tallera to a nearby table. Tallera deeply inhaled and kept her best posture, determined to make her subsequent impressions better than her first.

Tallera anxiously drummed her fingers on the underside of her chair as Commander Zelenko fidgeted with a padd. It had only been a few moments since they’d sat down across from each other at the fountainside table on Starbase Bravo’s promenade, but the brief silence already felt like an eternity to her.

“So…” Zelenko finally said with a slight smile. “You’re certainly one of the more unique junior officers in Bravo Fleet, Tallera of New Romulus.”

“I’m not trying to be unique, sir,” Tallera replied. “I’m just here to do my duty.”

Zelenko nodded and her smile shifted from playful to seemingly more genuine. “That’s a healthy way of looking at your position, Ensign. Though the duty placed upon you is already a good bit more than that of most officers your age. Serving a different nation than the one you trained with, alongside species you’ve never met before and around next to none of your own kind. That’s a lot to put on the shoulders of a 22-year-old fresh out of academy.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, sir.”

Zelenko looked at her with a knowing gaze.

“I’m sure it’s not, but you can drop the bearing and speak freely, ensign. I’m here to get to know you, not interrogate you.”

Tallera relaxed her posture a bit and strummed her fingers on the chair again, not sure exactly where the “military” bearing of Starfleet began and ended. 

“Here,” Zelenko said, handing the padd to her with a text document opened. “This is something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

Tallera looked at the document, and raised an eyebrow at the familiar title gracing the top of the page.

A Wolf in the Henhouse: The lingering effects of the battle of Wolf-359 on the philosophy of Federation starship design

“This is one of my senior papers,” Tallera said with an amused yet nervous grin.

“That it is. It was one of the files in the dossier the Republic sent us about you.”

“O-oh. I… didn’t know they sent you this. I didn’t exactly write it for a Federation audience.”

“That much is clear,” the Commander chuckled. “I doubt a Starfleet Academy professor would look very kindly on a paragraph opening with ‘Casualties aside, the catastrophe of Wolf-359 may have been the most fortunate thing to happen to Federation vessel design since the Phoenix’s maiden voyage.’”

Tallera winced. Stupid, needlessly incendiary phrasing. Even beyond the callous wording, it just sounded juvenile.

“I didn’t… um…”

“Don’t worry, Ensign. I’m not one to clutch pearls,” Zelenko said with a reassuring hand gesture.  “I’m quite glad your superiors saw fit to send this, it’s a rare perspective on our vessels and a great way for me to see how you think. And you’re clearly quite well-informed on Federation ships.”

“Thank you,” Tallera responded somewhat awkwardly. “I’ve always found your starships to be very interesting.”

“In what ways?”

“Well, you approach things in a… different way than we do. In everything, not just ship design. And all of that, er, everything is reflected in your ship design.”

Get yourself together, damnit, she mentally scolded herself. You sound like an idiot.

“What sorts of everything?” Zelenko said, her tone calm and reassuring. Tallera appreciated that, but hated that the Commander felt the need to take such a tone with her.

“Um, take the Defiant as an example,” she said after a deep breath. “As I’m sure you’re aware since you read my essay, I’m a big fan of the class.”

“Yes, I gathered as much.”

“Well, that’s basically the first battleship the Federation designed, right? And instead of a gigantic, imposing behemoth like Negh’vars, Dominion motherships, or our D’deredexes, you built this tiny little slab of weapons and engines wrapped around a power core big enough to power a Galaxy-class. So you get something the size of a Bird-of-Prey that can go toe-to-toe with other powers’ flagships. That’s something only the Federation would design, and something maybe only the Federation could build, too.”

“Why wouldn’t your people try to design something like that?”

“Because for us, for the last few centuries, it’s not just about having power, it’s about looking like you have power. That’s why D’deridex is so massive; it didn’t need to be that big, we just wanted to have a bigger stick than our neighbors. That’s also why it’s just about the only ship we used to interact with foreigners back then. When a D’deridex decloaks, it sends a message. But with the Defiant… the Federation didn’t care about looking powerful. It cared about power.”

Zelenko nodded along with Tallera’s words, seemingly contemplating her points.

“And you think this came about as a result of Wolf 359?” the Commander asked.

“Sort of. That way of approaching things feels like it’s always been there, particularly with the less, er, glamorous Federation ships. When you get to things Galaxy, well, that’s a different story, but Wolf-359 is when the Federation stopped building glamor ships and really started building what it does best: workhorse vessels. Defiant, Saber, Steamrunner, Akira, those are all brilliant designs, even if I think that last one’s a little overrated. Every one of those vessels is what it is, and doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Those ships won the Dominion War. You went a little too far with Prometheus, as I went into detail in the essay, but, well. There you go. That’s my take on your ships, I apologize for being a bit long-winded. And I, er, hope I didn’t offend you anywhere.” Tallera strummed her fingers again.

“No need for apology, Ensign,” Zelenko said. “Thank you for sharing your views. It was very enlightening.” She held out her hand, and Tallera returned her padd. “You may be interested to know that I held my first bridge position on a Defiant.”

“Really?” Tallera asked, eyes lighting up.

“Yes indeed. I was a tactical officer on the USS Piorun. The bunks were cramped, there was no privacy, and there was no way to have fun other than play cards… but I loved that ship. I loved how just being near other vessels made their crews feel safer. Defiants really are something special.”

“That’s… all I’ve wanted to do in the service, sir. Help my people feel safe.”

Zelenko nodded.

“I know being so far from them must be hard, Tallera. Something tells me that being here probably wasn’t something you picked for yourself.”

“Well, that essay was probably what did it,” Tallera replied. “Nobody else in that class wrote about the Federation.”

“I’m sure they picked you for more reasons than that,” Zelenko chuckled. “But no matter why you’re here, I am happy to have you on my crew.” She reached out a hand across the table, which Tallera tentatively shook. 

“I’m happy to be here, sir.”

“Good.” She motioned over towards a smoothie shop a few dozen yards away, where a familiar Vulcan could be seen slurping up a green concoction Tallera didn’t recognize. “Now go fetch Dreval. We have a ship to inspect.”

“Yes, sir,” Tallera smiled, then eagerly made her way over to her friend.

Zelenko smiled back, then gazed down at the essay on her padd, and her smile slightly softened. While she hadn’t brought it up to the young Ensign, she’d noticed something extremely telling about her essay, which meeting Tallera in person had only further reinforced. To the young Ensign, everything was viewed through the lens of power.

“Tallera,” Dreval began after slurping a bit from his smoothie straw after the Romulan had made her way over to him. “Something occurred to me about our previous interaction as I was here consuming this smoothie.”

“Oh?” Tallera said with a smirk.

“Your tone and body language when inspecting the Achana’s information was rather indicative of disappointment.”

“Well…” Tallera chuckled, then chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment. “You have to admit, it isn’t exactly an impressive ship.”

“It is not. But I believe you are missing a key aspect of understanding the Raven class and what the Federation uses it for.”

“Which is…?”

“Ravens are often used as short-term acclimatization vessels for an officer about to receive his or her first large-scale command. Given Lieutenant Commander Zelenko’s rank and previous role as First Officer on an Excelsior class, it is quite likely that the purpose of the Achana is exactly that.”

“Meaning, we won’t have her as a CO for long?”

“No. Meaning you and I have been chosen to be in a situation where we will be building a personal working relationship with a Commanding Officer who we will soon accompany to a much more prestigious assignment.”

“Ohhhhhhhh…” Tallera nodded, eyes widening in comprehension. 

“As such, you need not interpret this assignment as a slight. It is anything but.”

Tallera looked at the Vulcan with a bemused yet gracious smile.

“Thank you, Dreval.” 

“Of course.”

“Well then,” Tallera said, giving him a hearty pat on the back. “Let’s go meet our ship.”

Captain’s Log, Jimena Zelenko, Stardate 54868.6

And so begins our first morning aboard the USS Achana. The crew spent much of the past two days settling into the vessel, learning how best to keep her in top form and how to work alongside each other. After a late-afternoon castoff and a short rendezvous with the USS Charybdis yesterday, we are making our way deep into the Paulson Nebula.

Our mission is simple for the time being: operating alongside a flotilla of four other Ravens, we are to inspect worlds that were ravaged by the ion storm and, should they be found suitable, deliver supplies needed for re-habitation. The Achana should arrive at a moon known as Szerenth III, our first destination, within a few hours. While inflicted by some of the nerves one would expect when leading an operation for the first time, I remain confident in my abilities – or, at least, I fake it well enough to fool myself.

Tallera’s eyes fluttered open as her alarm went off. With a yawn, she rubbed her eyes, flicked on the lights, and stretched, her shoulders popping as she reached her arms back behind her head.

Fvadt, she couldn’t believe how big this room was. Tallera had assumed that the generous personal quarters she’d been allowed on Mellstoxx and SBB had only been that size due to being planetbound and on a space station, respectively, but this was clearly not the case. Even this tiny little corvette had rooms that put any Romulan junior officer quarters to shame. She even had her own bathroom.

Speaking of which, Tallera hopped from her bed and gathered her uniform, hoping that a morning sonic shower would wash away the lingering guilt she had from serving in such luxury. Thankfully, the previous days had been quite busy, and she’d had little time to ruminate on that. She’d met the remaining three members of the Achana’s crew; the first officer was a stuffy Caitian male that, like Dreval, seemed to know Commander Zelenko from a previous posting. The science officer was a chatty Human male that seemed a bit exhausting to interact with, and the crew medic was an intimidatingly attractive Andorian woman that didn’t look much older than Tallera herself was.

Before long, Tallera, clad in her tactical-red uniform, was stepping into the ship lounge for breakfast. The science officer and medic were already there playing some kind of game involving bumping balls around a table with sticks. They didn’t work on quite the same shift as she did; the pair must’ve been on some kind of break.

“Morning!” the science officer called out to Tallera, the medic giving her a friendly wave as well.

“Good morning, Lieutenant Travers,” she responded with a polite nod. “Lieutenant Vahl.”

“I didn’t think your shift started for another half an hour,” science officer Travers continued with his distinctly twangy accent, spinning one of the game’s sticks in his hand as he spoke. “Early warbird gets the worm, huh?”

“Sir?”

“Sorry, human idiom, featuring a bad pun. And no need to call me sir, that just makes me feel old.”

“Understood, Lieutenant.” With that, Tallera made her way over to the replicators and flipped through the menu. They didn’t have any conventional Romulan cuisine, but Zelenko had recommended something called a breakfast burrito to her, and she’d made that her morning regular.

She was only moderately surprised when Travers made his way over to the table as she was eating.

“Hey, Ensign. So, me and Rysana are planning on getting a few more games of pool in. Since you’re up so early, you want to join us? There’s always room for one more.”

“There’s a… pool on this ship?” Tallera asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, no,” Travers responded with a friendly laugh. “Pool is what that game we’re playing is called. It takes some practice, but anyone can play it.”

“Yeah, let me train you, and it won’t be two shifts before you’re kicking Vic’s ass,” Lieutenant JG Vahl called out. 

Vic personal name, Travers family name, Tallera thought to herself. Not many Romulans had two names, and she was still sort of getting the hang of them. Rysana personal name, Vahl family name.

“Uh, no, thank you, Sir. I mean, Lieutenant,” Tallera said between bites. “I’m trying to get to my shift early.”

“Suit yourself,” Travers said with a nod, then returned to his game with the very very pretty Andorian.

“Ensign Tallera, reporting for shift,” Tallera announced as she strode onto the bridge, snapping to attention as she spoke. Zelenko was already there, rather casually manning the conn position with a mug in one hand and padd in the other.

“At ease. Good morning, Tallera,” Zelenko turned and gave the ensign a warm smile. “Would you like to take over the conn?”

“Happy to, Commander.” 

Zelenko stood and spun the chair around for Tallera before taking a seat at one of the auxiliary consoles.

As was practice for assuming control of a position, Tallera immediately went about a systems check, with everything rapidly coming back as a-okay. Yes, the ship was still on-course, arriving at Szerenth III in a little over two hours. Yes, the warp core was purring happily. Yes, the weapon systems were ready to go hot at a moment’s notice.

Raven corvettes were almost blindingly simple to operate. The conn position was really the only one of absolute necessity on the bridge, with the other seats mostly there to take over control of certain aspects of the ship if the mission required it.

“So, Miss Tallera,” Zelenko called out from her station a few meters away. “How have you been settling in?”

“To the ship, or Starfleet life in general?” Damnit. Stupid question, Tallie. When a commander asks how you are, you say ‘good!’

“Either. I enjoy hearing about your perspective, it’s naturally quite unique.”

“I’ve been settling in well, Commander,” Tallera said with her standard  polite, deferential tone. “Nothing negative to report.”

Zelenko nodded before returning to her console.

Tallera considered the exchange for a moment. Had Zelenko expected her to talk more? Or would doing so be impolite? In retrospect, Tallera doubted the latter would be the case. The Federation’s starfleet had proven itself far more laissez-faire with rank interactions than the Republic’s… and after all, Dreval had said one of the benefits of serving on a Raven was getting to know superior officers.

“Commander,” Tallera spoke up, having thought of a subject to begin a conversation. “Are Human names organized with the family name first, or the personal name first? Apologies for the question, most Romulans only have one name.”

“I feel like I’ve been saying this often: an apology is not needed, Tallera,” Zelenko said with that same stoic yet friendly smile. “As for names, it depends on the cultures that the particular Human came from. Most don’t only have two names, either. My full name is actually Jimena Ivanovna Zelenko Garcia. That includes a personal name, two family names, and a patronymic.”

Tallera must have looked at her with an expression resembling terror, because the commander let out a slight chuckle. “Don’t worry, Ensign. You don’t need to remember my full name.”

‘That’s… good to hear,” Tallera said with a small sigh.

“Most humans write their name as personal first, family second in Starfleet for simplicity’s sake,” Zelenko continued. “That’s generally how translators interpret most alien languages with two names as well. Bajorans are the major exception.”

“Got it. Thank you, Sir.”

“Of course. Feel free to come to me if you have any questions about Humans, I’ll be happy to answer. I’m sure Lieutenant Travers would as well.”

“Well, I’d probably get more than just an answer from Travers…” she joked, then immediately regretted it. What is wrong with you, you can’t mock a superior officer to your Commander!

To her surprise, Zelenko laughed. 

“Yeah, Vic’s a bit of a chatterbox, isn’t he?” she said. “Though to his credit, it doesn’t seem to be out of egotism. If Travers is talking your ears off, it’s because he’s curious about you.”

“I’ll try to remember that, Sir,” Tallera said with a smile and a slight nod.

The next hour or so was spent mostly silently working and monitoring. A few words of conversation were shared between her and Zelenko on occasion, until she eventually went on break and was replaced by Lieutenant S’Geras, the stuffy Caitian XO. He seemed to have no desire to chat whatsoever, which suited Tallera just fine. 

After the second hour had passed, S’Geras leaned over the ship’s intercom. 

“All hands, be advised: the Achana will be entering orbit of Szerenth III in five minutes. Should the moon be found inhabitable, we will be heading groundside. Begin final preparations for landing and ops.”

It was less than a minute before Zelenko and Travers stepped onto the bridge, the latter still straightening his science-blue blouse as he sat down at the science console. 

“All planetary sensors ready to go,” he chirped.

“Ensign, are you comfortable taking her down if we need to land?” Zelenko asked as she stood in the bridge’s center, hands on her hips.

“Yes, Sir.” Tallera was no flight control officer, but this little ship was no harder to drive than a shuttle.

Within moments, the Achana dropped out of warp, a greyish-green moon zooming into view. A massive blue gas giant took up all space on the viewscreen behind it.

“Hell of a view,” Travers said with a whistle.

“The sensors, please, Lieutenant,” smirked Zelenko.

“Righto, sorry Sir.” Travers plucked away at the console, and Tallera saw indicators on her own console that the sensor suite was hard at work, probing every detail of the moon it could find.

“Biosphere’s looking green across the board, sir,” Travers announced. “The terraformed atmo held up just fine against the storm. No unusual radiation, seismic activity, or magnetic field fluctuations. Perfectly habitable. Found us a nice landing spot near the main settlement, too.”

“Excellent work, LT,” Zelenko said with a smile and a nod. “Ensign Tallera: bring us down.”

“With pleasure, Sir.”

Prepping Szerenth III for re-habitation was not a particularly complicated assignment.

To Tallera’s surprise, the most complicated thing she’d had to do was land the Achana, and the ship was just about able to land itself with its main computer. Once that was done, she’d mostly spent her time with the rest of the crew unloading supplies like emergency power generators or industrial replicators to help the colony get back on its feet. She, Dreval, and the Caitian executive officer spent a bit of time hiking to the colony’s main power reactor to restart the thing, which was a welcome little distraction. Even if her role of “armed escort” was rather superfluous in a city without any people or dangerous animals.

To see a rather large-scale settlement entirely abandoned was an exceptionally unique and eerie sight to see, which Tallera had found some enjoyment in. It almost didn’t feel real – the inhuman stillness and emptiness of the settlement made her feel like she was on the set of a horror movie or something. Even better, neither of her compatriots seemed particularly interested in small talk.

After the long day of moving stuff around, Tallera happily found herself in the Achana’s aft lounge with Dreval, the room’s large windows offering a stunning view of the gas giant-dominated nighttime sky.

“One green smoothie, as ordered,” she said with a smirk as she returned from the replicator, plopping herself down on a couch next to the Vulcan and handing him the beverage.

“Thank you. What did you elect to drink?”

“Something called an ‘Imperial Pale Ale’. Human-made, I think. It was one of the only alcoholic drinks I could find where I knew what every word in the name meant.” She swirled the yellowish-brown liquid in her pint glass. Why were Human beers such gross colors? 

“Our replicators do have Romulan Ale varieties, if you are interested.”

“Well, you have one variety,” Tallera playfully scoffed. “And it’s just labeled ‘Romulan Ale.’ How am I supposed to know what that means? We make all kinds of different ales.” She took a swig from her pint glass, and slightly scrunched up her face. 

“Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s just hoppier than I expected. It’s not bad, but it’ll be an adjustment.”

“As I understand it, lager-type beers are the nearest Human analogue to Romulan Ales. The name ale is believed to be a slight mistranslation by both parties.”

“I’ll try that next, I guess. How do you know so much about beer? I didn’t think Vulcans drink.”

“I took a Beers of the Galaxy class as a university elective.”

“They offered that at a Vulcan college?”

“It was considered to be a practical way to expand one’s understanding of other cultures.”

That prompted a laugh from Tallera.

“You know Dreval, there’s something I don’t understand about your species,” she continued.

“I will provide an explanation if I am able.”

Tallera inhaled slightly.

“Why don’t Vulcans… just run the Federation?”

“I do not understand the context of your question.” Dreval said with a raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, compare yourselves to almost every other species in the Federation. You’re stronger, faster, smarter, and you live almost twice as long.”

“We are not smarter. We simply place a higher emphasis on rational problem solving and have a brain more suited to mathematical calculations.”

“…That’s functionally the same thing as what I said.”

“Not to us, it is not.”

“Whatever. What I mean is, in almost every way, you are superior to those around you. Yet your species is perfectly fine playing second-fiddle to Humans in Starfleet.”

Dreval sat in silence for a few moments, seemingly in contemplation.

“Do you believe yourself to be equally superior to non-Vulcan Federation species?” he finally asked.

“I… what? That’s not what I-”

“It is not, but it is a simple extrapolation to make based on your statement. Romulans share over 99.9% of their DNA with Vulcans, and share nearly all of the traits you listed as well. Therefore, it would be logical to assume that you think you stand alongside us in superiority over our fellow crewmates.”

“That… wasn’t really what I meant.”

“It was what you implied. Would you choose to save the life of a Vulcan or Romulan over that of a Human or Andorian?”

“Yes,” Tallera said after chewing on her cheek in thought for a moment. “That’s just basic, logical math, right? We live longer, so when you save someone like us, you’re saving more life.”

“What if it was an older Vulcan and a younger Andorian? Or if it was a group of Humans whose combined potential life expectancies was greater than that of a comparatively smaller group of Romulans?”

“Oh, come on Dreval, that’s just splitting hairs.”

“It is never splitting hairs to analyze the logic behind one’s ethical beliefs.”

“Whatever,” Tallera said softly and with a bit of a scoff.

“Additionally, when you state that Vulcans could run Starfleet, what manner in which do you see us acquiring this state of leadership? Are you implying that we could do so by force?”

“Well… not necessarily, but, I mean, you probably could. I’ve studied Vulcan history. Even after Surak’s revolution, you can still be conniving and pragmatic.”

Dreval nodded along as she spoke, then briefly remained silent.

“We do not assume control of the Federation because we have no desire to do so,” he finally stated, his tone surprisingly firm.

“Why not?”

“Because all species within the Federation are dedicated to the betterment of ourselves and those around us. Most of us have left behind such simplistic in-group, out-group mentalities. We do not see the galaxy as something to dominate or fight over. It is simply something to exist in harmony with. It is rather alarming that you do seem to see it as something to dominate.”

“Excuse me?”

“I had not considered the cultural ramifications that Romulans such as yourself must experience after generations of complicity in a totalitarian regime. It is logical to deduce that those who have only exercised the power of a boot will only truly comprehend the power of a boot.”

“Wha- I never knew the Romulan Star Empire!” Tallera said firmly, angrily slamming her pint glass onto the coffee table. “You’ve got some nerve saying that to a Republic Navy Officer. Our entire purpose is to fend off people that want to step on us, we’ve been fighting the Empire since we were founded!

“You did not know the Star Empire, but all those who taught you did. How many of your academy professors served in the Imperial Romulan Navy?”

Tallera stood up from the couch, scowling at Dreval.

“It’s no wonder my ancestors preferred moving planets to living with Vulcans,” she stated, nostrils flared. “You can have the rest of my beer. Maybe write a paper to your university professor, I’m sure they don’t have to worry about things like orbital bombardments from an Empire invasion, or Free State terrorists blowing themselves up in your town square.” She stormed out of the lounge without another word.

Tallera laid prone on her bed, fuming. 

How dare that Vulcan bastard try to compare her Republic to the Star Empire. She’d wanted to rip his scruffy head off as he’d sat there judging her entire nation from one completely innocuous question. 

I bet that’s how all these Federation types are, she thought. Sitting around in their comfy, private rooms, judging people for having to fight for a tenth of the luxuries that they don’t even notice they have. Hell, the fact that she had the privacy to throw herself her own little pity-party was just further proof of Starfleet’s cushy life of luxury.

Tallera rolled onto her back and sighed, staring up at the dimmed light in the center of her ceiling. She missed home. She missed the Republic fleet and its cramped warbirds that were maintained with whatever they could find. She missed staying up late with her best friend Veri until a Sublieutenant would yell at them to turn the lights off. She missed not feeling guilty every time she took a private shower.

Of course, longing for the familiar wasn’t just what was eating her up inside. One of the things that bothered her most was how much of Dreval’s words reminded her of something her favorite professor had said.

July 19, 2399

New Romulus Naval Academy

“Antecenturion Tallera, reporting as ordered, Sir.”

“At ease, Antecenturion,” Commander Ayenak said to Tallera, motioning to a chair across from his seat at his desk. “Take a seat. I’m guessing you have some questions.”

Tallera did as she was told, still maintaining a stiff, professional posture even though her mind felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

“I would never be so bold to question my assignment, Sir.”

“I know you wouldn’t, kid,” he said with an ever-so-slight sigh. Kid? Ayenak had never called her that during a lecture. “But also I know this is a little different than what you were expecting.”

“I’m… just a little confused, Sir. We learned in our classes that Officer Exchange Programs are usually done with senior-grade Officers. I’m… I don’t understand what the Federation would want with an E1. I’m a blank slate.”

“A blank slate is a good way of describing what you are,” Ayenak nodded. “And it’s why we’re sending you to the Federation.”

“Sir?”

Ayenak took on a melancholic look and rested his elbows on his desk.

“I never told the class about the first time I saw action in the Navy, did I?”

“No, Sir.”

“It was a little less than a century ago,” he said with a resigned sigh. “On Armirus.”

“Isn’t that a Star Empire mining world, Sir?” Tallera asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes it is, Antecenturion. My Warbird was sent to quell a Reman slave uprising there.”

Tallera furrowed her brow, a twinge of nausea swelling in her gut. She’d attended academy with Remans; her best friend was a Reman. That they had been so thoroughly subjugated by her own people for so long was still a thought that cut her to her core.

“When we arrived, the Remans had already killed all the Imperial personnel at the mining site. To my Commander, that meant that we didn’t need to worry about collateral damage. So I was allowed to watch from the bridge as disruptor beams turned over 5,000 Reman men, women, and children to ash. They thought it was good to let some junior officers see things like that. And we didn’t even think about it, what we’d seen done. It was just another day in the life of service, right?”

Tallera clenched her jaw and swallowed hard, pretty sure most of the blood had drained from her face.

“Why are you telling me this, Sir?” she said softly.

“Because everyone that taught you what you know has a story like that,” Ayenak continued. “Because that’s what the Star Empire was, and that’s what all of us grew up with. To question orders was treason. To think too hard about orders was treason. To extinguish thousands of souls for daring to want a better life for their children was just honorable duty to the Empire. We may have grown as people, learned the value of sentient life since then, but the things that we were taught in our academy? They linger, like a sickness in our minds. Hearing junior officers question orders bothers us. Taking time to think long and hard about the ethical considerations of our actions doesn’t come easy to us. And if it doesn’t come easy to us, how can we really, truly make it come easy to you?”

“I’m not sure I understand, Sir.”

“Tallera, everyone here did our damndest to give you the best Naval education we could give you. Your generation – people that grew up without the shadow of the old regime – are a beacon of hope for a democratic Romulan people. But we just don’t know how much of the old Empire ways we let leak into your minds. And we truly have no way to know.”

Ayenak placed a Federation combadge on the desk between them.

“They don’t have that problem,” he said firmly with a mix of admiration and subtle envy. “The Federation Starfleet has been a shining star of democracy for generations upon generations. None of their officers have put down slave rebellions. None of them have fired on civilians to keep them in line.”

“They didn’t help us evacuate Romulus.”

 “No, they did not, and they will bear the shame of that for as long as the Federation exists. They are not perfect. But they are a long-established symbol of freedom to trillions within this galaxy. So, we want some of our best and brightest young people working with them. Learning what service looks like in a long lived, healthy democracy that we aspire to emulate. And maybe even un-learning some of the things we taught you that we didn’t even know were wrong.

Tallera put her pillow over her head and groaned. Damnit damnit damnit, she thought, then stepped out of bed, fixed her hair in the mirror, and strode down the hall to knock on Dreval’s door.

When his door swished open, he still had the smoothie in his hand.

“Hello Tallera,” he said. “You were correct. The ale was too hoppy.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled.

“Additionally, I would like to apologize for-” 

Tallera held up a hand to silence him.

“Nope. No apology. Because you were right.”

Dreval shot her with a confused, inquisitive look.

“That is not what I expected you to say when you knocked on my door.”

“Well, it’s true. The way I see the world is clouded by the centuries my people spent serving a totalitarian, xenophobic police state. And that’s why I’m here.”

“That is why you’re outside my door?”

“No,” she replied. “That’s why I’m here in Starfleet. The Republic wants officers that understand how a force for good in the galaxy works so I can help make the Republic into that, too. So, the next time I say something too Empire-y, call me out like you did today.”

“I… can do that,” he said, still seeming a bit taken aback.

“I would kind of prefer that you not insult the Romulan Republic, though.”

“That is what I was going to apologize to you about.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

The pair stood in silence for a few moments.

“I think Travers and Vahl are playing that swim game in the central lounge,” Tallera spoke up. “Want to join them?”

“Swim?”

“Yeah, the game with all the numbered balls.”

“That game is called pool.”

“Same difference,” Tallera said with a smile. “So… want to join them?”

“That would be agreeable,” Dreval nodded, and the pair made their way down the hall.

“Oh, hey,” Tallera said, scratching at the back of her neck as she walked. “Back on New Romulus, my friends call me Tallie. You can call me that if you want.”

“I can do that. However, I do not personally have a diminutive familiar version of my own name.”

“That’s fine,” Tallera laughed. 

“So I suppose we are friends, now.”

Tallera looked up at Dreval, smiled, and affectionately punched his arm.

“Seems like it.”