“The average man will bristle if you say his father was dishonest, but he will brag a little if he discovers that his great-grandfather was a Pirate.” – Sir Bernard Williams

USS Blythe, Brig

Lieutenant Pronichev stood at the ready, his phaser rifle in his right arm, his left on the communications console after orders from the bridge. The arm strap of the rifle dug sharply into his shoulder, and his rifle barely moved, although it was pointed directly at the nearest containment cell, sitting in the middle of the three, his glare locked on the group of them, awaiting their adversaries’ arrival. Pronichev was accustomed to sudden changes in duty shifts and responsibilities; he had been distributing phaser rifles to his security teams just prior to being summoned to the brig.

Pronichev had his officers briefly muster ready the brig to receive their new guests as well as one could with only a minute or two of warning. Two of his security officers stood behind him, their Type-II model phasers aimed at the two outside containment cells. Despite the pirate’s vessel being disabled and their life support failing, he was not about to subject the Blythe to any risks he could foresee. They were possibly armed, and their temperament uncertain. He was sure they could cause a good deal of trouble if they wanted to, confined to a holding cell or not. 

The Lieutenant looked back to his two officers, motioning to the closest one. 

“Hail Roberts and Quon’lin, I want them here for backup. On the double. Phasers set to heavy stun. When they get here, I want one rifle on each door until I say otherwise.”

The two officers nodded, both replacing their hand phasers for rifles, with Roberts and Quon’lin arriving shorty afterwards. They did as ordered; all three cells were covered with a phaser, with Roberts guarding the door. Pronichev stayed where he was, awaiting the signal from Rutledge. 

“Energize.”

The four officers stood tense. All ten pirates materialized simultaneously in a bright array of shimmering lights. The transporter chief must have had the same idea Pronichev did, all the prisoners were separated equally into the three containment cells. Three were in one cell, three in the next, and four in the last, in between the two smaller, the Bolian standing towards the rear of the middle cell. They were unarmed, but their attitudes most certainly were not. They pounded incessantly on the walls and force fields, the latter muffling out of most of the sound of their futile yells.

Pronichev scanned all three cells, lowering his rifle and racking it on the shelf on the adjacent wall, his eyes still locked on the prisoners. He, nor his officers, would do anything of consequence until the captain further ordered, but he knew the significance of maintaining a strong authoritative presence until then. For all his new inmates knew, he was the captain. 

The Lieutenant decided to address them. He stepped forward, an erect posture and steady gaze as he stared them down through the force fields. 

“I am Lieutenant Pronichev, you are aboard the USS Blythe. You are not here by choice, consider yourself prisoners of the United Federation of Planets after willfully engaging a Starfleet vessel in an act of lethal force. I am not an attorney; I am not law enforcement. You have no rights, except for those guaranteed to prisoners-of-war under Federation law. Let me be clear, any attempt to disrupt this brig, my officers, or anyone else aboard this vessel will be met with swift, but fair, penalties.”

He paused, glancing at the faces of the group, their expressions ranging from anger to genuine curiosity. He continued, keeping the same firm tone. 

“The choice is yours. That is all.”

Roberts approached Pronichev quietly, and subtly reported, his rifle still scanning the cells. “All prisoners secure and accounted for, no serious health issues from the skirmish. Doc will come by and examine them, after the captain has made his rounds.”

“When should I expect him?”

“The Yeoman didn’t say, Sir.”

Pronichev nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Roberts. Cover the door.” He looked back up at the cells. They were all huddled together, all three groups conversing quietly amongst themselves. 

He leaned back over to Roberts, who hadn’t yet walked away. “Have their conversations monitored and recorded. Get two officers on it, something they say may lead to an explanation as to some of our questions.” 

“Aye, Sir.” Robert marched briskly off, without another word. 

The prisoners were constantly monitored by the officers for the next few hours, Pronichev pacing back and forth slowly, examining them with a watchful eye, looking for anything. A hidden blade, passed notes, a file, anything that might interfere with the wellbeing of the crew or his prisoners. He was overly conscious of his demeanor, trying his utmost to display a silent, tough professionalism, an attempt to dilute any potential conflicts before they arose. 

A beep from the console interrupted his march. He activated the console, the warm blue glow from the screen illuminating an otherwise dimly lit room. Rutledge was hailing.

“Pronichev reporting, Sir.”

The captain’s bold voice boomed, even through the console’s speakers. “Lieutenant. I hear you’ve got our ‘corsairs’ in good form. You and your security teams have made them feel at home, no doubt. I’m sure you’re quite busy down there. Anything of note to report?”

“No, Sir, not right now. They’ve been fairly cooperative so far. I gave them a good talking to, and our crew have kept in them in line.”

“Keep at it, Lieutenant, and notify me if anything changes. I’ll keep this brief. This attack on the Blythe has raised some eyebrows at Starfleet command, they had some suggestions for us. I’d like you at the briefing room, 0130 hours. The senior staff has much to discuss.”

“I’ll be there at 0130, Sir.”

“Rutledge out.”

The Lieutenant nodded to himself. No doubt Starfleet had some concerns over what was, essentially, a pirate vessel, crossing through an aperture, guns blazing. The Blythe had succeeded in battle, sure, but that could have been the first of many. He was grateful for his background in security in a situation like this, his decisions and his wits were paramount.

Pronichev nodded to his four officers, signaling for a rotation in watch duty, remaining at the console while the four slung their rifles around their back, greeting the next four that walked in to replace them, nodding in upbeat acknowledgement. They nodded to their Chief, one patting him on the back, one tapping the chair he was in while they entered. The prisoners hardly reacted to their entrance and brief lapse in surveillance, likely in part to Pronichev’s presence on the far side of the brig. 

A handful of more hours passed by, with the prisoners growing occasionally restless and unruly, knocking on their walls and raising their voices every so often, which of course gained no attention from the security team. Pronichev left his seat every thirty minutes or so, glancing at each pirate in the same stern manner he did hours prior, speaking only to the occasional officer that entered the brig, and even then their discussions were held to a hushed tone. 

Roberts entered briskly, greeting the Lieutenant with a small slap on the back and a handshake. His eyes were dark, circles over them like he had just woken up in his quarters. He had a phaser on his hip and greeted Pronichev with the hushed tone they had used earlier. 

“0125, Sir. Skipper will be expecting you in the briefing room soon.”

Pronichev put his hand on the officer’s shoulder, appreciative of his friendly gesture in his polite reminder. “Thanks, Roberts.” He collected his phaser and racked his rifle on the wall to his right, stretching briefly and exhaling as he did so, taking one last glance at his new prisoners. As before, they had no reaction to the security officer’s departure, minus a few disengaged glances. Leaving the dimly lit brig into the illuminated hallway, he reflected on the past ten hours, and the unwelcome vision of the piles of paperwork he was going to have to tackle in the following few days.