As Coyote stepped into the room, the door whispered shut behind him. He scanned the office—neatly organized and minimalistic but belonging to a man with a storied career. A set of medals hung in sleek, unobtrusive frames on one wall, while the far corner held a case displaying several commendations and a model of an old-school fighter.

Behind the desk sat Jericho—Lt. Commander Nathaniel Ward—peering at a screen, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the terminal. He was older than Coyote expected, with silver streaks cutting through his close-cropped brown hair. His piercing blue eyes flicked over the report in front of him with an intensity that suggested nothing in Coyote’s file was escaping scrutiny. He looked up long enough to register Coyote’s presence before returning to the report.

“McCallister,” Jericho said, voice steady but with a razor-sharp edge. “Stand at attention.”

Coyote snapped to, eyes straight ahead, arms locked stiffly at his sides. A bead of sweat formed on his brow, but he held his composure, his heart thumping steadily in his chest.

The silence stretched. Jericho kept his eyes on the screen, scrolling through Coyote’s service record like a predator studying its prey. Behind him, a tall woman stood at parade rest, hands folded behind her back. Her dark, Betazoid eyes remained fixed ahead as if Coyote wasn’t even there. Her flight suit was pristine, her posture rigid—someone who didn’t accept anything less than perfection.

Jericho finally spoke, not looking up. “Enrolled in Starfleet Academy, 2393. Graduated, 2397.” He tapped at the terminal. “Let’s see, excelled in piloting simulations. That’s a nice way of saying you like flying dangerously close to burning yourself out. Pilots like you think they’re invincible because you can fly a perfect sim.”

Coyote bristled but stayed silent. He had been good, damn good in the sims. But this wasn’t a conversation that called for pride.

Jericho continued. “USS Galveston. First real assignment. Border patrol. Archanis Sector.” He finally looked up, his cold blue eyes locking onto Coyote. “You made quite the impression. What was it? Something about pulling a narrow escape maneuver that nearly took out the entire supply convoy?”

“I saved the convoy, sir,” Coyote said, his voice level. “It would’ve been overrun by—”

Jericho cut him off with a raised hand. “You didn’t follow orders. And that’s why you were transferred to Starbase 341, a backwater outpost near the Tholian border. Quiet. Isolated. Hard to screw up shuttle duty, but you managed. Let’s see, you couldn’t even get along with your commanding officer there.” He shook his head. “Reprimanded. And for what? Insubordination again?”

“I was keeping the convoy safe, sir,” Coyote said, his voice tightening. “They were Tholian raiders—”

“I’m not interested in your excuses.” Jericho’s voice was low now. He slowly stood up, circling the desk with slow, deliberate steps, eyes fixed on Coyote like a hawk. “You think you’re the first hotshot I’ve seen? You think you’re the first one to pull off a few wild moves and think that makes you special?”

Coyote’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. He could feel Jericho circling him now, a presence at his back.

“USS Redstone. Another chance.” Jericho was behind him now, his voice close to Coyote’s ear. “Dera IV system. Pirates. And you know what? I’ll give you credit. You were brave. You were quick. You even got a commendation. But that’s not the part that sticks out, is it?” His tone darkened. “What sticks out is the near court-martial. Unauthorized action. You acted without orders in the middle of combat.”

“I neutralized the threat, sir.”

Jericho stopped circling. “No, you endangered your entire squadron, and nearly got court-martialed for it.”

The weight of the room bore down on Coyote. He didn’t flinch, but inside, he knew where this was headed.

Jericho stepped in front of him, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “You’re in my squadron now, McCallister. SB4-Juliet is not a free-for-all. This is a team, and I run it tight. No more lone-wolf antics. No more disregard for orders. You either fly with us, or you don’t fly at all.”

Coyote opened his mouth to speak, but Jericho cut him off with a sharp look. “Whatever little speech you have prepared, stow it. We’re all fighter jocks here, son. We all have the need for speed, the need to dance among the stars…the need to lock torps and let ‘em fly. You’re no different than all the rest of us.

But that means there’s something you need to keep in mind: I know exactly what your addiction is and exactly how bad you need it. So the last thing you want to do is piss me off because I can take it from you like that.” He snapped his fingers. He turned and sat back at his desk, straightening his uniform before turning back to Coyote.

“One week. That’s how long you have to prove you can follow orders. And if you can’t? You’ll be out of Starfleet. No more chances. Are we clear?”

Coyote swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He motioned to the Betazoid woman. “This is Lieutenant Selen. Call sign: Smoke. She’s your section leader, and she’s been with me longer than most of the pilots you’ve ever flown with. If she says you’re not fit to fly with this group, you won’t see the inside of a cockpit again.”

Coyote’s pulse quickened. He’d heard of Smoke’s reputation—one of the best. But if she’d been with Jericho this long, it meant she was also one of the toughest. He could already feel the weight of her silent scrutiny, and it wasn’t reassuring.

“Lt. Selen, brief the ensign on his mission.”

The Betazoid woman stepped forward, handing Coyote a PADD. Her eyes met his for a moment, dark and inscrutable. “We’ve got an Underspace aperture near Mellstoxx III,” she said. “Starfleet science teams are investigating, and we’ll be patrolling the sector. Standard engagement rules. Keep the science teams safe, monitor any unusual activity, and if anything goes wrong, you follow orders. Study the details here and you will receive further instructions at your beginning of shift briefing. Understood?”

Coyote nodded, taking the PADD. “Yes, ma’am.”

Smoke gave a curt nod and returned to her position behind Jericho.

Jericho’s eyes remained fixed on Coyote. “Dismissed.”

Without another word, Coyote turned and exited the room, the weight of the PADD in his hand feeling like a final lifeline. One week. That was all he had to prove he could fly with the team—or he’d be grounded for good.