Commander Robert Drake stepped off the pad with a purposeful stride and a scrutinous intensity, a sharp contrast to the unkempt and weary petty officer working the transporter room for the graveyard shift. “I’m here for Lieutenant Commander Rivera. Where is he?” No introductions, nor pleasantries. Just straight to the point. There were three colonists dead in the dirt down on Duraxis, and the Chief Security Officer of the USS Pacific Palisades had to answer for that.

“Gabe returned a bit ago,” the petty officer replied as he fumbled with the controls at his station, surprised by the energy coming off this official-looking gentleman that’d just beamed over from the USS Diligent. “I’m showing that he’s currently in his office on deck 3.”

“He’s currently in his office on deck 3, sir,” Commander Drake corrected condescendingly. He’d earned each of those three pips, and in doing so, he’d stripped others of dozens in the fight for the soul of the Federation.

He didn’t wait for a response though, and before the petty officer could even get his wits back about him, the commander was gone. He had matters to attend to, matters far more important than the failings of a middle aged washout stuck working the graveyard shift in the transporter room of a utility cruiser.

As Commander Drake made his way through the corridors of the Pacific Palisades, he could not help but scrunch his nose at the stench. This barge was filled with mediocrity, men like that man in the transporter room who couldn’t even muster the basics of protocol. But, then again, why else would they have found themselves stationed aboard a California, the twenty fifth century equivalent of a Miranda? The only Miranda he liked was the judicial principle from five centuries prior, and the only California he liked was the one home to his family estate.

When at last Commander Drake reached the security chief’s office, he was met directly by a sight of mediocrity. Lieutenant Commander Rivera was nothing to write home about, unless it was to complain about his unkempt hair, his unruly beard, and his horrid posture, none of which were becoming of the Chief Security Officer of a Starfleet starship.

“What can I do ya for?” Lieutenant Commander Rivera asked nonchalantly as he looked up from his PADD. He didn’t recognize the commander standing in his doorway, and he could only assume the lad was one of the admiral’s groupies.

“How about some protocol and an English lesson to start?” Commander Drake scoffed, judgment oozing off him as he eyed the man over. What a sorry excuse of an officer, he thought to himself. “But those aren’t worth my time. You’ll find what you need under the tag ‘remedial officer training’ in the Starfleet Office of Personnel Management’s database.”

The lieutenant commander, caught off-guard by the fiery opening, set down his PADD. Who the hell was this guy? And how dare he talk to him so condescendingly? Did he not know what they’d been through tonight? Nor what they’d been dealing with for the past few weeks? It was bullshit, all of it, and he had no intention of being ridiculed here in his own office.

“My name is Commander Robert Alastair Drake, duly appointed representative of the Office of the Judge Advocate General, on assignment to the Archanis Sector,” the commander explained as he helped himself to a seat. “And as much as I think you would benefit from assistance with the most basal and banal aspects of your job, tonight I’m here to speak with you about something far more pressing: the recent incident on Duraxis.”

“Which one?” Lieutenant Commander Rivera grumbled. The ungrateful bastards, the ones they were supposedly here to help, they’d done everything they could to make his life a living hell. “It’s been like that for weeks.” 

“I certainly hope you haven’t been shooting three colonists a night for weeks,” Commander Drake replied flatly. Otherwise, they’d have far worse problems to deal with.

“Oh, that…” Of all the things the JAG was here for, it had to be those dusty drifters. “Yeah, I checked with my guys. They all said it wasn’t them,” he explained as he shrugged ambivalently. “That’s all I got.” Because, really, who cared? Those colonists had it coming, the way they were acting and all.

Commander Drake could not help but notice how unphased the security chief seemed about the shooting, as if it wasn’t something of concern. But it absolutely was something of concern. How could anyone, let alone the Chief Security Officer of a Starfleet starship, be so ambivalent about the use of lethal force against unarmed civilians? “We have three colonists who would beg to disagree… or they would if they weren’t deceased, their bodies covered in burns consistent with a Type-III phaser rifle, the very rifle you equipped your men with to go down there tonight.”

“I dunno what to tell you, Commander,” Lieutenant Commander Rivera leaned back in his chair lackadaisically. “I asked them about it after the Diligent helped us clean up the trash, and everyone says they didn’t shoot.”

That’s not how this worked, Commander Drake thought to himself. You didn’t just ask someone who’d violated basic human rights if they did it. You investigated, and you prosecuted. “We’ll be the judge of that,” the JAG said firmly. “My office has issued orders to your quartermaster to sequester every rifle down there tonight, and as of this moment, you and all of your men present at the time of the shooting are on desk duty until my investigation is concluded.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Absolutely.”

“But what about the safety and security of our surface operations?”

“Safety and security? That’s what you call what happened tonight?” Commander Drake’s eyes narrowed on the chief. This man and his men created the circumstances that led to a disaster, one that was both a gross failure of their duty and a significant setback to sector revitalization efforts. Did he really not see that? “In light of recent events, the governor of Duraxis has ordered all Corps of Engineers efforts curtailed, and I’m sure the Diligent can manage the security of one lonely reactor facility without you all making it any worse than you already have.”

“Any worse than we already have?!” asked the security chief, aghast at the insinuation. How dare this redshirted bureaucrat question the hard and difficult task his men had been assigned?

“Your job was to de-escalate the situation,” Commander Drake stated flatly. It was damn simple. Lieutenant Commander Rivera and his men had all the equipment and all the training, and yet instead of controlling the situation, they’d ignited it, and three colonists were dead as a result. 

“We were trying!” snapped Lieutenant Commander Rivera.

Commander Drake just stared at him in disbelief. Was this guy for real? “You don’t get points for trying. You get strikes when they start dying.”

“I don’t know you, Commander Drake, so don’t take this the wrong way, but you weren’t there,” Lieutenant Commander Rivera countered heatedly. Who the hell was this picture-perfect little officer to come in here and start Monday night quarterbacking him? “You didn’t see it… their anger, their rage, the shit we were subjected to. Dozens of my men have been sent to the infirmary since this whole thing started.”

“I’ve seen a couple of recordings taken from earlier,” Commander Drake explained. “Your men, they got heated themselves. Frankly, you got heated too. You all brought this upon yourselves, incensing the situation rather than calming it.”

“What would you have done differently?”

“I would have followed protocol and my training,” Commander Drake replied firmly. “And most importantly, I would not have shot anyone.”

The lieutenant commander just sat there. He didn’t know what to say.

“We will investigate, and we will get to the bottom of this,” Commander Drake concluded as he rose from his chair. “And until then, you have your orders.”

The JAG officer then spun on his heels and took his leave without another word. His team was already combing through the facility’s surveillance tapes. They’d find the shooter, and when they did, he’d be there to ensure justice was served.