Shore leave was relaxing, almost too much so, as a part of him did not want to leave the planet’s surface. But duty called, and it was back to the grind once again, a more refreshed and less mentally taxed officer. Though his troubles and woes were not far behind him, his time on Mellstoxx III had lifted a weight, allowing him to approach his new role as a Station Intelligence Officer with a clearer head.

Sector Oh of the Station seemed quiet as he exited the turbolift on floor 742. He carried a much larger duffel bag than he had originally left with. It mostly consisted of some trinkets and a weighted-down pillow from the bodega he had stayed at. It wasn’t much, but it was the start of rebuilding his home comforts. Approaching his personal quarters, he stopped dead; suddenly, his senses snapped awake, going into overdrive. He knew for a fact that he had secured his room before he left for shore leave. So why did his room’s door status read ominously:

[SECURE][OPEN]

He glared at the text for a moment, mulling over the options. He could call for security; that would be the proper procedure for instances like this. But how would it have looked on the new guy, calling security because he ‘obviously’ forgot to lock his room before going on shore leave?

Michael reached his mind forward to sense if anyone was inside. It was quiet, but there was still a strong suspicion that something was inside waiting, something with a high mental discipline that was deliberately suppressing its thoughts and emotions, like a burglar holding their breath in the dark.

He reached into his bag, grabbing the neck of a bottle of alcohol he had brought back with him, as if to wield it as a weapon, and stepped forward. The doors swung open at his command, and his room came into clear view, as well as the figure sitting on his couch reading a PADD. The duffel bag slumped off his shoulder, hitting the ground. His glare of contempt for whoever was violating his privacy had washed away in an instant to one of shock and amazement.

“Dad!?” Michael blurted out, still clearly shocked to see his father HERE of all places.

Michael Angelus Senior, the 68-year-old, twice-retired Master Chief Petty Officer, approached and gave his son a warm clasping hug before swooping down and collecting the discarded duffel bag.

“Comon Junior, your ass is hanging out in the hallway, get on in here.” He coaxed his son, letting the door slide shut behind them.

Michael was still at a loss for words, or even thought, seeing his old man after so long. “Why…How…What…” He would begin, stall, and attempt to start over again.

“What, can’t a father swing by and check up on his only son?” Pops retorted, already unpacking the small mini-bar from the bag and setting each bottle on the counter.

The level of bullshit in his father’s answer gave him the clarity he needed to respond, “Uhm, ‘Swing By’ does not count when it’s 70 light-years away.” Michael shot back. setting the bottle in his hand down on the counter.

Pops mulled over this answer and shrugged, “Fair enough…Ohh, Uttaberry Vodka…” his dad deflected, looking at the bottle Michael had just relinquished. “DAD!” Michael protested, begging his elder to take this seriously.

Pops put the bottle down and picked up the PADD he had placed down on the counter, offering it to his son. “I just wanted to be the first one to give you the news.” He stated solemnly.

Michael took the PADD from his father, with a look of concern on his face. His usual instinct would be to reach out and sense the other person’s emotions first, but he learned at a very young age that Pops was a master of bottling his emotions, and attempting to ‘poke that bear’ would only lead to ruin for both of them. He instead turned his attention to the screen that was addressed to him

ATTN: LTCdr Michael Belanor Angelus,

After review of the totality of circumstances involving the destruction of the USS Nakatomi,
and the events leading to its destruction, the Office of the Judge Advocate General finds no
evidence of malfeasance in your actions. Furthermore, following the sudden resignation of 
your former Commanding Officer, Captain Juels Brownson, and the formal withdrawal of all 
complaints herein, this office grants your appeal against your C.O.’s Field Demotion. 

Effective immediately, you are to be reinstated at the rank of Commander; further assignment
orders to follow. 

This matter has been officially closed.

He read it twice, then a third time, confirming the insignia of the JAG Office and everything. Looking up in surprise, Pops nodded in approval. “I already added the pips back to your uniform collars.” He teased, popping open a bottle of the Uttaberry Vodka and pouring them both a glass.

“Sudden resignation?” Michael asked. Pops nodded, handing Michael his glass.

“Yup, turns out your old C.O. was shacking up with lower enlisted, promising a speedy career track as a reward. He thought Starfleet Command slipped a telepath on his ship as an X.O. to bust him, hence all of his cloak-and-dagger BS. If he were in his quarters when the Nakatomi got hit, he’dove been dead. Instead, he was in some Midshipman’s quarters on the other side of the ship.” Pops explained. The elder took a sip of his drink, his facial expression reflecting his positive review of the flavor profile. “When you ‘rightfully’ took command, he panicked, thinking of the questions of why you had to do that if he were alive, so he demoted you on the spot, and cracked you as a mutineer to try to shift the narrative.”

“So stupid…” Michael growled under his breath, taking a sip himself to help calm his nerves. It was over, the whole farce behind his former command and accusations. His rank was restored, but instead of feeling relieved, there was a pit in his stomach of resentment. “Yeah, some people don’t make the best choices in the heat of the moment,” Pops confirmed. Seeing the look on his son’s face, he comforted. “Hay…I know what you’re thinking. But it’s over, and he’s never going to be in a position to do that to anyone else. Take it as a win, and don’t let his memory hold you down any more than it already has.”

Michael took a deep breath. His father was right, as much as Michael would have loved to see his former Captain behind the forcefield of a brig for his actions, vengeance was a long and hard road for everyone, that would have dragged out even longer than needed. Now he was free of it, and the best revenge would be to have a long, promising career. Michael held the drink up for another sip and froze. His career. He was supposed to start as a Lieutenant Commander in Intelligence here on the starbase! This changes everything!

His father’s eyes watched him closely, a proud beam across his face. He may not have been a telepath himself, but he knew the gears that grinded away in that head to know how he was thinking, and just on cue, there was a trill ringing in the quarters.

“Priority One Communique, Incoming.”

“You might want to get that; they’ve called twice already looking for you. Told them you’d be back today…” Pops smirked, taking Michael’s glass away from him and shooing him away from the table to his work desk.

‘Them? Called twice? Priority Message?’ Michael’s mind was racing in various directions as he headed over to his terminal, anticipation in his heart as he reached to answer the call…

[TO BE CONTINUED]