Dread wiped the sleep from her eyes as she accepted the cup of coffee from her fellow captain. The morning sun was cresting the horizon of the city of Polaris, and she’d woken up from a brief nap to find Peter Crawford sitting next to her bunk, steaming coffee in hand.  They sat together on the bed.  “We found fifteen survivors overnight,” she said between deep sips, fumbling for her PADD.  “Ten more fatalities. We’ve still got thirty missing.”  Crawford accepted the PADD and read while she imbibed the doses of caffeine.

His heart sank, “Fifteen of those are children?”  They had been at a neighborhood school for an evening program that was ending.  He muttered, “Victory is life – at any cost.  Goddamn Dominion.”  He handed her the PADD.

“Been saying that every hour or so.”  She drained the last dregs and set the cup on the ground, “It’s been a helluva night, Pete.”  Her face was tired, her body was tired, and her mind was tired.  The impact and explosion of the fighter had decimated an entire subdivision.  Despite the shuttles’ best efforts, the fire spread stubbornly, creating more havoc.

Crawford understood, “The governor and the government of Janoor III have been very thankful for our efforts.”  A moment passed, “They are pissed about us having Palak in our custody.”  He let out a long sigh, “They’ve started the request for extradition to their justice system and courts.”  He wasn’t thrilled with the prospect.  He understood why they wanted him in their hands, but Crawford worried about how much blood and flesh they would carve before justice was finally served.

Helena groaned, “Please tell me Starfleet Security isn’t going to go along with this?”

Pete shrugged, “I haven’t heard back from Security, Diplomatic, or Judicial.”  He wasn’t sure what it meant that it was taking so long to get a response.  It was unusual, to say the least.  “It feels like our orders to ‘Trust only the Fourth Fleet’ is starting to ring true.  You’re keeping him separate from the Janoor III survivors?”

A nod, “He’s in a secure wing with guards at every entrance with a rotating suicide watch.  My assistant chief is monitoring him.  Better him than me.”  L’arek was a 90-year-old Vulcan.  She trusted his emotional control.

Crawford appreciated her thoughtfulness, “L’arek is a tough cookie.”  He turned to her, “Speaking of tough cookies….”  She waved him off while knowing it would be pointless.  Pete always got his man…or woman.

She relented after he’d stared at her, waiting. “It’s tough.  This is as close to the front lines as some of our staff has come – and it’s pushing the meter on many of them.  Juliet’s been working with her team to make sure we’re supported.”  She groused, “It’s hard because we all know this is just the start.  Ten fighters yesterday….how many more today?  Never mind what’s coming tomorrow, the next day, and the…next.”  She wiped a trace tear from her face, “Goddamn Dominion.  So much death…all in the name of victory.”  They sat in silence before he leaned over and gave her a light hug which she accepted.

“What’s the latest?”  Persefoni Hargraves sat at the head of the editorial table in the expansive space that served as the Olympic Journal’s headquarters onboard.  She was pushing sixty and had rejected retirement suggestions several times over the last year.  There was still plenty of research, academic studies to evaluate, and breakthroughs to investigate.  That wasn’t on the mind of the editor-in-chief or her editorial board.  The Second Dominion War was the focus of the morning meeting.  

Tonia DeLuca reported from the News Desk about the ongoing dismissive nature of the Federation News Network, Starfleet, and the other major news outlets in the galaxy.  “Some smaller groups are pushing back against the larger narrative, but the message isn’t getting far.  Quite frankly, nobody seems to be speaking any kind of real truth about the situation.”  She was old enough to have graduated from high school during the war, and those memories hadn’t faded.

Across the table, the angular and broad-shouldered Academic Studies Editor spoke in a thick Russian accent, “The schools are reporting a rise in the rhetoric around this subject.”  Isidor Romanov was fifty and a news, magazine, and science journal work veteran.  He had the unerring ability to work with the top universities and their various groups.  “Several unusual papers have come through the submission matrix –  all focused around this.”

Toward the end of the table, the Bajoran Research Editor raised his head from his frantic searching of his PADD, “We’ve seen an uptick in query letters around the tactical and weaponry category.  We’ve not made any moves on them.”  His eyes told another story.

Hargraves finished taking notes.  The Olympic Journal had long been a staple of scientific study and academic research as well as a stalwart advocate for the further exploration of investigation of the expanding universe around them.  She felt the conversation had started shifting all of their views of what they should be doing now. It had undoubtedly moved her.  “You’ve spoken your piece.  For this upcoming issue, we’re going to make a temporary change.  We will make a science-based approach to this conflict – each of you has already received materials related to this ongoing concern.  Embrace them.  Peer review and edit them.  Expand our offering to other schools and organizations as you see fit. The truth should be heard…but we must ensure it is trustworthy, verified, and vetted to the standard of the long history of this journal.”  She glanced around the table, her steely eyes staring into each of their unwavering gazes, “Let’s get to work.”