“No, I understand why they asked for a medical response….my question is why they’re so insistent it be us.  They’ve held radio silence for the last two years and refused any help we’ve offered in the past.”  Task Force 72 Commanding Officer Geronimo Fontana stood in the middle of his new office, a holo-screen against the wall.

On the screen was Peter Crawford, the captain of the USS Olympic.  A nearby colony had suddenly come alive with requests.  He hadn’t been concerned and had thought calling his Task Force Commander would be a good checking of the box.  After all, he had a yeoman thanks to Captain Fontana.  They weren’t friends.  Yet.  Pete was now a little more concerned, “They say they’ve had a change in elected officials and legislature…which, now that I’ve said it out loud, sounds like a coup or something messy and violent.”

Geronimo shook his head in annoyance, “It sounds like things are a little rougher down there than I’d like.  I can have Mackenzie to you in a day or so.”  He caught the briefest look on his captain’s face, but it was gone before he could identify the connected emotion.

Crawford returned to shake of the head, “No, we’ve got a strong security team, and our Hazard team is well trained and tuned.  We can take it from here, sir.”

The TFCO waited a beat.  He could argue.  He could order.  He also had to learn to trust his people.  It felt odd saying those words in his head, yet…it felt good.  Not powerful or egotistical…it felt good to have a team he was responsible for again.  “Keep in touch, Captain Crawford.  Take it from here, if you will.”  A nod and the channel closed.  The chime rang, and his new TFXO strode into the office, “Good morning, Varen.”  They’d met a week ago when the young Bajoran had been accepted into the position.  They’d become informal with each other despite the rank difference.  Fontana avoided lording his rank over others.

The young man collapsed into one of the nearby chairs, “I’ve been fielding calls all night from bases throughout Deneb.” A short sigh escaped his lips. “Tylo III, Astrid VII, even a panicked call from Gilligan Outpost. We’re seeing government upheavals across the sector, and everyone is worried about the proverbial powder keg.”

Silence descended upon the room, broken only by the gentle tingle of Varen’s earing.  “Morning, by the way.” he finished, reaching up to push back a particularly rebellious forlock. “Anything particularly concerning?” In truth, all of it was concerning; the Dominion’s Lost Fleet had highlighted Starfleet’s lack of preparation.

Fontana held up a PADD, “My list is as long as yours.  Janoor III is at the top – The Mackenzie’s report is hard to read.  There’s a lot of ashes on the ground…rebuilding on top of that is what’s got people worried…or losing their minds.”  He paused and muttered, “Goddamn Dominion.”  He tapped at his desk console, “The saving grace in all this is that Fourth Fleet is putting as many of our ships in play to help start preparing the wounds.”

“I heard about Janoor.” He sucked his teeth. ”Goddamn Dominion.”

”I’ve already dispatched Daedalus along with Theta Squad to Gilligan Base. They took in a lot of refugees during the occupation, and there’s some…” the young Bajoran searched for the right word. The flight of these people struck a personal chord with the young man and he was still struggling to balance his personal history with his duty to the Federation. “…friction.” He finished, choosing the word carefully. “The base commander has suggested they return home.“

Another solemn silence fell over the duo as Geronimo scrolled through the ever-growing list of reports. The Federation had suffered greatly at the hands of the Dominion, twice in less than 50 years; they both knew that some of these refugees might not have a home to return to.

“Captain Tanek is a hero several times over and a poster boy for Federation unity, but I might head over to Deneb to lend a personal touch,” Varen suggested, fumbling idly with the empty mug he absently brought with him from his desk. “It could be helpful to coordinate on the ground; I expect we’re going to have a lot of inter-task force work.” Standing from his chair with a sigh beyond his years, he tidied his collar and continued battle with his unruly hair. “Assuming you can spare me from base, boss?”

Geronimo stood and snagged the empty cup from his hand, sliding it under the replicator and tapping the button he’d reserved for the TFXO’s preferred drink.  He slid the cup back into the waiting man’s hand a second later.  He replied, “I can spare you – only if you promise not to burn yourself out.  I’m a doctor, not a mad scientist.  I can’t put you back together if you stretch yourself too far.”

“I appreciate it.” He tilted the cold Raktajino, letting out a contended sigh as he took a sip. “And the concern.” Just as he turned to go, the doors settling open with a whisper, he paused. “My mother was a legal clerk under the occupational government, then in the provisional government, and still is behind her desk in some corner of the Federation’s shiny new office. Each day after class I would watch her listen to the worries of her clients and they would leave that small room feeling the galaxy was a bit more hopeful. She felt it was her duty to help them simply because they came to her little desk.” Varen turned to the far more seasoned and experienced officer, a man who had, in the most literal sense, saved innumerable lives. “The people of Deneb Sector trusted us to do our duty, to protect them, to shelter them, to make the galaxy more hopeful. We failed.” Taking a small step back through the doorway he smiled, lifting his cup once more in thanks. “I think we owe a little stretching.”

Fontana indicated a salute with his refilled coffee cup, “Fair Winds and Following Seas, Varen.”  The young officer was out the door and on his way.  Geronimo turned his attention back to the crowded holo-screen. There was still so much work to be done.