USS Republic’s appearance at Gateway Station hadn’t been accompanied by any sort of fanfare or announcements. She’d sent a notice ahead, as she had to every starbase she had passed, that the ship was conducting high-speed endurance testing of her brand-new engines. Her arrival was just a mundane piece of everyday business, only made memorable by the fact she was a brand new ship and one of the few Constitution III-class ships currently in commission.

A sprint from the Avalon Yards to Gateway Station was certainly not in the direction of her soon-to-be duty station, but it did afford the ship safety in testing, always within a few hours at most of any facility that could render aid should something go wrong with the ship. And then her sprint to the Badlands and the Thomar Expanse beyond would give them a second chance to thoroughly stress-test the engines. Sensible and logical decisions in light of her recent commissioning.

Leave had been granted for the crew, a couple of days at most, while Engineering confirmed their findings and made any calibrations and adjustments they wanted to satisfy their concerns. Arcane and esoteric calculations, analysis and simulations would reveal the true state of Republic’s modern engines and Commander Sidda Sadovu was more than happy to leave such matters in the hands of the engineers who not only were responsible for the ship’s wellbeing but had been in charge of her very construction.

And so she had made her own way over to Gateway Station, to station operations even, with only a few people stopping her to ask who she was, to verify details, inspect the small package she was carrying (and even a few appreciative whistles at the contents) and then let her pass. Directions asked politely, helpful individuals pointing her in the right direction and she ascended the short flight of stairs in Ops to the door of the station commander, a hand tapping at the call button politely as a wide and all too wicked grin started to spread across her face as she adjusted her uniform tunic briefly.

The summons from inside was brusque, admitting her to these under-decorated, hallowed halls of the heart of command of the station. By the far bulkhead stood Commodore Rourke, his back to the door as he waged war with a framed picture he was trying to hold level and hang at the same time. ‘Give me just a second,’ he called, not looking around, obviously distracted. ‘This vicious bugger…’

Sidda kept quiet for only a moment, affording herself an all-to-brief examination of the office before she spoke up, with all the charm she could muster. “You know, I go to all the trouble of procuring a chair, taking risque photos in it and then sending them to you and not a single one of them is on display in your office. I’m vaguely insulted.” The small bag she had brought with her was set down on Rourke’s desk gently, the ever so slight clink of glass on glass of full bottles coming from the contents.

The picture was allowed to slide to the deck with a thunk. Rourke turned only slowly, his expression a mask of incredulity as his eyes landed on her. And he stared. ‘You…’ But whatever he was going to try to say proved immediately inadequate. He worked his jaw, then pointed an accusing finger at the door. ‘I’ve got a 1030 meeting with the Republic’s XO,’ he said, as if the scheduling inconvenience was the most pressing issue here.

The grin, wicked before, found just a bit more room to grow as she turned her jaw to the left, lifted it and then with a small wave of her hand drew attention to the commander’s pips on her collar, the silver devices catching an overhead light just ever so slightly. “Honestly, you put on a uniform, walk with purpose and say you’re the XO of a brand new starship and people will just about let you walk anywhere you want. Or,” she stretched that word out for a moment, “play along and omit certain details from scheduled appointments.”

For a moment, it looked like he believed her first joke. Then his expression set, and he lifted a pair of fingers, counting them off as he said, ‘Two questions: what the hell happened, and do we need drinks?’ Only a glance at the clock on the wall to check the time made him amend that. ‘Non-alcoholic.’

“Reverse order, yes, we need drinks,” Sidda replied, opening the bag and pulling out the two bottles from within and setting them down on the desk. Neither bottle itself was terribly distinctive so as not to distract from the contents. One was filled with a lilac-coloured liquid, which moved slower than the amber contents of the other bottle. “Rose cordial all the way from Vondem. Terribly sweet, water it way down or you’ll be up for days. Goes well with still and sparkling water.” The amber bottle was then lifted and read from. “And this is off the menu for now with this high an actual alcohol content.” She turned it around, presenting it to Rourke. “Avalon whiskey from the Sato Distillery, twenty-one years old. A commiseration gift for the promotion, Commodore.” She emphasised the rank, a smile to go with it.

Rourke eyed the bottle for a moment. Then he reached to take it, lips twisting in a silent grumble. “Yeah, I’m gonna need it,” he complained at last. “Thanks. I’ll get the water.” He headed for the replicator, gesturing for her to keep talking.

“Now, as for what the hell happened? You want the official record, the Starfleet Intelligence record, or the truth?” She sat herself down, not at all waiting for permission, or following the decorum owed to superior officers. “Ever heard of Fleet Captain Sudari-Kravchik? Goddess what a mouthful that name is.”

“Beckett’s newest creature,” Rourke said roughly. He’d never met the woman, but was inherently suspicious not only of officers in the command echelons of Starfleet Intelligence, but ones working so closely with Admiral Beckett. “So I’m assuming not someone who wants me to get to the truth.” He returned from the replicator with a pair of beakers and a glass bottle of sparkling water. Popping the cordial lid, he had a deep sniff, and though he looked suspicious of the sweetness, poured them both liberally-mixed amounts. “Truth’s just a matter of perspective, but I reckon I’ll be able to read almost every perspective except yours.” He met her gaze with pointed curiosity.

“I suspect, if you were to ask nicely, she might make an allowance and bring you up to date.” Sidda took her glass, sniffed at it to gauge the mix ratio, and then sipped, savouring the sweet floral note. She was quiet for a moment, eyes closed as she just let herself be before returning to the present and setting the glass down on Rourke’s desk carefully. “Oh that brings back memories,” she muttered. “I honestly spent a week thinking she was a Vulcan only to find out she’s half-human, half-romulan and all Federation. And apparently hates weasels and snakes anywhere she finds them. Like, I’m sure she’d memorised the Federation Charter and most of the Starfleet regulations that let her bring down the hammer of at least ten different deities.”

“That’s reassuring,” Rourke said, easing back in his chair. He had a sip of his drink and blinked. “Alright, that’s enough to dissolve my teeth.” He topped it up with a little more water, but despite the adjustment, didn’t sound like he was complaining. “I’ll have to see what her take on things in Fourth Fleet Intelligence are. But that’s for another time.”

Sidda smiled, shrugged her shoulders to release some tension and started in on things. “So, my perspective. Cliff notes then. Youngest scion in direct succession to a prominent Vondem family, expected to take over the family business of power for power’s sake, weasels her way into the Vondem Republic Guard. Expected to just wear a fancy uniform and look good for the media, ends up being a promising young officer and uses that as a chance to transfer sideways into Starfleet all to bypass alerting her mother who had run away from home decades ago and her grandmother who would have forbidden her from going to the Academy. Then the Romulan supernova happens, idealism hits hard, some ass in Intelligence offers disaffected officers a chance to ‘do the right thing’ and naturally ends up going sideways. Said young promising officer, whose career was basically wiped away by Intelligence, keeps doing the right thing in a self-imposed exile instead of going back to the gilded cage of Vondem.”

Rourke drummed his fingers on the side of the glass as he listened. “Not sure they all started out in big Vondem families or ended up running around in a bird-of-prey, but that’s not the most unusual story for a lot of former Starfleet. Nothing after the supernova was our finest hour.”

“Anyway,” Sidda continued, “long story short events in my life transpired that I was going to get burned in my particular chosen field, so I thought to bring down as many folks as I could. Turns out about the same time this Sudari-Kravchik was doing her own in-house investigating into my old handler as well as investigating an old colleague turned bio-terrorist and who better to chase down a crazed doctor than someone who worked with her and is still drawing breath?” And then she smiled, easy and confident. “Dump everything I know about pirates and smugglers of ill-repute, Sudari-Kravchik turns it into ‘deep cover operation’ and time in grade gets me three pips because she couldn’t quite swing getting me my own ship. Someone would have had a conniption about that.”

“You’re kidding.” Rourke stared at her. “So now I retroactively facilitated a deep cover Starfleet Intel operation with the whole salvage rights thing? No wonder they promote me.” He added that in a grumble, rolling his eyes, before he sobered and met her gaze more cautiously. “That’s a how you got back. But you left for a reason. A lot of folks aren’t so convinced Starfleet has changed enough to bring them back. What changed your mind?”

“Who said I’m back long-term?” she countered. “I honestly thought the person I’m being asked to chase was dead. Then I find out only recently she’s been trying to kill off as many Romulan aristocrats as she could and fled the Free State when things got too hot for her and she’d fled off to the Cardassian Union. Atlantis apparently had her on board before she just went off with a bunch of Cardassian scientists like it was a regular thing to do. Honestly, I feel responsible for Shreln still being out there and this Sudari-Kravchik is playing to that and dammit if she doesn’t know what strings to pull. I wasn’t even a proper officer when everything went sideways and she’s given me a cover, a proper rank, a job and orders to throw every regulation I can back at her to support doing the right thing whenever I have to.”

She sat forward, idly collecting her drink once more, if just to have something in her hands. “She has me over a barrel and worst of all it’s where I want to be. On a starship bridge, doing the right damn thing. I love the chance, I hate the person. But if this doesn’t pan out after I clean up this mess, I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do.” She took a swig of the drink and then looked at the glass in utter disappointment. “One of these days,” she grumbled, “I’m going to figure out how to will any liquid into alcohol whenever I want.”

Rourke gave a gentle, sympathetic scoff. “Not a good look in that uniform, manifesting booze,” he said, with a clearly facetious edge. He leaned forward, hand on the desk. “You got a mission to do. Something to finish off. But you’re right that you’ll be on a starship bridge. Republic won’t spend her entire time helping you chase your target. So the rest of the time, you’re their XO. You have to live that and be that. Doesn’t mean you can’t sometimes thumb your nose at regs and do the right thing, but you’ve got a responsibility to your ship now, your crew now.” He sounded like he expected she knew this; like he was trying to reinforce a commitment, not lecture her as if dutiful obligations had escaped her. “We can only fight the battles in front of us.”

“Also means I’m not allowed to just vaporise assholes anymore either.” She rolled her eyes at that, finished the glass of cordial and then set it down. “Or jump-scare slavers by decloaking. Honestly, why is the Treaty of Algeron still a thing?” She slumped back into her chair. “Oh, commiserations on the promotion by the way. Got to do some reading and sounds like you got promotion-punished for doing the right bloody thing as well. Got you a gift too, but mainly because it’s safer giving it to you than that Klingon hotness you had as an XO.” She waited for a moment, waited for his attention to settle. “Inwards Goods should have received it by now and catalogued it for delivery to you.”

“Talk about failing up; I’m here because it was promote me or fire me, and there’s not enough brass left to demob me,” Rourke grumbled as he sat up. He looked like a part of his soul might have left his body at the words ‘Klingon hotness’ being used to describe Valance, but, suspicious, he reached for his desk console to bring up a record. After a beat, his eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. Then, “Oh.” Then, with an edge of a whine, “Wait, does this mean I have to tell Valance?”

“Better chance of avoiding a friendly or not-so-friendly fire incident.” Sidda chuckled slightly to herself. “She really did seem bent out of shape when I stole it. Or was it that I didn’t send her the pictures as well?” Sidda’s question was posed such that an answer wasn’t needed, just an idle musing to the universe. “Or was it that I didn’t get her a sword too? I can get her one if she wants.” But she waved it all off. “I’m invading the middle of your work day. How about dinner tonight aboard the Republic? Give us a chance to crack out the fancy dinnerware and scare the senior staff with the knowledge I personally know a commodore famous for being demoted for ‘doing the right thing’.”

“I’d make a comment about maybe being infamous, but I reckon you’ve got me beaten there. Dinner sounds great,” Rourke said with a flash of a grin. But after a moment, he sobered as he looked her up and down. “The uniform looks good on you, Commander. Remember that you’re the only person with the power to make sure it doesn’t let you down. We can’t control the galaxy. Just us.”

“And sometimes, let’s be fair, not even that.” Sidda’s smile was cheeky before sobering up. “But I get the gist. Be the best version of myself, do the right thing, so on and so forth.” She stood from her seat, an effortless action of trained grace. “Oh, and I know I promised to send you an invite,” she waved her left hand, the plain band of silver with a single emerald on display, “but had to rush things. So, uh, least now you won’t have to explain to someone why you received a wedding invite from a…licensed salvage merchant and suspected pirate.”

Rourke assumed an expression of mock-outrage. “We pull all of these strings to get you into a uniform and halfway respectable, and it doesn’t even pay off with a good party?” But at once, his expression split into a toothy grin, albeit one with a hint of curiosity. “Congratulations. How’re you squaring family life with this assignment?”

“Crewman Revin Sadovu-th’Ven is currently heading up the hospitality business in Republic’s social spaces and scaring me by studying psychology currently. If I’m not careful I’m either going to end up with a counselor or diplomat at my side.” Sidda smiled, her attention somewhere else for a brief moment. “Her enlisting and us marrying let me keep her at my side. But she’s taking to it like it’s one big adventure.” Sidda then waved her hand, signalling an end of this line of conversation. “She’ll be at dinner, not as a crewman, but as my wife. So, in that vein, Commodore, I’ll extend the invite to dinner to as many as you wish to bring. Just give us a heads-up a few hours in advance so someone can sort out the seating.”

“It is one big adventure. You might get a counsellor, diplomat, or… analyst.” The smile turned crooked. “Give me a plus… four,” he continued after a moment’s thought. “The whole of Gateway’s senior staff ends up a rugby team on their own. But Commanders Shepherd and Harrian, Doctor Sadek, and Ambassador Hale should be able to behave themselves. Entertainingly.”

Sidda smiled, held up her hands and then spread them apart as she spoke. “Rogue starship commander kidnaps Commodore, three senior staff members and an ambassador.” Then she sobered up. “Nineteen hundred hours then. And bring that young lady too,” she said, pointing at the bottle of whiskey she had brought Rourke. “I’ll dig out a dance partner. Romulan Ale is still illegal right?” She then stepped back towards the door to Rourke’s office, just enough for the door to trigger and open. “Still think a blown-up print of me on that wall would be perfect,” she finished, pointing at where Rourke had been trying to hang a picture when she arrived.

And then, just as she had arrived, she left without formal recognition, smiling the whole time as she backed out of the office, offering a wink just as the door closed on Rourke.