Where Mercy Bends the Map

Posted on Fri Oct 10th, 2025 @ 1:00am by Commander Calvin 'Cal' Maraj

1,276 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: Copernicus Fleet Yards, Sector 508-Delta
Timeline: MD 001 — 0730 hours

USS Moore — Captain’s Ready Room

The steady hum of the station’s support pylons resonated faintly through the hull — a reminder that the Moore had been still for far too long. Cal sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, a half-finished cup of coffee forgotten beside a small stack of PADDs. Through the viewport, the pale blue shimmer of Copernicus Fleet Yards glowed against the darkness — a smaller, quieter cousin to Starbase 514, built for logistics, repair, and the occasional stranded captain in need of patience.

Three weeks of resupply had done the ship good. The cargo bays were full again — fresh ration packs, new hull plating, even the rare replacement parts for the dorsal phaser array that had been on backorder since the Whispers campaign. Operations finally cleared the diagnostics backlog that had been haunting them since their last run, and the ship’s environmental grid no longer sounded like a jazz band warming up every time they switched power to secondary systems.

Crew rotations had gone smoothly enough. Keishara’s department had spent the downtime running tactical readiness drills in the simulation range aboard the Yards — no live fire, just precision work, but enough to keep her team sharp. Stewart’s helm recalibration challenge had turned into an unofficial competition between the flight crews, and Koaruh’s group counselling sessions somehow became poker nights by week two.

Still, the air aboard the Moore felt different now — rested, reset, and restless. Dock life was never where this crew belonged.

Cal scrolled to the last line of the readiness report: USS Moore: 99.7% Operational.

He nodded to himself, a low hum of approval. “Close enough to perfect for Fleet paperwork.”

Setting the PADD aside, he leaned back and glanced at the clock above the bulkhead. Their new Chief Engineer was due aboard within the hour — fresh from USS Monitor, if Command’s file was accurate. With any luck, this one would last longer than the last two.

Outside, the Yards’ repair drones drifted past like slow-moving fireflies, the light glancing off the Moore’s sleek hull. The quiet wasn’t unpleasant, just… temporary. He could feel the pull in his chest — that instinct that always came right before new orders dropped onto his desk.

Cal smiled faintly, took another sip of the cold coffee, and muttered under his breath, “Alright, Moore. Let’s see what kind of trouble they’ve found for us this time.”

The console chirped—short, then long. Command.

Cal tapped it open. Rear Admiral Neema T’Siran filled the screen, neat as a diagram, eyes already measuring the room.

“Morning, Admiral,” he said, mouth tipping into a half-smile. “If this is a social call, I’ve got fresh coffee. If not… I’ll pretend it is until you ruin it.”

“One admires your commitment to denial, Captain,” she replied, eyebrow doing just enough to pass for humour. “Proceed to Starbase 514 at once. You will extract a detainee and deliver her to Starbase 12 for court-martial. Securely. Quietly. Without incident.”

“Sounds serious,” Cal said, settling back. “Who’s the passenger I’m not supposed to call a passenger?”

“Commodore Anjar Tevon,” T’Siran said. “Bajoran. Decorated. She diverted relief to starving Federation colonies at the detriment of Romulan refugees. Official charges: dereliction and unauthorised diversion of resources.”

Cal’s smile thinned, but his tone stayed easy. “So—feed one fire, starve another. And we’re the ones carrying the matchbox where everyone can see.”

“Your metaphor is sufficiently bleak,” she said. “There are factions prepared to read this transfer as vindication or villainy. You will give them neither.”

He nodded once. “By the book on the outside, careful hands inside. Comms discipline, no grandstanding, no accidentally leaked quotes.”

“Correct. Departure as soon as possible. Packet is in your queue. Captain—” her voice softened by a hair, “—keep your crew steady.”

Cal’s look turned warm, wry. “You called us because we know how to be steady when it’s messy. We’ll mind our steps.”

“That will suffice. T’Siran out.”

The screen died to black, leaving the soft hum of the ship and Cal’s reflection slanting back at him.

He let the room breathe for a beat, palms flat on the desk. The headlines wrote themselves in his head: Bajoran Hero Punished for Mercy. Starfleet Abandons Romulans, Scapegoats Its Own. No space for the ugly middle where choices cut both ways.

He rubbed a thumb along the PADD’s edge. “Anjar… you broke an order to keep people eating. Doesn’t mean nobody went hungry.” A quiet sigh. “And now I’m the man who is to play delivery boy and middle man all in one.”

Faces flickered in his mind: Baaru’s jaw when injustice walked in; Koaruh soaking up the room’s weather whether he liked it or not; Keishara reading a crowd like a storm line on approach; Stewart turning tension into a joke until the moment you needed steel. He could feel where the fault lines would run — Occupation scars on one side, Romulan rescues on the other — and he could feel the cameras already searching for a stumble.

Cal sat a moment longer with the screen black and his reflection looking back—jaw tight, eyes a shade darker.

If it had been him.

He could hear his mother’s voice first—the nurse in San Fernando who taught triage before he could spell it: 'you don’t have enough for everyone, so you save the ones you can reach right now.' And then his father’s, the Admiral: 'orders are there so a hundred captains don’t each decide who lives and who waits.' Two truths pulling at the same thread.

Anjar chose. She fed the people in front of her—Federation worlds about to miss meals—and to do it she pulled from Romulan hands already raw from loss. Mercy for one, injury to another. He didn’t need a Council brief to know why everyone had their knives out; he understood the arithmetic too well. Hungry faces make philosophy small.

If it had been him… truth be told, his gut leaned her way. Orders mattered—he wasn’t naïve—but he’d grown up on triage. Save who you can reach, then go back for the rest even if your boots are still wet. He liked to think he’d have bullied logistics, called in favours, flown the cargo himself—find a third way. Maybe that’s pride. Maybe there wasn’t a third way. But he knew which way his instincts pointed when a hold was half full and the clock wouldn’t stop.

And the Moore would wear the fallout. He could already see the fault lines: Bajoran crew who carried family scars; officers who’d pulled Romulan kids out of broken hulls and still heard the breathing masks hiss in their sleep. One sloppy remark and the mess line would turn sour. He’d need Kei’s calm at the doors, Koaruh’s soft hands in the seams, Stewart’s humour at the right volume.

He rubbed a thumb along the PADD’s edge, then flipped the mission packet open and read—every clause, every route, every custody handoff and comms restriction—until the shape of it settled in his bones. “If it were me,” he murmured to the quiet room, “I’d want a captain to see the person, not the headline.” He nodded once, decision made, the knot still there but named. He set the PADD down, orders clear in his head.

Time to set this thing in motion.

 

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