Inconvenient Duty

Posted on Tue Jan 27th, 2026 @ 7:22am by Lieutenant Commander Keishara Davaris & Lieutenant Evelyn Stewart

2,530 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: USS Moore - Deck 7 Corridor
Timeline: MD: 006 19:42 hrs

The doors to the brig sealed behind her.

Evelyn kept walking.

Night cycle had pulled the ship inward—lights low, corridors quiet, the steady thrum of warp folding into her thoughts. Her pace slowed without her noticing, steps stretching out as her attention drifted inward. She didn’t register the moment she passed the point where she should have waited until it was already behind her.

The realization arrived without drama. Not panic. Not guilt. Just fact.

You didn’t wait for the relief officer.

Nothing was immediately wrong. The post was secure. Anjar wasn’t going anywhere.

Anjar’s voice stayed with her, calm and precise, threading through the hum of the ship. Conviction without obedience. Arithmetic instead of ideals. It unsettled her not because it was persuasive—but because it was coherent.

Evelyn walked on, eyes unfocused, mind refusing to settle. She’d gone down there expecting clarity—something she could weigh and file away. Instead she’d left carrying a question that wouldn’t resolve itself.

The ship felt smaller as she moved through it, quieter in a way that pressed in.

She kept walking, unaware she’d left the brig unattended—alone with the echo of a choice she hadn’t made, and one she might someday have to.

Keishara was already on her way when the call came in.

“Commander Davaris?” The voice on her comm was young, tight with the effort of staying professional. “This is Ensign Hale, brig detail. I… I need to report something.”

She stopped walking, listened.

“Yes, Ensign.”

There was a breath on the other end. “Lieutenant Stewart dismissed me from post. I advised her protocol required either relief or Security authorisation. She insisted. I complied, but—” another pause, steadier this time, “—the brig is currently unattended.”

Kei closed her eyes for half a second.

“Where is Lieutenant Stewart now?”

“I believe she departed the area alone, Commander.”

“Stay where you are,” Kei said, already turning. “I’m en route.”

When she reached the brig, the doors slid open onto exactly what she’d expected and hoped she wouldn’t see. The field held. The prisoner sat calm and contained. The post itself was empty.

Kei met the ensign just outside the door. He stood straight, jaw set, clearly braced for being told he’d done something wrong.

“You did the right thing,” she said quietly. “Next time, you don’t leave until I say so. Understood?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Good. Take the post back.”

She didn’t linger. Whatever had been said in that room wasn’t the problem now. The choice that followed it was.

Keishara saw her before Evelyn noticed her.

Deck Seven was quiet in that late-cycle way, the corridor long and dim enough that footsteps carried farther than they should. Kei didn’t step out of anywhere dramatic. She just stopped, turned, and waited until Evelyn walked straight into the fact of her.

“Evelyn.”

She waited for the fog to lift from her eyes before speaking again.

“You dismissed my officer.”

No accusation yet. Just fact.

“He told you protocol. You overruled him and left the brig empty.” Kei shook her head once, disbelief threading through the anger. “With her still inside.”

That was where her voice tightened—not raised, not sharp, but real.

“I don’t care what you needed to hear,” she said. “I care that you put this ship and my people in a position where one bad moment turns into something we don’t get to undo.”

She took a step closer, not crowding, but present in a way that made it impossible to pretend this was just another conversation in a corridor.

“That wasn’t curiosity,” Kei went on. “That wasn’t compassion. That was you deciding the rules didn’t apply because you needed answers.”

Her jaw worked once, then stilled. “And that scares me a hell of a lot more than whatever Anjar had to say.”

A beat. The hum of the ship filled the space between them.

“You don’t outrank my post,” she said, not cruelly, just fact. “And you don’t get to gamble with it.”

Kei held her gaze, not waiting for an apology, but for something more honest than that.

“Talk to me,” she said. “Tell me you understand why this can’t happen again.”

Evelyn sighed and rolled her eyes the moment she heard her name as she turned back.

She didn’t stop right away.

“Commander,” she said instead, the title clipped, edged just enough to be intentional.

When she finally faced her, her expression was already set—flat, unimpressed, arms folding loosely across her chest as she listened to Kei scold her on protocol.

“Are we seriously doing this?” A short, humorless scoff escaped her. “In the corridor?”

She shook her head once, irritation already simmering.

“The brig was secure. Anjar was behind a force field. She’s not exactly sprouting transporter legs.” Her mouth twisted faintly. “And she wasn’t going anywhere in the three minutes it took me to walk away.”

She gestured vaguely back the way she’d come, dismissive.

“No alarms. No escape. No one hurt. Nothing happened.”

The words landed hard—not loud, but final.

“So forgive me if this feels a little… disproportionate.”

Evelyn turned away then, clearly done—one shoulder angling down the corridor as if she were about to walk it off.

She didn’t make it a step.

She stopped short, jaw tightening, then turned back sharply—anger flashing now, no longer contained.

“And whatever conclusions you think you’re drawing about that conversation,” she said flatly, each word precise, “you can stop.”

Her eyes locked onto Kei’s, offended now—controlled, but sharp.

“It doesn’t matter,” she went on. “And it wasn’t anything more than that. So don’t presume to pass judgment or imply I was compromised.”

A beat.

“And don’t talk to me like I’m a cadet who wandered off post because she got distracted,” she added, heat rising. “I’m not a child. I’m not reckless. And I don’t need you implying I don’t know the difference.”

The corridor felt smaller.

“I made a judgment call,” she said, defensive and unyielding. “One I was fully prepared to own if it went sideways.”

Her chin lifted, challenging.

Keishara didn’t block Evelyn’s path, but she didn’t move either. The corridor was quiet enough that every word mattered.

“Stop.”

Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough to make it land.

She held Evelyn’s gaze steadily, expression set, the anger there but contained — not flaring, not spilling, just coiled.

“You don’t get to decide when Security steps aside,” she said evenly. “Not for three minutes. Not for a conversation you felt entitled to have. Not ever.”

A breath in through her nose, slow, deliberate.

“One of my officers tried to stop you,” she continued, voice calm but unyielding. “They knew the protocol. You overruled them anyway. That tells me this wasn’t about misunderstanding procedure — it was about choosing to ignore it.”

She didn’t gesture back toward the brig. She didn’t need to.

“That brig exists to protect the prisoner and the crew,” Kei went on. “High-profile transfer. Politically volatile. Actively divisive. You don’t leave that space unattended so you can satisfy a need, no matter how convinced you are that nothing would happen.”

Her eyes didn’t soften, but they sharpened — disappointment threading through the anger now.

“And don’t tell me it was secure,” she added quietly. “Security isn’t a forcefield. It’s presence. It’s accountability. It’s making damn sure no one ever has to ask what happened when someone walked away.”

A beat. The words were measured, deliberate.

“You don’t get to make that judgment call,” Kei said. “Understanding the line doesn’t give you permission to step over it.”

She shifted her weight slightly, not crowding, not backing off.

“This isn’t about your conversation. I don’t care what she said to you. I care that you went around my people, dismissed an officer who did their job, and left a live situation because you wanted privacy.”

Her voice lowered just a fraction.

“That’s not courage. That’s not insight. That’s you deciding that what needed mattered more than the rules everyone else is expected to follow.”

She held Evelyn there with her eyes for another second.

“Next time, you come to me first,” Kei said. “Or you don’t go at all. Because the next time this happens, I won’t be stopping you in a corridor.”

Then, and only then, she stepped aside — not yielding, just finished.

Evelyn took one step like she was going to leave.

Then she stopped.

Not because Keishara had blocked her—she hadn’t. Not because the corridor had suddenly gotten smaller—though it had. Evelyn stopped because the last line had landed exactly how it was meant to.

Evelyn turned back, slow, deliberate, and the look on her face was controlled enough to pass for calm to anyone who didn't know better. The tension in her jaw, the tightness in her shoulders, the way her breathing had gone shallow was more than visible - it was visceral.

She stepped in closer—not a shove, not a lunge. Just close enough that it forced the conversation into the space between them.

“Or what?” she asked, voice low, quiet so only Keishara could possibly hear.

Two words. Quiet. Razor-clean.

Her eyes held Keishara’s without blinking.

“You’re making threats now?” Evelyn continued, still controlled, still low, but with a bite that made it clear she wasn’t backing down. “Because it sounds an awful lot like one.”

After a moment Evelyn’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t a smile.

“I’m not a cadet you can scare straight,” she said. “And you don’t get to decide I ‘don’t go at all’ like you’re issuing orders. Don't hide behind protocol. I don't care that it's your fucking department. I made a judgement call and I sure as hell don't need your permission to do so.”

She leaned in just slightly, enough to make the point without touching her.

“I’m a senior officer on this ship,” Evelyn said, the emphasis sharp. “I answer to Maraj. Not to you.”

The corridor hummed around them, indifferent and steady.

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, the anger finally showing through the restraint.

“So be specific, Commander,” she said quietly, taunting. Her tone a trace mocking as she slightly shook her head to emphasize her point. “Because I’m not interested in the implication.”

She waited a moment as she stared down the security chief.

“What happens next time?”

Keishara didn’t step back.

She didn’t step forward either.

She held Evelyn’s gaze, unblinking, the anger gone now — not replaced by calm, but by something colder and far more dangerous: certainty.

“I’m not making threats,” she said quietly. “I’m explaining consequences.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t sharpen. It flattened, precise and controlled, every word deliberate.

“You dismissed a posted security officer without authority,” Kei continued. “You left a high-profile detainee unattended during an active transfer. You did it knowingly, after protocol was explained to you. That’s not a judgment call. That’s a breach.”

A pause. Long enough to let it settle.

“I am a Lieutenant Commander,” she said evenly. “I’m Chief of Security and Second Officer. When you step into my department and compromise it, I do have the authority to stop you.”

She tilted her head just slightly, not challenging, just correcting.

“You don’t answer to me,” Kei went on. “But you are absolutely accountable through me when you interfere with Security operations. That’s how this works.”

Her eyes never left Evelyn’s.

“So here is what happens next time,” she said, finally answering the question that had been thrown at her like a dare.

“If you override Security again without authorisation,” Kei said evenly, “I treat it as misconduct and escalate it. If you interfere with an active custody or safety operation, I remove you from the situation and notify the captain. And if you compromise a controlled environment or endanger my people, I will have you detained until the situation is secured and reviewed.”

No pause for effect. No heat.

“That isn’t personal,” she added. “That’s procedure.”

Another beat.

“You don’t need my permission to think,” she said. “You absolutely need it to override Security.”

Her tone softened only a fraction — not in sympathy, but in finality.

“You’re a senior officer,” Kei said. “Which means you don’t get more latitude. You get less.”

She held the silence, letting the corridor hum around them.

“This conversation is over,” she said. “What you do with it determines whether we ever have another.”

And then she stepped aside — not conceding space, simply done engaging — leaving Evelyn with nothing left to argue against but reality.

Stewart didn't take the opening to leave. Instead she stepped up to Kei's space, eyes scanning over her with open contempt as she clenched her jaw tight from the amount of restraint she was administering.

Evelyn considered the situation carefully and the message Davaris was sending. Her mouth twitched into something that wasn’t a smile.

“Go on,” she said softly. “Take it to Greco.”

A beat—her eyes hard, contemptuous.

“Whatever you need to call it to feel justified,” Evelyn added. “I’m sure he’ll listen.”

She leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something razor-clean.

“Just keep your report out of his bed,” she said in a low voice before turning on her heel and continuing down the corridor toward the turbolift without another word.

Keishara didn’t move as Evelyn stepped into her space.

She didn’t rise to it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even tighten.

If anything, the contempt in Evelyn’s eyes drew a faint, almost imperceptible lift at the corner of Kei’s mouth — not a smile, not quite — something closer to amusement.

Evelyn’s words didn’t sting. They weren’t sharp enough for that. They were predictable.

Kei watched her turn away, listened to the cadence of her boots retreating down the corridor toward the turbolift. She didn’t follow. Didn’t call after her. There was nothing left to say.

She already had what she needed.

The authority.
The line drawn.
The record, if it came to that.

Greco didn’t factor into it. He didn’t need to. This wasn’t personal, and it wasn’t political. It was jurisdiction, and it had been exercised cleanly.

Keishara exhaled once, slow and steady, letting the moment pass.

Then she turned and walked the other way — back toward the ship, back toward her people — already done with the exchange, already filing it where it belonged.

Not as a threat.
Not as gossip.

But as a line that had been crossed, named, and would not be tolerated again.

 

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