The Grammar of a Toast
Posted on 17 Aug 2025 @ 4:16am by Gareth Rhys
1,859 words; about a 9 minute read
Mission:
Fractured Accord
Location: Starbase 369
Timeline: 242508.16
=/\= Enroute to USS Arawyn =/\=
Blue-white needles arced from a plasma torch, throwing sparks like a meteor shower, their incandescent trails dying in smoky hisses on the deck plates. Gareth tracked the fall of each one, a subconscious habit from years spent gauging environmental hazards. The air was a thick cocktail of ozone, super-heated lubricants, and the sharp, clean scent of vented coolant; a familiar kind of hostile. He set the cadence, a steady, unhurried pace, and his crew fell into formation around him like iron filings aligning to a magnetic field.
Vaela moved at his left shoulder, a fact of gravity in a dark jacket. Her gaze wasn't on him, but on the world around him, sweeping across gantries and catwalks, assessing angles, sightlines, and exits with the dispassionate focus of a master strategist. Behind them, Grak muscled the grav-sled that carried Tara’s computer node. It hummed under his grip, and the Tellarite’s snout twitched with irritation, his short tusks set in an expression of profound grievance, as if the universe had conspired to place this specific series of obstacles in his path and he was taking it personally. Sora walked their rear-guard, hands in her pockets, projecting a casual air undermined by the way her eyes never stopped moving. And Dr. Vess, his stride somehow both clinical and comforting, was already scanning the dockworkers for signs of exhaustion or injury, a physician who couldn't turn off his duty to heal.
Two more walked with them, their presence a quiet, defiant miracle of physics. TESSA and Tara, their mobile emitters casting just enough hard-light to give them the weight of flesh, the subtle displacement of air as they moved, the illusion of breath misting in the cool dock air. Gareth felt the weight of their trust, a fragile currency he’d nearly bankrupted just hours ago. He felt it most when his gaze fell on Tara. Brand new, her consciousness still settling into its own shape, and he was leading her directly into a cage..
The spacedock’s ambient attention found them, of course. Yardhands in stained coveralls paused, leaning on massive torque wrenches. A flight crew in emergency-orange jumpsuits, deep in an argument, fell silent mid-gesture. At a distant railing, two gold-collared Operations lieutenants cut their conversation short, their stares lingering on the two women who moved with an impossible, flawless grace. Gareth let the looks slide off him. Stares were cheap. It was the attention you didn't see that eventually cost you everything.
He steered them into a side lounge that wrapped around a massive pressure column. A school of shimmering holo-fish circled an inner spine of glowing conduits, their light glinting off the brass fittings of the bar. The air thrummed with a low, inviting beat, a blend of deep bass and synth melodies that mingled with the rich scent of brewing coffee and the sharp tang of synthol and whiskey. Laughter and conversation pulsed through the space, a vibrant hum of civilization against the soft clinking of glasses and the hiss of an espresso machine.
“Ten minutes,” Gareth said. It wasn't a break; it was a tactical pause. A last breath before the plunge.
While the others found a corner, Gareth approached the bar. He laid a slim padd on the worn countertop and made a quiet purchase with the station’s bonded stores clerk.
“Eight cases of Boar’s Rock, double-cask,” he murmured, signing the transfer. “The eighteen-year old.” He knew Captain Corbin’s record: a traditionalist with a deep respect for old Navy courtesies. Replicated whiskey was a convenience; authentic, aged scotch was a statement. “Four for the Arawyn’s wardroom, pending the Captain’s acceptance. The rest to my personal allocation.”
The clerk’s eyebrow registered the specific, expensive choice. “A guest who understands the proper grammar of a toast is always welcome, sir.”
Vaela, near the doorway, gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. A weapon that opened doors without leaving stains was her preferred kind.
When Gareth rejoined his team, the moment had arrived. Tara stood between TESSA and Sora, holding two garment sleeves. In one, the crisp, midnight-blue and grey of a regulation Starfleet duty tunic. In the other, a private-livery flight suit in dark grey and charcoal, trimmed in silver that declared her an adjunct, a specialist beholden to no established chain of command.
“Optics,” Tara said, her voice steady, holding the two options out. She met Gareth’s gaze, asking the real question. How do you want me to be seen? As one of them, or as one of ours?
“Uniform buys you speed with the rank-and-file,” Sora offered. “Makes you part of the machine. Easier to get lost. Harder to say no.”
“It also makes assumptions,” Vess countered gently. “It implies consent to a structure we have not yet vetted. It is a promise you may not wish to keep, Tara.”
Gareth watched her face. He had promised her choice, and he wouldn’t steal it now, not even for a tactical advantage. He had to trust her. “We meet them how we mean to be met,” he said, his voice low. “As ourselves. Choose the one that says ‘Tara’ without apology.”
TESSA, who had been observing in a profound, maternal silence, set her empty mug down. “Visibility is not consent,” she said to Tara, her voice rich with history. “Choose for your own comfort, your own truth. Not for theirs.”
Tara looked from the uniform to the flight suit. A decision settled in her eyes, quiet and absolute. She simply folded the Starfleet garment sleeve and handed it back to Sora.
“Five minutes,” Gareth said. It wasn't a break; it was a tactical pause to synchronize watches before the plunge. He produced a slim padd from his jacket and laid it on the bar top. “Ledger. Talk fast.”
Grak, who had ordered a coffee and was sniffing it with deep suspicion, leaned in. “Plasma injectors are running scorched. We need a full diagnostic and likely replacement. And the port EPS manifold is still throwing ghost errors from that run-in near the Breen border. Thirty-six hours, minimum, if Station Services has the parts I need.”
“I’ll run interference,” Sora said, sipping from a steaming mug. “I can fly some ‘routine’ ECM calibration flights in a shuttle. Keep the dockmaster’s attention on my flight plan and off our engineering bay.”
Vaela’s voice was low and precise. “I will scrub our dead-drop network and monitor local intelligence chatter. No active taps on Starfleet channels for forty-eight hours, unless you send a priority one distress call.”
“Clinic nights,” Vess added. “I’ll offer our services to the station’s triage. It builds goodwill and keeps my skills sharp. Also, mandatory eight hours of contiguous sleep for anyone who thinks ‘fine’ is a medical diagnosis.” He aimed that last part at Sora, who gave him a glare that was pure acceptance.
“TESSA?” Gareth asked without looking up from the padd.
“Perimeter watch on the Long Haul remains active,” she reported. “I will monitor all station-to-ship comms for keyword flags. Mentor Letters to Tara at twelve, thirty-six, and sixty hours.”
Gareth sectioned off the tasks on the padd’s timeline. “Good. Now, R&R windows. Stand down means stand down. Use the time.”
“Simulator, then sleep,” Sora said immediately. “Thirty-six hours, no exceptions.”
“Bench time,” Grak grunted, finally tasting his coffee and grimacing. “And a sonic bath. Heat helps me think.”
“The station’s art gallery,” Vess said. “And I will also be taking eight hours of contiguous sleep. You have my permission to file a formal complaint if I fail to comply.”
Gareth signed the plan and pushed it to their individual padds. “Done. Two minutes.”
They left the lounge for hallways that smelled of industrial-grade antiseptic and cold ambition. Ahead, the main docking port of the USS Arawyn loomed, an archway humming with the kind of contained, overwhelming power that liked to be taken seriously. The Sovereign-class hull wasn't just a ship; it was a monument to order and overwhelming force.
Security kept the area like a temple gate. Two ratings in immaculate gold uniforms stood at the threshold, their boots perfectly aligned with a demarcation line on the deck, their posture a living wall.
“Gareth Rhys, and Specialist Tara,” reporting for duty, Gareth said.
Grak eased the grav-sled forward. The lead rating held up a hand, palm flat. The gesture was courteous and utterly implacable. “Stand by for clearance, please.”
The second rating’s gaze was a scanner, passing over the emitters at TESSA’s and Tara’s throats, then dropping to the sealed tri-key box Gareth held. It was no bigger than a brick, but heavy with all the ways it wasn’t allowed to be opened.
“External computation hardware and unknown photonic personnel require Security adjudication prior to boarding,” the lead rating recited. The words were from a script, but the flat, grey eyes were not. They were the eyes of a man who saw the world as a flowchart: input, rule, output.
The scanner arch integrated into the docking port chirped, a single, precise note. The lead rating’s eyes flicked to a small display and then snapped back to Tara.
“Sub-quantum signature on the specialist,” the second rating said, his voice quiet. The phrase was a red flag, it suggested phase-cloaking, inter-dimensional states, or other technologies strictly controlled by Starfleet Intelligence. His hand drifted to rest on the grip of his phaser, the practiced, economical stillness of a man who was ready, not eager.
Tara didn’t flinch. “It’s a consent token,” she said, her voice calm enough to cut glass. “A cryptographic key, proof of my existence. I am not just some program.”
Gareth saw the rating hear the words, acknowledge them as data, and file them as irrelevant. This was the most dangerous obstacle: an intelligent man committed to following an unintelligent procedure. To challenge him was to fail. To cooperate was the only path.
“We’re here under Admiral MacLaren’s direct tasking,” Gareth said, his tone deliberately reasonable. He held up his padd, angling it so the formal header with the Admiral’s seal was visible. “We’re installing a mission-specific kit. The Node stays cold until the captain is present for activation. No one here wants to violate protocol.”
The rating gave a short, sharp nod, the script unbroken. “Security adjudication is still required, sir. Please don’t take offense.”
“Offense is a luxury we don’t have time for,” Gareth replied smoothly. “We all have a job to do. So let’s do it correctly. Please inform Captain Corbin that my intelligence adjunct and I are at the forward docking port.”
For a single, ringing heartbeat, the corridor was quiet enough to hear the Sovereign’s life support systems breathe. The lead rating did not look away. He had his orders. Gareth had his objective. This was the gentle but irresistible meeting of two forces.
The rating touched his comm badge, his eyes locked on Gareth’s. “Chief of Security to the forward docking port.”
End Log
Gareth Rhys
Intelligence Subcontractor
USS Arawyn
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