Captain’s Quarters…

Rebecca stood before the mirror in her quarters. The steady thrum of the engines and the soft hum of the environmental systems played a familiar, almost comforting soundtrack in the background. Behind her, the green and blue orb of P’jem was framed in the windows, its soft glow bathing the room in tranquil shades of blue.

The quarters felt empty now, quieter without the girls. The twins’ laughter had been replaced by a hollow stillness that darkened the space. But they were safe, and that’s all that mattered. Sending them to live with her father had been the right decision; she told herself that every day, but the ache of their absence was more difficult to ignore than she’d anticipated.

She tucked a loose strand of coppery hair into place, taming the unruly mess into a sleek, regulation-style bun. With a practiced motion, she swiped her index finger across the corner of her left eye, erasing a faint eyeliner smudge. She took a deep breath and studied her reflection, ensuring every detail was in order.

“You’re looking sharp,” Milo said with a slight grin beneath his Walrus mustache, holding her dress uniform jacket open to help her into it.

“Thanks,” she replied earnestly, sliding her arms into the sleeves. “You’re looking good yourself, but how quickly you can get ready is infuriating.”

Milo chuckled as he settled the jacket over her shoulders. Grinning, he ran a hand through his neatly combed hair. “I don’t have to wrestle with my hair or makeup. The hardest thing I do is shave, which I took care of this morning.”

Rebecca scowled, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Men. You wouldn’t last a day as a woman.”

Her fingers worked up the front of the crisp white uniform, finally fastening the upturned collar after several attempts. Facing the mirror, she tugged at the bottom of her uniform, adjusting it with a frown. For a moment, she was that little girl again, standing in her mom’s uniform, dreaming of one day becoming a captain like Kirk, Garrett, or Sulu.

“I reckon you’re right,” Milo agreed. “Are we ready now?”

“Of course, I’m right, my dear,” she said with a smile, turning to fix her husband’s haphazard appearance.  She straightened his collar and reached up to smooth an errant strand of hair.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he groaned, brushing her probing fingers away lightly with the back of his hand. “You’re acting like we’re meeting the president. We’re just having dinner with some fellow captains and their XOs. How do you know Captain Anderson?”

Rebecca frowned, her expression darkening. She sidestepped Milo, crossing her arms as she stared out the windows, watching P’Jem slowly rotate below them. A heavy silence hung between them before she finally spoke. “He was the Assistant Chief Engineer of the USS Missouri .”

Milo’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide as he blinked in surprise. Steeling his expression, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume and the soft floral notes of her shampoo. “Your mom’s ship.”

“The same one.”

Twenty-eight Years Earlier…

A console arched sending a shower of sparks streaming across engineering.  The steady thrum of the warp core made a strange vibration for a second before falling back into the familiar heartbeat like rhythm.

The Missouri shuddered violently, the deck plates beneath its crew groaning under the strain. Each impact rippled through the venerable Excelsior-class starship, a cacophony of creaks and pops echoing through its stressed hull. The high-pitched whine of the inertial compensators, straining to counteract the onslaught, rose to an almost unbearable pitch.

Lieutenant Michael Anderson picked himself up off the deck giving himself a cursory damage assessment.  After a quick examination he concluded that he had suffered nothing more than a few bumps and bruises.

Again, the ship bucked and jumped under another volley of enemy fire, the hull groaning as phaser blasts and torpedoes hammered the shields. Mike stumbled, grabbing the edge of the engineering “pool table” to steady himself, narrowly avoiding a fall onto the littered deck.

The acrid smell of burning electronics filled the air, and alarms blared in the background. As he regained his balance, his eyes fell upon a silent form half buried under a charred pile of debris, the red of the “monster maroon” uniform barely visible beneath the fractured bits of bulkhead and console.

“Chief!” Mike shouted, dropping to his knees beside the injured man sprawled on the deck. Frantically, he shoved debris aside to reveal the Chief Engineer, lying on his back and struggling to breathe. His face was scorched, his eyes wide with shock. A jagged shard of a console’s touchscreen jutted from his chest, blood pooling around the wound and soaking into the wool of his uniform.

“Bridge to engineering,” Commander Rachel Sandoval’s voice cut through the chaos over the intercom. “Chief, we need those shields!”

“Stay with me, Chief,” Mike urged, his voice steady despite the tremor in his chest. He lightly slapped the man’s cheek, trying to keep him conscious. “Hang on.” Rising, Mike slapped the intercom button. “Stand by Commander. Engineering to Sickbay! Medical emergency; beam the Chief Engineer directly to sickbay!”

“Stand by, engineering,” came the reply.

A heartbeat later, the shimmering light of the transporter enveloped the Chief Engineer, and he was gone, leaving behind only the blood-streaked deck. Mike exhaled sharply, pushing the knot of worry deep down. There was no time to dwell. It was the next man up, and that man was him.

“Johnson, Kelly: get on the shield generators! Salok, you’re with me on the warp core. We have to stabilize the reaction, or we’ll lose antimatter containment!”

Slamming the comm button, Mike shouted, “Lieutenant Anderson to bridge. Chief Cooper is injured. I have teams on the shields. Give us a few minutes if you can.”

“We’ll do what we ca─”

A massive explosion tore through the hull, cutting off the bridge mid-sentence. The deck bucked violently, throwing Mike to the floor. Consoles erupted around him in showers of sparks, and the already smoke-filled room plunged into near-darkness, illuminated only by the pulsing red emergency lights and the steady blue glow of the warp core. The acrid smell of burning circuitry stung his nostrils, and the crackle of arcing electricity filled the air.

“Damage report!” Mike barked, coughing as smoke seared his lungs. Stumbling to his feet, he made his way to the engineering console, where Salok stood. The Vulcan’s serene countenance was unsettling amidst the chaos.

“Shields are offline,” Salok reported with a momentary hesitation. “Hull breaches on decks one through five. I— Emergency forcefields are offline and emergency bulkheads are in place.” His normally serene expression faltered, his eyes widening ever so slightly in alarm.

So, they do feel something after all, Mike thought grimly as he joined Salok at the console.

The diagram of the ship glowed faintly on the table. The Missouri was a sea of red and orange, nearly every system marked as damaged or destroyed. Yet, to Mike’s surprise, the warp engines were still functional; damaged but operational. They wouldn’t exceed warp five, but it was enough to get them out of danger.

Mike pressed the intercom again. “Engineering to bridge.”

Silence.

“Engineering to bridge,” he repeated, his fingers racing over the controls.

Still nothing.

“Are the comms down?” he asked, his voice tight.

Salok shook his head. “Communications are operational.” He glanced at the console, his voice lowering slightly. “However, I am not detecting any life signs from the bridge.” He paused, his tone even but grave. “Lieutenant, I believe you are now the highest-ranking officer aboard. You are in command.”

A chill swept over Mike, cutting through the heat and smoke. He gripped the edge of the console, steadying himself. Command? That was never his dream. He was an engineer. His job was fixing the ship, not leading it. The thought of stepping into the role now, amidst this devastation, was suffocating.

“Lieutenant, what are your orders?” Salok asked, his firm tone grounding Mike in the immediacy of the situation.

Mike took a steadying breath. “Okay, let’s get out of here. Hopefully, the other ships can keep the Cardassians off us as we retreat. Johnson, convert your console to tactical. Salok, you’re a certified pilot, right?”

“I am,” the Vulcan replied, his fingers already moving across the console to reconfigure the situation table into a helm. The computer obediently adjusted, displaying the ship’s course. “Impulse engines are offline, but warp and maneuvering thrusters are responding. Course laid in for Starbase 238 at warp five.”

Mike braced himself against the damaged inertial dampers, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the console. “Engage.”

The next day, life aboard the Missouri was slowly returning to a semblance of normal. Systems were being restored one by one, but the scars of battle lingered. An EVA spacewalk confirmed the worst: the bridge had taken a direct torpedo hit. It was gone—torn apart by the explosion. There was nothing to salvage, not even biological remains. The only small comfort was that the crew’s deaths had likely been instantaneous.

Mike had moved command to auxiliary control, promoting Salok to acting chief engineer. Technically, Chief Cooper was now the captain, but he lay unconscious in sickbay. The doctor estimated he would remain there for at least a week, long after they reached Starbase 238.

There was one thing Mike had been avoiding—something he could no longer put off. He’d buried himself in work, using the ship’s extensive damage as an excuse. But now, with repairs stabilizing, he had to face it.

His pulse quickened as he walked the corridors, a PADD clutched tightly in his hand. The information it contained seemed to burn through his palm. When he reached the closed doors, he stopped, staring at the gold nameplate:

Commander Rachel Sandoval, Executive Officer.

Mike swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the mustard-colored undershirt of his uniform, stalling for time. He adjusted the maroon jacket that suddenly felt several sizes too small. Sucking in air through his nose he filled his lungs before slowly blowing it out through his teeth. Steeling himself he pressed the door chime.

The silence stretched, each second feeling like an eternity. Mike tugged at his collar, the fabric suddenly feeling like a noose tightening with every beat of his racing heart. The corridor around him felt oppressively narrow, the harsh artificial lights casting long, distorted shadows deepening his dread. His palms were slick with sweat, and he could feel the subtle tremor in his hand as he clutched the PADD tightly against his hip. He considered turning away for a moment, retreating to the safety of the chaos of auxiliary control. But no, this had to be done.

Finally, the soft hiss of the doors broke the oppressive quiet, sliding open with a deliberate slowness that felt almost mocking. A faint breeze from the air recycling systems stirred the tension, brushing past him as though urging him forward.

A young girl no older than ten stood before him. Her bright green eyes shone with anticipation, freckles scattered like stars across her nose and cheeks. Wild curls of red hair framed her small, hopeful face. But the hope didn’t last. Her expression fell, her wide eyes dimming, her lips trembling in a way that made Mike’s chest tighten. She looked so much like her mother.

“Rebecca,” he rasped, his voice breaking under the weight of her name.

The girl’s expression contorted, her face struggling to keep the tears at bay, the sorrow etched in every feature. She hadn’t needed to hear the words. His very presence at her door spoke louder than any confirmation. The familiar, unspoken realization hung heavy in the space between them; her worst fear had come to life. And yet, despite the depth of that heartbreak, she held herself together in a way Mike couldn’t have imagined. She stood there, her slight frame tense but remarkably composed, considering the devastation that lay in wait.

Mike’s throat tightened as he knelt before her, his knees protesting. He looked into her eyes, green like polished jade, gleaming with innocence. They held a pain that was meant for someone beyond her years. He could not fathom how a child would persevere after this.

“Rebecca, dear,” he began, his voice faltering as the words failed to come, “your mom—”

And that was all it took. The dam broke.

She collapsed into him, her sobs tearing through the silence that had lingered between them. Her tiny body trembled violently, pressing into his chest as though she could somehow bury herself within the safety of his embrace. Mike immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close with the full force of his desperation. If he could shield her from this pain, if only for a moment, he would.

Her cries were guttural, ragged breaths that rattled in his ear, each sob seeming to cut deeper into him. He could feel her tears soaking into his uniform, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but holding her, trying to absorb some of the unbearable loss. His knees burned from the prolonged kneeling, his muscles screaming in protest, but he refused to let go. No matter how much it hurt, he would let her have her grief.

USS Andromeda…

The youthful face from the Missouri was now gone, replaced by deep wrinkles, a reminder of his years in service with Starfleet. His beard remained mostly unchanged, though streaks of grey ran through the light brown, mirroring the streaks in his hair. Even the uniform had changed; it was no longer the gold jacket of operations but the red of command. More than the grey hair or the wrinkles, that was the hardest adjustment. He’d spent years dodging promotions, content to bury himself in the hum of an engine room, where he didn’t have to be in that center seat again. He would never have to tell another child her mother was dead.

But Command didn’t care about his preferences. Starfleet needed experienced officers, and war left little room for personal hesitation. First, it was a promotion to first officer aboard the Shenandoah during the Klingon War. Then, when the Dominion War broke out, there was no escaping the center seat. He took command of two ships in quick succession, both lost in combat. Despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to save the USS Ft. Morgan, ambushed by Dominion fighters in a skirmish near the Badlands. The second, an Excelsior-class starship, was destroyed during Operation Return, though at least he managed to get the crew to safety.

He had always escaped without a scratch. He always got most of his crew home. There were always the inevitable casualties. It was war, and the faces always stuck in his mind—a smile or a laugh that he would never experience because of a crew member’s untimely demise. So far, his luck had held, though he didn’t trust it. The crew, however, did. They’d taken to calling him “Lucky Mike,” a moniker he was not keen on. Luck, after all, had a way of running out.

Mike adjusted the collar of his uniform as he studied his reflection. Broad-shouldered, long-legged, narrow-hipped—a figure Starfleet uniforms flattered, he thought. The new white and black dress uniform was no exception, though the four pips on his collar felt more like an anchor than a badge of honor. With a heavy sigh, he tugged the bottom of his jacket down, straightened his shoulders, and stepped into the corridor.

Mike blinked, mildly startled by the Denobulan officer standing outside his quarters. “Commander.”

“Captain,” Commander Anari replied, her voice as calm and measured as ever. Her hands were clasped neatly behind her back, her expression unreadable.

“You know, there’s this thing called a door chime,” Mike quipped.

Anari’s brow arched slightly. “I was early and did not wish to disturb you.”

He chuckled despite himself. “Punctual as always, Commander. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a Vulcan.”

She inclined her head, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It’s what you expect of me, Captain.”

That much was true. Anari always exceeded expectations, never settling for anything less than perfection. She was, by all accounts, an exceptional first officer. But waiting silently outside his door? Jesus that was unsettling. Professionalism is one thing, but this? That’s just plain creepy, he thought, keeping his expression neutral.

Walking down the corridor, their footsteps fell into an easy rhythm, muffled by the carpeted deck. The ship’s steady hum filled the quiet moments between them. They turned right at a “T” junction, heading toward the transporter room. The doors parted with a soft pneumatic hiss as they entered.

The transporter operator glanced up from his console, setting down an open tricorder and snapping to a sloppy version of attention. “Captain. Commander.”

“Relax, Charlie,” Mike said, flashing an easy grin.

“Yes, sir. The Denver has indicated that Commander Nalim is ready to receive you.”

“Not the captain?”

“No, sir.”

Mike frowned. It wasn’t unheard of for a captain to send the XO to greet guests, but the omission felt odd. Don’t read too much into it, he told himself. Still, the history he shared with the Denver’s captain lingered in his thoughts. Surely if she were avoiding me, she wouldn’t have invited us to dinner. Right?

He shook the thought away and forced a smile as he addressed the transporter operator. “Thank you, Charlie.”

Stepping onto the transporter pad, he caught Anari giving him an odd look as if she’d read his mind. This wasn’t the first time someone could read his thoughts like an open book. He had a girlfriend tell him he had a glass face once, which is probably why he was terrible at poker.  Taking a steadying breath, Mike squared his shoulders. “Whenever you’re ready, Chief.”

“Aye, Captain. Energizing.”

The transporter hummed to life, enveloping them in shimmering light. The room dissolved into a blur as the transporter beam whisked them away.