One Year Ago…

Captain Aoife McKenzie gazed through the ready room window, her reflection ghosting over the endless stars beyond. A low, mournful bagpipe tune drifted from the ready room’s speakers, threading through the steady hum of Valhalla’s powerful engines.

She lifted her cup, the steam curling lazily around her fingers as she took a slow sip. The warmth of the tea cut through the sterile chill of the ship’s air, anchoring her in the moment. Beneath the sharp tang of ozone, the faint sweetness of tropical flowers from her diffuser blended with the rich, earthy taste of steeped tea, all layered over the quiet hum of the ship’s engines.

Beyond the window, the ships of the Fourth Fleet moved in a synchronized dance, their sleek forms drifting in the vast shadow of Guardian-class Starbase 4. The maintenance yards, shipyards, and support facilities shimmered softly in the distance, their muted glow contrasting with the brilliant radiance of Mellstoxx III. The planet, a vibrant sphere of blue, green, and brown, was swirled with fluffy white clouds, bathed in the warm, golden light of the local star.

Yellow construction bees and other shuttles darted around Valhalla, its hull securely nestled within the spiderlike fingers of a drydock, wrapped in a protective embrace. Aoife felt a tingle of anticipation in her fingers, and her feet ached from the long stillness. She was eager for the repairs to be completed, ready to leave the drydock and return to the vast, endless void.

The door chimed, pulling Aoife from her thoughts. With a soft clink, she set her tea down on the desk, her eyes narrowing slightly as she turned toward the entrance. “Enter,” she called, crossing her arms over the top of her seat back.

The parting with a pneumatic hiss,  Commander Halstead strode in, his long legs covering the distance between them in three strides.  His usual calm was gone, replaced by something in his eyes—something intense and unreadable that Aoife wasn’t used to. Raw emotion bubbled there. Anger? Frustration? Whatever it was, it simmered beneath the surface, contained but palpable.

“Commander,” she greeted, her voice steady. Her gaze lingered on him longer than usual, her pulse quickening. His broad shoulders strained against the fabric of his uniform, muscles rippling with every movement. Those eyes… God, those eyes, a perfect shade of ice that never missed a thing.

“Captain.” He extended a hand, offering her a PADD. His fingers were tense, his knuckles tight as if holding something back. “The status report on the repairs you wanted.”

Aoife accepted the PADD and scrolled through it, nodding and taking mental notes of the information she red.  “Everything looks good. We’re ahead of schedule. If we get the replacement officers in time, we should be able to leave dry dock in a few days and return to our mission.”

Halstead’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a narrow line. After a long, steadying breath, he spoke, his voice low but firm. “Captain, permission to speak freely.”

Aoife set the PADD down with a sharp clatter, the sound ringing in the quiet room as she met his gaze. She placed one hand on her hip, the other resting on the seat back, bracing herself. “Nicholas, we’ve known each other for what, three years? Hell, we even lived together on Avalon, pretending to be husband and wife. I don’t think there are any barriers left that would stop you from speaking your mind.”

“Aoife,” he hesitated. He hadn’t used her first name since Avalon. It felt strange yet comfortable to say her name. “Aoife, it was a mistake to engage the Dominion. It was a foolish decision. You put the lives on this ship at risk, and those aboard the Andromeda, Sojourner, and the allies we roped into this action. Relations with the Klingons are tense at best. We can ill afford to lose any pro-Federation voices within the Empire. Not to mention, Governor Tomarah is one of the few independent Romulan factions I would trust right now. Your little stunt could have had dire consequences all across the Quadrant. And for what? To prevent the Dominion from making white and to save a few farmers and fishermen?”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he really suggesting they should have abandoned those people—handing the Dominion yet another foothold?

He was too young to have fought in the war, but old enough to remember. The Breen attack on Earth was seared into the collective memory of every sentient being who had lived through that day. She could still recall the chaos, the raw fear, the devastation that followed—the acrid smoke rising over San Francisco, the screams echoing through fractured comm channels. For the first time, the heart of the Federation had been laid bare, and the illusion of safety had shattered.

But it wasn’t just Earth. It was Monac IV. Betazed. Dozens of worlds across the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. From the homeworlds of major species like the Bolians to worthless rocks like AR-558, death had burned across the stars. Even allies weren’t safe. After nearly two years of oppression, Cardassia had risen up—and the Founders’ response had been swift, merciless. Eight hundred million dead. A civilization reduced to rubble out of sheer spite.

Her mind raced, the weight of history pressing down as she struggled to comprehend how he could be so callous.

She circled the desk, stopping before him, her eyes flashing with burning fury. Her coppery hair fell like a fiery curtain around her face, and her fierce expression gave her the look of a predator ready to strike. “Fair enough, Commander. And when you’re in the center seat, you can make that decision. Tuck tail and run. But just as I have the deaths from my actions on my conscience, you’ll carry the deaths from your inaction on yours.”

Halstead’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Are you suggesting I’m a coward?” His voice was low but edged with rising intensity.

Aoife shrugged casually, though her gaze never left his. “If the shoe fits.”

Fire flashed in his eyes. “Don’t justify your recklessness by calling me a coward,” he hissed. “What about you? What about your cowardice?”

“Me?” Aoife took a step closer, jaw tightening.

“Too afraid to confront your feelings. Too scared to accept what’s obvious—to both of us.” Halstead’s control began to slip, his voice harsh. “You’ve been running scared since Avalon, hiding behind some misguided notion of what it means to be a captain. Pretending there’s nothing between us. You’re the coward, Captain MacKenzie.”

Aoife recoiled, her pulse thudding in her ears. The urge to slap him flared white-hot before she even registered the thought. Her right hand snapped back, fingers tense, ready to strike—wanting to wipe that knowing look off his face, as if his eyes were peering straight into her soul.

Her hand slashed through the air—

But Halstead caught her wrist. His grip was firm but measured, fingers clenching just enough to stop her, not to hurt. Their eyes locked; Aoife’s, ablaze with fury, her breath sharp and uneven. Halstead’s gaze held something raw, something torn between pain and longing. Yet, beneath it all, there was passion.

A muscle in his jaw tensed, his thumb resting lightly against the pulse racing beneath her skin. Her wrist burned where he touched her, heat radiating up her arm like a live wire. The air between them thickened, charged with something neither of them dared name.

Her chest rose and fell, breath sharp and uneven. She should yank her hand away. She should tell him to get out. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

This was inviting something dangerous—something she had refused to admit, even to herself.

Black had seen it. The old cleric had called it for what it was. She scoffed at him, hid behind tradition, behind regulation. A captain and her first officer? It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t. But standing here, his grip warm and steady against her skin, that argument felt paper-thin. She swallowed again, her throat tight. Her voice came softer than she intended.

“Nick…”

She moved before reason could catch up, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. His grip loosened, but neither of them let go. Their lips crashed together, fierce and unrelenting, years of unspoken words dissolving into the heat between them. His lips tasted faintly of coffee.

Her free hand slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of his uniform before curling around the back of his neck. He exhaled sharply against her lips, his arms locking around her waist, pulling her against him. They melted into each other, and the tension between them was no longer a battle but a surrender.

For a moment, neither moved, just the desperate press of mouths, the heat of two years’ worth of unspoken words pouring into a single breath.

Oh God, what am I doing? Her mind raced, but there was no room for thought now. Every sense was heightened, overwhelmed by the pounding of her heart and his taste on her lips. She winced inwardly. My breath probably tastes like tea… that’s not at all romantic.

But she didn’t care. At that moment, nothing else existed.

Today…

“Pass me a number three spanner,” Chief Petty Officer Charles Gibson said, extending his hand behind him.

The enlisted crewman was half-buried inside an open computer access junction, his voice muffled by the soft hum of glowing circuit panels. Tools lay scattered around his knees, with the corridor panel set aside as he worked.

“Ensign, the spanner, please,” he repeated, a note of impatience creeping in.

When the tool still didn’t appear, he frowned and started extricating himself. As he did, the back of his head smacked against the duranium bulkhead.

Thump!

“God damn it!” he hissed, rubbing the sore spot. “Ensign?” His irritation faltered when he followed her gaze. “Ma’am?”

Ensign Sara Taylor stood rigid, her face drained of color. Her only movement was a faint tremor in her fingers. She wasn’t looking at him—her eyes were locked on the airlock ahead.

Two figures stood just beyond the threshold, exchanging greetings with the ship’s executive officer.

The first was a tall, powerfully built man with deep brown skin marked by time. White streaks threaded through his short-cropped hair, and a jagged scar cut from cheekbone to jaw, twisting the flesh into uneven ridges. He had been lucky not to lose that eye. Despite his imposing frame, he moved with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime in command.

Beside him, a blonde woman stood still, her expression unreadable. Piercing green eyes missed nothing, and the sharp angles of her high cheekbones made her seem even more severe. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun, exposing the elegant lines of her jaw and neck.

“Captain Vance. Commander Kyle. Welcome aboard the Valhalla,” Halstead greeted warmly. “Captain MacKenzie sends her regards, but she’s up to her neck in packing.”

Vance chuckled. “That’s quite all right, Commander.”

Sara exhaled sharply, a strangled sound barely above a whisper. “No… not…”

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the ready room,” Halstead said, his right hand gesturing away from the entrance.

The three senior officers peeled away from the airlock and strode down the corridor. They passed the engineers without a glance, but Gibson caught a flicker of movement—a pair of green eyes shifting, just for a second, before the one called Kyle brushed past. She never turned her head, never faltered, moving with the kind of rigid control that made it seem as if nothing in the world could touch her. But there was something about that gaze. Cold. Calculated. Icy as an Andorian winter. He wasn’t even on the receiving end, yet it still sent a shiver down his spine.

He and Sara stood in silence, watching as the trio strode away, never once looking back, before vanishing around the curve of the corridor. Their booted footsteps faded into memory, swallowed by the ever-present hum of the environmental systems—leaving only the hush of recycled air and Sara’s ragged, barely audible breaths.

Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding. The tension was almost tangible, a weight pressing into the sterile air. Gibson caught the faint scent of Sara’s sweat—musky, tinged with the fading sweetness of her perfume. Something floral beneath the sharp bite of adrenaline.

“Sara.” His voice was softer now, an anchor against whatever storm had gripped her.

Still, she said nothing. The silence stretched further, taut and uneasy, as she stared into the empty corridor.

At last, her voice came, fragile and small, like something not meant to be spoken aloud. “Chief… you know how I don’t like to talk about my past?”

Gibson’s gaze flicked from her to where the officers had vanished, then back again. A memory surfaced: that night in the lounge, she had gone quiet, her expression tight, the way she had fled when it was her turn to dredge up the past. His jaw tightened.

“Yeah… yeah, I remember.”

Sara swallowed hard, her hands finally unclenching at her sides. She didn’t look at him when she spoke next.

“It just caught up with me.”

“I reckon congratulations are in order,” Vance said as they stepped into the turbolift.

Halstead chuckled. “Bridge.” The lift whirred to life, deck lights flashing through the frosted viewports, casting shifting patterns across their faces like a shadow puppet show. He rested his hands loosely on his hips. “I ain’t married yet, Captain.”

Vance clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “Son, unless one of you turns tail at the altar, the ceremony’s just a formality. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. You’re married whether you like it or not. Too many men forget that and do something stupid before the wedding. Don’t be one of them.”

Halstead swallowed his Adam’s apple, bobbing. “I won’t, sir.”

Commander Kyle, silent until now, folded her arms. “I find workplace relationships…” She clicked her tongue, a sharp, deliberate sound. “Unwise.”

Vance smirked. “Of course you do, Commander.” He leaned against the lift’s wall, his tone conversational, but his posture carried the weight of experience—like he’d seen it all before. “Back in the day, my father would’ve said Halstead dipped his pen in the company ink. Maybe that used to be a problem, but the captain’s chair is a lonely place. XO’s isn’t much better. It’s only natural.”

Kyle scowled, bitkng her lower lip. She looked like she was about to quote regulations for a moment, but then she exhaled sharply through her nose and let it slide.

Halstead watched the lights flicker past, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Well,” he said at last, “here’s hoping she doesn’t turn tail, then.”

Vance chuckled, his grin easy but knowing. “Well, I don’t know Captain MacKenzie, but if she’s giving up the center seat to marry you…” He shrugged. “I doubt it’ll be her.”

The conversation settled into a comfortable lull, the soft hum of the turbolift filling the space. Then Vance shifted, breaking the silence. “I noticed you’ve got Ensign Taylor on board.” His tone was casual, but there was weight behind it, the kind that came from experience. “She’s a fine officer—different, though.”

“Different is one word. I’d call her weird,” Kyle added, placing an odd emphasis on her.

Halstead didn’t respond, but he shot Kyle a raised eyebrow.

The lift slowed to a stop, and the doors parted, revealing the Valhalla’s bridge. The steady hum of systems and the rhythmic chirps from consoles filled the air. Without hesitation, Halstead led the officers across the brightly lit expanse, heading for the ready room.

Inside, Captain Aoife McKenzie stood by the console table wedged between the two sofas beneath the arched observation windows. Beyond the glass, the stars drifted in silent indifference—a vast, familiar sea she had spent a lifetime navigating. She gathered the last of the mementos, fingers lingering for a moment before she crossed the office and let the keepsakes tumble into the polymer crate on the desk. The dull clatter echoed in the quiet space, carrying a strange sense of finality.

She turned as the doors parted, her gaze settling on the officers stepping into the office. Stretching, she felt the tight pull along her spine, a ripple of relief unfurling through her muscles. With a slow exhale, she rested her hands on the gentle swell of her belly, fingers splaying as if to ground herself.

“Sorry it’s taking so long to get out of here. I don’t move as fast as I used to these days.” Her voice was warm, touched with quiet amusement. “Nick, how’s our quarters coming along?”

“Already taken care of, my dear. I had the crates transferred to Starbase 86 two hours ago.” Halstead’s voice was casual, reassuring—until his posture shifted, back straightening as his tone turned crisp, formal. “Captain McKenzie, may I present Captain Xavier Vance and Commander Elizabeth Kyle.”

Aoife beamed, stepping forward and extending a hand to Vance. “So, you’re the one Starfleet’s chosen to shepherd this herd of cats.”

Vance let out a loud guffaw, the deep, unrestrained sound bouncing off the walls. “I reckon so, ma’am.”

Aoife smirked as she slid the crate’s lid shut with a firm snap, then nudged it toward Halstead. The plastic bottom scraped against the desk’s smooth surface. “I suppose you want the office now?”

Vance smirked, standing casually before her with arms crossed. His gaze swept the space about to become his. “I thought I’d say hello first, then ask for the office, but we can do it in any order you like,” he said, his tone light and teasing.

Aoife’s lips quirked as she shrugged. “You’ve got one hell of a crew here.”

Vance nodded, meandering around the perimeter of the office. The clean lines and brightly lit fixtures are all staples of classic 2380s Federation design . He ran a hand along the smooth stainless steel railing separating the upper seating area from the office desk area, reality settling in. “I already took the liberty of going over the senior staff dossiers. If they’re even half-accurate, you might be underselling things, Captain MacKenzie.”

“Aoife, please.”

Shifting his stance, he swung his duffle forward and unzipped it, the fabric sighing as he rummaged inside. A moment later, he withdrew a PADD and offered it to her.

Aoife took it without ceremony, pressing her thumb against the activation sensor. A soft trill confirmed what she knew—his orders were legitimate, and the security codes were verified. The transfer of command wasn’t in question; this was just a formality. Still, as the PADD’s screen pulsed with approval, she exhaled slowly releasing the last of her responsibilities.

“Computer, transfer all command codes to Captain Xavier Vance. Voice authorization: MacKenzie, four-one-one Delta nine.”

The computer emitted a confirming beep. “Transfer complete. The USS Valhalla is now under the command of Captain Xavier Vance.”

Vance stepped forward, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he extended a hand. “I relieve you, ma’am.”

Aoife clasped his massive hand in hers, the warmth of his grip firm but not overbearing. “I stand relieved, Captain.” There was no hesitation in her voice—just the steady assurance of someone who had carried the weight of command and was ready to set it down.

Releasing his hand, she straightened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got a shuttle to catch for Earth.” A flicker of something unreadable passed behind her eyes, but it was gone before he could place it.

She turned to leave but hesitated just long enough to add, “Good luck, Xavier.”

“You too, Aoife, and congratulations on the nuptials… and the baby.”

Aoife flushed, the heat creeping up her neck as she shoved the crate into Halstead’s waiting arms. He barely had time to adjust his grip before she turned back to Vance. “Thank you,” she said, her voice carrying genuine warmth despite the exhaustion creeping into her bones.

The congratulations, the handshakes, the endless well-wishes—it was all kind, all meant with good intentions, but it was wearing on her. For weeks, she’d been at the center of it, from her wedding to the quiet but inevitable reveal of the baby. Every conversation seemed to circle back to it, and though she appreciated the goodwill, she was ready to step away from the spotlight.

Soon, it would all be behind her.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off the weight of command one last time. Then, without another word, she turned on her heel, striding for the exit. Halstead stepped beside her, the crate shifting slightly in his arms. The doors hissed open and then shut behind them, leaving Vance and Kyle alone in the ready room’s quiet hum.

Silence settled over the captain’ office.

Vance exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging into an invisible mantle. The weight of command was his now—no ceremony, fanfare, just the ship’s quiet hum and the expectation that he would lead.

He shot Kyle a wry smirk. “Well,” he said, breaking the moment, “now that that’s done…”