—- USS Majestic, Main Bridge —-

The Sovereign-class USS Majestic easily hit a steady warp seven cruising speed as it set off from Starbase 86 and headed towards the Triangle. The bit of space that lay between the Federation, Klingon, and former Romulan Star Empire’s borders. It was a large, contested collection of pirates, colonies, special anomalies, and dangers. With tensions with the Klingons rising that spot of space had increasingly become something to be concerned with, particularly for Captain Nathanial Hawthorne in his new role as head of the Task Force 86 that was charged with maintaining the Federation’s borders.

He’d thought his career stagnate, doomed to usher around doctors on a medical variant of a California-class. Then he’d gotten his hands of the USS Seattle, a Rhode Island-class, and then got poisoned and ended up along with the male portion of his crew sick and unable to do anything other than desk duty for awhile.

Whether he deserved it or not he’d suddenly found himself elevated not once but twice taken from desk duty and put in charge of events well beyond where he’d started, captaining a single California-class.

He glanced at the Chief Communications Officer, “Inform Captain Callen Varro that we’re underway and we’ll be leaving Federation space tomorrow afternoon. We’ll need the mission and exact location by then. I’ll be in my ready room.”

The Majestic was from the same era of Starfleet design as the California-class. Thus his ready room looked much like it did in back on his first command. Wood accents, carpeting, brass. It had a nautical feel to it. Hawthorne went over to his coffee grinder and began to prepare a pot of coffee, a painstakingly manual process when his former First Officers’ almost all had pointed out that you could just replicate a cup anytime you wanted.

All of a sudden, the comms crackled to life, a voice laced with urgency cutting through the static. “Captain! Incoming transmission!” The speaker hesitated for a beat before blurting, “It’s Captain Varro—he’s demanding to speak with you!”

“Okay, I’ll take it in here,” Captain Hawthorne said. He’d been expecting his orders from Varro but had thought that the other captain would be joining him on Starbase 86. Perhaps he’d been busy, they were out of the way on the far borders of Starfleet.

“Of course, sir. Patching it through,” the voice replied crisply before fading into silence.

“Thank you,” Hawthorne said. He adjusted his stance as sipped his coffee as the senior captain appeared in on the screen before him.

The screen flickered, stabilizing into the figure of Captain Callen Varro. Shoulder-length waves of brown hair caught the faint gold of the bridge’s sterile light, shifting as he tilted his head slightly. His hazel eyes locked onto the viewer, unblinking, sharp—like a predator sizing up its prey. The faint furrow of his brows deepened the intensity of his stare, the precision of their shape at odds with the subtle scar nicking the corner of his right eyebrow. High cheekbones cast shadows across his face, his jawline taut and angular, softened only by the rough edge of stubble. Every detail of his expression, from the slight narrowing of his gaze to the stillness of his shoulders, exuded control, a readiness that hinted at a life lived on the edge.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat before his voice cut through it, crisp and edged with dry amusement. “Captain Hawthorne, planning a field trip?”

Hawthorne was not sure if this was an attempt to be jovial or a hidden insult, but he decided not to take offense. Instead, he chuckled, “I’m on my way to the coordinates but I don’t yet know the scope of my mission. Anything you can tell me would be appreciated captain.”

“I was under the impression we’d be departing from Starbase 86—your base of operations,” Varro said, his voice smooth but taut. “I just arrived, in fact.” He let the words hang for a moment, the silence thick with unspoken tension. Then, with a sharp breath, he pressed on.

“Imagine my surprise when I learned you’d already left.” A low chuckle, devoid of humor, crackled through the transmission. “So, Captain Hawthorne, tell me—how do we fix this?”

“Well the USS Advance is currently near Starbase 86. We can slow down for a bit, while it swings by and picks you up, brings you here,” Hawthorne said. Adding, “Or you could wait there for me, while I run this mission.”

Varro nodded slowly, his face impassive. “That would be acceptable,” he said, his voice even. He tapped a few commands on his console, the soft hum of the interface filling the brief silence. “As for your mission,” he continued, his tone shifting slightly, “you’re to pick up a R’ongovian diplomat and escort him back to Starbase 86.”

His eyes locked onto the screen, sharp and unyielding. “I’m sending you the details now. Be sure to exercise extreme caution, Captain.”

“Of course,” Hawthorne said, not sure what trouble a R’ongovian diplomat could represent.

“I’ll meet you soon. Varro out,” Varro said, his voice firm. With a swift motion, he cut the transmission, and the screen flickered to black.