Still Got That Mouth

Posted on Tue Jan 27th, 2026 @ 10:03am by Commander Calvin 'Cal' Maraj

1,730 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: Bridge → Ready Room, USS Moore
Timeline: MD 004 – 10:36 hrs

The bridge settled into its holding rhythm as the station filled the viewscreen, all struts and traffic lanes and quiet tension. Cal stayed where he was, hands loosely braced at the rail, eyes tracking nothing in particular as the last of the transfer prep rolled forward without him needing to prod it.

Then the soft chirp cut through the background hum.

“Captain,” Ops called from behind him, careful with the tone. “We’ve got an incoming priority channel from Starfleet Command. Flag encryption.”

Cal closed his eyes for half a beat.

Of course we do.

He straightened, expression smoothing out as he turned halfway back toward the pit. “Route it to my ready room,” he said evenly. “I’ll take it there.”

“Aye, sir.”

He glanced once more at the viewscreen, at Starbase 514 hanging there like a problem no one wanted to own, then nodded to no one in particular and headed for the turbolift.

The doors slid shut, sealing him into the quiet hum of ascent. Cal exhaled slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders once as if shedding the bridge with the movement. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be a courtesy call. Starfleet didn’t ring captains mid-transfer to ask how the view was.

The lift stopped. Doors parted.

His ready room greeted him with its familiar calm: muted lighting, stars slipping past the window, the faint scent of recycled air and old coffee. He crossed to the desk without hurry, setting one hand on its edge as he keyed the console.

“Alright,” he murmured to himself, the hint of Trinidad warmth grounding him. “Let’s hear it.”

He tapped the control.

“Captain Maraj accepting.”

The ready room lights dipped as the channel resolved.

Admiral Jonathan Hale filled the screen, seated squarely behind a Starfleet Command desk that looked designed to remind people where power lived. His uniform was flawless. His expression was not.

“Commander Maraj,” Hale said, stressing the word just enough to scrape. “Let’s keep this efficient.”

Cal straightened a fraction, hands loose at his sides. No correction. No flinch.

“Admiral Hale,” he replied evenly.

Hale’s eyes flicked briefly to something off-screen — a status feed, a report — then back. “Starfleet Command was notified the Moore has arrived at Five-One-Four and is preparing to take custody of Commodore Anjar.” A pause. “Your ship. Your watch.”

Cal nodded once. “That’s correct.”

Hale leaned forward slightly, impatience sharpening his voice. “I’ll be blunt, since subtlety has never been your strength. You are not a captain yet, Commander. You don’t get to decide what this transfer means. You don’t get to interpret intent, motive, or morality.”

Cal met his gaze, calm and unyielding. “I’m not planning to.”

Hale exhaled through his nose, clearly unconvinced. “You said something very similar on the Narwhal,” he said. “Right before you ignored a direct operational preference because you thought you knew better what people needed.”

Cal’s jaw tightened, just barely.

“I remember,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Hale replied coolly. “You’ve always had a talent for putting people first. Crew first. Civilians first. Conscience first.” His mouth twitched. “Starfleet… eventually.”

The silence stretched.

“You wore the uniform,” Hale continued, “but you never stopped acting like the badge was optional. Like the pin on your chest didn’t come with obligations.”

Cal didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t argue. “The pin doesn’t replace my conscience, Admiral.”

Hale’s eyes hardened. “No,” he said. “It complicates it.”

He sat back, fingers steepled. “Anjar Tevon made herself the centre of a political firestorm by deciding she knew better than the chain of command. You and I both know how that story ends if someone lets it become personal.”

Cal’s tone stayed level. “She’ll be treated with dignity. She won’t be made a spectacle.”

“That’s exactly the line I don’t want blurred,” Hale snapped. “Dignity is not advocacy. Respect is not sympathy. And under no circumstances do I want you mistaking this assignment for a moral exercise.”

A beat.

“You are there to move a body from one set of coordinates to another,” Hale said flatly. “Nothing more.”

Cal held the man’s gaze. “Understood.”

Hale studied him for a long moment, measuring old patterns against present reality.

“You’ve had more latitude than most officers your rank,” he said finally. “More second chances. Don’t mistake that for endorsement.”

Cal gave a small, acknowledging nod. “I don’t.”

“Good,” Hale replied. “Then we’re clear.”

The Admiral’s expression cooled into something final. “Complete the transfer. Deliver Anjar to Starbase Twelve. Quietly. If this turns into a statement, a delay, or a problem… it will be your problem. And at your rank, Commander, you don’t have much room left to absorb those.”

Cal didn’t answer right away. He let the quiet sit, long enough to be noticed but not long enough to be rude. When he spoke, his tone was warm on the surface, steel underneath.

“Admiral,” he said lightly, “if this call was just to remind me I’m a Commander and not a Captain, you could’ve sent a note. I read my collar every morning.”

A hint of Trinidad crept in, smoothing the edge without dulling it. “Truth is, I’m already doing exactly what you asked. We’re docked, we’re coordinated, and your problem is walking off the station without a parade.”

He tipped his head a fraction, eyes steady. “So I figured there had to be more to it than a scolding. You didn’t come all this way just to tell me to do my job.”

A beat. Polite. Pointed.

“I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s checking the weather versus watching for lightning.”

Hale’s jaw set, the faintest tightening at the corners of his eyes betraying that the barb had landed closer than he liked.

“You always did have a talent for sounding relaxed while pushing back,” he said flatly. “That hasn’t changed.”

He leaned back an inch, fingers lacing together. “This isn’t a weather check, Commander. It’s a reminder. You’re carrying an officer who made Command look divided, and division makes people nervous. Nervous people look for someone to blame.”

A pause. Measured. Intentional.

“And you,” Hale continued, voice cooling, “have a history of giving nervous people heartburn. You did it on the Narwhal, too. Smart calls. Good outcomes. Plenty of senior officers wondering why procedure always seemed to bend around you.”

His gaze hardened. “I’m not here to stop you from doing your job. I’m here to make sure you remember which parts of it are not yours to improvise.”

He held Cal’s eyes through the screen. “Carry her clean. Hand her over. Then you and I won’t have another conversation like this.”

Cal breathed out slowly, the sound almost a chuckle, though there was no real humour in it.

“Admiral,” he said, easy, unhurried, “I hear you. Truly.”

A pause. Then, softer, steadier.

“But if I’m being honest, I’m still trying to figure out why you felt the need to ring me in the first place.”

His shoulders rolled back a fraction, relaxed rather than defensive. “You know how I work. You’ve known it a long time. I don’t cut corners for sport, and I don’t chase headlines. I do the job in front of me and I look after the people standing in the blast radius.”

The island lilt edged in now, not playful, just real. “That hasn’t changed. And it’s not going to.”

He met Hale’s gaze squarely. “This transfer will be clean. No speeches. No sideshows. Nobody gets hurt who doesn’t already have a lawyer.”

A beat, respectful but firm.

“So if this call was about making sure I remember who I am — you didn’t need to. And if it was about making sure I remember who you are…”

The corner of his mouth tipped, just barely.

“…well. Message received.”

He inclined his head, calm as still water.

Hale held Cal’s gaze for a second longer than courtesy required. Whatever he saw there didn’t soften him. If anything, it confirmed something he’d already decided.

“Still got that mouth,” he said at last, dry as old paper. “Narwhal didn’t knock it out of you after all.”

He straightened in his chair, the edge in his voice cooling into something tighter. Controlled. Administrative.

“You’ll do the job the way you always do,” Hale continued. “Efficient. Contained. And without improvising your way into a problem I have to explain to the Council.”

A pause. Not reflective—deliberate.

“Don’t flatter yourself into thinking this is me indulging your… tendencies,” he added. “Starfleet doesn’t reward officers who question orders. It uses them until it can’t.”

His eyes hardened again, sharp and assessing.

“There’s a difference between having a conscience and making yourself inconvenient. You’ve spent most of your career riding that line.”

Another beat.

“Don’t cross it.”

He nodded once, sharply. A dismissal, not an acknowledgment.

“Complete the transfer. Keep your ship out of trouble.”

The screen blinked.

“Starfleet Command out.”

The channel cut, the ready room lights returning to their normal glow, leaving Cal alone with the hum of his ship—and the familiar understanding that doing the right thing had never been the same as being forgiven for it.

Cal stared at the dead screen for a beat, then snorted softly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“Christ,” he muttered to no one, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. “That man needs to get laid. Desperately.”

The tension drained out of his shoulders like someone had opened a valve. Hale could posture from behind a desk all he liked. Cal had a ship to run, a crew that trusted him, and a job that needed doing.

He straightened his jacket, rolled his shoulders once, and headed for the door.

By the time the ready room doors slid open and the bridge lights greeted him again, the weight was gone from his step. Whatever storms were coming, the Moore was steady under his feet—and as far as anyone watching could tell, all was right with the world.

 

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