Ready Room Requiem

Posted on Tue May 5th, 2026 @ 3:45am by Commander Calvin 'Cal' Maraj & Commodore Anjar Tevon

3,276 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: USS Moore - Ready Room
Timeline: MD: 005 15:30 hrs

The ready room felt smaller than she expected.

Not by size. By intent.

Anjar stepped through the doors with her back straight and her hands loose at her sides, aware of the security presence at her shoulder and the quiet precision of a ship that knew exactly what it was doing with her. The hum of warp sat beneath her feet, steady and indifferent. Ahead, the man behind the desk waited, the viewport at his back casting a cold light around him and turning the room into something closer to judgment.

She took him in with one measured look.

Commander’s pips but a demeanor that spoke of something more.

It was there in the way he held the room without effort, in the stillness that wasn’t hesitation but control. Not new to command—just not wearing the rank yet. The kind of officer Starfleet didn’t leave where they were for long.

So. This was who they had sent.

Anjar came to a stop where protocol and instinct both suggested she should, chin lifted, expression composed. She had been watched for days by people trying not to stare, weighed by strangers who had already decided what she was. This, at least, would be direct.

“Captain,” she said intentionally, inclining her head the bare minimum courtesy required, her voice even and worn smooth by restraint. “Commodore Anjar Tevon.”

Cal was already on his feet by the time she crossed fully into the room.

The ready room was never especially large, but with security standing just inside the door and Anjar framed against the cold wash of corridor light, it felt tighter than usual, the air full of all the things nobody in Starfleet ever put in the official logs. Judgement. Curiosity. Fatigue. The long tail of politics dragging itself from station to ship.

He didn’t like any of it.

His eyes flicked once to the detail at her shoulder. “Give us a minute, please,” he said, easy and unforced, like he was asking for coffee rather than privacy. There was no edge to it, no reminder that this was his ship. There didn’t need to be. The officers stepped back without protest, and when the doors slid shut behind them, the room loosened by a fraction.

Only then did Cal look fully at her.

He took in the straight back, the measured stillness, the care she’d taken to keep herself composed in front of strangers who had spent the better part of a week pretending not to stare. He knew that look. Not the specifics of her journey, maybe, but the shape of it. The effort it took to stand still when the world had already decided what you were.

“Commodore,” he said, and there was no irony in it, no careful political neutrality. Just the title as it should be spoken, with the respect due to someone who had earned it, whether the Admiralty liked the fact or not.

At the “Calvin Maraj.” he said, the hint of a smile warming the words.

He gestured to the chair opposite the desk, then thought better of hiding behind the furniture and moved around it instead, settling against the edge with one hand braced lightly beside him. It left the room open between them, less interrogation, more conversation. The viewport behind him cast a pale ribbon of starlight across the floor, silvering the edges of the desk, catching at the lines in his face and the red of his uniform.

“I didn’t bring you up here to talk charges,” he said after a beat, voice low and even, the Trinidad lilt soft at the edges. “You’ve probably had enough of people either trying to judge you or pretend they’re not.”

His gaze held hers, steady but not invasive. “Truth is, I just didn’t see much sense in leaving you down there with nothing but bulkheads and security boots for company. You’re under my roof now. That means something to me.”

The hum of the ship sat beneath the silence, steady as a heartbeat.

“You’ll get professionalism from my people,” he continued. “You’ll get respect from me. And for what it’s worth, I’d rather we spoke like two officers sharing a ship than keep up some miserable little theatre where everybody says less than they mean.”

He let that sit between them for a moment, then added, quieter and more human, “If you want to sit, sit. If you’d rather stand there and hate every second of this conversation, I won’t take it personally. But either way, I’d rather start plain.”

Anjar did not move to the chair.

Not at first.

Her gaze lingered on him where he had chosen to step out from behind the desk, taking the measure of that decision more than the offer itself. Noted without reaction. Considered without comment.

Then she crossed the distance and sat, the motion controlled and unhurried, as though it had been her intention from the outset rather than a response to him.

Her posture remained straight, but something in it eased—not softened, just… settled.

“Plain,” she echoed, quieter now, as if testing the shape of it.

Her attention returned to him, steady and level. There was no resistance in it, no guarded edge directed his way. If anything, there was a faint recognition there—of the choice he’d made to meet her in the open rather than from behind rank and furniture.

“You’re right,” she said. “There hasn’t been much of that.”

A brief pause followed, measured rather than tense.

“But that isn’t your doing.”

It wasn’t said to absolve him. Just to place things where they belonged.

Her hands rested lightly against the chair, fingers still now, composed.

“I’ve spent the better part of this week being moved from one set of instructions to another,” she continued, tone even. “Most of them written by people who won’t be in the room when the consequences land.”

A slight tilt of her head, almost wry—though the expression never fully formed.

“You don’t strike me as one of them.”

There was no flattery in it. Just assessment.

Another small pause, then:

“You gave your people an order the moment I stepped through that door,” Anjar said, eyes holding his. “Not for show. Not for record.” A faint inclination of her head. “I noticed.”

Respect, offered cleanly. Nothing more than that, but nothing less.

She let the moment settle before continuing.

“You said you wanted to start plain.” Her voice remained calm, controlled. “So I’ll meet you there.”

Her chin lifted a fraction—not defiant, just steady.

“I am not confused about my situation,” she said. “Or how it’s being framed.” A beat. “But I am more interested in the man I’m speaking to than the orders that put me in his ready room.”

A slight pause, deliberate.

“So,” Anjar finished, quiet command threading through the words, “why did you ask me here, Commander?”

Cal held her gaze for a moment, letting the question sit between them.

When he answered, there was no command voice in it. Just him.

“Because I don’t like taking people at their charges and calling it the full story,” he said quietly. “And I don’t much like carrying someone on my ship based on everybody else’s version of them if I can help it.”

He shifted his weight against the desk, easy and settled. “Starfleet’s already decided what to call this. The news has too. Half the Federation’s probably decided what kind of woman you are, and most of them weren’t anywhere near it when the choice had to be made.”

A small breath left him.

“I know how that goes.”

Orders looked one way in reports, another in the room where someone actually had to live with them. He’d seen that enough times to stop pretending otherwise.

“So I asked you here because if I’m the one carrying you through the middle of all this, I’d rather hear it from you than from some briefing packet written by a man trying to cover his own arse.”

The corner of his mouth moved, but there was no real humour in it.

“And because people don’t throw a career away for nothing,” he said. “Not really. They do it because at some point they look at what’s in front of them and decide they can live with the fallout easier than they can live with themselves if they don’t act.”

The ship hummed quietly around them.

He looked at her then without the rank, without the situation, just the person sitting across from him.

“So that’s what I want to understand,” he said. “Not the politics. Not the version they’ll all argue over once we get to Starbase 12. I want to know what you saw. What made you look at that order and decide you couldn’t go through with it.”

Anjar did not answer immediately. She held his gaze, not weighing him this time—listening. Fully. The kind of stillness that didn’t interrupt.

When she spoke, her voice was softer than before. Not diminished. Just unforced.

“That’s a dangerous habit for an officer in your position, Commander. Wanting to understand instead of accept.”

No edge. If anything, a quiet acknowledgment.

A brief pause.

Her eyes shifted—not away, just slightly, the viewport catching in her periphery as she chose her words.

“I didn’t refuse an order,” she said. The distinction settled between them without emphasis. “I followed one.”

Her gaze returned to him.

“To serve the Federation and its people.”

Simple. Not rhetorical. Stated like something that didn’t need defending. Her fingers adjusted once against the armrest, then stilled.

“There’s a point where the structure stops being enough,” Anjar continued, tone even. “Not because it fails. Because what’s in front of you doesn’t fit inside it cleanly.”

No speech. No reach.

“I had ships waiting. Colonies that hadn’t seen a convoy in weeks.” A beat. “And I had orders to hold position.”

She let that sit.

“I’ve seen restraint save lives,” she added, quieter. “And I’ve seen it cost them.” Her eyes stayed on his. “This was the latter.”

No weight added. No need.

“I made the call that aligned with what I’m sworn to protect,” she said. “Everything after that is… interpretation.”

A slight pause. “I can live with mine.”

Cal was quiet for a moment after she finished, letting her words settle before he answered.

“I can see how hard that choice was,” he said at last. “And I respect that you made it. Plenty of officers spend their whole careers hiding behind orders so they never have to own the hard part. You didn’t.”

He shifted slightly against the desk, expression steady. “Someone was always going to question you after that. Maybe a lot of someones. That part was baked in the moment you made the call.”

A small breath left him, not quite a sigh.

“And if I’m honest, Command’s been making some strange decisions lately. Enough that I don’t find it hard to believe the people writing the orders weren’t the ones who’d have to live with the outcome.”

His eyes stayed on hers, calm, direct.

“That doesn’t make it clean. Doesn’t make the people on the other side of that decision matter any less. It just means there may not have been a version of that day where everybody walked away fed and grateful.”

He let that sit between them.

“But now that they’ve put you in irons for it,” he said, quieter, “do you regret it?”

Anjar did not answer immediately.

She held his question the same way she had held everything else since stepping onto his ship—without flinching, without rushing to fill the space it created. The hum of the warp engines carried through the silence, steady and indifferent, as if the ship itself had no stake in the answer.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. Certain.

“No.”

No embellishment. No hesitation.

Her gaze didn’t leave his.

“I regret that it was necessary,” she continued after a beat, the distinction precise. “I regret that there were people on both sides of that decision who were going to suffer no matter what I did. That isn’t something I take lightly. It never will be.”

A slight shift of her hand against the armrest—subtle, controlled. Grounding, not fidgeting.

“But the choice itself?” A faint, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “No.”

She leaned back a fraction, not retreating—settling into the statement.

“I’ve spent my life watching what happens when people in positions like mine decide that following orders is enough,” Anjar said. “When they convince themselves that obedience absolves them of outcome.”

Her eyes held his, steady and clear.

“It doesn’t.”

The word landed cleanly between them.

“I knew exactly what diverting those supplies would mean,” she went on. “Not in reports. Not in projections. In faces. In numbers that don’t go away when you close your eyes.” A brief pause. “And I knew what holding position would mean too.”

No rise in her voice. No attempt to persuade.

Just fact.

“I made the decision I could stand beside after the consequences arrived,” she said. “Not before.”

The faintest exhale left her, measured and even.

“If I start regretting that,” Anjar added, quieter now, “then I’m saying I would make a different choice next time.”

A small pause.

“I wouldn’t.”

She let that settle, then the edge of her composure softened—not breaking, just easing—into the faintest, rueful smile.

“Forgive me,” she said, a trace of dry warmth threading through at last. “We Bajorans have a habit of turning decisions into… something that sounds like scripture.”

A beat.

“It’s difficult to spend a lifetime surviving on faith and not learn how to dress conviction in poetics.”

Cal was quiet for a moment, just looking at her, letting the answer sit where it landed.

Then he gave a small nod. “Yeah,” he said, low and steady. “I can respect that.”

He shifted his weight against the desk, one hand still braced there, easy in his own skin. “Doesn’t make it pretty. Doesn’t make it easy. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted to be the one standing where you were when that call had to be made. That’s the kind of decision that stays with a person, whether they’re right or wrong in the end.”

A faint breath left him, not quite a laugh. “But at least you’re not sitting here trying to dodge it. You made the call, and you’re standing by it now that the bill’s come due. That counts for something with me. More than a lot of people in your position would manage.”

His mouth edged up slightly at her last line, some of the weight in the room easing without disappearing. “And don’t worry about the scripture. I’ve met Bajorans before. I know how it goes. You lot can turn just about anything into a sermon if you’ve got enough conviction behind it.”

The smile lingered for a second, then softened.

“But I’d still rather hear that from you than some neat, tidy answer you thought I wanted. At least this sounds like a real person talking.”

He held her gaze, calm and open. “And for what it’s worth… I think there’s a lot of people sitting comfortably a long way from that decision who’ll have plenty to say about it now. Easy thing in the world, that. Harder to be the one who had to live in the moment and make the call when there wasn’t a clean option on the table.”

A small shrug. “So no, I don’t envy you. Not for one second. But I do respect that you’re not hiding from it.”

Anjar let his words settle without interruption, the faint trace of that earlier wryness easing into something quieter—contained, but no longer held quite as tightly.

She remained seated.

“This has been… clarifying.”

Her gaze met his, steady and level.

“You asked for plain,” she continued. “You offered it first.” A slight inclination of her head. “That’s not something I’ve been afforded much of lately.”

A measured pause followed.

“I don’t expect this to alter what happens when we reach Starbase 12,” Anjar said, tone even. “Nor should it. There are processes in motion that neither of us are here to interrupt.”

She let that sit, placing the boundary cleanly.

“But it does change how I stand in the meantime,” she added.

“You’ve given me something most officers in your position wouldn’t have considered necessary, Commander.” A slight tilt of her head. “Context.”

Another beat—held, deliberate. “I won’t waste it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was contained, as though the conversation had already reached its natural end and neither of them needed to force it further.

Then—she rose.

“Unless you have anything further, I imagine your security detail will be eager to resume their duties.”

Not a request. Not quite a dismissal either. Just the natural closing of the space they’d shared.

And for the first time since stepping aboard his ship, Anjar didn’t look like someone being carried by what came next. She looked ready to meet it.

Cal rose with her, not out of ceremony so much as habit. His father would have called it basic respect, and for once, Cal had no argument with the old man.

“No,” he said, easy and quiet. “I think we’ve said what needed saying.”

He stepped away from the desk, giving her a clear path to the door without making it feel like she was being ushered out. The room felt different now, not lighter exactly, but more honest. That counted for something. Maybe not much in the grand machinery waiting for her at Starbase 12, but enough for this ship, this room, this stretch of stars between judgement and arrival.

“For what it’s worth, Commodore,” he added, meeting her eyes again, “while you’re aboard the Moore, you won’t be treated like cargo. You’ll have the restrictions the orders require, nothing more.” A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “I can’t promise much beyond that without getting another unpleasant call from someone with more pips and less humour, but I can promise that.”

He moved to the door control, then paused before opening it. “And if you need anything reasonable, ask. If it’s unreasonable…” His smile warmed a little, that flash of Trinidad slipping through. “Well, ask anyway. Worst I can do is say no and pretend I’m better at it than I am.”

Only then did he tap the control. The doors parted with a soft hiss, revealing the security detail waiting beyond.

Cal’s expression settled back into command, calm and unreadable to anyone who hadn’t been in the room for the conversation. “Commander Davaris,” he said, voice steady. “Please escort Commodore Anjar back to the brig.”

He looked once more to Anjar, inclining his head with quiet respect. “Commodore.”

Then he stepped back, letting the corridor take her again, but not quite the way it had brought her in.

 

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