Behind Closed Doors

Posted on Tue Apr 7th, 2026 @ 12:14pm by Commander Steven Greco & Commander Calvin 'Cal' Maraj
Edited on on Wed Apr 8th, 2026 @ 3:13am

1,705 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Year One: The Point of No Return
Location: Starfleet Command — San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: MD: 007 - 14:30hrs

Morning light stretched thin across the office, washing the bay beyond the viewport into muted tones that did little to soften the edge of the room. Admiral Teren Koval stood near the glass, a PADD resting idle in his hand, his attention fixed instead on the FNN report suspended in front of him.

The footage cycled again—Starbase 514’s corridors crowded past capacity, civilians lining the route, voices rising over one another without settling into anything orderly. Some angry. Some supportive. Most just watching. The kind of situation that didn’t stay contained no matter how much Starfleet might want it to.

Koval let it run longer than necessary.

He already knew the report. The orders had been clear. The violation, straightforward. On paper, it all held together—clean language, clear reasoning, a problem reduced to something that could be processed and moved past.

But it hadn’t been that simple.

There had been limited supplies. Not enough to cover everyone. Federation colonies running out of food. Romulan resettlement depending on the same aid—and she had shifted it, deliberately, to her own.

To Federation citizens.

Koval’s grip shifted slightly against the PADD.

It wasn’t difficult to understand why.

And now they were calling it a failure.

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. Not disagreement with the facts—those were solid—but with how easily the weight of it was being stripped away. A real decision, made under pressure, being turned into something neat and procedural.

The report shifted again, catching Anjar mid-stride, composed despite the noise pressing in around her.

Koval’s gaze lingered there a moment longer.

Then the doors parted quietly behind him.

“We cannot afford to look divided on this,” Vice Admiral Shirin zh’Thane said as she entered, her tone clipped and controlled. The Andorian crossed the threshold with brisk purpose, command red immaculate, antennae angled forward with irritation she had made no serious effort to hide.

Captain Mateo Aurel followed a step behind, broad-shouldered and composed, though the tension in his face suggested the conversation had started well before the doors opened.

Both checked themselves on seeing who was already in the room.

“Admiral,” Aurel said with a brief incline of his head.

Zh’Thane’s gaze settled on Koval, then the suspended report beyond him. “I assume you’ve seen the latest.”

Aurel looked to the frozen image of Anjar amid the chaos at Starbase 514 and let out a quiet breath. “Hard to miss. Half the Federation seems ready to paint her as the only officer who remembered who Starfleet is supposed to serve.”

Zh’Thane’s mouth tightened. “And the other half sees an officer who ignored orders in the middle of a politically fragile relief effort. That matters, especially when the Romulans are watching for bias and the Klingons are watching for weakness.”

“She diverted aid to Federation citizens who were going without,” Aurel said, more firm than heated. “People understand that. They’re not reading policy briefs. They’re seeing Starfleet put one of its own on trial after she chose our people first.”

“And our allies,” zh’Thane replied coolly, “are seeing an organisation that may honour its obligations only when convenient. That is not a small distinction.”

The room settled for a beat.

Then zh’Thane folded her hands behind her back and held Koval’s gaze. “Either way, this reflects on all of us. The question is whether Command intends to get ahead of it, or keep letting others decide what this means.”

Koval didn’t answer right away.

He dimmed the report with a small movement, more to cut the noise than anything else, and turned back to them.

“You’re both right,” he said, matter-of-fact. “That’s why this is a problem.”

His eyes moved to zh’Thane.

“She broke orders in a situation where we can’t afford inconsistency. That’s going to ripple—Romulans, Klingons, everyone watching.”

Then to Aurel.

“But the reaction out there isn’t wrong either. People see one of ours making sure Federation citizens weren’t left to go without. That carries weight whether we like it or not.”

A brief pause.

“As part of the investigation into the Whispers, I’ve been reviewing John Dorian’s logs.”

No emphasis. Just fact.

“I don’t agree with his methods,” Koval said. “But I understand how he’s felt. Same with Anjar.”

He shifted his stance slightly, settling into it.

“They’re both reacting to the same thing—feeling like we’re hesitating when we shouldn’t be. That we’re leaning too hard on process while things get worse in front of us.”

He glanced quickly between them.

“I’m not saying they’re right in how they handled it,” he added. “But the underlying point isn’t wrong either.”

Another beat.

“Federation citizens have to come first.”

It wasn’t forceful. It didn’t need to be.

Koval folded his hands behind his back again as he looked at his colleagues.

“If we keep treating this like a clean disciplinary issue, we’re going to miss what’s actually happening.” His tone stayed even, grounded. “Things are starting to slip. And if we don’t get ahead of it—directly—we’re going to be reacting instead of leading.”

Zh’Thane’s expression barely shifted, but something in her posture sharpened.

“Then we stop leaving the field open for everyone else to define it,” she said. “If the people above us are going to sit on their hands until this gets worse, fine. We work with what’s in reach.”

Aurel glanced once at the dimmed report, then back to Koval. “Because right now everyone’s making her into whatever suits them. The press, the public, half the admirals in this building. Give it another few days and no one will even remember what the actual charge was.”

“No,” zh’Thane said. “They’ll remember the version that stuck.”

Her eyes flicked briefly towards the viewport, then back again. “A captain punished for feeding Federation citizens. A Starfleet that cannot decide whether it still believes in its own judgement. Our rivals will enjoy that far too much.”

Aurel’s jaw shifted. “And they’ll enjoy it even more if we keep looking as though we’re waiting for someone else to tell us what to think.”

That hung in the room for a moment.

Then zh’Thane gave a small nod, more to the point than to him. “Exactly. We may not be in a position to force policy changes from the top, but we can still influence how this is handled below that. Briefings. Recommendations. Which concerns get taken seriously and which ones stop conveniently disappearing into procedure.”

Aurel folded his hands behind his back. “Start pulling it back a piece at a time.”

“Piece by piece,” zh’Thane agreed. “Enough of that, and it stops looking like drift.”

He looked to Koval then, steady and direct. “Because if Command doesn’t take hold of this soon, it won’t just be Anjar’s hearing any more. It’ll be everything people already think this says about us.”

Koval’s eyes shifted between them, following the thread without interrupting. He let the last point sit for a moment before answering.

“Then we stop waiting,” he said simply.

He took a step away from the viewport, closing the space just enough to be part of the conversation rather than outside it.

“We don’t need a directive from above to tighten how this is handled. Briefings, recommendations, what gets escalated and what doesn’t—that’s all within reach.”

A glance to zh’Thane, then Aurel.

“Keep it consistent. Keep it grounded in what actually happened, not what people want it to mean.”

His jaw set slightly.

“And we don’t hedge on the core of it. Federation citizens come first. That shouldn’t be the part we get unclear about.”

Koval folded his hands behind his back again.

“If we’re deliberate about it, it stops looking like drift and starts looking like control.”

Zh’Thane’s expression remained unreadable, save for the faintest shift in her antennae.

“No one is suggesting Federation citizens do not come first,” she said. “The problem is not the principle. It is that she acted on it in a way that put Command in open conflict with its own orders, and now everyone else is deciding for us what that means.”

Her gaze shifted briefly to the dimmed report.

“If we are going to regain control of this, then that distinction needs to remain clear. Duty to our citizens. Discipline within the chain of command. Both. Not one at the expense of the other.”

She looked back to Koval.

“And if that is clear, then we need to start moving on it. Otherwise we are still just standing here while the story hardens around us.”

Koval didn’t answer immediately.

He held where he was for a moment, eyes moving once between them—not searching for agreement, just marking where they each stood. The shape of it had already settled.

When he spoke, his tone didn’t shift. If anything, it tightened—less discussion, more decision.

“Begin issuing orders to tighten security across Federation space. Starfleet vessels are to conduct inspections of non-Federation ships operating within our borders.”

He let it sit. No elaboration, no qualifiers.

A beat passed before he added, just as evenly,

“I’m aware Command isn’t going to like it.”

Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just fact.

Koval stepped forward, already turning away as the decision carried him with it, crossing back toward his desk.

“Issue the orders,” he said, looking between them as he moved. “Keep it consistent. Keep it controlled. No improvisation.”

He reached the desk and lowered himself into the chair, the motion smooth, unhurried—settling into it like the conversation had already shifted to what came next.

“I’ll deal with Jim—and the rest of Command.”

He didn’t expand on that either. There was nothing to clarify.

“Until they decide what this is,” Koval continued, measured and steady, “we make sure it doesn’t turn into something it isn’t.”

A brief pause.

“Dismissed.”

 

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