Orders and Expectations
Posted on 2025, Thu Oct 2nd, @ 9:07am by Vice Admiral Jack Reacher Jr & Lieutenant Daven Voss
2,912 words; about a 15 minute read
Mission:
Episode 2: Pillars of the Theater - USS Vigilance, Star Base 113
Location: Starbase 113
Timeline: 30 minutes after the Klingon disturbance
The doors hissed shut behind Vice Admiral Jack Reacher as he stepped into his office, boots striking the deck with clipped precision. His uniform jacket was still slightly out of place from the earlier confrontation, but he hadn’t noticed — or cared. He strode straight to his desk, tossed a PADD onto the surface, and let it clatter against the polished metal.
The screen lit up with reports and half-finished communiqués, but his focus went to one item only. His fingers danced across the console, drafting the terse order that the Klingon liaison be in his office at 0800 sharp. Tomorrow would be a reckoning.
He exhaled slowly, lowering himself into the chair but never relaxing. The weight of his new position — Beta Quadrant Commander — sat heavily, and the timing could not have been worse. Klingons are stirring up trouble. Romulan records hinting at Iconian ruins. A royal audience with Krios is looming on his calendar. And now… this.
The office chime sounded.
Ensign Daven Voss stood at attention outside the Vice Admiral's office, his fingers reflexively adjusting the collar of his black Intelligence uniform. The transport from Earth had given him three days to research his new assignment, and he'd spent every waking hour—and several that should have been sleeping hours—analyzing what little information existed about the USS Halo.
Reacher’s jaw clenched, but he called out, voice steady and commanding.
“Enter.”
The doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Daven stepped through the doorway, his brown eyes immediately cataloging the scene before him with the analytical precision that had become second nature. The PADD on the desk is still settling from being tossed. The Admiral's posture—controlled, but with an underlying tension that spoke of recent conflict. The slight displacement of the uniform jacket. Something had happened before his arrival, something that had put the Beta Quadrant Commander on edge.
"Ensign Daven Voss, reporting as ordered, sir," Daven announced, his voice steady despite the knot forming in his stomach. He held his rigid posture, acutely aware that he might be walking into the aftermath of something he didn't yet understand.
Daven waited, hands clasped behind his back, every muscle held in professional stillness even as Miran's diplomatic instincts whispered warnings about walking into a room where tensions were already running high. Whatever storm had preceded his arrival, he was now standing in its wake.
Reacher leaned back in his chair, appraising the young ensign with a hard gaze. The pause stretched a heartbeat too long, enough to test nerves. His jaw shifted slightly as if chewing over what he wanted to say, then his gravelly voice cut through the silence.
“At ease, Ensign Voss. You’ve got good timing—three days ago, you’d have been on the Halo. Instead, you’re standing here in the middle of… whatever the hell this place is becoming.”
He gestured vaguely toward the wall, where the promenade live feed buzzed faintly with the echoes of repair crews and security patrols still cleaning up from the Klingon brawl. The Admiral’s tone carried both irritation and a trace of dry humor.
“You’re sharp, I can see that already. And yes—something happened before you walked in. Klingons decided the promenade was the right place to settle their honor dispute. I had to remind them this isn’t Qo’noS, and Starbase 113 isn’t a bloody dueling arena.”
Reacher pushed the tossed PADD forward with a finger, the screen rotating to face Voss. “You’ll get the details in the report. But let me be clear—this theater is volatile. I don’t need more bodies standing at attention in my office. I need officers who can think on their feet, adapt, and, when necessary, pull a rabbit out of their hat without waiting for orders.”
His gaze narrowed slightly, weighing the man. “So tell me, Ensign—are you one of those officers? Or did Intel just send me another PADD-pusher with a shiny uniform?”
Daven's posture relaxed fractionally at the "at ease," though his mind was already racing through multiple analytical tracks simultaneously. His eyes flicked to the PADD, then back to Reacher, and he felt a familiar surge of frustration—the kind that came when people expected him to care about problems that weren't remotely in his job description.
Klingons brawling on a promenade. Wonderful. Because corralling drunken warriors having an honor dispute is exactly what I spent six years at the Academy training for. He thought to himself.
He reached for the PADD, his fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency as he scanned the incident report. His expression remained professionally neutral, though Miran's diplomatic memories provided unhelpful context about approximately seventeen similar incidents she'd witnessed during various postings.
"With respect, Admiral," Daven said, his tone carefully measured but carrying just the slightest edge of dry humor, "I'd be more shocked if Klingons didn't decide to fight each other over a perceived slight. It's practically a cultural imperative. The real surprise is that it took them this long to find something worth brawling over on a Federation starbase."
He set the PADD down, his brown eyes meeting Reacher's with a directness that bordered on bold for a junior officer.
His hand moved unconsciously to his temple spots, a gesture that had become reflexive when processing multiple thoughts. "But if you're asking whether I can handle unexpected situations..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Admiral, I became a joined Trill in an emergency medical situation with no preparation. I've spent the last several years integrating the memories of a diplomat and an engineer while completing an accelerated Academy program. Adaptation isn't optional for me—it's literally how I survive."
Then his expression shifted, the analytical mask slipping just enough to show genuine concern. "However, sir, what does concern me—considerably more than Klingons being Klingons—is that you said three days ago I'd have been on the Halo. Past tense."
"The Halo is already gone on its Mission. Till then, you're Temporarily Assigned here. Now, if you don't like that, Be my guest to take Leave on Zytchin. If not, you will be working with me, And You'll be getting higher clearance than normal. The Halo is my Flagship, But 113 is my Command among the Beta Quadrant." Reacher replied.
"Sir, other than babysitting drunk Klingons—" The words came out before he could fully consider them, a release valve for his mounting irritation, "—what else will you have me working on as a staff officer?" The moment the phrase left his mouth, Daven felt a flash of regret. That was his impatience talking, the same intellectual frustration that had gotten him sideways looks from instructors who didn't appreciate having their methods questioned
His hand moved unconsciously to touch his temple spots as his mind processed the implications with uncomfortable clarity. He'd spent six years preparing for operational intelligence work. Collaborative analysis. Real-time threat assessment. Working with crew members to integrate intelligence into tactical decision-making. Not... this.
But he was standing in front of the Beta Quadrant Commander, and letting his frustration show would accomplish exactly nothing except confirming whatever doubts Reacher might already have about assigning a fresh Academy graduate to the Halo.
"I appreciate the clarification about my assignment status." Appreciate was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence. He drew on Miran's decades of diplomatic experience to keep his expression professional. "I work in Intelligence. I understand that uncertainty comes with the territory. Though I'll admit, I find it ironic that I hate surprises given that Intelligence has built its entire reputation on operating in mystery and subterfuge."
He paused, his analytical mind catching on something Reacher had said. "Admiral, you mentioned I'd be receiving higher clearance than normal. With respect, sir, I'm an Ensign. By regulation, my clearance level is capped at specific thresholds regardless of assignment. Are we discussing temporary tactical clearances for specific operations, or is there an exception being made that I'm not aware of?"
“I have gone through your file thoroughly,” Reacher began, his voice steady as he faced the young officer seated before him. “And I’m going to be completely honest with you: you’ve proven yourself beyond the requirements of the ensign rank. Therefore, I’m promoting you to Full Lieutenant, effective immediately.”
With that, he reached into the polished wooden case resting on his desk. As he opened it, the soft click of the latch echoed in the quiet room, revealing a shining silver pip—symbol of the next rank. He held it up for the officer to see, the light catching the gleam of the insignia. “Consider this a recognition of your hard work and commitment at the Academy. You’ve earned it.”
Daven's breath caught, his carefully controlled composure shattering as the words registered. Full Lieutenant. Not just Lieutenant junior grade, which would have been surprising enough, but a full two-rank jump from Ensign. His hand moved to his temple spots, then froze halfway, suspended in the air as his mind processed multiple implications simultaneously.
"Sir, I..." He stopped, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. His brown eyes fixed on the silver pip in Reacher's hand, the insignia catching the light from the viewport. Miran's diplomatic instincts screamed that this wasn't just recognition of Academy performance—this was operational necessity. Telak's systematic analysis kicked in immediately after, connecting data points with uncomfortable clarity. The Halo already departed on a classified mission. Temporary staff assignment to the Beta Quadrant Commander. Higher clearance levels. And now an immediate promotion that bypassed standard career progression entirely.
"Admiral," Daven's voice steadied as his analytical nature reasserted control, "I'm honored by the promotion, Admiral, and I won't pretend I don't want it. But I also need to understand what I'm being promoted into. What operation are you running that requires an Intelligence officer with Lieutenant rank working directly on your staff?"
He leaned forward slightly, his pattern recognition instincts firing on all cylinders. "Sir, you're positioning pieces on a board I can't fully see yet." he said.
His hand finally completed its journey to his temple spots, the nervous gesture betraying the mixture of excitement and apprehension coursing through him. A promotion he'd dreamed of, offered under circumstances that suggested he was about to be thrust into something far more complex than standard staff work.
Reacher turned the silver pip once between his fingers, then set it deliberately on the table where it caught the light. His eyes never wavered from Daven.
“I’ve read a lot of records, Lieutenant. But yours… it doesn’t read like an evaluation. It reads like a chronicle. Every choice you’ve made since 2392 is in here. Every analyst’s report. Every flag. Every commendation. And a hell of a lot of speculation. It’s unusual—uncomfortably so.”
He tapped the holo-screen where the file scrolled, highlighting sections almost at random, though his precision betrayed the deliberation behind it.
“Trill Science Ministry. Junior analyst, communications patterns. Innovative enough that you rattled the establishment before you were twenty-five. Then the emergency joining—Telak Voss dies in a warp core accident, and suddenly you’re bonded to a symbiont with two lifetimes of experience you didn’t ask for. Most people would’ve drowned in that. You chose to go to the Academy instead. Six years. Intelligence analysis, xenopolitics, pattern recognition, systems integration. Graduated with honors, even though the Symbiosis Commission was waiting for you to stumble.”
Reacher leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, deliberate.
“And then there’s Miran. Diplomat. Three border disputes resolved, half a dozen first contacts shaped by her hand. Telak—engineer, systematic problem-solver, the kind of mind that sees a ship’s warp core and a galactic intelligence network as the same damn puzzle. Those instincts live in you now, layered over your own. Which means you don’t think like one man. You think like three. That scares people. Especially in Intelligence.”
He paused just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
“You want to know why I’m making you a Lieutenant overnight. Why you’re skipping the grind everyone else has to crawl through. It’s simple. Starfleet Intelligence has had you under a microscope since you walked through their doors. They see risk. I see utility. The Halo’s already moving, and I need someone who can stitch together cultural threads, political fault lines, and raw data into something I can use before anyone else even knows the pattern exists. That’s you.”
Reacher picked up the pip again, rolling it once across his knuckles before holding it out.
“Make no mistake, Daven—you weren’t promoted because of ‘operational necessity.’ You were chosen because every host you’ve carried, every argument you’ve started with protocol, every unconventional connection you’ve drawn… it all adds up to someone I can’t afford to leave on the sidelines. But understand this—” His eyes hardened. “On the board I’m playing, not every piece makes it back to the box. You put this on, you accept that truth.”
Not every piece makes it back to the box.
The words landed with crystalline clarity, resonating through all three layers of his consciousness. Miran's memories supplied images of diplomatic missions that ended in blood despite everyone's best intentions. Telak's experience provided calculations of acceptable risk versus mission necessity. And Daven's own fresh understanding of intelligence work acknowledged the truth: sometimes the cost of seeing patterns was becoming part of them.
He wasn't being promoted because he'd earned it through time and service. He was being promoted because Reacher needed a Lieutenant-ranked intelligence officer with his specific skill set, and whether Daven survived the experience was secondary to whether he produced results.
And somehow, understanding that made the decision easier.
"Admiral," Daven's voice carried no uncertainty now, only acceptance born of complete understanding. "Miran died negotiating a peace that collapsed three months later. Telak died in a warp core accident trying to save a ship that was already lost. They both understood the cost of the work they chose."
He stepped forward, reaching for the pip with a steady hand. "I accept the promotion, sir. And I accept everything that comes with it."
As he began to fasten the new pip to his collar a slight shift in his expression—something between acknowledgment and dark humor crossing his features. "Though I have to say, sir, this is quite possibly the most terrifying promotion ceremony in Starfleet history. Most officers get a handshake and a congratulations. I get a philosophical discussion about operational mortality rates." he said as he finished securing his new pip.
He paused, letting the sardonic observation hang in the air for a moment before his expression turned serious again. "I'm ready to report for duty, Admiral. What are my orders?"
Reacher didn’t smile, but the faintest glint in his eye betrayed that he’d heard the joke and filed it away. “Terrifying promotion ceremony?” He set his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “Lieutenant, if you think this was terrifying, wait until you see what passes for routine around here.”
He let the weight of the words linger before reaching across the desk to tap the new pip now shining on Daven’s collar. “You didn’t get this because it was fair. You got it because the quadrant doesn’t give a damn about fair. You’re here because you can see what others can’t. And that means when the cost comes due, it won’t blindside you the way it blindsides most officers. You’ll already have calculated the loss.”
For a moment, Reacher studied him—really studied him—as if measuring the man against the ghosts he carried. Then he nodded, the motion clipped and decisive.
“Orders are simple. You’re on my staff now, reporting directly to me. You’ll have access to intelligence clearances most captains never touch. Your first task is to get inside the analysis streams coming out of the Beta Quadrant Command, cross-reference them against anything coming from the Halo’s theater of operations, and tell me what doesn’t fit. I’m not asking for summaries—I’m asking for the gaps. The absences. The silence between the noise.”
He reached over to power down the holo-display of Daven’s record. “Your work starts now. And remember this, Lieutenant—your job isn’t to make me comfortable. It’s to make me paranoid in the right direction. That’s how we stay alive. That’s how the pieces still on the board keep moving.”
Reacher straightened, his gaze unwavering. “Dismissed. And welcome to the game.”
Make me paranoid in the right direction.
The phrase resonated through all three layers of his consciousness. Miran understood the diplomatic implications. Telak grasped the systematic reality. And Daven recognized the intelligence truth—sometimes what wasn't said mattered more than what was.
"Understood, sir," Daven replied, he turned and made his way towards the door. As the door hissed open, he paused at the threshold, glancing back. "For what it's worth, Admiral—I've spent my career being told intelligence officers operate in mystery and subterfuge. It's refreshing to work for someone who's at least honest about the paranoia." he said as he continued on his way exiting through the doorway.
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