Making Some Subtle Progress
Posted on Mon Jan 5th, 2026 @ 4:22pm by Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
781 words; about a 4 minute read
Mission:
A Fondness For
Location: Planet Surface
Timeline: Present
:ON:
The separatist leader studies Dick for a long moment, as if recalculating the probability that this conversation will go anywhere useful.
SEPARATIST LEADER: You expect us to believe Starfleet can be reasoned with after it arrives armed?
DICK: No. I expect you to believe I can be reasoned with while Starfleet figures out how much paperwork this would cause.
DON (aside): Sir, I’ve seen Starfleet paperwork. Entire civilizations have surrendered to avoid it.
ANDREWS: Captain, tactical estimate says they’re disciplined enough not to panic—but nervous enough to misinterpret a sneeze.
DICK: Then let’s not sneeze.
JULIUS steps closer to the device, careful, reverent.
JULIUS: This anchoring field… it’s not perfect. You’ve frozen relative time, but external causality is still bleeding through. The storm isn’t just aesthetic—it’s pressure from the rest of the universe pushing back.
SEPARATIST LEADER: We know. That’s why it sings.
DON: That sentence should not make sense, and yet here we are.
Sheeraashaa tilts her head, listening—not to the speakers, but to the air itself.
SHEERAASHAA: The resonance pattern is accelerating. Not fast—but inevitably.
JULIUS: Exactly. You’re buying time. Not stopping it.
A flicker of irritation crosses the leader’s face. The first crack.
SEPARATIST LEADER: We only need enough time for the Federation to admit what it does.
DICK: History doesn’t admit things. It footnotes them.
He steps forward, palms open, deliberately non-threatening.
DICK: Look. You’re right about one thing—Starfleet has a talent for fixing problems by making them retroactively inconvenient. But erasing this planet? That’s not policy. That’s a last resort wrapped in denial.
SEPARATIST LEADER: You expect me to trust that?
DICK: No. I expect you to trust that if this device catastrophically fails, you won’t be around to be proven right.
Silence again—thicker this time.
Outside, the storm pulses. The whale-song deepens, warping into something almost… curious.
DON: Uh. Captain? The clouds are responding to the conversation.
DICK: Of course they are.
JULIUS: The anchoring field is sympathetic. Emotional input—stress levels, intent—are feeding back into the system.
DON: … Like that pink slime stuff from Ghostbusters 2?
ANDREWS: You built a machine that listens?
SEPARATIST LEADER: We built a machine that remembers.
Sheeraashaa’s eyes narrow.
SHEERAASHAA: Then it will remember fear. And fear escalates.
The leader exhales slowly. For the first time, they look tired.
SEPARATIST LEADER: You don’t understand what we’ve already lost.
DICK: You’re right. But I do understand this part: you’ve turned your last untouched place into a fuse.
He gestures gently at the guards.
DICK: And everyone here knows it.
One of the separatist guards shifts—just slightly. Enough.
DON (quietly): Sir… I think they’re listening now.
DICK: Good. Because here’s my stall.
He looks up at the balcony.
DICK: We don’t deactivate the device. We don’t secure it. We don’t call in reinforcements. Instead, we open a channel to the Temporal Oversight Committee. Live. Unedited. No delays.
SEPARATIST LEADER: They’ll bury this.
DICK: Not if the storm sings into the transmission. Not if every chronal sensor in three sectors lights up like a guilty conscience.
JULIUS: Captain… that would force a formal review.
ANDREWS: Public. Painfully public.
DON: The kind with hearings. And judges. And no free lunch.
DICK nods.
DICK: And hearings are Starfleet’s natural predator.
The leader hesitates—then laughs softly. Not unkindly. Not mad.
SEPARATIST LEADER: You’re risking your career.
DICK: I fly a desk with delusions of relevance. It’ll survive.
Another thunderroll—this one softer, almost approving.
SHEERAASHAA: Captain. The storm is stabilizing.
JULIUS: It’s… listening to you now.
DON: Sir, I would like to officially note that you are apparently weather-compatible.
DICK: I’ve been told I have a calming barometric presence.
He looks back up.
DICK: So. We talk. On the record. With the universe listening. Either that or we end up things right here. All of us, gone in a whoosh of wind. Like tears in the rain.
DON: I got that reference.
A long beat.
Then—
SEPARATIST LEADER: …Open the channel.
The guards lower their weapons—just a fraction. Enough to breathe.
Outside, the clouds part slightly. Sunlight knifes through the storm for the first time in months.
DON (grinning): Sir?
DICK: Yes, Don?
DON: I think we just stalled so hard we made progress.
DICK: Don’t get used to it. Once this is over I’m taking the longest vacation known to man.
The device hums—not strained now, but steady. Waiting.
:OFF:
Commander Donald ‘Don’ Key
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Albion
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