Facing the Light

Posted on Friday June 20, 2025 @ 9:27pm by Captain Yoralig Gearev & Lieutenant JG Melnoka 'Mel' Han'potla

1,108 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Episode 1: A New Frontier
Location: Mess Hall
Timeline: 2424.6.16 1100 Hours

The door to the fighter storage bay slid closed behind him with a sigh of sealed air. Captain Yoralig Gearev stood still for a moment, listening to the hum of the Vanguard’s core vibrations through the reinforced deck plating. Behind him, rows of parked interceptors slept in the dim glow of maintenance lights, silent predators waiting for the call.

He’d needed this visit.

There was something steadying in walking the deck beside machines built for speed and violence—clean lines, precise calibrations, no ambiguity. A machine either worked or it didn’t. There was no pretense in duranium and phased antimatter. Unlike the press.

The moment he stepped back into the corridor, his combadge chirped.

“Lieutenant Han’potla to Captain Gearev.”

He exhaled quietly before tapping the badge. “Gearev here.”

“Sir, I was wondering if you had a moment to swing by the mess hall? The press contingent is wrapping up their orientation, and they’ve asked for a short Q&A. Nothing heavy. Just a few smiles and statements for the record!”

Her voice was musical and smooth—pleasant in the way most Risian voices were. And like most Risians, Mel was relentlessly upbeat. She didn’t just enjoy being around people—she thrived on it.

“I believe I made it clear I wasn’t giving interviews today,” he said, walking as he spoke.

“Oh, I know, sir,” she said with a hint of laughter, “but they’re practically glowing with curiosity. Federation NewsNet, GNN, and even Nova Archive. One of them said just seeing you walk in would be headline-worthy.”

He reached the nearest turbolift and entered. “Deck six,” he ordered.

Mel’s voice continued, unbothered. “They saw you on the flight deck, you know. Wondered why you were watching from the tower. I told them you were giving the fighters their due respect. It was very mysterious.” The turbolift doors closed. He didn’t reply.

The mess hall had been transformed. Bright auxiliary lighting bathed the space in a cleaner, whiter glow than usual. A temporary podium stood near the center, draped with the banner of the Federation, flanked by the Vanguard’s mission patch and Starfleet insignia. Three reporters and two camera drones hovered near the back, chatting and adjusting equipment.

Lieutenant Melnoka Han’potla stood near the front, her tawny skin catching the warm light. She wore her uniform jacket casually open at the collar, her long brown hair swept into a loose twist behind her shoulders. The confident sway in her hips and the bright smile on her face made her appear more like a holo-star than a junior officer.

She glided over to him like sunlight, her arms already extended with a PADD. “Captain!” she said, voice lilting with amusement. “Perfect timing. I’ve briefed them on tone—light, professional, nothing invasive. They’re just excited to meet you. Everyone loves a new captain.”

Gearev’s eyes flicked to the camera drones, already orienting toward him. He resisted the urge to adjust his posture, to shrink. He would not shrink. “I trust your judgment, Lieutenant,” he said tightly.

“Oh good,” she grinned, guiding him forward. “Because your face is about to be syndicated across seventeen sectors.” The platform awaited. He stepped up with a soldier’s discipline.

The Human journalist spoke first. “Captain Gearev, thank you for your time. This is your first command—how does it feel to be taking the helm of a vessel like the Vanguard?”

He kept his expression neutral. “It’s an honor. The Vanguard represents the Federation’s commitment to exploration and stability. My focus is on the crew and their readiness.”

An Andorian reporter chimed in. “Captain, is it true you inspected the fighter wing before speaking with your bridge staff?”

“I inspect every part of my ship,” he said evenly. “No department takes precedence in my eyes.”

The next question came from a Bajoran woman near the back, sharp-eyed and subtle. “Some of us noticed you were in the flight control tower during our arrival. Why not greet us then?”

“I was overseeing final flight deck checks,” he said. “Visibility is not my priority during inspections.”

And yes, he added silently, I didn’t want to be seen. Especially by cameras. Especially by people who might look too closely.

He could still see the images from old network archives—flickering holos of Coridan’s syndicate hearings, faces blurred, names redacted. All except his. A young man then, but still recognizable.

The next question cut close. “Captain,” asked the Human again, “You’re Coridanite, correct? Federation records of your early life are... sparse. Can you speak to your upbringing?”

“No,” he said simply. A beat of silence. Then, “My service record reflects what’s relevant to my command. That is the story I’ve chosen to tell.”

And the rest? That’s the part no one gets. Not the story of darkened alleyways. Of debts owed to syndicates with smiles sharper than knives. Of what it cost to disappear, to rebuild, to swear to Starfleet not for glory, but for escape.

Another question. “Do you see yourself as a wartime commander, or an explorer?”

That one, he could answer. “I see myself as a realist,” he said. “Exploration without defense is naïveté. Defense without curiosity is stagnation. My duty is to ensure this ship survives to see what’s out there—and brings something back worth sharing.”

A soft murmur of approval rippled through the small gathering. But he barely registered it. His mind was still behind the curtain of the past—listening for the click of a name dropping into the wrong ear.

That was always the risk. It had followed him through every assignment. Now the camera drones had him in high definition.

Before anyone could ask another question, Mel stepped forward in one smooth, graceful motion. “That’s all the time we have today, folks! Captain Gearev has a full schedule ahead of him. We’ll circulate recordings and transcripts through the usual channels. Thank you!”

The drones powered down. The room deflated. Gearev stepped down from the platform without a word. Mel fell in beside him, barefoot steps quiet on the deck plating.

“You did great,” she said brightly, her tone casual, like nothing had gone wrong. “You’ve got that quiet, smoldering thing. It really plays.”

“I’m not here to play,” he said.

“No,” she said with a wink. “But I am.” He shot her a sidelong glance. Her smile was radiant, unconcerned, untouchable. He said nothing more. But inside, where no smile could reach, he was watching the shadows behind every camera lens. Waiting.

 

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