Professional Integrity

Posted on Wed Feb 18th, 2026 @ 2:45pm by Lieutenant Anthony Cardel

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: Starbase 375
Timeline: 2392
1318 words - 2.6 OF Standard Post Measure

Starbase 375.

It was, in many ways, a feat of engineering and sheer structural scale. At nearly 2,100 meters tall and a touch over 2,800 meters in diameter, it was the largest starbase Anthony had ever served on. Wide enough that one officer’s future could be decided three decks down without disturbing the traffic overhead.

He had only seen a larger installation once, as a cadet passing within several hundred meters of the famed Earth Spacedock, known to dominate the view of Earth and serve as its final defense for the blue-and-white sphere.

But he had never been posted there. His first assignment off Earth had been Starbase 234 and then the USS Kestrel. Anthony liked starbases. The regular Starfleet crowd usually groaned and complained about serving on such a floating palace. Most people regarded it as a grind, or a place to settle down and start a family, something most young officers and crewmembers weren’t fond of thinking about so early in their careers.

Command hated it because it meant feeding the endless bureaucracy of thousands of officers and crew, layers upon layers of approvals and endless reviews. In comparison, a starship captain could do what they liked aboard their ship and enact change at their sole discretion. Not so with the commanding officer of a starbase.

Engineering hated it because they almost never had anything dramatic to fix unless a refit was scheduled. That left most of the department maintaining decades of upgrades and getting lost in endless Jefferies tubes. On a ship, an engineer could truly know their engines and every deck of the vessel, something an engineer found much more intimate.

Intel hated the endless data streams and the sheer volume of communications, not over the course of a day but every minute. You sat down at your desk, filtered messages, tweaked your parameters, and waited for something to happen. On a starship, one stray communication could make you a hero.

Anthony hadn’t hated the starbase when he arrived. He had been thrilled. His work and promotion on the USS Kestrel had gotten him noticed by the department head, a Lieutenant Commander who had taken particular interest in his record. They had greased the wheels of the transfer, speaking to the gruff Andorian captain of the Kestrel on his behalf. It had happened so perfectly, so precisely, that Anthony never questioned it.

It felt like fate.

The Lieutenant Commander had been interested in his work.

The first week on station, they had asked about the mole on the colony. They had read the report and wanted to know how he had seen what others had missed. The questions were sharp, specific, the sort of questions reserved for officers several grades above him.

Soon, he found himself pulled into strategic briefings that did not technically require his presence. Those turned into late evenings reviewing counter-intrusion protocols.

Discussions about border tensions stretched beyond encryption, and he was actually asked what he thought. And when he answered, his words were considered.

He had felt elated by it all.

It was not common for a junior lieutenant to be treated as an intellectual equal. After all, it was Starfleet, and the best idea always won out in a room of professionals.

It was different.

He felt seen in a way that reminded him of the height of his work on the Kestrel. Professionalism turned into familiarity through long hours and departmental pressure.

Conversations lingered after briefings ended. Boundaries shifted, casually, almost harmlessly.

By the time he noticed the line had moved, it had already been crossed. It had felt natural at the time.

He felt a coil of anxiety tighten in his chest.

Starbase 375 was vast and never-ending, with corridors, cargo bays, and internal docking facilities capable of hosting more than a dozen starships.

So of course they had found a small office on a quiet deck for this counseling session. Or was it an interview?

It was cramped, with two sofas pressed too closely together and a small coffee table between them. A metal box sat on the table with tissues protruding from the top.

The room was warm. Too warm. He tugged at his uniform collar, trying to let the heat escape.

Anthony picked at the leather of the armchair and quickly stopped when footsteps approached the door. An older woman with blonde-and-grey hair stepped in and closed it with deliberate quiet.

She smiled warmly, but professionally, and took the seat opposite him.

“I’m sure this has been a stressful time for you, Lieutenant Cardel,” she said, stating the obvious but sounding genuine. “You’re not the first Starfleet officer to make an error in judgment.”

“However, all things being equal, this conversation is to establish some key information before you’re allowed to return to your posting.” Her tone remained warm, but her language was precise.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. You can respond yes or no. At any time, you may request a legal representative.” She paused, reached for a padd, and scrolled before stopping.

“I understand,” Anthony said flatly.

“On or about the 17th of September, 2391, you engaged in a consensual relationship with the head of your department. Both of you entered into this without coercion, and at no time did any operational compromise occur. With these statements of fact, we find there is no allegation of misconduct beyond a boundary violation. Would you agree with the facts I’ve described?”

She looked up from the padd and leaned forward slightly, concern visible in her expression. She was good. Very good at making people feel at ease. Of course she was. It was what she had been trained to do.

“Yes.” He felt his chest tighten at the words consensual and compromise.

She nodded and raised the padd again.

“With that being the case, the command chain was irreparably affected by the actions you both committed. However consensual they may have been, they resulted in an unacceptable breakdown in professional integrity. Therefore, it has been decided by command that your department head will be reassigned to the USS Ardent, and that Lieutenant Cardel will remain in his current posting with his privileges curtailed for a period of three months, alongside the completion of mandatory counseling sessions and retraining on professional integrity protocols. Do you accept this summary of events and acknowledge the consequences outlined?”

She lowered the padd to her lap and looked at him with large, brown, watery eyes that seemed almost too open. She was pretty in a disarming way. You felt as though anything that passed from her mind to her lips was absolute sincerity.

“Yes. I do.”

A weight had sat on his chest for the last two weeks as the investigation dragged him and several others before command and then, eventually, to the counsellor. The interviews had cost him more than expected. People he had counted as friends had spoken truthfully about what they had seen. Late nights in each other’s quarters had not gone unnoticed.

The way they referred to him as “your department head” felt clinical, a way to keep him from responding emotionally. And in a way, he didn’t. Those late nights together now felt distant.

Hollow.

Anthony was resigned to it.

He had made a choice. A stupid one. They didn’t even have the excuse of love. They had both entered into it knowing exactly what it was: a way to blow off steam after long, stressful weeks. They had found each other in a moment of weakness, and that weakness had followed them both into a room like this.

The counsellor handed him the padd. Somewhere beyond the bulkheads, a transport hummed through the station’s docking ring, its vibration barely perceptible beneath his boots.

He pressed his thumb to the screen, sealing his acceptance and putting the entire matter to rest.

Or so he hoped.