Trust the Instinct

Posted on Thu Mar 19th, 2026 @ 6:56am by Lieutenant Anthony Cardel

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: Starbase 375 – Deck 27 Cargo Junction
Timeline: October 21, 2390
1296 words - 2.6 OF Standard Post Measure

0732 – Anthony’s Quarters

His mind wandered the way most minds wander early in the morning. It drifted back and forth between the work waiting for him and the crunch of his buttered toast.

His breakfast was nearly always the same. Two pieces of toast with butter, two soft-boiled eggs, and two sausages. There was something calming about the routine. Every morning began the same way, which meant his mind could go on autopilot while he thought about the day ahead.

It had been several weeks of late nights and early mornings trying to piece together this mystery.

What do Nausicaans, Klingons, and a stolen Starfleet probe have in common?

He felt like a terrible comedian tapping a microphone in front of a dozen half-drunk patrons. The worst part was that he was fairly sure he knew the punchline. What he did not know was whether the crowd would laugh, applaud, or throw drinks at him.

They had found the probe nestled against a tumbling asteroid no more than twenty-five metres across. The probe looked less attached than lashed to it. Steel cables crossed the asteroid’s surface in a crude web, pulled tight around protruding rock. Three anchor drills had been driven deep into the silicate surface.

It was a stolen Federation probe, reported lost in the Badlands three months ago. A Vulcan science ship had been studying a region with unusual subspace readings when the probe had gone silent. In typical Vulcan diligence, the crew had spent two full days combing through sensor data and scanning the surrounding region, trying to determine what had happened.

Now here it was, halfway across the sector, strapped to an asteroid.

The clues became clearer once they recovered the probe and opened it up. Someone had reprogrammed it carefully with Klingon code, even incorporating some of their more complex encryption routines.

But something did not add up.

Klingons selling ships was not unusual, nor was using Nausicaans as catspaws. But the probe complicated everything.

Was it meant as an advance warning system for the Klingons? What information was it collecting? And why would they need it at all?

The probe felt unnecessary. Worse than that, it felt risky. Something that could easily fail or be discovered.

Most confusing of all was the encrypted transmission Anthony had spent days chasing. The probe had never sent a single bit of telemetry to the Nausicaan Bird-of-Prey.

Instead it had beamed its data to a passing Federation civilian convoy, uploading the information there before it vanished into the network.

It was all so elaborate. Smoke and mirrors layered on top of one another.

The sort of careful misdirection that suggested someone wanted the Federation looking in exactly the wrong direction.

Anthony was beginning to suspect that the idea of a few Nausicaans assembling this operation themselves was ridiculous.

But the alternative was just as unlikely. The Klingons going through this much effort, hiring intermediaries, building layers of deception. True, Klingons disliked skulking in the shadows and using Nausicaans to do their work. It was not honourable. But this was also a culture that relied heavily on cloaks and ambush tactics in battle.

Still.

It was all too perfect.

Which was why Anthony sat there crunching on his toast while reading through lines of Klingon software with half-opened eyes.

“This isn’t real…” Anthony muttered, feeling a wave of discomfort as he stared at the code.

Too many layers. Too much distance.

He felt like he was grasping at straws, but Lieutenant Commander Mercer had agreed with his instincts.

“Not Klingons.”

The words came out muffled through a mouthful of toast.

The sharp chirp of his combadge cut through the quiet room.

Anthony looked up from the padd. The probe’s green Klingon text still glowed faintly across the screen, lines of data frozen mid-scroll where he had paused to reread a section for the fourth time.

He swallowed his overly dry toast with difficulty and tapped his combadge.

“Cardel.”

There was no static. No background noise.

Just a single voice.

“Mercer.”

Anthony’s spine straightened automatically. He was alone in his quarters, but the habit was ingrained enough that it did not matter.

“Sir.”

A pause. Not long. Just long enough to remind him who was speaking.

“Walk with me. I’m passing by Deck Twenty-Seven.”

“Uh… sure, sir.”

Anthony grabbed his uniform jacket from the chair, shaking it quickly to smooth the creases before pulling it on. He glanced once more at his half-eaten breakfast with quiet disappointment. Losing sleep was one thing. Losing breakfast was another.

He sighed and stepped out into the corridor.

Starbase 375 was already in full motion.

The sort of motion that felt almost like panic, where everyone seemed late for something.

Gold and red uniforms moved in constant streams as crews converged at a junction between two massive cargo bays. Supplies were being rushed toward ships that had docked early that morning.

One was the USS Solace, an Olympic-class vessel.

Across the junction stood the USS Resolute Dawn, a Sovereign-class.

Starbase 375 normally hosted two rotating starships every six months. Currently that meant the USS Kincaid, a Saber-class, and the USS Warspite, an Excelsior-class.

The Resolute Dawn was different. A moving hammer. She would not stay long.

Anthony threaded through the crowd until he spotted Mercer leaning casually against a bulkhead.

“Lieutenant junior grade.”

“Lieutenant Commander.”

“Walk with me.”

Mercer pushed off the bulkhead and began moving.

“I’ve been reading your reports for the past few days.”

“You’ve been dancing around your conclusions. I understand why. You’re a new officer. You’re worried you might be wrong.”

Anthony offered a faint smile.

“Sir… I didn’t want to taint my conclusion.”

Mercer leaned slightly closer.

“We both know this is too many layers for a Klingon operation.”

“You have all the pieces. You’ve got a hunch. Quit the nonsense and tell me what you think.”

Anthony stopped walking and leaned slightly closer.

“Romulans.”

The word came out quietly, as if saying it too loudly might make it real.

Mercer’s expression did not change.

After a moment, he gave a small nod.

“Good. Now put it together in a report and be on Deck One at sixteen-thirty.”

He paused.

“And Lieutenant… keep the theory off the network until then.”

Mercer tapped his padd and started walking away.

“What’s on Deck One?” Anthony called after him.

“The Commodore’s ready room.”

Mercer disappeared into the moving crowd.

A second later the realization hit Anthony.

“Ahhhh… shit.”

Anthony stopped in the corridor, running a hand over his face.

He had six hours to explain to a Commodore why a stolen Federation probe, Klingon encryption, and a Nausicaan warship were probably the work of the Romulan Empire.