Know Your Enemy
Posted on Mon Feb 23rd, 2026 @ 11:00am by Lieutenant Commander Sora Bernadotte & Vice Admiral Astran Deix & Starfleet NPC
3,940 words; about a 20 minute read
Mission:
7. Guile
Location: U.S.S. Shenzhou
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 10:15
The digital chronometer on the USS Shenzhou’s main viewscreen bled a harsh, rhythmic red as it hit the five-minute mark. Vice Admiral Astran Deix sat perfectly still in the starboard command chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin. To any observer, he was a statue of Starfleet composure, but internally, he was a tempest of cold, calculating fury. He was stewing on the events that had led to this stalemate. Every diplomatic failure, every rogue decision by the Targaryens, and every snarl from Krennek’s Klingon contingent felt like a personal insult to the order he had spent a lifetime maintaining. He wasn't just waiting for a clock to run out; he was waiting for the legal justification to dismantle the chaos and reassert the hegemony of Starfleet Command.
Around him, the Bridge was a hive of muffled, purposeful activity. Commander Silas Vane’s voice drifted up from the engineering monitors, reporting that the structural integrity fields were being reinforced to levels usually reserved for atmospheric combat. The crew was preparing for the worst-case scenario: a localized war within the very rings of Deep Space 9. Lieutenant Commander T’Vrell’s fingers moved with Vulcan precision across the tactical console, slaving the Shenzhou’s forward Phasers to the energy signature of the Qel'Poh, currently nestled in Cargo Bay 4. Deix watched the tactical overlay, his mind already drafting the charges of mutiny, grand larceny, and treason he would level against the Targaryens the moment they were in irons. He wanted them broken, not just defeated, but erased from the annals of Starfleet’s honored history.
At the three-minute mark, the atmospheric tension on the Bridge was shattered by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the science station. Lieutenant Commander Thol’s respirator hissed with increased frequency as he adjusted the sensor gains. He reported a massive displacement wave at the edge of the Bajoran system, a Romulan Warbird, dropping out of Warp and burning hard toward the station. Deix didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed until they were mere slits of steel. The arrival of the Romulans was the final, inevitable piece of a collapsing puzzle. He knew they had been watching, waiting for the Federation and the Klingons to tear at each other's throats.
"Hail the Enterprise," Deix commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that cut through the bridge’s ambient hum. "I want to know if the Targaryens intend to defend this station or if they’ve invited the Star Empire to the party."
Captain Jhossa signaled the attempt, but the comms board remained a sea of unresponsive black. The Enterprise was a ghost ship, silent and defiant, ignoring every standard handshake and command override the Shenzhou threw at it. Then, a single, isolated burst of data flickered onto Deix’s private console. It wasn't a surrender or even a formal greeting. It was a brief, clipped message from Galatea, the tone bordering on the dismissive: SHENZHOU STANDBY.
Deix stared at the glowing text, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The Targaryens were ignoring the Romulan threat, ignoring his authority, and treating the Vice Admiral of the fleet like an unwanted observer while they focused their attention on Krennek’s Bird of Prey. They were playing a game of brinkmanship that Deix intended to end. He leaned forward, his hand gripping the edge of the command arch above him. The "hour of peace" was dying a slow, agonizing death, and as the Romulan signature grew larger on the viewscreen, Deix realized that the court-martial he so desperately craved might have to be conducted amidst the ruins of the station if he didn't seize control of the next sixty seconds.
The silence on the bridge was punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the Shenzhou’s C2 systems, a sound that felt like the ticking of a bomb to Vice Admiral Deix. He remained fixed on Galatea’s message, the word STANDBY burning into his retina like a brand. His eyes flicked to the chronometer, less than two minutes remained, when a sudden, sharp spike of transporter energy registered on the tactical overlay.
"Admiral," Lieutenant Commander T’Vrell announced, her voice gaining a rare edge of urgency. "Sensors are picking up a high-density transporter pattern originating from the Enterprise. They aren't beaming to the station's promenade or the command level."
Deix stood up slowly, his gaze following the tactical icons as they bloomed into existence on the schematic of Deep Space 9. "Where, Commander?"
"The service corridor adjacent to Cargo Bay 4," she replied, her fingers flying across the console to isolate the heat signatures. "They’ve bypassed the station's security protocols using a localized dampening field. It’s an extraction team, or a boarding party. At least twelve life signs, heavily armed."
Deix felt a cold, sharp clarity wash over him. The Targaryens weren't just "handling" Cargo Bay 4; they were launching a ground assault on a sovereign Klingon vessel while it was docked at a Federation-administered station. It was a move so reckless, so profoundly illegal, that it threatened to render the Romulan arrival a secondary concern. If Krennek's warriors opened fire in the confined corridors of the Docking Ring, the resulting structural damage could compromise the entire pylon.
"They're going after Krennek," Deix whispered, more to himself than the crew. The pragmatism that usually guided him was being rapidly replaced by a scorched-earth resolution. "They’re forcing a conflict before the hour is even up."
"Admiral," Lieutenant Commander Thol reported, his respirator clicking with steady precision. "The Warbird has entered the station’s immediate perimeter. They are broadcasting a standard greeting on an open hailing frequency. No weapons signatures, but they are holding a steady position parallel to the Enterprise."
Deix didn’t turn from the screen. "They aren't here to fight, Thol. They’re here to witness. They want a front-row seat to the moment Starfleet loses control of its own house."
The tactical display flared again. The high-density transporter beams from the Enterprise had fully materialized in the corridor outside Cargo Bay 4. The icons pulsed with a steady, aggressive rhythm. It was a surgical insertion, executed with the kind of precision that only the Enterprise could manage, but it was happening on Deix’s watch and within the fragile ecosystem of a neutral station.
"Admiral, the Romulans are hailing Enterprise," Captain Jhossa said, her antennae tilting with curiosity.
Deix felt a muscle in his jaw tighten. The Romulans were offering to act as the adult in the room, a subtle jab at his own inability to keep the Targaryens and the Klingons from brawling in the hallways. He looked at the icons of the Enterprise personnel. They were now moving toward the Qel'Poh’s primary docking hatch.
"They’re ignoring the Romulans, they’re ignoring the clock, and they’re ignoring me," Deix said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "Galatea’s 'standby' wasn't a request; it was a distraction while they moved their pieces."
He walked toward the center of the bridge, his boots echoing on the metallic deckplates. The pragmatist in him knew that the Romulans wouldn't fire, but their presence turned this from a Starfleet disciplinary matter into an interstellar incident. Every move he made now would be recorded by the Warbird and relayed back to the Senate.
"Commander Krell," Deix barked, "use the Shenzhou’s C2 hub to broadcast a wide-band suppression field in that corridor. I don't want anyone’s comms working - not the Targaryens, not Krennek, and certainly not the station security. If they want to play commando, they can do it in the dark."
He looked at the chronometer. 00:45.
"And Jhossa," Deix added, his eyes burning with a cold, judicial light. "Respond to the Romulans. Tell them the Vice Admiral wants to talk."
He turned back to the viewscreen, watching the Enterprise crew breach the Klingon perimeter. The hour was almost up, and Deix was finished being a spectator. He was ready to be the hammer.
The mood on board RRW Ourainavassa's bridge was tense. A few hours ago, Republic agents had confirmed that General Krennek of the House of Korath had gone rogue against the Klingon High Council, and was headed to Deep Space Nine to take delivery of stolen time crystals under the guise of a diplomatic meeting. Ourainavassa having extensive experience with temporal incursions, the ship was sent to DS9 immediately, in order to investigate and stop any damage being caused to the timeline.
"Subadmiral, we have arrived at Deep Space Nine," Centurion Seira confirmed from the helm. "Two starfleet vessels, Enterprise and Shenzhou, are docked at the station, as is a Klingon Bird-of-Prey."
"Thank you, Centurion," Subadmiral t'Sani acknowledged, before turning to the officer at the communications station. A handful of people had remained part of the crew even fifty years after they first came together during the Hobus crisis and the destruction of Romulus. Seira was one of them, and the communications officer was another.
"Ashix, send out standard hails on all frequencies, directed especially at Enterprise and the Klingons."
"No reply from either vessel, Subadmiral."
T'Sani frowned. What was going on? Her musings were interrupted by the tactical officer, a more recent addition to the crew. While Lieutenant Rakim was certainly good at his job, she still missed Ash Rogers and Hatham, her old security and tactical team.
"Enterprise is at full battle stations, sir. There's a localised dampening field around one of the cargo bays, I can't see what's going on inside."
"We are being hailed by the Shenzhou, Subadmiral," Ashix added.
"Ah, Admiral Deix," the Subadmiral replied with a smirk. "Let's see what he has to say for himself. On screen."
When the connection was established, Subadmiral Felaen t'Sani appeared on the screen - in an unexpected way. Instead of a regular Romulan Republic uniform, she was wearing what resembled a Starfleet uniform from several decades ago, yet in the same green and black colour scheme as regular Romulan uniform. What appeared to be the handle of a katana was barely visible, leaning against her chair, and her face was obscured by shadow.
"Vice Admiral Astran Deix," the Admiral began, her voice cold and stern. "Subadmiral Felaen t'Sani, Romulan Republic. Would you care to tell me what the fvadt is going on here? We see Enterprise, ready to go into battle, and part of your station obscured by a dampening field originating from your vessel. I hope you have a good explanation."
Vice Admiral Astran Deix stood framed by the holographic amber glow of the Shenzhou’s command arch, his expression as unyielding as the hull of the ship he had personally commissioned. He did not immediately answer Subadmiral t'Sani. Instead, he watched the tactical feed as Commander Krell executed his orders. The Shenzhou’s C2 hub roared to life, projecting a wide-band suppression field that slammed down on the service corridor outside Cargo Bay 4 like a physical weight, severing the Targaryens and the Klingons from their respective command centers.
Only then did Deix turn his full attention to the main viewscreen. He took in t'Sani's unorthodox attire (the archaic Starfleet lines, the Romulan palette, the looming presence of the katana) and met her stern gaze with a look of weary, judicial steel.
"Subadmiral t’Sani," Deix began, his voice carrying the resonant authority of a man who had already decided the verdict. "The explanation you seek is quite simple: I have just placed that corridor under a total communications blackout. If your sensors see a shroud, it is the shadow of my authority. I will not have the Targaryens and a Klingon dissident like Krennek coordinating a bloodbath in the hallways of this station while I still draw breath."
He stepped closer to the pickup, his shadow lengthening across the sunken deck of the flight well where Lieutenant Sato sat ready to blow the docking clamps. "The Enterprise has just deployed an armed boarding party into the station’s service corridors," Deix continued, his tone clinical despite the simmering fury beneath. "They have bypassed station security and ignored my direct orders to stand down, precipitating a major diplomatic incident with the Klingon High Council. As for the fvadt going on here, the 'hour of peace' mandated by the Council has just reached its final seconds. You are witnessing the exact moment a diplomatic failure transitions into a disciplinary action."
Deix paused, his eyes narrowing as he processed t’Sani’s mention of "time crystals" and "temporal incursions." His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. To a man like Deix, those words sounded like the frantic justifications of a conspiracy theorist, or worse, a Romulan attempt to muddy the waters with technobabble while a Klingon general sat on his doorstep.
"I know nothing of 'stolen crystals,' Subadmiral, and I care less for rumors of temporal ghosts," Deix said, his voice dropping into a low, icy register. "What I see is a high-ranking Klingon officer violating docking protocols and a Starfleet crew committing mutiny. That is the reality on my sensors. If you have intelligence regarding Krennek's cargo, you can submit it to the JAG office during the evidentiary phase of the trial. For now, the Targaryens have already caused enough damage to our relations with the Empire; I do not intend to let them finish the job."
He gestured sharply toward the tactical display, where the Ourainavassa was holding position. "I have suppressed all communications in the Docking Ring to ensure that whatever happens next happens under my supervision. When that clock hits zero, I am moving to reclaim the Enterprise and remand the Targaryens into custody. If your Republic ship interferes with my boarding of the Enterprise, I will be forced to add 'interstellar provocation' to the day’s log."
The Admiral glanced at the chronometer one last time. 00:05. "Keep your disruptors cold and stay on this channel, t’Sani. You wanted to know what was happening; now you have a front-row seat to the restoration of order."
The Subadmiral laughed, a sound filled with derision and disdain for the Starfleet officer. "So, let me get this right," she said after a moment. "You are attempting to arrest the officers that are currently working to apprehend General Krennek and his associates, and secure the dangerous contraband he is about to receive, which could cause catastrophic damage to the Federation and the Romulan Republic."
Her face still hidden in the shadows, she shook her head. "Vice-Admiral, I am finding it difficult to determine whether you are incompetent or complicit. Mind you, I am leaning towards the former." She shook her head again. "If you care one iota for the safety of anyone in this sector, you will shut down the dampening field right now. The Republic diplomatic corps will not find it difficult to justify to the Federation should I be required to use force to convince you."
The derision in Subadmiral t’Sani’s voice hit the bridge like a physical gust of wind, but Vice Admiral Deix didn’t so much as blink. He had been insulted by experts, from Tzenkethi warlords to Cardassian bureaucrats, and he had learned long ago that a raised voice was usually the last refuge of a crumbling position. Yet, her accusation of incompetence - or worse, complicity - brought a dangerous, freezing stillness to his posture.
"Your 'apprehension' looks remarkably like a street brawl, Subadmiral," Deix countered, his voice dropping into a register that made the Shenzhou’s crew look anywhere but at the viewscreen. "In my Starfleet, we do not secure 'dangerous contraband' by allowing rogue crews to ignore the chain of command and storm a starbase during a ceasefire. If these 'crystals' are as catastrophic as you claim, then the last people I want handling them are the Targaryens, a group currently operating with all the tactical restraint of a supernova."
He stepped down into the flight well, his boots echoing with a final, rhythmic thud as he reached the edge of Sato's console. He looked up at the shadowed face on the screen, his eyes burning with a cold, judicial light. "You threaten force under the guise of diplomacy, t'Sani. That is a tired Romulan refrain that hasn't improved with age. If I shut down that suppression field, I am handing the communication lines back to a group of mutineers who have already proven they don't care about the safety of this station. The silence in that corridor is the only thing currently preventing Krennek’s ship from opening fire on Deep Space 9."
The digital chronometer hit 00:00. The red glow vanished, replaced by the steady, unblinking amber of active tactical authorization. The "hour of peace" was officially, legally dead. "The clock has run out," Deix said, his gaze shifting for a split second to Captain Jhossa, who nodded and began the boarding sequence. "I am not moving to arrest people who are 'apprehending a criminal.' I am moving to arrest a crew that has bypassed every legal safeguard in the Federation. If your Republic is so concerned about the timeline, you should be thanking me for ensuring that the people who eventually secure those crystals are officers who actually answer to a government, and not their own egos."
"Maintain your position, Ourainavassa," the Vice Admiral directed as he stood next to the Helm of his ship. "If you power up your disruptors, you aren't just threatening me; you are threatening the very 'restoration of order' you claim to desire. I am boarding the station now. If you want to talk about incompetence, we can do it while I'm processing your formal complaint in the station's security office."
"Very well, Vice-Admiral." The Subadmiral made a subtle movement with her hand, and the lighting changed, revealing her face. Sitting in the command chair of the Romulan vessel was indeed not a Romulan, but a human woman appearing to be in her late fifties, with grey streaks in her short, black hair, and piercing grey eyes. She reached into her pocket, and pulled out a badge, which she pinned to her uniform next to the Romulan combadge she was already wearing - a black Starfleet arrowhead. "Let me re-introduce myself, Deix. Subadmiral Felaen t'Sani is what I am called by the Romulan Republic, whom I serve as an advisor on all matters temporal. To the Federation, I am Commodore Freya Svanirsdottir Mannerheim, formerly of Section 31."
Freya smirked. "And to the Sovereign Terran Empire, I once was Captain Freya Svanirsdottir of the ISS Amelia, presumed killed in action. Do not think you can play me, Vice-Admiral. Your threats about a formal complaint are entirely empty. I am authorised by the Senate of the Romulan Republic to use any force necessary to stop General Krennek from getting his hands on those crystals. I will not hesitate. The ball is in your court, Deix. Will this day end peacefully, or with Starfleet looking for a new sector commander for the Gamma Quadrant?"
The revelation of the black arrowhead pinned to a Romulan-styled tunic would have sent a lesser officer into a spiral of hesitation, but for Astran Deix, it was merely the final, ugly layer of a reality he had long suspected was rotting from within. He stared at the woman - Mannerheim, Svanirsdottir, a phantom of three different empires - and felt a profound sense of vindication. This was the chaos he had been fighting to contain: a universe where the lines between Starfleet, Section 31, and the Mirror Universe had blurred into a gray sludge of "necessity."
Deix didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised. He simply adjusted the cuff of his uniform, his expression transitioning from judicial coldness to a flat, combat-ready pragmatism. "Section 31," Deix said, the name tasting like ash. "I should have known. Only a ghost from that particular graveyard would have the arrogance to lecture me on incompetence while wearing the skin of a Romulan Subadmiral and the badge of a terrorist cell."
"You speak of the Terran Empire and the Romulan Senate as if their authority carries weight in a Federation Docking Ring," Deix continued, his voice devoid of heat but heavy with finality. "But you’ve made a tactical error. You think I’m playing a game of politics. I’m not. I am not just a Sector Commander, I am a Quadrant Commander, and my mandate is the preservation of the law in the here and now. Your 'special authorizations' and temporal nightmares don't grant you the right to fire on a Starfleet vessel or dictate the terms of a criminal arrest."
He gestured to the viewscreen, where the Ourainavassa loomed like a green predator. "You want to know if this day ends peacefully? That is entirely up to you. If you open fire, you aren't just killing a 'Quadrant Commander'; you are declaring war on the United Federation of Planets in front of a dozen witnesses and a station full of civilians. Is your 'temporal advisory' worth that? Or are you just hoping I’m the kind of man who blinks when a ghost tells him a ghost story?"
Deix stood tall, his presence filling the flight well. He didn't look like a man concerned with his replacement; he looked like a man who had already accepted the cost of the next sixty seconds. "The suppression field stays up. The boarding of the Enterprise continues. And if you power those disruptors, Mannerheim, I will have the station’s primary weapons arrays turn your 'Sovereign' history into a very short footnote."
He tapped a command on Sato's board, and the Shenzhou’s shields flared into a brilliant, defiant silver.
"The ball isn't in my court. It’s in the vacuum between us. Make your move, or get out of my way. I have a mutiny to settle."
"If you insist on playing it this way, Deix," Freya replied, the smirk vanished from her face. "Enjoy your title while it lasts. Soon, you'll be lucky if you're commanding the cell you're in after your court-martial for impeding the arrest of a wanted criminal." With another hand gesture, she ordered Ashix to cut the channel. There was no point in continuing this conversation.
"If he was a Terran, or indeed a Romulan, I would have beamed over and run him through with my sword already," Freya remarked to her bridge crew. "Alas, I am not to have that pleasure. Unless he does something even more stupid, anyway." She turned to her old friend Mila Lynn at the Sciences station. "Got it?"
Mila laughed. "Oh yeah, you kept him talking long enough. Good thing I was visiting, eh?" The once turquoise-haired teenager had grown into a grey old lady, retired professor for particle physics at the renowned Sunrider Institute of her home planet Cera. During the heated exchange between Freya and Deix, she had analysed the dampening field, and found the right parameters to disrupt it. "Helm, position the ship directly between Shenzhou and the dampened area. Tactical, I've sent over some settings for the cloaking device. Only thing that field will suppress is our cloak."
Freya smiled. "Good. Helm, do as she said. Tactical, engage cloak once we are in position, and project dampening field over the Klingon ship. Let's do what the esteemed Vice-Admiral should have done to begin with."
A few moments later, Ourainavassa was in place, and her cloaking device engaged. As expected, however, the ship did not vanish. Instead, Shenzhou's dampening field was redirected. The Subadmiral stood and looked towards Enterprise. "We've bought them some time. I hope they use it."
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