2000 Light-Years Away

Posted on Thu Feb 26th, 2026 @ 12:25am by Fleet Admiral Dazad Targaryen & Vice Admiral Loatha Targaryen & Commodore Wilkan Targaryen & Commander Galatea
Edited on on Fri Feb 27th, 2026 @ 1:47am

2,980 words; about a 15 minute read

Mission: 7. Guile
Location: Ready Room, U.S.S. Enterprise
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 10:45

The Ready Room of the Enterprise was a sanctuary of dark wood and low starlight, but today it felt like a pressurized hull on the verge of implosion.

Wilkan Targaryen did not sit at his desk. He stood by the expansive viewport, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his knuckles white from the strain. Outside, the great wheel of Deep Space Nine hung in the void, a silent witness to the carnage of the last hour. The pylon he had ordered his tactical officer to incinerate was a jagged ruin of twisted duranium, still venting frozen gases that caught the light like diamond dust.

Beneath the deckplates, the ship hummed. To anyone else, it was the standard vibration of a Century Class starship's Warp Core at standby. To Wilkan it was a discordant symphony. He could feel the residual static from the temporal crystals like a phantom itch in the subspace layers of the ship and the cold, rhythmic pulse of the Shenzhou’s sensor sweep still brushing against their shields like a physical threat.

He was waiting for the ax to fall.

As his eyes tracked a piece of debris drifting past the window, he found himself wondering if Astran Deix was right. Was he truly just an arrogant scion hiding behind a legendary name? He had fired on a Federation station. He had risked the lives of his away team, including Loatha, to deny a weapon to an ally and an enemy alike. He had played God with the timeline because he felt the sickness of it, but as the silence of the room pressed in on him, the line between "Ice Pilot" intuition and simple mutiny felt terrifyingly thin.

"Was I wrong?" he asked himself as the subsonic vibration of the Warp Core sounded like a funeral dirge. "If I were anyone else would I already be in a transporter lock headed for a brig?" He questioned, having spent his life running from his father’s shadow, yet here he was, using a priority channel to that very man to save himself from the consequences of his own "righteous" fire.

The Commodore sensed a subtle shift in the ship’s internal power grid. A redirection of energy to the transporter buffers. Not a ship-to-ship beam. No, this was something internal.

"Commodore," Galatea’s voice emerged from the air, her holographic presence manifesting near the desk. She looked remarkably composed, though her eyes held a flickering of light, a sign her processors were still purging the Admiral’s malicious code.

Wilkan didn't turn around. He kept his gaze on the ruin of the pylon. "The away team, Galatea?"

"They are safely aboard the Ourainavassa, sir. Reports indicate that they have secured a formal testimony from General Krennek. It is described as... damaging to the Admiral's narrative."

Wilkan finally turned, his face a mask of detachment, though the turmoil remained beneath the surface. "And the Shenzhou? Has my father responded to the burst?"

"There is no official response from the C-in-C; however, Admiral Deix has vacated his command chair." Galatea’s head tilted slightly, her sensors processing a localized breach in the Ready Room's security protocols. "He is utilizing a legacy command override to bypass the Bridge. He is beaming directly into this room, Commodore, and he is not requesting permission."

Wilkan centered himself, his boots snapping together. He felt the shift in the room's atmosphere with the arrival of a man who didn't just carry a rank, but a grudge.

"Let him in," Enterprise's Commanding Officer surrendered.

The air in the center of the Ready Room began to shimmer. The silver-blue particulate of a high-resolution transporter beam swirled into existence, accompanied by the sharp, authoritative whine of a Starfleet carrier-wave. The light solidified into a sharp, clinical glare. As the whine of the transporter faded, it left behind the heavy silence of four men standing near and not a one looked happy.

Vice Admiral Astran Deix stood at the center of the circle, his uniform as stiff and unyielding as his expression. He did not come alone. Flanking him were two security guards in tactical vests, their phasers holstered but their hands resting near the grips. At his shoulder stood his Security Chief, a stern-faced Vulcan Commander whose dark eyes scanned the scene with the detached efficiency of a predator.

Wilkan turned slowly to face them. He didn't move toward his desk, nor did he seek the safety of his chair. He stood by the viewport, the ruin of the station pylon framing his head like a dark halo. Through his El-Aurian sensibilities the room was a cacophony of rhythmic heartbeats: the steady, cold thrum of the Vulcan, the slightly elevated pulse of the guards, and the jagged, frantic resonance of Deix.

"Admiral," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into that low, level frequency that had earned him his moniker. "You’ve brought an escort. Am I to understand the Enterprise is now officially occupied territory?"

"The Enterprise is a crime scene, Commodore," Deix said, his voice a dangerous rasp. "And I don't leave my safety to the discretion of a man who fires on Federation installations to cover his tracks." He gestured vaguely to the room, the wood paneling and the artifacts Wilkan had collected over a century of service. "You look around this room and see a legacy. I look at it and see the hoarding of a man who thinks he is beyond the reach of the law. Your senses, your instincts... they’ve finally led you off a cliff, Wilkan. And I am here to make sure you don't take this ship and its crew with you."

The Security Chief took a half-step forward, his hand moving toward a pair of magnetic restraints on his belt. The threat was silent, but absolute.

Wilkan felt the vibration of the ship beneath his feet. The Enterprise was still locked, still yearning for the command codes Deix held like a garrote. He looked at the Admiral, searching for a flicker of the man who had once been a peer, but found only a zealot. For the first time Wilkan wondered if his father wouldn't come through.

"You're so certain of your position, Astran," Wilkan remarked, his gaze shifting to the guards and back. "But you’ve bypassed the Bridge, you've ignored the away team’s return, and you've forced a beam-in using an override. You aren't acting like an Admiral conducting an arrest. You’re acting like a man trying to finish a job before the sun comes up."

"I am finishing a career," Deix countered. "Yours."

A sharp, staccato chime interrupted them. The terminal behind Wilkan pulsed with an insistent, rhythmic crimson light. Wilkan could hear the high-frequency trill of the data-packet - a dense, encrypted burst that carried the distinct signature of the Ourainavassa’s outgoing comms. It wasn't just data; it was a payload.

Deix’s eyes flickered to the light, then back to Wilkan. His jaw tightened. "Ignore it," the Admiral commanded, though his voice lacked some of its previous iron. "Commander, place the Commodore in restraints. Transfer him to Shenzhou's Brig."

The Vulcan Security Chief stepped forward, the magnetic cuffs clicking as he prepared to prime them.

"I wouldn't do that, Commander," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into a register of absolute, icy calm. He didn't reach for a weapon; he simply gestured to the screen behind him. "That signal is being routed through a Romulan diplomatic relay, but the encryption key is Federation. If you interfere with it, you aren't just obstructing an arrest, you're tampering with a direct report to the Commander-in-Chief."

Deix’s face paled, then flushed a deep, mottled red. "You’re bluffing. You’re trying to hide behind your father’s robes one last time." He turned to the guards. "I said, take him!"

"Admiral," the Vulcan Chief interrupted, his hand pausing mid-air. He was looking at the terminal. "The packet has self-extracted. It has bypassed our remote lockout. It is... broadcasting."

The viewscreen on the Commodore's desk flickered to life. It wasn't a Starfleet logo. It was a raw, high-definition recording from a Romulan brig. General Krennek’s face filled the screen, but he didn't look like the man who had menaced them moments ago. Krennek looked like a cornered beast, his Klingon features sharp and jagged under the emerald Romulan lights. Behind him, the lean, composed shadow of Kuzos was visible, the Vorta holding a recording device with a serene, terrifying patience.

"Let it be recorded," Krennek’s voice boomed, vibrating the paneled walls of the Ready Room. "I, General Krennek, state this: It was not Commodore Targaryen or the Dominion who brought us to the brink. It was Vice Admiral Deix. He contacted my vessel through back-channels, promised 'oversight' in exchange for the artifacts. He gave me the confidence to defy the Sector Commander."

The two security guards exchanged a quick, uncertain glance. The Vulcan Chief lowered his hands, his expression shifting from clinical to deeply observant.

"Lies," Deix hissed, though his pulse was now a frantic, discordant staccato in Wilkan's ears. "A Klingon's word is worth nothing!"

"It isn't just his word, Astran," a new voice joined the recording.

Loatha stepped into the frame, standing beside the seated General. She looked travel-worn, her uniform singed from the pylon collapse, but her eyes held the lethal clarity of a sniper. She looked directly into the camera, and for a moment, it felt as though she were looking directly at the men in the room.

"Admiral," Loatha said, her voice a calm, dangerous hum. "We have the subspace logs from the General’s ship. They match the timestamps of your private transmissions from the Shenzhou."

"You think you’ve won," Deix hissed, his voice cracking with a frantic, desperate energy. "You stand there with that look on your face, that detachment, while you dismantle the very foundation of this Fleet!"

Wilkan turned slowly from the viewport, his hands still clasped behind his back. "I’m not dismantling anything, Astran. I’m protecting the Federation."

"Protecting the Federation?" Deix charged toward Wilkan’s desk. The Vulcan Chief made a move to restrain him, but Deix shrugged him off with a snarl. "I followed every regulation! I acted within the scope of the Khitomer Accords! I was trying to save the Federation from becoming a playground for your family’s whims!" He slammed his fist onto the mahogany surface. "And for that, I’m the criminal? I’m the one being erased?"

The display cut to black, replaced by a single, flashing prompt: COMMAND OVERRIDE IN PROGRESS.

Wilkan watched the color drain from Deix's face, the Admiral's heart had become a drum of pure, unadulterated terror. Enterprise's Captain stepped toward his desk, looking at the Admiral with a swell of pity, "I believe your pips are about to become heavy."

The Ready Room was silent for a heartbeat after Dazad’s image solidified, the weight of the Fleet Admiral’s presence acting like a physical anchor in the room. Deix had gone rigid, his hands trembling as they rested on the edge of the mahogany desk.

"Admiral Deix," Dazad began, his voice a low-frequency rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very deckplates. "I have reviewed the testimony from Commodore Targaryen and General Krennek. I have also cross-referenced the back-channel logs you omitted from your reports. You have not followed the law, Astran. You have weaponized it and I can't standby."

"Take Vice Admiral Deix into custody, Dazad directed, his gaze shifting to the Security Chief, "Confine him to quarters pending a general court-martial."

Deix didn't look at the hologram. He kept his eyes locked on Wilkan, leaning across the desk until they were inches apart. "Do you see him, Wilkan? Do you see the ghost in the machine?" Deix laughed, a jagged, hollow sound. "He didn’t save you because you were right. He saved you because he needs his favorite weapon back in the Gamma Quadrant. He threw me away like a broken tool because I dared to question you."

Wilkan didn't flinch. He leaned in, meeting Deix’s frantic gaze with a cold, piercing empathy. "You weren't thrown away, Astran. You fell. You were so obsessed with the rules that you forgot why we have them. You didn't defend the Federation; you defended your own ego."

"Liar!" Deix spat, his face inches from Wilkan’s. "You’re just a puppet with the best seat in the house. I tried to be the man who held the line! I tried to be the one who held back the night! Now... now I’m a footnote in your legend," he said somewhat defeatedly.

The Vulcan Security Chief stepped forward, "Admiral. It is over."

Deix finally slumped, the fire in his eyes dying out into a cold, smoldering bitterness. He looked at the bars behind his Combadge, then back at Wilkan. "Enjoy the Wormhole, Commodore. Just remember: when you're out there in the dark, and you hear the 'hum' of the universe... that’s not your instinct. That’s just your father pulling the strings."

As the Vulcan led him away, Deix stopped and looked at the holographic Dazad. "You’ve won today, Fleet Admiral. But you’ve raised a son who doesn't know how to live without a war to fight. God help us when he runs out of enemies." Dazad tossed his Combadge on the table as Deix vanished in a Transporter beam.

Dazad’s image remained, his gaze shifting to Wilkan. The silence between father and son was heavy, filled with a century of unspoken things. The Fleet Admiral's gaze was fixed on Wilkan with a clinical intensity that made the Commodore feel like he was in a spotlight.

"You look tired, Wilkan," Dazad said. His voice was no longer the booming authority that had crushed Deix; it was quieter, layered with familiarity. "The reconstruction from the Enterprise-G explosion clearly left its mark on you."

Wilkan didn't move from behind his desk. "Is that what this was, Father? A check-up? Or was Deix just the latest in a long line of 'obstacles' you’ve placed in my path?"

Dazad leaned forward, his hands steepled. "I didn't place Deix there, his own ambition did. I simply didn't remove him when I saw him circling you. Same with Veegg. If you couldn't outmaneuver the, you'd never have survived DS47."

Wilkan’s breath hitched. The mention of the station and the dark mystery that was looming over the Gamma Quadrant like a spider spinning a web around its prey sent a cold chill through his spine

"We know that DS47 isn't a failure, Wilkan," Dazad continued, his eyes darkening. "It’s an erasure. Whatever is out there doesn't just kill; it silences. I needed to know if you still had the stomach to do what it takes to protect the Federation. Today, you proved you do. The Federation needs men like Deix. Men of conscience, principle. It needs men who can sleep at night. It also needs men like you, son, someone has to protect men like that from a universe that doesn't share their sensibilities."

"I'm not doing this for your legacy, Dad," Wilkan whispered. "I'm doing it for the twins. For Loatha. To make sure the frontier stays far enough away from them."

"Then you will find the next part of my directive particularly... efficient," Dazad said, a sharp, tactical glint in his eyes. "With Deix relieved, the Gamma Quadrant needs new leadership. Someone with diplomatic standing, intimate knowledge of the current mission, and a perspective that - as you yourself have noted - challenges yours. I have signed the order. Loatha will be named Deix’s successor as the Gamma Quadrant Commander with a promotion."

Wilkan felt the air leave his lungs. "No. Absolutely not. You’re putting her directly in the line of fire. You're turning my partner into my handler!"

"I am putting the most capable person in the position," Dazad countered, his voice returning to that immovable, C-in-C iron. "She has the ties we need and the backbone to tell a Targaryen when he's overreaching. If you want to keep the frontier away from your family, Wilkan, then you'd better get used to her being right beside you while you fight it."

Wilkan slammed a hand on the desk. "This isn't a promotion for her, it’s a leash for me!"

"It's both," Dazad said with a knowing smile, his image beginning to flicker as the sub-space link strained. "You may fly the ship, but even you need a good navigator who isn't afraid of the dark. From this point forward, the mission proceeds with her at your side. Don't make me regret the appointment, Commodore. Targaryen out."

The holographic light collapsed and vanished.

Wilkan stood paralyzed in the darkness of the Ready Room as the hologram of his father dissolved. The galaxy around him settled into a rhythmic, steady thrum. The ship was his. The mission was his. As he looked at the ruin of the pylon outside, he realized his war for independence just became far more complicated. He had spent his life navigating the "Old Guard" and their rigid hierarchies, only to have his father hand the keys of the frontier to the one person Wilkan couldn't shut down no matter how hard he tried.

"Galatea," Wilkan said, his voice sounding distant even to himself. "Confirm the transmission from Starfleet Command."

"The order is authenticated, Commodore," Galatea replied, her voice soft. "Loatha is officially designated as Gamma Quadrant Commander. By extension, she is your direct administrative superior."

"My father is a master of the double-edged sword. He gives me the ship and the mission, then makes sure I can't breathe without her reporting it," Wilkan let out a sharp, bitter laugh, "I think I can live with it."

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