Outsider

Posted on Wed Mar 4th, 2026 @ 1:19am by Commodore Wilkan Targaryen & Admiral Freya Mannerheim

3,665 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: 7a. Guile - Short Treks
Location: Captain's Quarters, U.S.S. Enterprise
Timeline: 2439-08-13, 15:00

Wilkan Targaryen stood by the expansive windows of his quarters, watching the maintenance bees swarm around the Upper Docking Pylon. The Enterprise-H felt slightly out of alignment here, tethered to the station’s while the lower pylon she had occupied during the Krennek assault underwent structural surgery. From this height, the curvature of Deep Space 9 felt more pronounced, a sprawling testament to a century of conflict and reconstruction. To anyone else, it was a breathtaking view of the gateway to the Gamma Quadrant; to Wilkan, it was a reminder of how easily the "hard math" of security could be disrupted by a single, unforeseen variable.

He turned back toward the center of the suite, his gaze sweeping over the oval dining table and the shallow partitions that carved the space into a functional stage. For most visitors, this room was an intimidating display of Federation flagship authority, but as he checked the chronometer, he knew the woman about to walk through the door saw through the architecture. Freya Mannerheim wasn't just a Romulan Admiral or a representative of the Republic; she was a fixture of his own history, a comrade whose service record was as intertwined with the chaotic shifts of the late 24th and early 25th centuries as his own.

He didn't feel the need to retreat behind the mask of rigidly as he would for a standard diplomatic briefing. With Freya, the shield was still there - habitual and professional - but it lacked the cold edge he reserved for the uninitiated. He reached toward the integrated replicator at the dining table, programming a specific Vulcan tea he knew she preferred during long-range negotiations. It was a small, silent acknowledgement of their shared mileage, a gesture of hospitality that required no spoken sentimentality.

Over the years, Subadmiral Freya Mannerheim had been on board many ships of many civilisations, and commanded a fair few of them herself. And even though her home for many decades now was a Romulan ship, she still felt just as comfortable on a Starfleet vessel - be it Terran or Federation. After the incident with General Krennek and the arrest of Vice-Admiral Deix, she had contacted Wilkan and suggested meeting in person to discuss what had happened, and what would happen next.

Arriving on Enterprise, she had briefly considered stopping by her sister's quarters, but then decided to visit her after meeting with the Commodore. Thus, she had made her way across the ship to his quarters, pressing the door chime as she arrived.

The chime echoed through the suite. Wilkan straightened his tunic, the gold of his rank catching the ambient light from the station. He didn't wait the customary three seconds he used to establish dominance with subordinates.

"Enter," he said, his voice resonant but carrying a rare, subtle note of genuine welcome.

As the doors slid open to reveal the Admiral, Wilkan didn't offer the stiff, ceremonial stance of a Commodore greeting a foreign dignitary. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression a mixture of professional focus and the deep, unspoken ease of a man seeing an old friend in a storm. He offered a sharp, respectful nod that acknowledged her rank, but also the decades of history that had brought them both to this deck.

"Freya," he said, the name a familiar anchor in the midst of the Krennek fallout. "I’d say it’s good to see you, but we both know that when we meet in person these days, the galaxy is usually trying to tear itself apart at the seams. Sit. The station might be damaged, but the Enterprise still knows how to host an Admiral."

The Terran-turned-Romulan Subadmiral smiled as she saw the tea ready on the table. "Wilkan. Despite everything, it still is good to see you, my old friend." She chuckled. "And please, I am not here as a representative of another power, or a visiting Admiral. I am here as a friend. After all, things could have gone very, very differently."

"Different is an understatement," Wilkan replied, his voice settling into a low, steady cadence that bypassed the need for diplomatic pleasantries. "If the 'hard math' of that engagement had shifted even a fraction of a degree, we wouldn't be sitting here. We’d be coordinating a salvage operation for the station or drafting a declaration of total war. Deix was a structural failure in the Admiralty I didn't see coming, and that is a lapse I find... unacceptable."

Wilkan turned toward the wooden table in the corner of the room closest to the door to his children's room, motioning toward the empty chair sitting there. He moved to the opposite chair at the head of the table, the familiar steam of the Vulcan tea rising between them. "I know that you probably expected something a bit stronger than Vulcan tea, but I believe it to be a recipe that you were comfortable with. Besides, we have to keep our wits about us these days. We are both architects of the future, after all."

Freya laughed as she sat down and poured herself a cup of the tea. "The tea is much appreciated, don't worry. I did bring you something, though," she added and reached into the small bag she was carrying, pulling out a bottle of a light blue liquid. "I know you like the ice mead from my homeworld. Went back there a few months ago and managed to snag a few crates. This universe's Freya is doing well for herself, she's heading on an expedition to the Delta Quadrant soon she said. Still can't believe I actually messed with my own timeline, but saving her was worth it."

She took a sip from her tea and leaned back in the chair. "So, yeah. Deix is finally gone. Not a moment too soon. Quite the stubborn piece of work, that man. I hear your wife has been promoted to his job instead. They're still leaving you hanging, eh?"

Internally, Wilkan’s tactical mind surged. The Delta Quadrant. If the Federation was pushing an expedition of that magnitude, the strategic weight of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants was being redistributed in a way he hadn't prepared for. It was a massive logistical gamble while the Krennek threat still simmered and the "hard math" of the region remained unstable. He tucked the data point away for later analysis, his mask remaining perfectly undisturbed as he focused on his guest.

"The Delta Quadrant is a long way to look when we’re still sweeping up the glass at home," Wilkan said, his voice a steady, resonant anchor. He glanced at the blue liquid in the bottle, but didn't open it. "As for Loatha's promotion... it’s the logical move for the Admiralty. She has the temperament for the 'long view' that Deix lacked."

He stood and walked back toward the window, looking down at the damaged station pylon. "I didn't step down from the Admiralty and leave my command at Starbase 75 just to become a glorified clerk for my wife’s career. I spent decades in the bureaucracy; I know exactly where the dead weight lies. Processing her PADDs is a conflict of interest at best and a waste of my time at worst. I took the Enterprise because I prefer the hard math of a Warp Core to the political shuffle of San Francisco."

He turned back to Freya, his gaze clinical but not unkind. "Loatha will lead, and I will fly. That is the structural integrity of our marriage. If they want her in that seat, they can find a clerk at Starfleet Command to push the buttons. I have a ship to repair and a prisoner to interrogate."

"Now that's the Wilkan I remember," Freya replied with a smile. "And I fully agree with you. Nothing worse than a bureaucratic desk job. And don't worry about the Delta Quadrant thing, it's not a Starfleet operation. It's actually a private venture by a few research institutes, although they do have some support from Admiral Kim."

She looked out of the window for a moment, quietly taking in the view. The dark shape of the old Mogai-class warbird with its custom, nearly black hull plating was hovering behind the ruins of one of Deep Space Nine's pylons, pointing towards the wormhole like a predator in wait. "The Senate wants to get in on the Gamma Quadrant, too," she finally said, turning to Wilkan. "The Republic doesn't have the resources to spare to send an actual expedition, or even a single ship. But they've asked me to talk to the Federation about having a diplomatic attaché on Enterprise."

With a chuckle, Freya took another sip from her tea. "Well, that's a strong word, in my opinion. Basically, what they want is for someone on board to send reports about any discoveries made, and to represent the Republic in diplomatic negotiations if and when they arise. I thought that before I talk to Loatha about it in an official fashion, I'd get your off-the-books thoughts on the idea."

"The Senate is miscalculating the tolerance of the Great Link, Freya," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into a low, clinical register. "Our presence in the Gamma Quadrant is already at a breaking point. The original treaty was specific: it was for the Enterprise, a singular hull with a singular mission. Even now, every time we transition that wormhole, we are testing the tension of a wire that’s already frayed. The Federation has pushed their luck by expanding the scope of our operations, and the Founders have made it clear they don't appreciate the reach."

He leaned forward, his interlaced fingers resting on the table near the steaming tea. "And then there is the variable on my own Bridge. I have Kuzos at the tactical station. Having a Dominion attaché as my Tactical Officer is the only reason the Founders haven't closed the door on us entirely. He is efficient, he is observant, and he is a direct conduit to the Great Link. He would know the moment a Romulan frequency touched our sensor grid, and he would report it before I could even clear the throat of the wormhole."

He met her gaze with an unyielding stare, the professional distance returning to his eyes. "The Dominion blockaded the wormhole with the mere idea of a Klingon presence in their space; they will view a Romulan attaché as a direct violation of the spirit of our accord. It changes the frequency of every mission from 'exploration' to 'provocation.' I won't turn my ship into a target for a Jem'Hadar swarm just to satisfy the Senate’s curiosity. If they want in, they need to find a way to make the Founders accept their presence through the front door, not try to slip in through my airlock."

He paused, a rare moment of candor breaking through the detachment. "I’d like to have your people with us, Freya. Truly. But on the Enterprise, I have to maintain the integrity of a very fragile peace. My unofficial thought? It’s a tactical liability that lacks the necessary support to succeed. I won't risk the safety of this ship on a Romulan gamble while Kuzos is watching my every move."

"That being said," the Commodore paused, his gaze as cold as the void outside the port. "Ultimately, Loatha and Dazad have the final say. If you choose to approach them, I won't obstruct the channel, but I am assessing a high probability of catastrophic friction. With the Typhon Pact consolidating power in the Alpha Quadrant, we cannot afford to turn the Dominion into an adversary. We are currently holding the line on a single-point failure; adding a Romulan attaché to my bridge might just be the gust that breaks the mast."

Freya slowly nodded as she listened to the Commodore's words. "Pretty much what I expected you to say, I'll be honest. I think the Senate is getting its priorities completely wrong. We need to focus on continuing to build our own nation first. The Free State is still occasionally sending spies or raiding parties, even if they have mostly isolated themselves from the rest of the universe nowadays. Then there's the continuing colonisation efforts, actually building a respectable fleet, and so many more things that need to be done before we can fully look outward. The best they can realistically expect would be to receive copies of whatever you send back to Starfleet Command. But I already know that they won't like hearing that. At all."

Wilkan allowed a rare, dry exhale that might have been a laugh in a more emotive man. He watched the steam from the tea curl into the recycled air of the cabin, his mind already categorizing Freya’s admission into his strategic calculations.

"The Senate's displeasure is a constant, Freya. It’s an environmental variable, like cosmic background radiation," he said, his voice regaining that low, resonant thrum. "They want the prestige of the Gamma Quadrant without the structural investment required to survive it. If they want data, I can authorize a filtered intelligence feed through the proper Republic channels, provided Starfleet Intelligence doesn't choke the bandwidth. He shook his head slowly, his eyes shifting back to the dark Mogai Class warbird looming outside. "With the Typhon Pact watching for any sign of a Federation-Republic coalition we aren't just talking about Romulan pride anymore; we’re talking about galactic positioning. If the Pact sees us tightening our grip on the wormhole with Romulan help, they’ll accelerate their own expansion to compensate."

The Commander of the Starship Enterprise paused a moment, thinking of another variable that had to be taken into consideration though. This one dealing with the Typhon Pact itself. "Besides, the Senate’s priorities are skewed if they're ignoring the Free State sitting like a necrotic limb on their own border," Wilkan said, his voice dropping into a colder, more clinical register. "The danger of the Romulan Plague hasn't changed just because they've stopped talking about it. The contagion of 2422 was a structural failure of their entire biological defense system. Now, we have a border guarded by 'Ghost Warbirds' with standing orders to preserve a graveyard. The tactical priority is preventing that plague from jumping the fence, not to travel to the Gamma Quadrant."

Freya couldn't help but laugh. "No need to tell me that. Tell them. I repeatedly have, as have others, but they won't listen. They're convinced that nothing is going to happen, and that the Free State no longer is a serious threat. Nor is the plague. According to some of the Senate, even if there is an outbreak, which is highly unlikely, the impact will be minor thanks to advanced medical science et cetera. I do hope the vaccine they claim to have developed actually does work, but I somehow doubt it. No, they are much more concerned with prestige."

She sighed. "And here I thought that my days of having to deal with incompetent leaders are over. Probably for the best that I didn't take retirement after all. Who knew that an extended lifespan due to my timeline being a mess would come in this handy, eh?"

Wilkan turned back from the window, the movement sharp and deliberate. He didn't smile at her joke about longevity; instead, he studied her with the intensity of a man looking for a hairline fracture in a load-bearing beam. "Incompetence is the one universal constant, Freya. It doesn't matter the century or the timeline," Wilkan said, his voice dropping back into that low, steady cadence. "The Senate’s faith in a 'minor impact' and unverified vaccines is a failure of logic. If that plague jumps the quarantine, it won't care about Romulan prestige. It will simply follow the path of least resistance. If they're betting the future of the Republic on medical 'et cetera,' then they’ve already lost the battle."

He walked back to the table, finally picking up the bottle of blue liquid she had brought. He didn't open it, but he ran a thumb over the seal, his expression tightening as he considered the chain of command he now navigated. "I’ll tell them, if it comes to that. I’ve never had much luck convincing politicians that the floor is falling out from under them until they’re already in mid-air, but I’ll add my voice to the report. However," he paused, a flicker of dark irony crossing his features, "you’re asking me to navigate a minefield that is as much personal as it is political. My immediate superior is my wife, and her superior at Starfleet Command is my father. It's a closed loop of Targaryen authority that I have no interest in complicating."

He set the bottle down with a soft clack on the wooden surface. "If I bring a Romulan attaché onto the flagship against my own tactical judgment, I’m not just answering to the Admiralty; I'm bringing the debate to my own dinner table. I prefer to keep the structural integrity of my family separate from the Senate's need for a status symbol. My primary concern remains the bridge. I have a Dominion tactical officer who is essentially a living sensor for the Great Link. I will not compromise that for a Senate that can’t even secure its own border against its own ghosts." He offered her a rare, brief nod of genuine solidarity. "Keep your wits about you, Freya. If the vaccine fails and those Ghost Warbirds start drifting, you’ll be the only thing standing between the Republic and a total system failure. I'd rather you were at the helm there than wasting your time as an attaché here."

"Hells, that is one mess of authority and possible conflicts of interest. I'm glad I don't have to deal with any of that," Freya replied with a chuckle. "And anyway, I certainly wasn't thinking of myself as that attaché. What, go cruising into another quadrant and leave the defense of the colony I helped build in the hands of amateurs? Sure, Kaiae knows her stuff when it comes to Romulan politics and commanding the 'vassa, but she lacks a certain kind of experience. You know, seeing the shit in motion before it hits the fan."

She drained the cup of tea in front of her. "Besides, I completely agree with you. It would be pointless, only serving to provoke the Dominion, the Klingons, and the Pact."

Wilkan allowed a small, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile to touch the corners of his mouth. It was the look of a man who had successfully calculated a difficult trajectory and found it clear. "Good. Then we are in agreement," he said, his voice regaining its resonant, grounded quality. "The Republic needs you exactly where you are: acting as the stabilizer for those amateurs."

The Commodore stood up, the movement fluid and decisive, signaling the end of the informal session. He didn't need to check his chronometer to know that the silence in the Deep Space 9 holding cells was growing heavy, and Lezku Opra was a variable that wouldn't solve itself. "I’ll speak to Loatha about the filtered data feed," Wilkan continued, moving toward the door. "If we can route it through the proper channels without triggering a Red Alert in San Francisco, I'll see to it that the Republic gets the telemetry they need to feel included. It’s a better solution than a political attaché who would spend their entire tour being stared down by Kuzos."

He paused, glancing back at the bottle of blue liquid still sitting on the table. "I’ll save that ice mead for when the pylon is repaired and the station isn't buzzing with maintenance bees," he added, his tone carrying a rare note of genuine warmth. "Stay safe out there, Freya. If those Ghost Warbirds start moving, or if that vaccine proves as hollow as you suspect, I want to hear it from you directly - not through a sanitized Starfleet Intelligence report."

"Don't you worry," the Subadmiral replied with a smile. "I have a direct contact on your ship now, after all." She gazed out at the wreckage of the pylon. "Speaking of our little adventure from earlier, I'll send you copies of all the intel reports we have on Krennek. In short, he's ambitious and thinks that the Klingon Empire is making a mistake being allied to the Federation. So, he wanted to find a way to get them back to war. Preferably with a massive advantage for the Klingons, of course, that's why he wanted the crystals. What exactly he was planning, though, I have no idea."

Wilkan nodded slowly, his mind already processing the tactical data. "He was planning to rewrite history, Freya. A classic strategy for those who can't win the current one." He moved toward the door, his posture shifting into that of a man ready for the next mission. "We've confirmed that the main cache of Time Crystals were completely neutralized when the Enterprise opened fire on them. The threat is gone," he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "with one minor exception. The merchant, Lezku Opra, had a singular crystal shard integrated into her earring. We took it into custody the moment we secured her. It’s the only variable left of Krennek’s temporal gamble, and it's currently under a level-ten security dampening field."

The Commodore adjusted his tunic, "On that note, I must excuse myself. I’m heading over to Deep Space 9 to interrogate her. I’ve found that Lezku is much more likely to show the cracks in her resolve when she isn't playing to an audience. I intend to find out exactly who else was on her client list."

He offered a final, respectful nod of camaraderie. "The mead stays on the table for next time. Jolan Tru."

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