Between the Devil and the Deep Black, Part 2
Posted on Thu Jul 24th, 2025 @ 10:26pm by Lieutenant JG Callin Mastrel
Mission:
Back Post
Location: Luhman 16, Starfleet Listening Post
Timeline: 2395
3269 words - 6.5 OF Standard Post Measure
"There you go, Cadet, nice and easy," Commander Harold's shaky voice seemed to rise in pitch the closer the runabout got to the shuttlebay deck of the station. "This is much bigger than a shuttle, take it slow..."
Callin suppressed a sigh, tried not to let the officer's mood get to him, but it was difficult with the human hovering over him while he worked the controls, and his mind seemed to screech with anxiety. The man really should learn to control his stress better. "Sir, I've done this a hundred times before," Callin told him levelly. The runabout touched down with the barest of vibrations.
"Yes, yes, nice job, I'm sure," Harold told him with an absent pat on the shoulder as he turned and started giving instructions to others on board. Callin glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the passengers as his fingers moved by route, locking down the little ship's systems, powering down the engines, engaging the automatic diagnostics to run in the background. Like he'd done a hundred times before, just like he'd told the chaperone of their little outing. Callin stood up from the helm, stretching his back as the engines fell silent, the faint hum of systems ticking into standby. He glanced to the rear of the runabout. The cadets were already shifting in their seats, unbuckling, stretching, and grumbling in low voices.
His friends. His team. Omega Squadron. Callin was still so proud he'd made squad leader in his fourth year, but from the looks on their faces, and the feelings coming off of them, he wondered how glad they were with him right now. The three humans, Naomi Veylar, the Martian who'd grown up around engineers and test pilots, Ilya Serov, son of a well-off family that operated dozens of transport vessels in both the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, and Ethan Calder, from Vancouver, so level-headed he drove Callin to distraction sometimes. The Tellarite, Drral'Tev Gar, though everyone just called him Drral and was as argumentative as one might expect, and the Andorian Zhen, Tharish Kaat, disciplined and sometimes condescending, rounded out their group.
Did they glance at him with annoyance? It was a bit embarrassing... Betazoids matured a little slower than humans, despite some major similarities between the species, and Callin had been coming into his full telepathic abilities while at the Academy. While he mostly had them under control, from plenty of training and education back home on Betazed, there were times when he still struggled to sort out his own self-doubts and what he actually sensed from others. He could feel a faint buzz centered behind his eyes... that was new. Maybe he was just tired piloting the runabout from Sol, though that would be odd for him. Callin loved every moment he got to fly even if it was an uneventful trip out here.
“This better not take all day,” Cadet Tharish muttered, pulling her pack from the overhead compartment with a bit more force than necessary. She had an engineering kit in case they needed it, for some of the drills they'd run while here. “I didn’t sign up for Starfleet to stare at sensor logs.”
Ethan rolled his eyes as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “It’s a historic site. Preserving it is part of the curriculum,” he said, but his tone made it clear even he wasn’t convinced, and he kept his face smooth as he looked at Callin. Ethan was the cadet squadron's XO, and had argued with Callin behind closed door against this idea.
“Historic?” Tharish scoffed. “It’s a floating tin can with a view of nothing."
Callin caught all of it, out loud and in the background hum of their surface thoughts. The sarcasm, the irritation. Most of it was harmless, the way cadets always complained about training missions. Still, he winced inwardly. This whole trip had been his suggestion. A special request, even. It’ll be good for morale, he’d told their instructor.r A chance to study real subspace array architecture, firsthand. They could treat it like an away mission, they were here to perform maintenance and updates. He had imagined quiet halls, archived telemetry, and maybe, if he was lucky, time alone in a place where the hum of thoughts wouldn't crowd so loud. But now, under the weight of everyone’s boredom, he was beginning to regret the idea. And they hadn't even stepped outside of the shuttlebay yet.
The cadets of Omega Squadron filed off the runabout with varying degrees of enthusiasm. A few stretched exaggeratedly, groaning about cramped seats and how they could’ve just read the briefing instead of enduring a sixteen-hour ride to a half-derelict sensor post. Someone, Callin thought it was Ethan, murmured something about it smelling like recycled socks in here. Callin stayed near the rear, giving the consoles one last glance before stepping onto the deck. System were powered down properly, awaiting his command code to reactivate things. All was as it should be.
Commander Harold, oblivious as ever, clapped his hands together. “Alright, everyone, form up,” he called, stepping toward the hatch as it began its slow mechanical iris-open. “Cadet Serov, you’ll lead the disembark. Cadet Mastrel, I want a systems rundown from the main terminal once we’re inside. The rest of you stay in line, no wandering. This station hasn’t seen a full crew in years, and if you get lost, no one’s coming to find you.” He laughed at his own joke, but none of the young cadets even so much as cracked a smile.
Callin filed out behind the others, last to leave the runabout. As he stepped onto the station’s deck, the air hit him stale, metallic, and far too dry. He blinked into the pale lighting strips that flickered overhead in sluggish pulses. Even before the hum of their own minds could register around him, he could feel the weight of the place. Harold was already in full tour guide mode. “Constructed in 2373, the Sentinel Array was a direct response to the Dominion War and the threat revealed by the Battle of Wolf 359,” he began. “Originally manned by a crew of twelve, later converted to a skeleton staff when the new early warning platforms were installed along the Kuiper Belt...”
Cadets were already zoning out. Callin heard Drral mumble something about Harold having memorized the whole thing from a brochure. Naomi was lagging behind, chewing her lip and casting a curious glance down one of the darkened halls branching off the main corridor. Callin tried to focus on Harold’s words, but his mind wandered. Not far, just to the steady pressure behind his eyes. The station didn’t seem dangerous, but something felt... brittle. Like a pane of hydroponic glass stressed from an early frost, or the stem of a chameleon rose after a two-week drought.
The shuttlebay was dimmer than he expected, the overhead lights flickering just once as if uncertain they wanted to fully power on. A low hum vibrated through the soles of his boots, life support, probably, warming up. It seemed to match the vibration behind Callin's eyes, made him blink and rub at them. The station’s systems felt sluggish, reluctant. Commander Harold stood at the front of the group, still talking. Lecturing. "This facility, is now mostly automated, equipped with long-range tachyon sweeps and gravimetric sensors to detect approaches to the core worlds. I know you probably think it's boring, but it is vital. Starfleet learned its lesson the hard way. With the most state-of-the-art long range sensors, we can detect even many cloaked vessels, subspace eddies, transwarp conduits..."
The cadets clustered around half-listening, their eyes scanning the bulkheads, ducting, and flickering displays. Everything smelled of ozone and cold metal. Naomi nudged Callin's arm and whispered, “If he makes us do another systems tour I’m defecting to the Romulans.”
Callin actually smiled, almost laughed - then the lights cut out. So did Harold's voice. "...it’s home to one of the most advanced tachyon sweep systems in the sector - ugh!” Total darkness lasted less than a second, but it was enough to completely upend their world. The flickering returned with a deeper stutter, but it was the emergency lighting, yellow and red, not the warmer white of the main lights. A single, slicing shnk, quiet but horrifying, sounded in that moment of darkness.
The cadets turned as the emergency lights began to flicker on just in time to see the Commander crumple forward, his body folding awkwardly, hands scrabbling at his throat as a torrent of blood sprayed from the deep, jagged gash carved across it. His eyes were wide with disbelief. He gasped, or tried to. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Just a wheeze and bubbling red.
Standing behind him was a Nausicaan. Huge. Filthy. In the low light, his mottled skin gleamed with sweat and blood. A jagged, homemade blade, probably a sharpened length of conduit, hung loose in one hand, its edge dripping. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes tracked each of them with cold hunger. Time stopped. Naomi stared. Ethan backed into a wall, jaw slack. Ilya whispered, “No…” They were cadets. Top of their class, some of them. Fast. Sharp. Disciplined. But they'd never seen someone die like this. Not their Commander. Not anybody.
The spell broke when the Nausicaan roared and lunged forward with terrifying speed. Ilya tried to turn but wasn’t fast enough, a shallow gash tore across his forearm and he screamed, stumbling into Naomi. Chaos erupted.
“Go!” Callin yelled, heart hammering. “Run!” There was no time to think. Callin turned and ran, grabbing Ilya with one hand and pulling him as the cadets scattered. The Andorian dropped her kit. The Nausicaan’s footsteps thundered after them for a moment, then stopped, disappearing into the silence as the cadets vanished deeper into the shadowed guts of the station. Was he following them? They didn't stop to find out.
The corridor lights flickered as they ran, boots pounding on grated floors. Callin didn’t know where he was going, just away. Away from the blood, the dead glaze that had settled over their commander's eyes as he had looked at them in stupid incomprehension. Down one hall, through a narrow pressure door, and then a hatch half-stuck open. The interior was dim and metallic, lined with boxes and aging wall lockers. No windows. No consoles. A supply bay. Small. Secure. For now. Callin shoved Ilya inside first, then motioned for the others to cram in. The door wheezed shut behind them and with it, the sound of the chase vanished. They were alone in the dark. Only the sound of their own breaths remained.
For a moment, no one moved. Just the six of them huddled together in a space barely wide enough to stretch both arms. It was freezing. The chill of uncirculated air bit through their uniforms. Naomi curled in on herself. Ethan sat rigid, jaw clenched. Gar tilted his head back, eyes fluttering. Shock.
Callin snapped into motion. Training to be an officer, a leader, it started to kick in, made him take charge, to get the others moving again. He knelt beside Ilya, who was still cradling his forearm. “Let me see,” Callin said, trying to keep his voice calm. His hands shook slightly, but he forced himself to breathe. "Ethan, you and Tharish try to seal the door. Drral, Naomi, see if you can find us anything useful in these crates. Medical supplies. Weapons. Comms. Anything."
Callin turned back to Ilya as the others began to respond. Slowly, sluggishly, he could see it in the way they moved and sensed the way their brains were lethargic, they were all in shock. But at least they were following orders. It was a shallow cut the Ukranian had on his arm. Painful, bleeding, but not life-threatening. Callin ripped the sleeve from his own jacket and wrapped it tightly around the wound, tying a knot for now. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
Ilya managed a nod, swallowing hard. “Th-thanks…”
They all jumped as Ethan suddenly spoke up, loudly. “That guy—the one who killed Commander Harold…” Callin looked up. Ethan’s voice wavered, but his eyes were wide with certainty. “He was wearing a prisoner’s jumpsuit. Yellow. Torn, but still marked. I saw it.”
Silence fell again. But only for a moment. Then it was Naomi's turn. "The n-news... remember? Was it this system? The one next to it? The prisoner transport and the Gandhi, like two weeks ago?" Her voice rose higher with each question, the words tumbling out of her faster, and faster.
Callin stared at the floor. He vaguely remembered hearing something about the Gandhi being destroyed. But the cadets had been sheltered from the news for the most part, it was scuttlebutt, and there were finals soon, their last flight tests in a month. The dreaded Kobiyashi Maru test everyone whispered about and no one knew the details of coming up in a week. Graduation soon. He had no answers.
"This is your fault," Drral began to growl at Callin, holding up an emergency medkit as he advanced. "If you hadn't cooked up this stupid trip-"
"Did you see the Commander's eyes?" Tharish said in a panicked whisper that still cut through the angry Tellarite's words for a moment.
"...still be alive. We could be safe and back at the Academy and-"
Ethan, trying to be reasonable, cut in, "We know the risks joining Starfleet. Safety isn't-"
"...he looked so afraid..."
"...your fault..."
"...it hurts..."
"...I'm afraid..."
Callin squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to focus on his mental exercises to block out not just their words but their thoughts. Their panic, their fear, it threatened to drown him. His own guilt might do that too. Their emotions boiled, seethed... and it seemed like too much. They were out of control. All of them. Frightened, yes, but they should hold it together better. That background hum behind Callin's eyes, deep in his brain, seemed to throb. Their voices got louder. Drral raised the medkit like a club he was about to swing, rage in his eyes. Ilya was crying. Naomi was crying. Ethan was about ready to swing a fist...
"STOP IT!" Callin's voice shattered through their yelling and reverberated off the walls of the little cargo bay. His mind shouted too, projecting into their thoughts. Everyone stood stunned for a moment, Callin included. The other cadets couldn't do anything, not for a full two seconds, as the telepathic command rang in their skulls. They stopped. The buzzing faded, not gone entirely, but muted. Then, Drral slowly lowered the medkit, embarrassed, and then moved to help Ilya, avoiding eye contact. Ethan lowered his fists. Naomi put her face into her hands, but her sobs were quiet now. Tharish's antennae wilted. Ilya stared at him.
Callin took a breath, spoke softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... in your minds. I..."
Ethan came to his rescue, "We know, boss. We're just scared. You were right to make us stop for second."
"We have to stay calm," Tharish agreed, coming to kneel next to Callin, show her support with a hand to his knee. "Just don't do that again, okay Cal? I couldn't even blink."
Callin nodded, shaken, but took another breath, then another, getting himself under control as the others did themselves, "Sorry. Okay, let's take a second, think this through together. Naomi, what do you remember about the news report? Anything at all. And did anyone hear anything solid about what happened out here to the Gandhi?" Trying to lead, it helped, a little bit. But even as he got them talking, working together, he doubted. There was a killer on the station. Maybe more than one? And somehow he was suddenly responsible for his friends' lives, to try to get them out of here safe. Surrounded by his squadron, he had never felt more alone, or afraid.
=====
The corridor outside the runabout echoed with the crunch of boots against metal, broken only by the low static of an open comm channel. Graen Trask crouched beside the slumped corpse of Commander Harold, the man's face pale and slack, his throat a ragged ruin. A severed hand lay on a bloodied cloth nearby. Trask’s own hands trembled as he reached out, trying to steady the Commander's limp wrist to fit the dead fingers to the biometric panel beside the runabout’s hatch. The panel blinked red.
“No go,” he muttered, flicking his eyes up nervously. “Still locked.”
Shyv'vax loomed just behind him, arms crossed, the jagged knife he’d used still streaked with drying blood. He made a low, guttural sound of irritation and stepped forward, snatched the appendage from the twitchy human, jamming the severed hand harder against the scanner. Red light. Denied.
“That's not going to work,” came the dry, sardonic voice of Kella Varn, leaning with one hip against the shuttlebay wall. The Orion mercenary twirled a stolen commbadge between her fingers before casually tossing it onto the Commander's chest That hadn't worked either to unlock the runabout when she'd tried it. “Biometrics are coded to pulse and temperature. You can’t trick the system with a corpse. Even a fresh one.”
Trask stood quickly, anxious eyes darting around. “Okay, okay. Then what do we do? If we can’t get in, we’re trapped here.”
A low, menacing tone crackled over the open comms channel in Kella’s ear, followed by the smooth, almost-too-calm voice of their so-called leader. “You were told to secure the vessel, Graen. Was that unclear?”
Trask stiffened, his face going pale. “We tried! It’s locked down.”
The voice remained patient, but there was something coolly predatory underneath. “Then you’ll have to find another way. The cadets. One of them must have command authorization for the runabout.”
There was a beat of silence, then Kella exhaled sharply, pushing off the wall. “Perfect. We get to hunt kids in the dark.” Shyv'vax gave a snorting laugh, his tusks clicking, turning toward the corridor where the cadets had fled. The Nausicaan's knife gleamed faintly as he turned it in his hand, still crusted with the Commander’s blood.
Trask swallowed. “How do we even find them on this station? There’s no internal sensors.”
“Then improvise,” the voice snapped through the channel. “Use your eyes. Or I'll use them.”
Kella shivered slightly at that and gave Trask a sidelong glance. “Let’s move. Before the kids figure out a way to be clever.” The three of them moved into the station’s dim interior, the corridor swallowing them in flickering light.
Somewhere, elsewhere in the station, deep in the shadows, Haalvor watched through borrowed eyes, patient as a knife waiting to be drawn. He'd been blocked from twisting the young cadets' minds somehow for a moment. It had been fun, to make them panic, to toy with their fight or flight instincts. To try to turn them on one another. Whatever, or whoever, had blocked him out had given the Betazoid a headache. But he'd worm his way back into their thoughts again. He had such wonderful, terrible thoughts to share with them that they'd beg him to take their runabout and leave them behind...or put them out of their misery.
