“You said you had something to add about the colonial group?” Captain Wren Walton sat across from Captain Malcolm Thorne at the briefing table onboard the Olympic-class USS Cushing, while at her side was the captain of the Franklin D. Roosevelt, Peter Crawford. They were in orbit of P02329871.

Thorne chewed lightly at his bottom lip, appearing unsure about what he was to reveal. Wren had grown accustomed to the man’s indecisive and plodding nature over the past few weeks, but it didn’t prevent her from wishing he’d get to the point. He said, “There’s been talk amongst them about the true mission or the real reason they’re here. Anytime our people try to listen in further or inquire, they’re rebuffed in short order. To be clear – I am not questioning the background work done by Montana’s Security Department.”

Crawford’s eyes narrowed. Walton had discovered Peter’s patience with Thorne was limited. It was a curious discovery for her – the man was generally unflappable. Crawford asked, “Based on your research and information, are the concerns legitimate enough to put a pause on the resettlement mission?”

Thorne’s eyes did not narrow in response, but Wren observed an ever-so-slight tone change in his reply. “At the moment, they are not.”

They finished with updated reports and staffing details, and the meeting ended. Thorne stood and departed with a curt nod. Wren turned to Peter, “I’m not the one Fontana put in charge of this group – you are. So, hear this from a friend – whatever issue you have with Captain Thorne, you need to resolve it.” Walton watched his eyes take in her words and then stare at her in the moments after she spoke.

He answered her after a long pause, “He never wanted to be captain. People died for him to climb the ladder – and he still fought promotion every step of the way. That has me concerned.”

Wren shrugged, a sly smile playing at her lips, “You can’t do much damage with an Olympic-class starship.” His eyes didn’t let up contact with hers. “You seem to think otherwise, Peter.” She felt some relief as his eyes broke contact with hers, switching to the ceiling above them.

“That chair is sacred to me, Wren. And yeah, I know. We’re not supposed to compare ourselves to other captains – dead or alive. What do you think about him? You’ve kept your cards close.”

She rolled her eyes. Her past position as one of Starfleet’s fixers was known well enough, and she had to give Crawford credit – he wouldn’t let her escape the conversation. He was at least consistent in his accountability. “I can’t disagree with your worries…”

He intoned, “Concerns.”

She sighed, “I can’t disagree with your concerns, but I know he’s passed every test and interview they could put him through. He’s earned the chair.”

It was Crawford’s turn to roll his eyes, “You didn’t answer the question, Wren.”

“You’re asking me if I was in my previous position – what would I do to verify his readiness?” Peter gave a sharp nod. This was not one of the times she appreciated his tenacious nature. “I would have an honest conversation with him – ask the tough questions. Push him to recognize what doubts exist and see if he can instill confidence through his answers.” She watched him return his eye contact to her and observed the lengthy, pregnant pause he left in the trail of her response. She shook her head, part in disbelief and part in annoyance. “You want me to use my old methods on a colleague who has not demonstrated anything near the level of what I had to work with in my previous position?”

Crawford replied, “No, I’m ordering you. I have my doubts, and I know if I ask him, I won’t get an honest response.”

Wren snapped back, “Because he’s probably already judged you as someone coming for him in the first place.”

“Will you do it?”

“Under protest.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when I get the two of you to work together in complete trust.” She stood at attention and stalked out of the room, annoyance pushing at the edges of her sanity.