Next In Line
Posted on Thu Jul 31st, 2025 @ 3:09pm by Rear Admiral Timothy Rice & Sergeant Major Lachlan Barr & Brigadier General Francis 'Judge' Sobel
Edited on on Tue Aug 5th, 2025 @ 7:49am
3,047 words; about a 15 minute read
Mission:
The Amalgamation Interrogation
Location: Wardroom 1 - Habitat Ring Deck 11 - Empok Nor
Timeline: MD002 0900 hrs
This new day of questioning would begin with the next in line in command sort of speak. Sergeant Major Lachlan Barr was the Pioneer's Chief of the Boat and as such represented the enlisted on the ship to the command staff. Tim leaned over to Francis before Lachlan arrived. "This should be interesting. I have found that it is usually the NCOs that have all the real information."
Nodding, Francis said, "Even more so in the corp where the ratio is higher. Each couple of steps have their own network too. And they all have excellent networks. They know more than the officers as a rule and we lean on that."
The soft hiss of the doors parted the quiet as Lachlan stepped into the wardroom, his movements deliberate, shoulders squared beneath the crisp lines of his Marine green and black uniform. His boots landed with the steady rhythm of someone used to entering uncertain territory—calm, unflinching, and entirely aware of the weight of the room.
He came to a halt two paces in, posture ramrod straight. His eyes swept the space once, cool and calculating, before settling on the two senior officers seated before him.
"Sergeant Major Lachlan Barr, reporting as ordered, sirs," he said firmly, accent still rich with the rugged edges of Greenock. He dipped his head in a respectful nod, not quite a bow, but enough to acknowledge the weight of the brass in front of him.
There was no trace of nerves in his voice, just the measured steadiness of a man who had stood before warlords and war councils alike.
He clasped his hands behind his back and waited for permission to speak further, expression neutral but observant, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth hinting at the kind of quiet humour that could cut through tension like a blade—if and when it served.
Admiral Rice motioned toward the side table. "Sergeant Major at ease please. Grab some refreshment if you would like and have a seat. I am Admiral Timothy Rice and I believe you already know General Sobel. We are asking members of the Cure and of the crew of the Pioneer to attend these meetings as we discuss the experiment of sorts that the General and I have been working on. We have sought to integrate Marines into the command structure of a starship. Colonel Tremble and yourself are among the people we have integrated. So, you probably have some unique insights."
Barr gave a nod as he was invited to stand at ease, relaxing his stance with the quiet assurance of someone used to navigating rooms full of brass. He stepped to the refreshment table, took a mug of black coffee, and returned to the chair opposite the Admiral and the General. He sat upright, calm but engaged, his tone level and measured.
"Aye, sir. I know the General well—we’ve crossed paths long enough for him to keep me honest," he said with a faint glimmer of humour that faded quickly back to professionalism.
"I was involved in the early drafting stages of the integration initiative, back when it was barely more than a concept on padds. General Mercer pulled me in while I was stationed on the Santa Monica, and we started shaping what would become this project. So, coming aboard the Pioneer was more than just an assignment—it was a chance to test something I’d helped put into motion."
He paused to take a measured sip of coffee before continuing.
"What I’ve seen so far is promising. Integration’s never smooth—Fleet and Corps have different instincts, different structure—but the bones are good. There’s respect growing, even if it’s quiet and hard-won. And with command standing behind it, not just in name but in action… aye, it’s working."
Thrumming his fingers on the desk and purposely avoided the still steaming cup of mud his wife called tea. "We all know it's never that easy Lachlan," Francis said. "How's Tremble functioning as XO. What aren't the reports telling us?"
Lachlan gave a slow nod, setting his mug down gently as if giving the question the full weight it deserved. “Aye, sir… I won’t pretend it’s been without its rough edges. You drop a Marine into a Fleet command chair, there’s bound to be a few sideways looks. But Tremble’s not just coping—he’s adapting. Bit by bit, he’s turnin’ that sideways look into a proper nod.”
He leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but steady.
“He’s not tryin’ to be Fleet—he’s stayin’ true to the Corps, to who he is. But he’s learned how to work within the system, not against it. And that’s no small thing. The crew’s seein’ it, even if some don’t want to admit it yet. He gives clear orders, keeps his head in pressure, and he listens—really listens—to the people around him. That sort of leadership earns trust the long way.”
Barr paused, a faint trace of that old gruffness creeping into his tone.
“The experiment… it is workin’. Maybe not clean and tidy, but real. Tremble’s makin’ it work. And if we stick with it, give it the space it needs to breathe, he’s the kind of man who’ll turn this from a trial run into standard practice. Folk like him change culture, not by shouting it into place, but by standin’ firm long enough that others follow without bein’ told.”
He leaned back slightly again, a nod of finality in his posture.
“So aye. The reports might miss the feel of it. But from where I’m sittin’? He’s not just holdin’—he’s leadin’. And that’s exactly what we asked him to do.”
Rice appreciated the comments, but he wondered how the other side of that equation adapted. Barr spoke well of Tremble, but nothing of the Starfleet crew or Tyler Malbrooke. "And what of the Commodore? The Starfleet crew? How are they taking working with and taking orders from a Marine?"
Barr gave a small grunt, not dismissive—just the sound of a man shifting gears.
“A fair question, sir,” he said, with a short nod. “Tremble’s one half of it, aye—but the crew’s the other, and they’ve had to do their own kind of adaptin’. Can’t say it’s been seamless, and I wouldn’t trust it if it was. Fleet crews have a rhythm. Chain of command’s clean, expectations are locked in. Then we step in—Marines, with a different weight, different stance—and suddenly things don’t fit quite so neatly.”
He paused, then continued, eyes steady.
“But credit where it’s due—they’ve not folded their arms and dug in. There was friction early on. Still is, in pockets. Some officers weren’t sure how to take orders from a Marine—especially one not wearin’ their colours. But it’s less about uniform now, and more about trust. The Commodore’s set the tone there.”
Barr allowed the faintest trace of a smile.
“Malbrooke... he’s not a man easily rattled. He gave Tremble the space to lead, but made sure the standards stayed high. Never gave the crew permission to doubt—just gave them the chance to see. And over time, they have. There’ll always be the odd stare, the odd hesitation when instinct runs into something unfamiliar. But more and more, I’m hearin’ less ‘why is a Marine in charge?’ and more ‘what do we need next?’”
He sat back slightly, hands resting on his thighs. “So aye, it’s not been perfect—but it’s been progress. And that’s the kind we can build on.”
Sobel nodded and leaned back, "About what we expected." Glancing toward Rice he said, "Not sure what more I can ask. The Sergeant Major is a pretty open book on it all."
There was a moment of silence as Rice contemplated where he wanted to go next with this conversation. "Sergeant Major you are the Chief of the Boat and as such have the ear of all the enlisted personnel aboard the Pioneer. What of them? I am sure there have been enlisted on both sides of this equation that would rather not be doing the duty they are asked to do. Without naming names of course can you give me an example of what their problems are, or have been?"
Lachlan shifted in his seat and gave a slow nod, the kind that said he wasn’t surprised by the question—but still had to think on it. “Aye… it’s come up.”
He rubbed a hand along his jaw, then let it rest on his knee. “Truth is, it’s not been easy for everyone. You’ve got Fleet crew who’ve spent their careers workin’ by the book, knowin’ their ladders, their divisions, their roles. Then you drop in a Marine squad—different tone, different rules, and suddenly everyone’s squintin’ across the deck tryin’ to figure out who’s in charge of what.”
He gave a faint smile, dry and without any real humour. “Fleet folks call me ‘Chief’ more often than not. And sure, I could correct ’em—tell ’em I’m a Sergeant Major, not a Master Chief—but I stopped botherin’. After a while, it felt like remindin’ them was just buildin’ walls. Titles don’t matter half as much as trust, and I’ll take trust over a perfect billet description any day.”
He let out a quiet breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Thing is, none of it comes from a bad place. Most of them want to do right—they’re just not sure what right looks like anymore. One of my lads—Fleet—told me he’s spent his whole career knowin’ exactly where the lines were. Now? He’s not sure if he’s supposed to hold them or cross them. Same goes for some of my Marines—used to takin’ orders fast and clean, and now they’re bein’ asked to explain themselves or take input from someone with no combat hours.”
Lachlan looked between the two officers now, voice steady but carrying a quiet weight.
“I’m the one they come to. The ones who won’t say it in a briefing, who won’t admit they’re strugglin’ in front of their team—they come knockin’. I try to keep the heat off the deckplates, smooth the edges where I can. But I’ll be honest with you—some days it feels like I’m the glue holdin’ two hulls together, and I’m not sure if we’ve got the sealant to keep it tight.”
He sat back again, rubbing his palms together once.
“But they are talkin’. That’s the important part. They’re not shuttin’ down or retreatin’ into their corners. And long as they keep comin’ to me, I’ll keep standin’ in the middle. Because if this is gonna work long term, that middle ground’s where it starts.”
Sobel looked at Lachlan, churning over the Sergeant Major's words and then asked, "Marines Adapt. Improvise. Overcome. That's expected and I'm glad the Cure are following those ideals. The next question my Flag aide would call logical would be, Are the Cure Marines getting any bad habits that when and if they transfer, another Command would have kittens over?"
Now this was an interesting question to Tim, and one he had not thought of. With The Cure integrating into the crew of the Pioneer. How would it go over if the unit was pulled by the Corps for another assignment? It is something that Rice was pretty sure even Tyler had not thought of.
Barr gave a short breath of a laugh, not mocking—just honest. “Aye, sir… that’s a fair question. I won’t lie—there’s a few habits developin’ that might raise eyebrows if the Cure got dropped into a more traditional unit. We’ve learned to flex—check with departments, cross lines we’d normally keep sharp. I’ve got Marines who loop in science officers without bein’ told to, and I’ve heard more ‘aye, Lieutenant’ than ‘yes, Staff Sergeant’ some days. That’d make certain battalion sergeants foam at the mouth.”
He shifted slightly in his seat, tone levelling out. “But it’s not lack of discipline—it’s environment. They’re adaptin’ to this ship, this crew. They’ve learned trust, cooperation—earned and given. You yank them out of that cold and drop them into a place where the Corps runs tight and vertical? Aye, there’d be friction. But give them a week, maybe two—they’d snap back into form. We don’t forget who we are. We just learn how to move better with the people beside us.”
Sobel grinned wolfishly as he said, "Picking up a unit and dropping it into another command or just under another's command for a period of time isn't where I was going, but that's a fair point. I was talking more of when individual marines promote up or chose to rotate out of unit for personal or professional reasons. They get to a new home and all of a sudden there's a whole new way of doing things. As a unit, the NCO's and officers of the Cure will take care and insulate the marines under them."
After a pause, Francis said, "The Cure has good personnel. I think they'd acclimate on a personal level to their new home. I was thinking, perhaps unfairly, that they would get so used to working with the fleet they might look as being contaminated."
With a sly sideways look toward Rice, Francis added straight faced, "No offense."
Barr let out a low breath, a kind of dry chuckle behind it. “Ah, right—you mean when they move on, not the whole unit. That’s a fair point.”
He leaned back slightly, one hand resting on his thigh as he worked through it aloud. “Truth is… yeah, it might be a rough start for some of them. You spend enough time in a place like the Pioneer, where Marines and Fleet actually talk, where departments cross over without it bein’ a turf war—it gets into your bones a bit. You learn to read the room different. Someone transfers to a more rigid post, there’s bound to be a few raised eyebrows if they don’t play the old way straight off.”
He paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But ‘contaminated’?” He shook his head, amused. “Nah. I think they’ll be fine. Might take a few knocks gettin’ settled, but good Marines adjust. Always have. And honestly? Bit of that cross-talk thinkin’ might do some of those other commands a bit of good.”
He shot a glance toward Sobel, voice dry. “’Course, I’ll make sure none of them salute the science officer and call her ‘boss’ on day one. Wouldn’t want to send anyone into cardiac arrest.”
Rice laughed at Barr's joke. "You do that Sergeant Major, you do that." Rice was not fond of the old practice of saluting. But he knew that the Marines liked their traditions. Tim was gladdened to see that members of the Pioneer's crew had adapted to some of those traditions easily. At least according to Lachlan.
Smiling, Sobel said, "The rule is to only salute them in a combat zone if they're annoying...after that it's iffy. Thank you for giving us your views, Sergeant Major. I do appreciate it. Anything you'd like to comment on or add? Either on this matter or anything else?"
Lachlan gave a slight shake of his head, lifting his mug just a little in a half-toast.
“No, sir. Nothin’ further from me. I reckon I’ve said what needs sayin’. You’ve both been more than fair with the questions.”
He took a small sip of his coffee, then added with a flicker of dry humour, “’Sides… if I keep talkin’, you’ll start thinkin’ I’m tryin’ for a desk job.”
His expression eased—still respectful, but with that quiet calm of a Marine who’d done his part and was ready for the next call.
"I would hate to saddle anyone with one of these blasted desk jobs. I should have never let them promote me. So, Sergeant Major I want to thank you for your time. We appreciate your input." Tim would have dismissed him. However, he thought it may be better coming from Sobel.
Envying Tim his coffee, Francis looked at Barr and said, "I don't blame you there, Sergeant Major. But, we who fly desks also serve," he joked. "Thank you for your insights." Then his mouth quirked and said, "You can un-ass that chair and get back to whatever mischief you had scheduled, Lachlan."
Barr rose smoothly, the scrape of the chair brief and quiet. He gave the two flag officers a nod—respectful, but easy.
“Aye, sirs. Appreciate the chat—always good to talk with folk who actually listen.”
He gave a faint grin at Sobel’s parting jab. “Can’t promise it won’t be mischief, but it’ll be productive mischief, at least.”
With a final nod, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, his stride just as steady on the way out as it was on the way in. Marine to the bone—but with just enough Fleet polish to make the point stick.
A Joint Post By
Rear Admiral Timothy Rice
Sector Commanding Officer, Trivas Sector
Empok Nor
Brigadier General Francis Sobel
Commanding Officer, 258th Starfleet Marine Expeditionary Brigade
Empok Nor
Sergeant Major Lachlan Barr
Chief of The Boat, USS Pioneer
First Sergeant, The Cure
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