What the Schematics Don't Show
Posted on Fri Oct 2nd, 2026 @ 7:16am by Lieutenant Commander Rhevan Teral
Edited on on Fri Oct 2nd, 2026 @ 8:25am
3,391 words; about a 17 minute read
Mission:
Episode 18 - The Edge of Darkness
Location: Security Office - Deck 9 - USS Pioneer
Timeline: MD004 1135 hrs
Rhevan left the door to his office open when he stepped back into the Security Department.
It was a small decision, but a deliberate one. He had spent enough of his life behind sealed doors to understand exactly what they communicated, whether the person on the other side intended it or not. There would be occasions when privacy was necessary and others when he would want the department to know, without ambiguity, that whatever happened inside his office remained there. On his first morning aboard, however, he saw little benefit in placing a physical barrier between himself and people who had only just learned his name.
The department had already settled back into its rhythm after his arrival. Conversations had resumed at their earlier volume, consoles chimed beneath the quieter murmur of officers comparing information, and someone near the armoury was working through an equipment inventory with the particular concentration of a person who had discovered the numbers on the screen did not agree with the objects in front of them. Rhevan paused beside the central workstation long enough to confirm that the isolation preparations he had ordered were moving forward. Medical had acknowledged the request. Transporter access was being restricted. Nobody coming back from Nostromo would wander casually into the ship until somebody with considerably more medical training than Rhevan decided they could.
That was enough for the moment.
He could have remained in his office and begun working through departmental reports until he knew precisely how many phaser power cells had failed diagnostic checks during the previous quarter. There would be time for that. Numbers were patient.
Ships were less so.
Rhevan headed for the corridor without announcing where he was going. A junior officer near the doors looked as though he might ask whether the Commander required an escort, thought better of it and returned to his console. Rhevan noticed both decisions and approved of the second.
The corridor outside Security felt different now that it belonged, however partially, to him. He had walked through the Pioneer once already on the way to Malbrooke's Ready Room, but that had been the observation of a newly arrived officer moving towards somewhere he was expected to be. This time there was no appointment waiting at the end of the journey. He could choose the direction, slow down when something interested him, and allow the ship to reveal the small truths that never survived translation into schematics.
He turned away from the nearest turbolift.
Walking was slower. That was rather the point.
The first junction took him past an emergency equipment locker, a maintenance access and two intersecting corridors whose placement he already knew from the deck plan. What the plan had not shown was that one route carried considerably more traffic than the others because it offered a quicker path towards the turbolifts. Nor had it shown the shallow recess beside the maintenance panel where a crewman waiting for someone could stand without blocking the corridor, or the way personnel approaching from the opposite direction naturally moved towards the bulkhead several metres before reaching the junction.
None of those things mattered until suddenly they did.
Rhevan continued at an unhurried pace, hands loose at his sides. His size made disappearing into the ship's ordinary traffic unlikely. At six-foot-two, broad through the shoulders and dressed in gold, he would already have attracted a certain amount of attention. The shaved head, carefully maintained black beard and unmistakably Romulan ears ensured the rest.
He discovered quickly that most of the crew were trying very hard not to stare.
That was almost more noticeable than staring.
A Human ensign coming towards him registered the rank first and offered an immediate, "Commander." A Bolian crewman looked at Rhevan's face before his collar and corrected the order of his attention quickly enough that Rhevan suspected the movement had embarrassed him more than it had Rhevan. Two Marines passed in the opposite direction carrying equipment between them. One gave him a nod. The other did not appear to care who he was at all.
Rhevan found the last reaction oddly refreshing.
He had spent nearly two decades in Starfleet watching people negotiate the fact of him. Some became excessively welcoming, as though demonstrating tolerance required evidence. Others grew careful around him without understanding they were doing it. A smaller number saw a Romulan before they saw anything else and never quite managed to reverse the sequence.
Most eventually became ordinary.
He preferred ordinary.
The ship itself was proving rather less pristine than its technical specifications suggested. Rhevan passed a section of bulkhead where the colour of one replacement panel differed fractionally from those surrounding it. Farther along, an access cover bore the subtle abrasion marks of something that had been opened often enough for the fastening tool to leave history around the edges. A directional display near the next junction took half a second longer to update than the identical unit behind him.
None of it concerned him. Quite the opposite.
A vessel without wear was either new or lying.
The Pioneer had been worked.
At another intersection, Rhevan stopped just short of turning the corner as a pair of crewmen hurried through carrying a diagnostic unit between them. Neither noticed him until they were already past. He watched them disappear towards Engineering before moving on, filing away the fact that the junction became effectively blind when approached from his side. Internal sensors rendered that largely irrelevant under normal conditions.
Normal conditions were rarely why Security Chiefs cared about blind corners.
He made a mental note to check coverage later rather than reaching immediately for his PADD. There was a danger in documenting every observation before understanding whether it represented a flaw, a compromise or simply the way a ship had learned to function. Romulan officers of Rhevan's youth had been particularly fond of correcting things they had not taken the time to understand. Their subordinates became very skilled at waiting for them to leave.
He had no interest in recreating the tradition.
The passage ahead widened near another departmental access point, the traffic thinning enough that Rhevan could hear the quieter mechanical undertone of the Pioneer beneath the conversations and footsteps. It was not the vibration of a warbird. Romulan vessels had carried their power differently, a deep living resonance from singularity drives that could be felt through the deck if one knew where to stand. Starfleet ships possessed their own signature, cleaner and more regular, the warp core's pulse reduced by layers of engineering until what reached the inhabited decks was almost subliminal.
Almost.
Rhevan slowed for a moment, feeling it beneath his boots.
Then he saw the equipment case.
A young enlisted Security crewman was several metres ahead, attempting to manoeuvre a cumbersome storage container through a doorway whose designers had evidently assumed nobody would ever approach it carrying anything wider than their shoulders. The case caught against one side, forcing the crewman to stop, adjust his grip and try again.
Rhevan watched the second attempt fail.
He changed direction towards him.
Rhevan reached the doorway just as the crewman shifted his grip for a third attempt. Up close, the problem was obvious. The case was not merely awkward but dense with equipment, its reinforced handles positioned for two people while somebody had apparently decided that one enlisted security specialist and determination constituted an acceptable substitute.
The crewman noticed the gold uniform beside him and straightened instinctively, nearly surrendering what little leverage he had gained over the container. “Sir, I’ve got it.”
“I can see that.”
There was enough dryness in Rhevan’s voice to make the answer ambiguous for half a second. Before the younger man could decide whether he had just been criticised, Rhevan bent, caught the opposite handle and lifted. The weight came up smoothly between them.
“You need another pair of hands,” he added. “I have two.”
Whatever objection rank had been about to produce disappeared beneath the practical reality of the case no longer trying to wedge itself permanently into the doorway. Together they angled it through, Rhevan waiting for the crewman to direct the turn rather than simply overpowering the problem. The container cleared the frame by centimetres.
“Where are we taking it?”
“Transporter staging area, sir. Portable isolation equipment. Medical requested it.”
That interested him.
“Then we should probably avoid leaving it decorating the corridor.”
The crewman gave a brief laugh before apparently remembering that senior officers might not appreciate being laughed around. Rhevan pretended not to notice the correction and kept walking.
The case was heavy enough that conversation naturally came in pieces as they moved. Rhevan did not fill the gaps simply because they existed. He watched how the other man carried the load instead, adjusting his pace to match rather than forcing him to keep up. The contents shifted faintly inside whenever they changed direction, equipment packed securely but not so tightly that somebody had forgotten it would eventually need to be removed in a hurry.
“Was this already assembled,” Rhevan asked after they rounded the next junction, “or did someone have to go looking for half of it?”
“Already together, sir. We keep two emergency containment kits ready. This one was checked last week.”
“By Security?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
There was no praise beyond that. None was needed. Preparedness that worked was its own argument.
They reached another doorway and this time the crewman anticipated the angle before Rhevan had to adjust. Better. The corridor beyond led towards the transporter complex, where activity had increased noticeably since Rhevan had passed through the ship earlier. A medical technician disappeared through one set of doors carrying a sealed diagnostic case while another security officer was establishing a temporary access restriction at the junction.
The crewman glanced across the container towards him. “Lt. Commander Teral?”
Rhevan looked back.
A faint uncertainty appeared on the younger man’s face. “You’re the new Chief.”
It was not quite a question.
“So I’ve been informed.”
That earned another small smile, this one allowed to remain.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise.”
Rhevan's brow rose slightly. “Would the case have become lighter if you had?”
“No, sir.”
“Then we have suffered no harm.”
They continued.
The exchange told Rhevan more than the apology did. The man had accepted help before recognising who was giving it, then become uncomfortable only once rank entered the equation. That was familiar enough. Most hierarchies taught people what they were permitted to ask from those above them long before anyone bothered teaching those above them what they owed in return.
Rhevan had never found the distinction particularly useful.
His father had been a Commander in the Imperial Fleet. Some of Rhevan’s earliest memories of military life involved officers who believed authority exempted them from ordinary work and others who understood that it enlarged the amount of work for which they were responsible. Darok had belonged firmly to the latter category. Rhevan had eventually learned that Starfleet possessed both kinds as well, merely dressed in more optimistic colours.
They entered the staging area and lowered the case onto a marked section of deck beside two additional containers. Rhevan waited until the crewman had released his end before doing the same.
“Name?”
The question visibly caught him off guard. “Petty Officer Second Class Harris, sir. Owen Harris.”
Rhevan committed it to memory.
“Harris. Who decided this needed moving?”
“Chief on watch, sir. Medical sent the request through about ten minutes ago.”
“And why were you carrying it alone?”
Harris hesitated.
That was answer enough, but Rhevan waited.
“Everyone else was already tied up with the quarantine setup. It needed to get here.”
Rhevan looked at the equipment case, then back at him. There was something in the answer he respected considerably more than the method used to achieve it.
“Reasonable priority. Poor lifting plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next time ask for help before arguing with architecture.”
Harris gave a sheepish nod. “Yes, sir.”
Rhevan's expression softened just enough to take the reprimand out of it. “You were trying to get necessary equipment where it needed to be. I’m not going to punish initiative because the container won.”
The younger man seemed to relax by a degree.
Rhevan glanced towards the temporary security point being established outside the transporter room. “You've served aboard Pioneer long?”
“Two years, sir.”
That was useful.
Rhevan turned slightly towards him. “Then sometime after this situation is finished, I may ask you a few questions about how this department actually works.”
Harris looked uncertain whether that was good news.
Rhevan noticed.
“Not how the manual says it works,” he clarified.
Understanding arrived with considerably more enthusiasm. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
He left Harris to return to his duties and moved on through the staging area, taking one final look at the containment preparations as he passed. The equipment was arriving, the access restrictions were taking shape and people who had been doing this job before Rhevan Teral arrived were continuing to do it without waiting for him to explain their profession back to them.
That, more than anything else he had seen so far, pleased him.
He continued deeper into the Pioneer.
Rhevan’s route eventually carried him far enough from Security that the ship began to change around him.
The corridors nearer the operational heart of the Pioneer had possessed a particular rhythm, people moving with purpose between departments, equipment changing hands, conversations shaped by whatever problem had brought them into the passage in the first place. Farther out, that urgency softened. He passed a pair of officers debating something quietly over a PADD, neither appearing especially concerned that the answer might wait another five minutes. Someone emerged from a turbolift carrying what smelled unmistakably like hot food, earning a second look from a passing crewman and absolutely none from Rhevan. There were fewer clipped exchanges of rank here, more of the loose familiarity that developed when several hundred people stopped being a complement and started becoming a community.
That interested him just as much as the armoury.
A security department could protect doors, systems and people from obvious threats. It was considerably harder to protect a ship whose crew you didn’t understand. Duty rosters told him who worked together. Reports told him where mistakes had happened. Neither told him who people sought out when they were angry, who could settle an argument before it reached Security, which officers drank alone after a difficult shift or which enlisted crewmen somehow knew everything happening aboard twelve hours before command did.
Those things lived elsewhere.
Rhevan took a turbolift for the first time since leaving Security and requested the deck containing After 11. He’d seen the lounge listed during his review of the ship, though he’d paid little attention to it then. Recreational spaces rarely presented themselves as operationally important. In Rhevan’s experience, that usually meant they were full of information nobody had thought to classify.
The doors opened onto another stretch of corridor and he stepped out into warmer light.
He could smell the lounge before he reached it.
Food first, several different cuisines layered together beneath the cleaner scent of recycled air. Something roasted. Something sweet. Alcohol, faint but unmistakable, mingled with the sharper smell of whatever cleaning compound the staff used on tables between customers. His Romulan senses separated the mixture almost automatically, though there was nothing particularly useful in doing so beyond confirming that After 11 was considerably more alive than the office he’d just inherited.
The entrance opened ahead.
Rhevan slowed as he crossed the threshold.
After 11 immediately felt different from the rest of the Pioneer. Uniforms were still everywhere, but rank had loosened its grip on the room. A lieutenant sat with enlisted personnel at one table, whatever distinction existed between them apparently less important than the argument underway over something on a shared screen. Two Marines occupied another, one leaning back far enough in his chair that Rhevan suspected the furniture had been designed with considerably more optimism than experience. Somewhere deeper in the room came a burst of laughter, followed by several people talking over one another and no immediate attempt by anyone to restore order.
Rhevan stood just inside long enough to take it in.
He wasn’t evaluating threats.
Not entirely.
Old habits still marked the exits without asking permission. The position of the bar, the lines of movement between tables, which sections offered privacy and which were exposed to almost everyone entering the room. He noticed the seats people had chosen when alternatives were available, the way groups occupied space, and where conversations became quieter when someone unfamiliar passed.
Then he made himself stop.
There was a point at which awareness ceased being useful and became an excuse never to participate in the world being observed.
Rhevan knew the distinction. He didn’t always respect it.
He moved farther inside.
A crewman at a nearby table glanced up, recognised him as unfamiliar and then caught sight of his rank. Rhevan saw the instinctive shift towards standing before the man thought better of it. A small nod passed between them instead.
Better.
He had no interest in turning a lounge into an extension of the command deck simply because he'd entered it.
At the bar, Rhevan considered the selection for only a moment. It was still barely past eleven-thirty and, more importantly, he was on duty. Whatever the lounge kept behind the counter for later in the day could remain there. “Black tea. Strong, no sweetener.”
The drink arrived steaming, carrying a sharper, earthier scent than the coffee he’d had in Malbrooke’s Ready Room. Rhevan tested it with a small sip before giving the cup a faintly approving look.
Acceptable.
Rather than retreating immediately to some isolated corner, he chose a table slightly apart from the busiest part of the room while remaining comfortably within it. The position offered a clear view of the entrance and most of the lounge without making his choice look like he'd arrived to conduct surveillance. Some habits were old enough that disguising them had become instinctive.
He settled into the chair, one hand loosely around the warm cup, and let the room continue around him.
Nobody required anything from him here.
That was unexpectedly useful.
For the first time since leaving Empok Nor, Rhevan found himself somewhere aboard the Pioneer where the next action wasn't already waiting. Malbrooke had given him a department before he’d properly learned the ship. Nostromo had supplied him with his first security problem before he’d unpacked. Harris had introduced him, without intending to, to the kind of enlisted officer Rhevan wanted to understand before he began changing anything.
Now the ship was doing something considerably harder to measure.
It was showing him how its people lived when nobody was giving them orders.
Rhevan took another drink.
The Pioneer was untidy in ways he increasingly appreciated. Not physically. Starfleet remained Starfleet, and very little aboard a flagship was ever permitted to drift far from regulation for long. The untidiness lived in the overlaps. Marines and Fleet personnel sharing tables. Junior ranks speaking easily around senior ones. Repairs carrying the small marks of work done because something needed fixing rather than because anyone expected an inspection afterward.
An Imperial commander might have called some of it lax.
Rhevan knew better.
Discipline that survived only while somebody senior was watching had never impressed him.
He let his gaze move through the lounge again, slower this time. Not searching for faults now. Faces. Habits. Relationships. The things that would eventually tell him far more about the Pioneer than another hour buried in personnel records.
A faint smile touched his mouth before disappearing into his beard.
He had wanted to see the ship as she actually operated.
Apparently that included learning where everyone came when they'd had enough of operating her.
Rhevan lifted his glass again and settled a little more comfortably into the chair.
For the moment, he was content to watch.
Lieutenant Commander Rhevan Teral
Chief Security/Tactical Officer, USS Pioneer
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