Even a Pebble Bounces
Posted on Thu Sep 4th, 2025 @ 8:43pm by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Commander Irene Seya
Edited on on Sat Sep 6th, 2025 @ 6:27pm
2,186 words; about a 11 minute read
Mission:
Peril at the Unification Accords
Location: Conference Center, Argentia City, Barisa Prime
Timeline: MD005, 1730 Hours
The engineers had finished stringing the last of the pylons along the perimeter when Jean-Baptiste made his rounds. Even came soft and amber across the low hills, the air salted faintly from the coast. The grid hummed weakly, invisible until a pebble from the gravel walkway bounced against it and fell away. One of the Vulcans tapped a control node, reading off the diagnostics in a flat voice. The field was active--an invisible sheath, locked to frequency, and wide enough to scatter the trajectory of any projectile it before it could cross the lawn.
JB leaned over the console, squinting at the figures. He wasn't an engineer, but he knew enough--power levels steady, harmonics aligned, redundancies layered in. His French-tinged English carried steady approval:
"It's good. You've done well. Merci."
The Vulcan inclined his head--barely that--already moving to log the field's initiation. JB stepped back, adjusting the strap of his satchel, and kept moving.
The rooftop came next. Stairs up along the spine of the hotel, iron handrails still warm from the day's heat. At the top, the wind came clean and sharp, pulling at his tunic. The skyline spread in both directions: the sea, the low neighbourhoods of Argentia, the inland city of Lorna, the roadways already lighting with the evening rush. Sandbagged nests dotted the roofline like watchmen of some ancient war. Inside each, a Vulcan in a pale tunic, or a Starfleet enlisted in black and gold, phaser rifles across knees. One had binoculars pressed to his face, sweeping the boulevards. Another was checking line-of-sight angles against the tower across the street.
JB crouched beside one of them, peered along the scope line. "Clear?" he asked.
"Clear, sir," the junior officer replied, eyes forward.
He walked the line, each nest a slightly different vantage. One had cover across the plaza, another could see the tramline where commuters spilled out of the station. The Vulcans had brought their own slim plasma carbines--strange shapes, heavy with function but elegant like everything else they carried. JB took mental notes. Tomorrow the Astrea's marines would replace these positions--armour, heavier rifles, less patience but far more grit. He imagined the handoff, clean and wordless, the Vulcans stepping back, the marines stepping in.
Back down, two service entrances tucked between kitchens and loading bays. He stopped at each. The same hum of repulsor grids in place, the field generators tucked against the wall, guards stationed on either side. Right now, Starfleet Security--practical, alert, their eyes cutting through the growing dusk. He spoke to them, quiet questions, a few firm reminders about rotation schedules.
"These doors," he told one corporal, "they are the easiest target. Don't let anyone through that doesn't have the proper clearance." The man nodded.
Inside again. The grand hall smelled of polish, like oil rubbed into wood. Chandeliers glowed overhead, long crystals shaking with every vibration from the environmental system. The table stretched down the center like a ship's spine, seats marked for the delegations, holographic place-cards for each diplomat's name. The carpet ran thick and red beneath his boots, muffling all footfalls.
Five entrances in all, each with security posts built like little fortresses: body scanners, ID scanners, a barrier that could rise from the floor in under a second--even a stasis suppression field to hold a someone, if necessary. He paused at each, asking the guards what they'd seen, what traffic had moved through. For now, cadets stood watch, crisp uniforms, eyes taut with the nerves of responsibility. Tomorrow: marines. Always tomorrow--the Astrea hung in his mind like a rock unthrown in a hand.
He let himself drift upward, to the mezzanines. Double galleries that ringed the hall, chairs arranged in lines for the press corps, roped-off sections like theater boxes. Beyond those, higher still, the public galleries: civilians, neutral observers, curious locals who would pass through scanner after scanner just for the chance to say they'd been in the room to witness history. Six security checkpoints, each one already staffed. JB tested one himself, badge through, pass confirmed. The officer at the post gave him a crisp nod.
Sublevels next. Kitchens humming, the smell of broth and spice, the faint tang of cleaning chemicals. All doors sealed, all access cards logged. The locks were fresh-installed, Vulcan design, every motion timed and recorded. No one inside but vetted staff. JB checked the manifest: fifty-two names, every one cross-checked against records. No anomalies. He made sure to double the locks on storage rooms, slapped his palm against one duranium door just to feel its solidity.
Then the accommodations wing. Five floors of rooms, corridors stretching long and identical. Security lights at each junction. For now, Vulcan guards at the lifts. Soon, marines too. JB walked a floor--doors closed, silence heavy. He imagined it full: aides pacing, comms buzzing, coffee carts rattling down the corridor. For now it was only the sound of his own shoes and the soft, wordless presence of the Vulcans watching him pass.
At last he reached the suite. Security checkpoint first: a VSD guard, eyes hooded, weapon across his chest. JB gave his name, calm and even. A moment's delay, the soft murmur of the guard into his comm, then the door opened and he was inside.
The suite smelled of sandalwood and perfume. Ambassador T'Varel stood at the center, flanked by the Vulcan Security Directorate's on-site administrator, M'Tret. He wore dark robes with a grey tunic underneath. His hair was mostly black but with flecks of grey making his actual age nearly impossible to tell. His forehead was lined and his hands soft.
Beside him, Starfleet Captain Philippe Auvray, Starfleet Security's liaison to the VSD and the Romulans, stood with arms crossed, listening. He was of average height, but his round figure betrayed the years he'd spent behind a desk, and his thinning grey hair pegged him as a man in his late-fifties or early-sixties.
Last but not least--standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Auvray--the Romulan vice-proconsul Rethel, her dark hair severe, her eyes alert with calculation. She wore a simple tunic of black and silver, a sash over her right shoulder, and long black boots rising to her knees. High cheekbones, jet-black hair falling just past her ears. She seemed young for a vice-proconsul.
M'Tret was already addressing the ambassador when JB arrived. "... a credible threat against you. Unidentified actors have been observed in the city, and intercepted communications suggest a potential attempt on your life during the accords."
T'Varel's gaze lifted, calm and measured. "And these actors--what evidence do you have to quantify this risk?"
M'Tret held out a data PADD. "Sensor sweeps and field intercepts over the past seventy-two hours. Patterns indicate a potential reconnaissance effort. They have scanned entrances, emergency egress, and personnel rotation schedules."
Captain Auvray's jaw tightened. "That's all precautionary, Ambassador. Our teams have verified the perimeter, the grids, and all entry points. Starfleet personnel alone are more than sufficient to neutralize any attempt."
Rethel's voice cut through, sharp as obsidian. "Neutralization is not the question, Captain. The question is deterrence. Anyone who attempts to harm the Ambassador will face those who practice in the Way of Absolute Candor. Absolute death follows any breach of our laws and our code."
M'Tret inclined his head, as if weighing their words. "Even with these protections, Ambassador, prudence may dictate the summit be delayed. Two cycles, perhaps. To minimize exposure and allow additional verification of perimeter integrity."
T'Varel's eyes wandered past M'Tret toward the far wall, the balcony doors open to the bruised sky. Across the rooftops, JB could see the silhouettes of guards, rifles angled, scanning the low hills and the surrounding buildings. She let the light cool evening breeze move across her face for a moment before turning back to the assembled group.
"No," she said in a low voice, final. "The accords proceed as scheduled."
M'Tret's mouth twitched; he lifted a hand in protest, then froze at her gaze. "Ambassador--"
Her hand rose slowly. "Your concern is noted, M'Tret. That will suffice."
Auvray's brow creased, the French vowels of his next words sharp as broken glass. "With respect, Ambassador, we have verified every security protocol. The perimeter, the repulsor grids, personnel placements--"
"I am aware, Captain," T'Varel replied without turning. "The defenses are in place. They are sufficient."
Rethel inclined her head, almost imperceptibly. "Then there is nothing further for me here. I will report to my ambassador regarding ongoing observations and ensure our own procedures remain uncompromised."
With that, she turned and left the suite, her movements precise.
Auvray lingered a moment longer, turning to Irene as he lowered his voice. "Increase sensor sweeps from Barisa Station to every fifteen minutes. Do not allow any lapse. The perimeter is strong, but I will not risk even a moment of uncertainty."
His eyes lid to JB, lingering briefly, cold and unreadable. He passed by without a word, acknowledging nothing.
JB exhaled quietly, shaking his head as if he wanted to rid it of gnats.
"I'll relay the message," Irene acknowledged coolly. She watched the Ambassador with concern, but didn't protest. Not in front of the other officers. She'd address her privately. Her service was to the Ambassador for this mission.
He leaned a little closer to her, voice pitched low, a bitter curl of humour in it. "Auvray," he said. "He's Spyvee's man. You know how it goes. Spyvee points--his people follow. Me, I'm blacklisted. So they act like I'm air." His lips twisted briefly, then he straightened, pushing it away.
"Ignore it," she stated more sharply than she intended. "Their role here is small."
"Anyway," he said, switching gars with deliberate force, "the Vulcans finished the grid. The whole perimeter is clean and nothing gets through."
"Your arrival here ahead of Astrea and your work on this project among other things has been an asset," Irene stated with a bit more structured formality than was necessary. The two had grown close taking on a side project when an arm of a trafficking ring was discovered nearby, and now that their work together was coming to an end she found herself edging more distance between them.
"The transition to Astrea's Marine division should go smoothly with you on board. Do you need anything additional from me?" She asked.
Do you need anything additional from me? She had meant it in her clipped, professional sense, of course--an officer's query. A clean pivot before that inevitable curtain fell. But something snagged him like a fishing hook anyway.
For two weeks they had breathed the same air: combing surveillance feeds, running sweeps through alleys that stank of oil and rain, whispering of static-filled comm channels while their hearts seemed to beat louder than the voices coming through them. That day when their cover was nearly blown, in that wash from the alley to the subject location, her remembered: her grip on him--Vulcan strong, anchoring him, their bodies close--had branded itself into him in a way he couldn't explain.
Now the work was ending. Astrea would take the handoff, the wheel would keep turning, and he would be elsewhere.
He shifted his weight, feeling his boots against the suite's rug. "No," he said, far softer than he'd intended. "You've already given more than I could have asked."
"Very well, Lieutenant," Irene replied with a nod that indicated a quiet approval in his work, in him as an officer. "I'm sure that we will see one another around the conference in the coming days. I hope your new assignment suits you well."
JB wanted to shake her hand but he knew how Vulcan restraint folded over any thread of human sentiment.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low. "For everything. For trusting me, for letting me... help. For letting me see the work beneath the surface."
He left the words hanging in the air, letting them take shape in the empty suite. The chandeliers above them splattered the fading sunlight into small prisms across the walls. For a long time, it felt as though even the air around them had calmed.
"Commander Seya," came the voice of the Vulcan ambassador. "A moment, if you will."
Jean-Baptiste looked into her eyes. "Until the conference, then," he said softly. She said nothing and turned to T'Varel while JB stepped back and felt himself riding the wave of transition that had come with this mission. Within seconds, he was back in the corridor, his feet seemingly deciding the destination.
As he passed two Starfleet security officers on their lazy patrol, a thought occurred to him: even a pebble bounces. Even the tiniest ripple can mark the surface of a still pond. And perhaps, somewhere in the days to come, that ripple might matter.
And he walked on.
Lt. Commander Irene Seya
Security Liaison
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth
Lieutenant J.G. Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Assistant Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea
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