Illusion of Control, Part 1

Posted on Mon Oct 27th, 2025 @ 11:41pm by Captain Philippe Auvray & Lieutenant Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil & Captain Remy Johansen & Commander Maxun Spello & Major Clay McEntyre III & Commander Irene Seya

1,509 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Peril at the Unification Accords
Location: Security Suite, Conference Center
Timeline: MD008, 1745 Hours, (Following "Secure the Principal")

The doors to the security suite parted and two Starfleet security officers saluted silently while Captain Philippe Auvray stepped through, the marine who had provided escort from the reception hall, shadowing him like a loyal hound. The suite was in its usual state--two walls covered in video feeds and holo-displays of various parts of the conference center, from the reception hall to the foyer, to the corridors and exterior entrances. It was windowless and colourless, consoles pressed close together on ornate tables provided by the hotel.

A half-dozen officers were scattered about the room. Their uniforms were immaculate but their faces bore the pallor of people left behind when the more important work moves elsewhere. The video screens cast a green light over them. Nearly all of them looked up from their current work and over to Auvray, then back to their displays. No one saluted. It was that sort of moment.

Lieutenant Commander Torab, Auvray's ever-present adjutant, stood beside the central console, just off to the side of the central conference table they frequently used for many useless meetings. This was where the Frenchman had spent so much hot air waxing poetic about security protocol, preparations, and the importance of writing a good report. The Saurian's skin caught the light in the suite like old copper. His voice, when he spoke, had that type of exuberance a toady underling might have for a superior.

"Captain Auvray," Torab said, noting his boss's arrival, "we are maintaining standard security sweep parameters. Though, most of the staff are now rerouting their reports directly to the main coordination centre aboard Astrea."

Auvray's brow furrowed. He reached into the inside pocket of his dress uniform and removed a small black kerchief, gently dabbing the sweat on his forehead with it. "A skeleton crew, Commander? I should think this is precisely the moment one does not abandon their post."

Torab bowed his head. "Since Ambassador T'Varel's collapse, Captain Johansen initiated Central Command Protocol Alpha. All communications and incident management are now routed through Astrea. Containment, sir. Our people have become... extrinsic."

The French captain exhaled sharply through his nose, gently folding the kerchief and replacing it in his inner pocket. "Containment. Yes, of course. A prudent measure." He adjusted his cuffs in irritation--and it had nothing to do with the fabric. "Still, it would have been nice if someone had informed me before turning my own command post into a museum exhibit."

Torab blinked and shrugged.

Auvray stepped nearer, glancing over the consoles, seeing pulsing red icons crawling across a display. "What of the Ambassador? Do you have news?"

"None, sir. She was transported to Astrea's's Sickbay. Reports from medical are restricted under the protocol."

The Captain sighed heavily and shook his head once. Inwardly, Auvray cursed her--la Garce de Norvège, the icy prodigy who'd somehow turned protocol into poetry and managed to make him feel like a relic in his own house. Yet even as the thought began to take form, he felt a pang of reluctant admiration. Remy Johansen was every bit as intelligent as she was beautiful--one of those rare officers who carried daring and prudence in equal measure. It infuriated him to realize that in another century, on another stage, he might have been her rival--or her audience.

He drummed his fingers against the edge of the console, thinking of the Vulcan's sudden collapse, the contrast between her disciplined poise and the limp sprawl of her body on the polished wooden floor. "Let's see what we can pry from the protocol," he said at last. "Tie us into Astrea's central feed. I would like to speak with whomever has assumed the role of stage manager."

Torab gestured to the communications officer, a young human Ensign in her early twenties with curly red hair that fell to her shoulders and who seemed unbothered by her current task. She keyed in the sequence, and after a few seconds, one of the screens was replaced by the impassive face of a man in security gold.

Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil appeared stoic and steadfast, despite the feed appearing slightly grainy from compression.

Auvray's expression tightened immediately. The man had that irritating air of the reformed sinner--haunted enough to seem tragic, but never quite enough to repent. He had traded his Intelligence badge for a standard uniform and, in Auvray's opinion, a great deal of self-respect.

"Captain," JB said, voice clipped. "We're still assessing. Ambassador T'Varel's condition remains unknown. Lieutenant Xalanth has apprehended a suspect and is en route to Astrea for further questioning. Captain Johansen has just returned and is on her way to the Bridge. There's... also another situation developing in the reception hall. A civilian, apparently armed with an antique projectile weapon--though we have been assured by VSD that the situation is in-hand."

Auvray's jaw twitched. "An antique?" he echoed, exchanging a perplexed look with Torab. "What is this, monsieur, a reception or a history exhibition?"

"Il n'y a pas encore de détails, capitaine" JB replied evenly. "Mais la sécurité répond." ("No details yet, captain, but security is responding.")

Captain Auvray leaned closer to the screen, almost as if were attempting to smell the man's composure. "Très bien. Tenez-nous au courant." ("Very well. Keep us apprised.") He turned away, prepared to have the connection terminated but thought better of it. "And, Lieutenant," he added, turning back to the screen, his gaze narrowed at the Haitian officer, "Perhaps the next time you and your colleagues decide to enact sweeping protocols, a courtesy transmission to the Chief Security Liaison would not go amiss."

JB quirked an eyebrow at the comment but was otherwise unfazed. He thought of reminding the Frenchman that the Astrea was running point from the moment it had assumed orbit several days ago, but thought better of it. He simply replied, "Understood, Captain." The channel was then cut.

After a long moment where the security suite felt heavy and warm, Auvray turned toward Torab, his voice low. "The tragedy of command, my friend, is that it is never really yours. One always finds oneself performing on someone else's stage."

Torab's golden eyes blinked. "Even so, Captain, the curtain has not yet fallen."

Auvray gave a faint, crooked smile. "Non, mon ami," he said, smoothing his uniform front again. "But I can feel the orchestra warming up."

The red-haired communications officer turned to them both, her face scrunched-up as if listening to a transmission. "Sirs," she said with a soft and sweet voice. "Astrea has scrambled their Starfighter Wing to intercept several vessels that have just left the starbase."

Torab took four quick steps back to the woman's station, his big eyes glued to the read-out. "There's more, Captain," he said, sifting through the data. "Under the protocol, all diplomatic shuttles are grounded."

Auvray threw his adjutant a sour look. "As expected--that is protocol, Torab."

"No, no," Torab said, placing a hand on the communications officer's shoulder.

She looked from Torab to Auvray. "There is one diplomatic shuttle that is not adhering to the protocol--it has launched and is moving into the troposhere," she said, a worried look on her face.

"Put it on the screen," the Frenchman ordered.

Torab pursed his Saurian lips. "An element of Astrea's starfighter wing returned from the starbase and is now closing on the shuttle."

For a long moment, Auvray simply stared at the grainy telemetry, a single shuttle cutting a pale arc against the darkening sky. "Who authorized the launch?"

"No one, sir," the Ensign replied her fingers gliding gently over the console. "Transponder's diplomatic. Registry has her identified as the RFS Vhathal."

As they watched the screen, four Starfleet Raptors descended from high orbit and boxed in the shuttle. There were some tense words between the shittle occupant and the leader of the starfighter group, a Lieutenant Jason Williams III. However, no matter how much the shuttle occupant demanded to be allowed to pass, the young starfighter pilots refused. Finally, all four locked tractor beams onto the shuttle and forced it back down to the landing pad from whence it had departed. There, a squad of annoyed-looking security officers waited to take possession of whomever was inside.

Auvray had watched the scene unfold in silence. The shuttle descended under the blue strain of the tractor beams, its silver hull trembling against the lower atmosphere. It was as though it were a moth pinned beneath four solid and unwavering lights. When it touched down, a combined team of Astrea's marines and Vulcan security officers converged--they appeared as nothing more than small figures in the long shadow of something far larger than themselves.

Torab stood behind him, his hands folded neatly behind his back. "Astrea reports the shuttle has been secured, Captain. No casualties. Security teams are moving in to detain the occupant."


~TBC~

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