El Lugar de Nadie: Part II - Mixed Signals

Posted on Sun Jan 18th, 2026 @ 3:58pm by 1st Lieutenant Ángel Martinez

2,477 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: USS Pathfinder
Timeline: 2386, 1 week after Martinez transferred

2386: Holodeck 1, USS Pathfinder – Marine Detachment Training

The rest of the Marines were milling now, clumped into fireteam familiarity. Two by two. Threes in a loose arc, squads closer to each other. The sort of movement that happened when energy had nowhere to go yet, but couldn’t stay still either. Waiting for a storm. One Marine dropped to a crouch and started adjusting his boot strap like it was a nervous tic. Another was already checking his sidearm again, thumb flicking over the settings as if it might have changed in the last thirty seconds. Oswin hadn’t stopped talking. He was pacing out an imaginary shuttle bay now, arms moving wide to demonstrate the dimensions.

“Parked that shuttle so close the deck officer squeaked,” he said, miming the landing with one hand and the reaction with the other.

Martinez watched them all. They didn’t need to know all the names yet. But they read them anyway. Watched the names align with faces, with rhythms, with habits. It would settle. It always did. The quiet ones. The brash ones. The ones masking nerves with swagger. The ones who had been shouted at by Trivens too many times to care anymore. They clocked the tension in Babyface’s shoulders. The way the flincher tracked every movement Trivens made, like waiting for the next explosion.

Martinez took it in, the dynamics...like pressure fronts in a sandstorm. You could tell what was coming, in theory...but what they knew was this: there were many young faces here. And a few just old enough to have served during the War. That would be what changed this. That would be the seam line.

The holodeck shimmered into full engagement as the programme was activated. A shuttle bay, four shuttles...although for Martinez, it looked more like the type of modified shuttles that had the seating ripped out, so you could cram more soldiers in for a planet drop. The air smelled more metallic..less clean. They shifted, watched the Marines get ready, helmets being put on, small rituals being repeated.

Captain Derlin stepped into the space like it belonged to him by default.

He was tall, angular, with a regulation build and the kind of face that might once have been handsome before being polished into something forgettable. His hair was cut sharp and short, his jawline clean, but the way he carried himself said more than the uniform did. Clean lines. Pressed fabric. Confidence worn just a little too easily. He didn’t look at the holodeck environment so much as assume it. Didn’t check a single thing, didn’t even look over at the enlisted. Just saw his spot on the stage, went over and stood there.

He motioned over the Lieutenants. There were three of them, and they stepped away from the enlisted and Sergeants to hear what their platoon leader had to brief them.

“All right,” Derlin said, giving a nod as he looked them over. He seemed confident, at first…until Martinez clocked the eyes. How they moved. How they never quite landed. “We’re running a freighter seizure. Four teams. Insurgents onboard. Federation flag. No civilians. Standard clear and resecure. You know the drill.”

Martinez did not, in fact, know the drill. Not this drill. But they waited, patient and quiet, to see what else would follow.

Derlin kept talking. “Helm’s priority. Engineering secondary. Expect resistance, possible sabotage. Move fast, maintain pressure.” Still no team assignments. No call signs. No mention of casualty parameters or abort thresholds.

Martinez waited until the pause. Then, evenly: “Sir. What breach vector does each team have, and what are our call signs?”

Derlin looked at them as if reminded of a bad smell somewhere. He exhaled. Then nodded. “Your team goes port, obviously. Less experienced. Call sign...well, we’re all...Saturn, I think.”

Martinez nodded once, although I think was not something they were familiar with. Their fingers itched. It felt like they were missing half a story in a novel, as if the grammar of the situation no longer made sense. They glanced at the other Lieutenants. No one spoke. They all seemed on board with the Captain, or at least unwilling to question him. Or, they had done this before and were confident in what they were doing.

Martinez wasn’t confident. “Sir, the R.O.E?” they asked, pressing calmly. “What intel do we have?”

Derlin waved a hand like brushing away a gnat. “Anyone firing at you is declared hostile. Same as always.”

That was...an answer. Declaring anyone firing at them hostile made a certain operational sense, yet Martinez found themselves wondering exactly what level of force was implied. Shoot to suppress? Disable? Capture? Kill? What margin of error had they just signed up for?

Did it really matter though for the training scenario? The two other Lieutenants seemed not to mind, or care much. Martinez felt tension prickle at the back of their neck, memories of being an enlisted under officers who didn’t seem to know, or care, about what was going on. But there was uncertainty in the pool of their stomach, that feeling that they could not press too harshly.

No…they needed more information. “And comms protocol?” they asked, holding the Captain’s eyes. “Channel assignments. Code changes.”

Derlin smiled. Not warmly. The kind of smile that suggested the question itself was faintly ridiculous. “Standard channels. Don’t overthink it, Lieutenant.”

Martinez felt the shape of that sentence settle in their chest. Don’t overthink it was how people died in simulations…and later, in real corridors, with real blood on the deck. But they also knew they were new. Maybe they didn’t understand the shape of this exercise. Maybe it was standard here, something the others had done a dozen times before. They would have to pick it up as they moved. And yes...maybe, because this was their first posting as a Marine officer...they were overthinking it.

“Understood, Sir,” they said, leaving it at that. Across the room, Sergeant Khouri exhaled softly through his nose. Oswin stopped talking for the first time since he’d arrived. Babyface’s jaw tightened, like they were itching for the sim to start just so someone would finally shoot something.

Derlin, however, seemed satisfied. “My team and Rayes’ take helm. Varrik’s team enters and keeps sickbay clear for any... survivors. You-” his eyes settled on Martinez, “take engineering. On my go.”

Names. He was using names. That…well, did not reassure Martinez. “Sir,” Martinez met his eyes again, straightening a little. “Designation confirmation, Sir.”

“Gladius,” Derlin said, giving a small nod. There was something in his eyes. Annoyance, perhaps. “It’s basic, Martinez. Basic.” He tutted and turned away.

It hadn’t been what he’d originally said. It had been Saturn. But Martinez pushed that aside. Gladius it was. Still, it felt like half the briefing was missing. But they moved when the others did, falling into step as if everything had been clear. Heading back to their team, they glanced at Khouri. “Port entry. We head for engineering,” they said, meeting his eyes. “Command’s Gladius Actual. I suppose that makes us Gladius Two-One.”

“We’re usually Two-Two,” Khouri corrected. Martinez nodded, taking it in. But the man looked thoughtful. “Gladius. That’s new.” It wasn’t a commentary, just an observation.

“Shit,” Oswin muttered, his voice rising with a hint of hysterical laughter. “Guess we’re all going to learn how to make a warp core sing, aren’t we? As long as Babyface doesn’t go all Klingon on us and shoots it up. I mean, that would be something, right? Take engineering just to blow it up.”

“Oswin…shut up,” Khouri said with a sigh of someone who had suffered the talking for as long as he could stomach it.

All geared up, phaser rifles ready, Martinez’s team breached from the port-side with crisp precision. The simulated hull blew outward with a muted concussive charge, the programmed flash dampened for safety but still bright enough to flare behind the eyes. A rush of holographic heat, the sound of metal twisting and the opening seal in place and the slight shift as the shuttle’s different gravity settled with the one of the larger freighter.

Not Earth standard gravity…a bit lighter. Smart for training. Meant you had to work harder, your body worked differently. Lights above flickered like a dying ship caught mid-collapse. The air inside smelled faintly scorched, touched with the sterile tang of ozone and warmed metal. That holodeck scent always tried just a little too hard to smell like danger.

They moved in formation. Khouri on point, fluid and alert, the two privates tucked in close, boots light but controlled. Martinez took rear position, with Oswin, steady and deliberate, scanning angles, covering the stack with smooth transitions as they cleared each corridor junction.

The first corridor passed quiet, the soft crunch of boots on simulated deck plating the only sound. But the second did not.

Two hostiles appeared ahead, projected figures with faint blue glows hovering over their torsos. Standard holographic threat signatures, just bright enough to flash on the HUD. No warning, no voices shouting…just fire. “Contact left!”

Khouri dropped instantly, back to the wall, returning controlled bursts from a low crouch. One of the privates peeled off right, drawing enemy fire down the flank. Martinez stepped out into the corridor mouth, centred the second target and dropped it clean with one phaser shot to centre mass.

“Clear,” Khouri confirmed, already scanning with the wrist-mounted tricorder. The pale glow cast shadows across his cheekbones as he watched the readings update. “No other lifesigns visible yet. Can change. Stay frosty.”

Martinez gave the hand signal to hold, palm flat and sharp in the air. They moved forward a step, boots light on the deck, and swept left to check a side alcove marked as nav access. It was empty. Dust filmed the display glass, grime caked into the corners, and a faint shimmer of holographic smoke hissed from a vent just above head height. The whole space looked abandoned, like something that had been left too long without maintenance or memory. It was a convincing illusion. Too convincing, abandoned structures and ships where hope had fled.

Martinez let their gaze linger a moment longer. They had seen places like this before. Real ones. Corridor junctions fouled with carbon scoring, vents cycling heat and old smells, ships that had looked exactly like this and had not been simulations.

They exhaled through their nose and toggled the comm on their wrist. “Gladius Actual, this is Gladius Two-Two. We’ve secured aft corridor to section C. Standing by for helm status. Over.”

Across the hallway, Oswin shifted his weight and adjusted the sling on his phaser rifle. He glanced down at a diagnostics panel of his own comms, more from habit than concern, then looked back. “We’re fine, L-T. Not a malfunction. Try again,” he said, before ducking back into position.

Martinez frowned slightly and checked the readout as well, to verify what Oswin had said. No visible comm error. They toggled the channel again. Static burst through the link, followed by a single electronic blip. Too short to be an acknowledgement. No repeatback. No call sign. They switched to the secondary frequency. “Gladius Actual, status on bridge entry? Repeat, status on bridge entry, over.”

No answer. Martinez glanced at Khouri, just a flicker of eye contact across the line. He did not speak, but the set of his shoulders tightened. Then the reply came. Not through the comm.

A phaser shot cracked the air, slamming into the wall two inches left of Martinez’s face. The simulated impact scorched the bulkhead in a flash. Angle was wrong, but the sound was more wrong. Phaser rifle, Starfleet issue. The sound was unmistakable. But there was no intel…it could be the insurgents equipped with the same weaponry.

But the ones that had been firing at them earlier had different weapons…different sounds.

Martinez dropped into a crouch, shoulder to plating, making themselves a smaller target. The others reacted instantly, doing the same. Babyface’s hand twitched on their phaser rifle, raised an ready to fire. But it was Khouri who put a gloved hand over the rifle. “Stop! Not hostiles. They’re our own people. Shooting at us.”

Martinez knew there was no point to hit the comms…but also that they didn’t need to. Not this close. “This is Gladius Two-Two to contact left, cease fire, I repeat cease fire and declare intention!” they shouted, voice carrying down the corridor, crisp with command.

The shooting stopped. Silence followed, taut and uneasy.

And then…

“Shit, I thought Gladius Two-Two were dead…”

Another voice cut in, more relaxed, almost amused. “Captain said they got wiped breaching. Said to assume KIA.” A pause. Martinez just realised it was the other Lieutenant, the one with the mismatched eyes. Heterochromia, that was the word. “Not surprised, really. FGF, right? Probably just lay down and took the beating.”

Martinez closed their eyes for one breath, opened them again, and gripped the phaser rifle harder. “Negative,” they said, voice cold as ice. “All alive, holding aft corridor. Cease fire. Confirm visual before engagement. This is your only warning.”

They didn’t have time for drama. Instead, they shifted, stepping forward just enough that the other team could see them clearly…whole, standing, unflinching. No swagger. No escalation. Just clarity. They looked over at Khouri. “Status?”

“Squad secure. No injuries,” Khouri replied, then lowered his voice. “Good thing Gladius Two-One couldn’t hit a Galaxy-class ship with a paintball…”

“Comms with Gladius Actual and other teams are compromised. We finish this clean. Sweep to engineering...Gladius Two-One can resume their original objectives. We don’t need backup. We need the core.” Martinez didn’t raise their voice, but the tone carried. Flat. Deliberate. Impossible to mistake. Let them think what they wanted. Martinez’s patience was used up.

Khouri gave a crisp nod, the motion sharp and sure, boots already shifting for movement. “Copy that.”

Oswin’s voice rose a beat later, lighter. A grin behind the words. “Hey, if the Captain thinks we’re dead, do we get extra shoreleave time? Maybe something to go with it... like an apology cocktail?”

No one laughed. But the tension bled a little.

Martinez didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. They shifted their grip on the rifle, palm firm against the worn grip, then raised a gloved hand. The signal to move. No theatre. No flinch. Just focus. “Let’s finish it. Then we debrief.”

---To be continued in part 3---

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