The road not taken

Posted on Sun May 3rd, 2026 @ 10:39pm by Lieutenant Sylar

1,479 words; about a 7 minute read

Mission: Friends and Traitors
Location: Guest Quarters, Starbase 310
Timeline: Mission Day 1, 1700 Hours

Sylar was deep in a meditative state. He had reduced his breathing to a low, steady rate, dangerous for any species other than a Vulcan. He had increased the heat in the cabin to cope with the drop in temperature from the much slower circulation and blood pressure, and similarly his consciousness had lowered to a level in which he was only distantly aware of the guest quarters to which he had been assigned. They were utilitarian, featureless; the human word, bland, seemed appropriate, Sylar thought. The lack of overdecoration was logical: he calculated that no offence would be taken by the majority of species likely to utilise what was designed to be no more than transit, temporary accommodation. Although considered cold, and austere, Vulcans routinely decorated their living spaces with imagery and cultural items to ease the process of meditation and to compensate for the loss of support available from one’s relatives and associates. Sylar had taken out some meditation glyphs, some candles, and his trumpet, a legacy of his Academy days and which he hadn’t played since the ordeal of Wolf 359. It sat there, assembled but not played, and he wondered when, in the two weeks in which he had to wait at the Starbase until USS Belisarius arrived back from her patrol and he could join his new department, he would find it appropriate to play it. He had intended to reacquire some Lally or Purcell, or Handel, but instead he found himself increasingly focussed upon the new assignment.

He speculated upon the kind of crew that awaited him on the Belisarius. A decorated Andorian Captain, an experienced veteran officer with a long record of service on the Cardassian border. The Captain had sent an efficient message welcoming Sylar as a head of department and Sylar had, upon receipt of the manifest, analysed and contemplated the department that he was assuming responsibility for. It was an old ship, not unlike the USS Seraph that been his home until the shock of her destruction at Wolf 359. Unlike the Miranda Class Seraph, Belisarius was an Ambassador Class starship, her crew complement huge, and essential for a Starfleet that was still recovering from the Borg incident.

The console chirped, once and then, as Sylar’s consciousness slowly increased, again and seemingly more insistently. Arranging his meditation robes, he composed himself carefully, allowing his eyes to adjust as he increased the lighting in his quarters. Intriguingly, it was a message from Starfleet Command, from Earth. Sylar activated the console to find himself staring at the familiar face of Admiral Robert Cadbury, his former Commanding Officer from the Wolf 359 Inquiry. “Admiral,” Sylar said in a respectful tone.

“I have disturbed you,” Cadbury said in a concerned voice with a gravelly, English accent. He was an authoritative but warm man, who had reluctantly been forced off the bridge of his Constellation Class ship and had subsequently and faithfully represented Starfleet interests in a variety of Earthbound roles from a liaison to the Federation Council to a Starfleet advisor to a range of Cabinet officials and, most recently, appointed by the President to conduct a thorough investigation of the Borg incident. The Admiral himself described his role as “something akin to ‘Pug’ Ismay,” recalling a fighting general from his region of Earth’s history who had found himself spending a long war in the heart of government, far away from the battlefield.

“My meditation cycle had almost completed,” Sylar said, with a mix of truthfulness and tact.

Cadbury’s reponse, from the slight smirk to the almost Vulcan raising of the eyebrow, signalled that he did not believe Sylar. “A ha. Look Sylar, I’ll not beat around the bush, I know that you would find that illo- ah, tiresome, but something has come up. Starfleet is cancelling your orders for Belisarius.” He paused, waiting for a verbal reaction that, after a couple of silent seconds, he realised would not come from the Vulcan. “You want to know why,” he said, reading Sylar’s raised eyebrows successfully.

“I am intrigued,” Sylar agreed. After months of planning, his deployment as CMO vanished almost instantly. There was a human poem, that Seril had admired, and had read aloud to him on more than occasion, about roads not taken. And sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, long I stood, and looked down one as far as I could, he recalled.

Cadbury smiled wanly. “Her rotation on the frontier is up and before a spot of shore leave she will be heading on diplomatic duties to non-aligned worlds. Scofield, he’s the Admiral in your area, has already discussed it with Belisarus’ CO and everyone is agreed that she can cope without you and that we can send someone else to catch up with her in due course.” Cadbury seemed to sag slightly in his chair. Sylar observed that the more relaxed breathing and the less tense expression so clearly intimated that the Admiral considered the worst part of the discussion over.

The fleet, two years after Wolf 359, still bore the scars of the engagement, and sudden changes of assignment for both ships and personnel were not uncommon. But for two Admirals (and, presumably, two COs, for logic dictated that as he wasn’t joining Belisarius, he was joining another Starfleet unit or assignment) to be discussing a relatively low-ranking Medical Officer, a Lieutenant, was intriguing.

Cadbury smiled, waiting for Sylar’s thoughts to conclude. “You’ll be joining the Thunderbird, an Akira Class starship. State of the Starfleet art, one might say,” he said lightly. This was a tactic, offer positive interpretation, to reinforce an order or point. “Commanding Officer a Captain Erik Norsgaard, I don’t know him…”

“…Nor, Admiral, do I.” All of Sylar’s energies outside of his duties at the Inquiry had been focussed on preparation for Belisarius. He had considered it logical, but perhaps, he considered, he should have allowed for the operation of random occurrences.

“Well, yes. Anyway,” Cadbury was firmer now, the role of busy Admiral resurfacing, no matter how much of a mentor he was. “There have been challenges in 310’s sector. The Maquis are an issue. You know that. Well, Thunderbird has seen some sudden changes, I’ll let you find that out from your new Commanding Officer. But she is an important Starfleet asset in the region and they need a CMO with no suggestion of Maquis involvement. You have been vetted as part of our work on the Inquiry, so it is,” he paused for a warm smile, "logical for you, as the only spare medic in the region, to be offered up."

“I understand, Admiral,” Sylar said flatly.

“You’re not, er, disappointed?”

“Admiral, I am a Vulcan, I am not unhappy with the change nor am I excited by the prospect of serving upon an important vessel. I will go where Starfleet requires my service.”

“Good,” Cadbury said, sounding unconvinced. He seemed to tense again. “If I were you, I’d pack up and get your kit over there pronto pronto. I gather Thunderbird’s at 310 already?”

“Affirmative, Admiral.”

“Good. Well they’ll need you, over there, there is a young ACMO also newly in post there, and frankly not much else.” He was ‘wrapping up,’ Sylar knew, having sat with the Admiral through countless meetings over the last two years. “Is there anything that you’d like me to do? I’ll get word to Seril, if that would help.” Seril was the female Vulcan to whom Sylar was promised at some point in the future. They communicated infrequently and hadn’t seen one another for over one Earth year, after her trade analyst role brought her, unexpectedly, to Earth. Cadbury had been a generous host, taking them on guided tours of Paris, London and Oxford, as well as San Franciso and Yellowstone. Seril, considered unruly by Vulcan standards, had formed an unlikely friendship with the charming old Admiral.

“Most considerate, Sir,” Sylar said, with a touch of warmth, “I will send a message when I am established on board Thunderbird.”

“She’ll be worried, surely?”

Sylar offered the slightest of shakes to the head. “She will understand.”

“Ah, yes, right, of course. Well, Lieutenant, good luck. Peace and long life,” he raised his hand in a passable imitation of a Vulcan salute.

“Live long and prosper, Sir,” Sylar said in a formal tone. The Admiral’s face was replaced with the Starfleet symbol. “Computer, access all open source records applying to the USS Thunderbird, Akira Class, Captain Erik Norsgaard commanding.” He would allow himself ten minutes of study before proceeding to the new assignment.

Intriguing.

 

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