Chapter Text
Shran had spent about a year so far cursing the weight, literal and metaphorical, of the commander's belt that adorned his uniform, but he had yet to learn how much trouble it would really cause him.
Joining the Federation had not eliminated the need for Andoria to run border patrols, in fact quite the opposite. It was a demanding task. Even as a commander Shran did not shun the front line, sometimes spending days at a time in a trench or foxhole with his disruptor at the ready. His favorite tactic was to wait, and Shran's patience was usually rewarded.
The latest orders were to engage with a Romulan warbird. He had depleted phaser banks, less than fifty able crew, and sheer Andorian stubbornness to see him through.
The plan was relatively simple. They arrived on an intercept to the expected course of the warbird, planted a decoy beacon on the surface of a moon along its path, and then hid and waited for the Romulans to take the bait. In open space the fight would have been against Shran, but on the ground he had the advantage, and he could count on Romulans to come down and investigate any anomaly.
True to form, at the expected time they detected ten Romulan bio-signs appearing on the surface. Everything happened quickly after that. One word from Shran, and his people were opening fire on the Romulans, who fired back--at the houses of locals. Shran cursed under his breath. He should have counted on them to fight dirty. Though he had nothing to cheer his people up with, they seemed more motivated than ever, the thrill of battle running through the group like a cold wind.
"Do you feel them, Number One?" he asked, trying to quell his own restlessness.
It didn't take long for him to get an answer. First Officer Cherek suddenly shrank back, as though in unbearable pain, and collapsed at his commander's feet. Shran gave a curt order for the others to continue while he shone a light under the eyelid of his crewmate. His medical training was limited and more often put to use in interrogations, there was only so much he could do in the field--even less for someone who technically wasn't even injured.
Cherek had joined Shran's crew under contract, recruited from a bar on an interstellar station almost as a joke. His half-Andorian half-Betazoid heritage gave him empathic abilities, and perhaps some powers of persuasion. If so, he was probably regretting using them to sign on now. His black eyes were unfocused and unseeing beneath his lids, and he clung helplessly to Shran's uniform.
"It burns! Great Uzaveh, I'm burning!" The guardsman writhed, delirious from his empathic exposure to the Romulans' victims. Shran hastily injected him with sedatives to stop the screaming, and nootropics that would hopefully help with the trauma.
"Shoot to kill," he ordered, and his people obeyed. The Romulans soon got what they deserved.
Better still, only minutes after he got confirmation that the Kumari had managed to surprise the warbird and emptied its entire torpedo bay while their shields were down. Patience and cunning had once again paid off. They had shot down a superior ship, and the only casualties were minor hull damage from the exploding warbird, and of course poor Cherek.
Shran viewed the battle report afterwards with weariness. The damage was minor, but he only had two engineers to patch it up with. His recruitment efforts never seemed to be enough to keep a full ship, and with his persuasive first officer out of commission that would only get worse. But he was still expected to be ready for another raid in a few weeks at the most. It was all so exhausting.
He understood the necessity, of course. The sector was teeming with deserters, renegade Vulcans, and Romulan infiltrators. Andorian vigilance was required, now more than ever, and what crew he did have was quite willing to provide it--and Andorian beaurocracy was willing to look the other way on his methods, so long as he continued to deliver results. Perhaps he occasionally crossed the line when interrogating prisoners, or disrespected the authority of the Empire (or, more frequently, the Federation). Such details were easy to lose track of when he had an exploded Romulan ship to present to his superiors.
Less easy to ignore was the notification of a new message popping up on his console. Shran frowned and opened it. He was not accustomed to getting messages from Starfleet, but here was one Admiral Forrest, congratulating him on his victory and suggesting he bring the Kumari to Earth for repairs... and some sort of official visit.
This was not an overly tempting prospect to Shran. Despite an assurance that he would not owe anything, that such offers were standard in the Federation and support from Starfleet was simply overdue, he didn't quite trust the invitation. He didn't like that the nature of the official visit was left unexplained. Shran was no diplomat, and people generally did not enjoy his company. If the admiral was trying to get him to attend some sort of reception, he would come to regret that decision very quickly.
But repairs were repairs, and perhaps if he came and disappointed as a socialite now, less would be expected of him in the future.
So it was only two days later that Shran was walking into Starfleet headquarters for his meeting with Admiral Forrest. He looked around the foyer with only mild interest. The most interesting part of the building was a young Terran hovering impatiently nearby, trying to act casual while making conversation with the duty officer behind the reception desk. He seemed to know his way around the place, but was still nervous about something.
Shran was intrigued despite himself. He was probably just starved for socialization because his chatty first officer was out of commission, and his communications for the last few days had been limited to reports, orders, and the admiral's message. But he wanted to know more about this strange human, who looked young enough to have come from the nearby Starfleet Academy but certainly didn't act like it, and was careless and nervous at the same time. Shran approached the reception desk, and was privately amused to watch the pinkskin coincidentally draw back.
"I'm here to speak with Admiral Forrest," he told the duty officer.
"You are expected, Commander. Take the lift up. The admiral has a prior appointment--" the officer nodded towards the youngster, who was most of the way to the lift already, and became noticeably tenser on overhearing he would have company--"but he will see you soon."
"Very well," Shran said, and headed over. He was gratified when the pinkskin held the lift for him, and even more so when he received a timid but unmistakable "hello." He returned the greeting with far more warmth than he usually gave anyone.
The close confines were an excellent opportunity to study the human more closely. His jacket fit loosely, with the ends of the sleeves rolled up just enough to not cover his hands, and it reeked of something volatile and flammable. His mop of hair was long but not particularly well kept. His mouth was pinched oddly in an effort to hide his nervousness, which was obvious anyway from his posture and the smell of fear coming off him. Shran knew that scent well from having conducted many interrogations of numerous species. It was nearly universal, and no amount of hydrocarbons could cover it up.
The pinkskin nearly bounded out of the lift when the door opened, eager to escape the close confines, and disappeared into the admiral's office. There was a small waiting area outside, with several seats. Shran sat in the one closest to the door, and strained his antennae to try to catch any hint of the conversation inside, but the room must have been well soundproofed. When the youngster came back out only a few minutes later and tossed one last sidelong glance at him on his way to the lift, Shran was still none the wiser about what the "prior appointment" had been for. He took off his glove, in anticipation of a traditional human handshake, and went inside.
"Admiral." Shaking hands was indeed still the standard. Somehow he doubted that the last visitor had given one. "To what do I owe the honor?"
Admiral Forrest seemed reluctant to answer the question directly, and Shran was soon tuning out to let a stream of pleasantries wash over him. He hadn't missed the human tendency to start a conversation with irrelevancies and approach important topics side-on. If only they could learn to be more direct, perhaps he would be more enthusiastic about the prospect of working with them more often--but at last the admiral seemed to be getting to the point, as he mentioned Shran's willingness to recruit rogues of all stripes to serve on his ship.
This was quite true, a matter of practicality as well as principle. A ship could not function without crew, and if official channels did not supply enough crew, the only alternative was to go by unofficial channels. If Andoria was displeased with his efforts, it could relieve him of command--or assign him some decent replacements. Professionals with proper credentials were hard to come by in the areas Shran patrolled, and harder still to persuade to join on. He doubted Admiral Forrest had any to recommend to him, either, though he seemed to have something in mind.
"If you are interested in my recruitment efforts, and if they still work with Starfleet, perhaps you could assign a team of MACOs to my ship. I don't know if their training is up to our standards, though."
"I can request a unit if you are interested." The admiral seemed a little taken aback at the response. But soon he was back on course. "As for training, I was hoping you could assist me with some. I have a promising cadet that could benefit from practical training and field experience."
He handed over a padd with a personnel file pulled up. Shran took it. He was immediately suspicious at the name Archer, then he noticed the date of birth below it. His antennae arched in contempt.
"What use would I have for a--a child?"
"Eighteen is the age of majority for humans," Forrest said mildly. "He is old enough to join a starship crew, and I have no doubt he can make himself useful. He merely... needs guidance."
Shran was not sure what kind of guidance he was supposed to provide that the Academy could not give. He was a starship captain and a warrior, not a teacher or a counselor.
"I would be willing to consider this a personal favor," Forrest went on. "I know it may seem like a lot to ask."
Shran was more gratified that Forrest was familiar with Andorian customs regarding favors than the idea of being owed by a Starfleet admiral. Both were good--but he had to test him before making a decision.
"It would have been simpler to install listening devices on my ship during the repairs."
Forrest did not crack. In fact, he seemed amused by the accusation. "Archer is no spy. His presence on your ship would be entirely legitimate."
"And... is there not some personal connection?" Shran glanced back down at the name on the padd. It seemed like too much of a coincidence. He had to know.
"There is," Forrest confirmed. "It is of vital importance to Starfleet to help foster closer relationships between the worlds of the Federation. Your personal connection, as you call it, is a good starting point for that relationship, and it will be a good opportunity for you to get used to working with humans again. I have only recently begun to make efforts in this area. I hope that success will lead to further collaboration."
The insinuation was clear enough: take on this human, and further crew assistance was likely to follow. Shran wasn't entirely sure how many pinkskins he wanted to fill his ship with, but help was help--and it would also be an opportunity for Starfleet to experience what it took to keep their Federation's borders secure.
Shran didn't want to appear too eager to please, though. He scrolled thoughtfully through the personnel file for a moment, then nodded.
"I will consider your offer carefully, Admiral. You may expect a decision from me soon."
"Of course," Forrest said, and that was that.
The last vestiges of sunset were gone from the sky by the time Shran stepped outside, leaving only pale artificial illumination to guide his way off the grounds. It was getting late. The admiral's office was the only one lit from the inside. There weren't many people about on the street outside, either. Shran checked the status of his ship's repairs. Barely any progress; the social call had taken far less time than he expected. He had enough time to wander, and clear his head.
The park nearby had peace and quiet, and plenty of places to sit. Shran sat down on a bench. The light pollution of the city made the night sky appear as blank as his mind.
Why had he agreed--well, not yet, but it was practically a done deal--to take on a cadet who was not only young and inexperienced, but also an incorrigible troublemaker? According to his file he had missed most of the last few weeks of classes, and there were several demerits for behavioral issues. What had he been doing? What did Admiral Forrest think would be fixed by packing him off to a warship? Shran didn't like to think he was some last resort for troubled teenagers.
But this wasn't just any teenager. He hadn't noticed the similarity in the shaggy-haired hooligan in the lobby, but the file photo was of a much more trimmed and solemn looking youth, who did in fact bear a resemblance to his father.
All the more frustrating that he seemed intent on wasting his inheritance. Shran would have given a lot to receive the kind of training Starfleet offered at such a young age. His own path had been far more arduous.
Shran's parents were monks, dedicating their lives in service to Uzaveh. They had carved out beautiful lives in the snow, full of grace and humility and art. They mixed incense for their prayers, shaped ice into majestic sculptures, and extracted magical melodies from delicate instruments. Above all, they committed themselves to living peacefully. Too peacefully, as it turned out.
The first time, he was too young to remember much. There was only confusion and an atmosphere of haste. The second time, he was a teenager, and his memories were far sharper. It would have been hard to forget the destruction, the screaming, the running... and most especially huddling in the cramped escape pod with too many other people, helpless and angry. His rage at his parents' refusal to fight back was even more suffocating than the close air of the escape pod.
Not that they were the only ones who failed to see the value in self defense. Andoria didn't have a standing army yet, even though their outer systems had been attacked before. The authorities were slow to act, only establishing the Imperial Guard years later, and in the meantime appeared to think that faith and prayers would keep enemies at bay.
But it was obvious to Shran that Uzaveh was unable or unwilling to protect even their most devoted followers. And so the task fell to him.
The journey was long and difficult. His parents, of course, disapproved of his desire to fight, and the nascent Imperial Guard required prior training that he would never be able to receive if he stayed on his home moon of Fezoan. By the time he had scraped together enough credits for passage on an interstellar barge to a less pacifistic system, he was in his early twenties.
The barge, dubiously assisted by the prayers of his parents, broke down just after leaving Andorian space. It was an exceptionally well-disguised blessing. A Starfleet ship answered the distress call: the Enterprise-5, captained by Henry Archer.
Shran was impressed by the ship and its crew. Starfleet was not military, but they had the means to defend themselves in their travels. The ship was of peaceful intent, but had weapons and a detachment of MACOs stationed on board. They clearly understood the value of self-defense. Shran went straight to the captain and made an impassioned plea to be hired on.
It was a highly unusual request, but Henry Archer was a highly unusual captain. Primarily an inventor and engineer, he had designed the Enterprise-5 himself and had more leeway than usual in choosing who served on it. Shran's sincerity and determination impressed him enough to offer a sort of internship to the young Andorian.
That was the beginning of three years of service under Captain Archer. Shran learned more than he had ever thought it was possible to know about space, and starships, and combat, and himself. It was not always easy to live among humans, who had such reckless enthusiasm for exploration and the seeking of knowledge that they regularly threw themselves headfirst into danger. Their pursuit of endless possibilities and new experiences was wonderful in its way, but the intensity of it all was difficult to bear, and Shran never felt entirely at ease around pinkskins, though they treated him like one of their own. He was glad when he finally determined that he had enough experience to go back to Fezoan and defend his people.
Captain Archer was sad to see him go, but understood that he had to follow in the footsteps of his warrior ancestors. Parting from his mentor was by far the hardest part of the journey for Shran. Harder still to learn of his eventual death, sacrificing himself in the reactor of a ship he had created, to save the crew from a fatal design flaw. Shran had never quite come to terms with the fact that Henry Archer was gone--and if the behavioral demerits were anything to go by, neither had his son.
Shran had never put much stock in his parents' preaching about the cyclical nature of the universe. It was an archaic idea that seemed to apply mostly to the orbits of planets and moons. Yet here was a situation that made him wonder if there was truth to it. After fifteen years and uncounted thousands of light years thinking he had been moving away from that time, he had only come back around to a fresh turn of the cycle. This time Shran was the starship captain, deciding whether to take on an alien, untried and unruly, and see if he could make something of him. Shran wondered, had Henry Archer been confident in his ability to teach and guide the angry young Andorian who demanded to stay on his ship, or had he only taken him on out of pity?
Shran was startled out of his thoughts by a familiar oily scent on the breeze, accompanied by a mechanical noise that was rapidly getting louder. He jumped to his feet and went to investigate.
The source soon made itself evident. A two-wheeled device came around the curve in the road at terrifying speed. Shran had not had the time to jump back before it was going into a slide, throwing sparks against the pavement with an awful sound. The rider attempted to jump off, but there was no easy landing to be had with Shran in the way. They collided instead, tumbling gracelessly to the ground and knocking all the breath from Shran's lungs.
The universe really wanted them to meet, it seemed. The jacket was unmistakable at this range. Shran could have laughed, if he'd had the air. Now he really had to take this young idiot on, lest fate find an even more violent way to toss him at Shran.
That didn't mean the pinkskin was forgiven for this stunt, of course. Shran reached for the movable visor on the helmet and flipped it up. A pair of wide eyes, dazed and startled, stared back at him.
"You damn fool!"
--
Archer wanted to hide his face in his hands and not come out for the rest of the evening. The adrenaline of the ill-fated motorcycle ride had worn off, the colorful vocabulary from both sides had dried up, and all that was left for him was to wonder why the hell he had followed the scary Andorian to a bar instead of just leaving.
What even were the chances that they would run into each other again--literally as well as figuratively? He'd been planning to use his last night of freedom to go for a long ride and try to clear his head. Now he had a scraped up bike, wounded pride, and a pissed off alien who was about to be in charge of him.
Archer was more than a little pissed off himself. The jackass refused to apologize for causing the accident by standing in the middle of the road. Sure, Archer had been going a little over the speed limit, but that wouldn't have been a problem if SOMEBODY had understood the concept of sidewalks. Archer hadn't meant to nail him either, there was just nowhere else to go once the bike started to slide. So that was just what he got for being in the way.
What really killed him, though, was that the Andorian didn't even care enough to argue about it after the initial shouting. He just hauled Archer's bike up, dragged it out of the street, then took the keys from the ignition and threw them at Archer.
"Are you coming?"
"Coming where?" Archer was still scrambling to catch the keys. But the jerk had nothing more to say, already heading off in an apparently random direction. He seemed to know Archer would follow, which only made it more humiliating to have to run to catch up to him.
And now he was sliding into a seat in the corner of a dingy bar, wincing at the protest from his leg. He was a little afraid to find out what the bruise was going to look like.
"Order something you like."
"What?"
"You are old enough for alcohol, aren't you?"
Archer bristled at the question, and at the assessing look he was being given.
"Of course! I just--don't know what they have here."
The Andorian shrugged, tossed some crumpled credits onto the counter--he actually had paper currency, the madman--and when the bartender came over, said something to him as curtly as he probably gave orders on his ship. The man nodded and scuttled off.
Now was the first real opportunity Archer had to get a good look at his alien companion. He really didn't know much about the guy. Just that his name was Commander Shran, he commanded a ship in the Imperial Guard that Archer had already forgotten the name of, he apparently was going to put Archer through flight training and stuff... and he didn't know a goddamn thing about traffic laws. Archer had to be out of his mind to even consider getting on his ship.
But then, Archer was a little short on options right now. He was skating close to expulsion from all the truancy, with absolutely no idea what else to do with his life if he didn't graduate. He knew it wasn't a smart idea to skip all his classes in protest of not qualifying for practical training this semester, but the frustration of being the only one in his class who hadn't made it was kind of overwhelming. Forrest was an okay replacement father figure, but his paternalism could get grating, and his attempts to quell the teenage rebellion and get his charge to actually go to class hadn't succeeded. Well, now Archer was going to be given the most practical training of all time. So... skipping class had worked, actually. It just also meant getting shipped out to a maybe-warzone with a domineering blue psycho.
Archer realized he had been staring blankly at the Andorian while he thought. But Shran did not seem to mind being the subject of study, if he noticed at all. He was watching two Nausikaans pace around the pool table and bang their forehead combs against the hanging lamps.
The clinking of glasses distracted them both from their observations. The bartender was coming back over, carrying a normal-looking mug and some elaborate milkshake thing with whipped cream and cherries. Archer scowled--but to his surprise, Shran took the milkshake and slid the mug over to him.
"Drink, before I'm your commanding officer."
"Commanding?" Training was one thing. Being under the command of this guy was... something else. It implied combat, which Archer was definitely not down for.
"Your handler, Forrest, has entrusted you to my care for..." Shran made an indefinite hand gesture. "...some time. And when you're on my ship, you'll do as I say. Understand?"
"Yeah." Archer tried not to quail at the pointed look that accompanied the question. He understood the concept of authority, all right. He just didn't like the idea of being under Shran's.
"You won't be assigned a combat role, but you will be... supervised."
"I don't need a sitter," Archer snapped.
He expected a sharp response, but Shran didn't seem to care. He had abruptly lost interest in the conversation and was instead focused on his drink, delicately picking the cherries out and setting them aside. When he was done, he picked up his glass and drained the whole thing in one long gulp without even wetting his lips.
"Aren't you going to drink any? I paid for that, you know."
Still bewildered at the party trick he had just witnessed, Archer took a tentative sip of his drink. Then another. It was pretty good, actually. Who would have guessed that an alien would have good taste in Earth drinks?
Satisfied that it wasn't going to waste, Shran pulled out a padd and scrolled through it for a moment. His brow furrowed.
"You haven't acknowledged receipt of orders yet?"
"Orders?" The face Archer pulled had nothing to do with the alcohol.
"You're not forced to come, but I was under the impression you agreed with it," Shran said with a shrug.
Archer pulled out his Academy-assigned padd from an inner jacket pocket. The screen was glowing with a notification, an unconfirmed request for what was being generously called "distance learning." He took a bigger gulp of his drink than he'd meant to.
"Perhaps you were going to run away on that machine of yours instead?" Shran suggested, and his mocking tone prodded at Archer's pride.
"You wish," he shot back, and pressed his thumb to the signature bar on the padd. A blind leap into the unknown, with only a condescending Andorian to guide him. But Archer was not so easy to tame. If the commander gave him hell, he would simply return the favor.