Chapter 1
Stardate 52963.1 (2375)
Lieutenant Bransen Andrews was not having the night he’d planned. He stood at the viewport of his quarters aboard the USS Canberra, fingers drumming restlessly against the side of his glass; the synthetic gin and tonic inside caught the dim lighting of the room, refracting sharp little flares against the transparent aluminum. When he set it down, the glass landed with a dull thunk, louder than intended, rattling the ice inside.
He ran his thumb along the smooth curve of the second gold pip on his collar; still new enough that it didn’t feel real, still new enough that some people hesitated before calling him “Lieutenant.”
The reunion was happening right now: the remaining Excelsior-class ships of the ANZAC batch, all gathered at Starbase 21 for the first time in over a decade. There would be a formal dinner in the grand hall filled with officers in dress whites, toasts, memorials, and war stories swapped across long white-clothed tables. It was the kind of night that made careers. The kind of night where a freshly-minted Lieutenant could make an impression just by being in the room.
But Bransen wasn’t in the room. He was stuck here.
Commander Vallona, the Canberra’s Executive Officer, had delivered the news that afternoon with all the quiet certainty of Vulcan logic.
“You are assigned as duty officer tonight, Lieutenant. The schedule has been updated accordingly.”
It hadn’t even been a conversation. Just fact.
Bransen had nearly argued. Not because it made sense, but because it didn’t feel fair. Commander Grankegh, the ship’s Tellarite Chief Medical Officer, had been listed on the duty roster for weeks. But there was no point trying to win an emotional argument with a Vulcan. Vallona wasn’t cruel, and she wasn’t targeting him, she was simply executing her duty without indulgence. Stern, yes. But fair.
He’d bitten his tongue and left the ready room before he said something that would get him a formal reprimand.
Now, alone in his cabin, he paced.
The space was functional, but lived-in; a standard-issue bunk, desk and terminal, narrow wardrobe, and a replicator with one corner just slightly scuffed from an old dropped tray. It was clean, organized, and unmistakably his. Three holos sat above his desk; his Academy graduation portrait, a photo with his brother, leaning against a railing on Mars, laughing too hard to keep the camera steady, and a picture with his parents outside the cottage on Cornwallis that used to be home. Unlike many of his peers who had served on starships as Ensigns or Junior Grades, Bransen hadn’t shared a room since the Academy, and he was glad he didn’t have to now.
His dress uniform lay on the bed, still untouched. The white jacket gleamed faintly in the dim cabin light, gold piping crisp, the collar folded sharp. He’d had it tailored, not for vanity, but for confidence. It hugged his torso in a way that made him feel like he’d earned the rank it bore.
He turned toward the mirror.
His naturally pale skin held a light bronze tone, one he’d cultivated since the Academy. Just enough to look healthy, fit, alive. He liked how it softened the angles of his face, brought out the contrast in his dark hair and features. His maroon undershirt clung to a lean, defined build, shoulders shaped by reps in the ship’s gym, waist tight, lines visible where his abs began to cut. Not bulky. Not even particularly big. But confident.
It had taken him years to get there, and some days he still saw the lanky cadet from Cornwallis Colony in the mirror; narrow-chested, awkward in uniform, always feeling a half-step behind. Now, though… now he liked the way people looked at him.
Or at least, he liked the ones who looked.
He sighed, turned from the mirror, and crossed to the viewport. Beyond the glass, the lights of Starbase 21 gleamed like a floating city. Long docking pylons stretched out like arms, wrapping around starships from across the quadrant. His eyes swept the scene automatically, identifying hull silhouettes by instinct: the Nimrod, a brand-new Akira-class, still clean from shakedown, the Midway, a Galaxy-class behemoth with a hull scarred from countless battles against the Dominion, and beyond them, the familiar blue glow of Excelsior-class nacelles, the Adelaide or the Wellington.
There were only three ANZAC Excelsiors left.
The Canberra. The Adelaide. The Wellington.
Three others were gone.
The Melbourne, lost at Wolf 359. The Darwin, vanished with all hands in the Beta Quadrant. And the Newcastle, destroyed in the final battle of Cardassia just months ago. Bransen could still remember the casualty lists… whole crews wiped out in seconds.
His cousin, Ensign Myra Lorne, had served on the Newcastle. She’d sent him a message the day before they left Deep Space Nine for what would be their final mission; he hadn’t written back fast enough…
This reunion wasn’t just about legacy. It was about grief. About honoring those who never came home.
And he was missing it.
He turned from the viewport and walked to the replicator.
“Refill. Gin and tonic, chilled.”
The drink materialized with a soft shimmer. He took it, sipped, and let the synthetic sting sit on his tongue.
His commbadge chirped.
“Gangway to Lieutenant Andrews.”
He tapped it without hesitation. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, Crewman Twefron here. We have a Lieutenant Rynn at the gangway, he says he’s joining the ship tonight, but he’s scheduled for tomorrow.”
Bransen blinked. Rynn… right. The ops transfer from the Nimrod.
“Understood. I’m on my way. Andrews out.”
He set the drink aside, threw one last look at his dress whites, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the gangway.
Deck 5 was hushed under night protocol. The gentle hum of systems and muted lighting made everything feel slower, more intimate. Bransen stepped into the corridor near the gangway and spotted Twefron, a tall, bald, Deltan standing with another officer dressed in Ops gold.
The officer turned as Bransen approached.
And Bransen stopped short.
Tobias Rynn was… something else.
Close to his own height. Blond. Toned. Jaw like a sculptor had fine-tuned it. His uniform fit like it had been cut for him personally; broad through the chest, trim through the waist, sleeves just snug enough to hint at biceps earned through more than basic phys. Trill spots traced along his temples and down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar.
Bransen had always had a weakness for Trill.
“Sir, this is Lieutenant Rynn,” Twefron said.
The Trill broke his reverie with an extended hand. “Tobias. Sorry for the early arrival. The Nimrod’s shipping out sooner than planned. They didn’t want me in the way.”
Bransen shook his hand. Warm. Firm. Steady.
“Lieutenant Bransen Andrews. Welcome aboard. Your quarters are ready, I’ll show you there.”
Tobias hoisted a small standard-issue Starfleet duffel over one shoulder. “Appreciate it. Figured better to come aboard than find a room on the station.”
They walked together in silence for a few moments. Bransen resisted the urge to look. He failed.
Tobias caught his glance. “So what do you do onboard when you’re not shepherding around new Operations officers, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“I’m the Ship’s Intelligence Officer, though I’ve only been onboard for three months myself; I’m still definitely a newbie around here compared to some. Captain Sihiri and most of the senior staff served through the whole of the war on this ship.”
“They must have been through some things together. That will really bond you,” replied the Trill.
Deck 3 was quieter still, lights at 25%, like a ship on the edge of sleep. They stopped outside cabin 3B20.
“Here we are. Single occupancy. Modest, but functional.”
Tobias stepped inside, gave the room a once-over. “Not bad. You nearby?”
“3B16. Just down the hall.”
Tobias smiled. An easy, open grin that sent a flicker down Bransen’s spine. “Good to know. Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“Bransen, when we’re off-duty.”
“Even better.”
There was a pause… soft, loaded.
“I’m headed to the gym, actually,” Bransen said, nodding back down the corridor. “If you’re not crashing right away.”
“I hate working out alone,” Tobias replied.
Bransen smiled. “Then maybe I’ll see you there.”
Back in his cabin, Bransen pulled his uniform off slowly. It felt heavier than usual.
He stood in the low light, bare skin reflecting soft shadows across the walls. His briefs hugged his hips, the tan line across his waist just barely visible beneath the hem. He admired his reflection for a moment; strong shoulders, flat stomach, the faint V of toned hips.
The image of Tobias flashed behind his eyes. That smile. Those spots. That body.
He lay back on the bunk, letting one hand trail slowly across his abs… and then lower, following the path of heat and want gathering low in his stomach.
His other hand slid up to his chest, stroking lazily, as his hips gave a small involuntary roll.
Eyes closed, breath shallow, he imagined what it would feel like to press Tobias against the wall, to taste the skin between those spots, to see just how far down they really went…
The door chime rang.
“Shit!” he hissed, bolting upright.
He grabbed a towel, wiping quickly at the mess across his stomach and abs, smearing away the evidence of where that fantasy had been going. His face flushed as he yanked on gym shorts and a tank top, hoping the scent wasn’t still clinging to the air.
His pulse was still high when he opened the door.
Tobias stood there, calm and casual in a Starfleet Academy tank and shorts that looked like they’d been painted on. His blond curls were tamed under a blue baseball cap, turned backwards in a way that made Bransen bite his lip momentarily.
“Hey,” he said. “You said you were heading to the gym. Thought I’d see if you wanted a workout buddy.”
Bransen blinked. “Uh, yeah, sure. Just changing.”
Tobias gave him a knowing once-over. “Did I interrupt anything?”
Bransen stepped into the corridor, smiling despite himself. “Not at all.”