Quiet Routine

Posted on Sun May 18th, 2025 @ 10:33pm by Commander Krethan Son of Vrenneth

639 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Episode 1.01 "Borderlands"
Location: Commander Krethan's Quarters, Carina Station

ON:

The lights rose in Krethan’s quarters like a slow, artificial dawn. Subtle and sterile, like everything else on Carina Station. The ceiling glowed with that soft Federation white, the same hue that lit every corridor, every shop, and every deck. Far too clean to feel honest.

Krethan sat up slowly in bed, the heavy blanket of a Qo’noS winter draped around his waist. His bare chest rose with a steady breath as he stared across the room. Despite his best efforts, the Starfleetness of the space lingered — beneath the draped banners of House Vrenneth, beyond the old targhide rug from his father’s hall, even around the wrought-iron rack that held his bat’leth like a sacred relic. It was all just… on top of the Federation steel. Like him.

He rubbed his jaw, still half-dreaming of home. Of thunder over the Mountains. Of the distant roars of the wild qovIj. Of his mother’s singing voice as she prepared morning meal. But here, the only sound was the low hum of the conduits behind the polished bulkheads.

He rose and padded barefoot across the floor. The sonic shower activated with a familiar trill as he stepped into the invisible field, letting the vibrations sweep through his muscles, shaking off sleep and the memories that clung too close.

He murmured the Oath of Awakening, lips barely moving:

“I rise with my hands. I rise with my voice. I rise with my heart.
Let no softness weaken me. Let no shame silence me.”

There were mornings he believed it. Today, he wasn’t sure.He dressed in silence. Simple, tailored uniform of the Klingon Defense Force. No sashes. No medals. Not until duty demanded it.

In the next room, breakfast waited. A replicated bowl of zilm’kach stew, dark and thick with spiced organ meat, sat beside a cup of rak’tajino, bitter and black. No Federation cream. He ate slowly, reading from a PADD that projected a quiet stream of logistical reports and personnel updates.

At the top of the list: Captain Ka Wehi Ma Kana Io Lana. Xahean. Newly appointed commanding officer of Carina Station.

He had read her file three times. Tactical, elegant, unpredictable. Her people were not warriors, but they understood power. He respected that. Still, Krethan wondered what kind of authority she would bring to a station half held together by treaty and half by attitude. Especially one with Klingon officers who chafed at serving under Starfleet.

He took another sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair. The walls around him seemed to hum with that faint, too smooth energy. Efficient, quiet, unnatural. Even after two years, it unsettled him. Not just the aesthetics. The feel. On Qo’noS, rooms breathed. Fires crackled. Metal sang. But here… things were polished. Sanitized. Like living in a smile.

He'd fought to get posted here. Not for ambition, but for honor. To serve in a joint command. To lead other Klingons in Federation space. But the younger warriors whispered. Some of them laughed. Not at his tactics, not at his record. At him. At the quiet way he moved. At the softness in his voice when he spoke plainly. At the rumors.

They called him loHpach — not to his face, of course. But he heard it. He felt it.

And still he rose every morning. Still he braided his hair with precision. Still he walked the halls like they were battlegrounds. Because he was Krethan, son of Vrenneth. Because he was a Commander in the Klingon Defense Force. And because honor, however complicated, was still his spine.

He took the empty bowl down and stood, crossing to the replicator to recycle it. He took a steadying breath. It would soon be time to meet the new Captain. He was ready.

 

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