The Strangest Captain

Posted on Mon Apr 20th, 2026 @ 7:27pm by Captain Patricia Cooke & Lieutenant Darik Moreau

1,695 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Ghost Starship

When Lieutenant Darik Moreau, Chief Intelligence Officer, stepped off the shuttle and into the bay of the Missouri, he felt, rather suspiciously, well-rested.

It had taken the better part of two weeks and a handful of ships to catch up with his new posting, which sounded inconvenient and had in practice turned into something perilously close to a holiday. He had slept properly. He had eaten while sitting down. He had read half a book without being interrupted by duty, disaster, idiocy...or paperwork. By the end of it, the usual knot between his shoulders had eased enough that he kept waiting for it to return out of sheer bad habit.

So naturally he distrusted the feeling.

Behind him, the rest of his things were already being unloaded to be sent on to his quarters, neat enough that he did not need to concern himself with them. That left him with only the transfer orders in one hand and the uniform on his back, which was how reporting in ought to be done. Uncluttered. Presentable. Giving nobody any reason to think of him as anything except a Starfleet officer.

He crossed the deck with an even, unhurried stride, boots hitting the plating in a steady rhythm. He was not the tallest man in the room, but he still carried height, lean in the way that suggested tension held in reserve rather than any lack of strength, dark hair pulled back neatly enough to avoid comment. His face tended to do the rest for him. The Cardassian ridges were there, slightly softened by genetics, running into a face that was all angles unless he smiled, which would depend on the other person. He had blue eyes, straight posture, and a carefully curated expression. More than one person over the years had decided he looked disapproving before he had said a word. Sometimes they were right.

The uniform had been adjusted slightly at the neck, the collar sitting cleanly while leaving room for the cords there to exist without being strangled by regulation tailoring. The modification was subtle enough that nobody would notice outright, and most people who did would likely decide it was no different from other adjustments for species that did not fit the more...human body standard.

He left the shuttle bay and followed the route on the PADD. He was on Deck 9. He needed to be on Deck 1. He let out a quiet breath and stepped into the nearest turbolift, eyes dropping briefly to the screen in his hand. It held his transfer orders and his service record. Nothing remarkable to look at. Just years of service that he was quietly proud of.

When the turbolift stopped and the doors opened, he stepped out into the quieter atmosphere of the command deck, no one paying him much attention.

As he walked, he did a quick internal tally. He was not nervous. Reporting to a captain was hardly new. But there was always that moment before the first meeting, when the file had arrived before the person and you had to walk into the room anyway. Captain Cooke would know his record. His name. His service. Quite possibly enough of his background to have formed a sensible preliminary judgement, or at least a few ideas.

By the time he reached the ready room doors, he had straightened a fraction more without thinking about it. His chin was level, shoulders set, ready for whatever waited for him.

He pressed the chime.

Patricia had been rather busy since the departure of the away team. After having spoken with Counselor Penrose airing her regrets that she should be the one leading the away team instead of Commander Chance, she had received word that her new Intelligence Chief would be arriving soon to report in. Normally, it was a task of great excitement, but for Patricia, new crew reporting in had become a chore.

During perhaps the greatest crisis the galaxy had ever faced, the Missouri had cycled through so many senior staff that the ship had become something of a hotel. Where officers would check in, stay for a couple of weeks, and then check out again. Fortunately, the bleeding seemed to have been stemmed, but the impact of cycling through over a dozen senior staff officers in a dizzyingly short amount of time had stuck. In true hotel receptionist style, Patricia had begun including the question of how long each new arrival planned to stay for. Patricia had just grown that distrustful of Starfleet rotating people out from under her.

When the ready room chime sounded, Patricia turned down the music and set down the PADD on which she had been working, rising from her chair to greet the newcomer:

"Enter:" She called out.

He walked in, his eyes landing on the Captain in the chair. Blond hair cut short, blue eyes. Human looking, but that was never a guarantee. He walked in and stood in front of the desk, offering the PADD with his transfer orders over. "Captain Cooke, I am Lieutenant Moreau," he introduced himself. The ritual of physically hand over a PADD with the orders pre-loaded was...quaint. But Starfleet had rituals. This one was more unusual, but Darik always erred on the side of too much protocol and tradition.

Patricia accepted the PADD and looked it over.

"Lieutenant Moreau, Darik." She said, pronouncing the other officer's name as one would the Earth name 'Derrick'. "Assigned Chief Intelligence Officer, USS Missouri."

Patricia set the PADD down on the desk and sat back down, interlocking her fingers together.

"So, Lieutenant, how long do you plan on staying here at Hotel Missouri?" She asked in a rather bitingly sarcastic tone, as if to convey to Darik that he wasn't the first, and certainly wouldn't be the last senior officer to step through those ready room doors.

Darik looked at her, tilting his head a little to the side. He did not correct her pronunciation. More because it did not matter, but also because his ears had picked up her tone. "As long as Starfleet wants me here, Captain," he said, hands going behind his back as he stood there. "Or you."

"Well, if that's not a fairy tale I've heard over a dozen times." Patricia said. "Over a dozen times in just a few months, no less... Well, Lieutenant, I'll certainly keep an eye out for when Starfleet needs you elsewhere as well. Seems like everybody leaves in the end around here..."

Darik didn't reply at first, unsure what, precisely, was required of him. His blue eyes remained steady on her, his face giving little away, and then the corner of his mouth shifted in the faintest hint of a smile. "Better on a transporter than in a body bag," he said, deadpan enough for it to be both a joke and a statement.

"The ones I've lost, I didn't even have bodies to recover..." Patricia replied. "But, I digress: I'm sure you've seen the other ship floating nearby on the way in? Kinda hard to miss a derelict Galaxy class adrift in space."

"I did," he said, and he had been thinking about it since he had first spotted it from the shuttle. He had not seen the name or registry number as they went past. "There aren't many Galaxy class ships that weren't recovered," he continued. "Gives us a narrow scope as to which ship it is...unless someone pulled one out of mothball and...nudged it. Have you identified it yet?"

"Scans have identified the vessel as the USS Hindenburg, which vanished before I was even born." Patricia replied. "Her disappearance kinda slipped through the cracks, given that it happened at the same time as the Battle of Wolf Three Five Nine. Hopefully the Away Team will have answers as to what might have happened."

He gave a nod, remaining where he was, standing in front of her desk. "What do you need from me, Captain?" he asked, because right now it sounded that they were just waiting for the away team. But...he was Intelligence. He knew there were some avenues he could get his department to look into.

"Read up what you can on the story of the Hindenburg while we wait for the away team's findings." Patricia ordered. "My theory? A Galaxy-class ship doesn't simply vanish into thin air without some sort of foul play."

He gave a nod, thinking about it. He could get a hold of the service records of the crew as well. If it was foul play, he might find a connection there. It was a good place to start. "Yes, Captain," he said, after a moment, meeting her eyes, his own unblinking.

"Are there any further questions you may have for me, Lieutenant?" Patricia asked. "I know more Bellerophon ships are entering service, but they're still a fairly new thing."

"I read the schematics on my way over. I will find my feet quickly," he said as he looked at her. He had questions. None relevant to this though. And certainly not something he'd ask before he got to know her better. "Although you may have some questions for me?" it was best to check.

"I took the liberty of looking over your personnel file ahead of your arrival." Patricia explained. "If I have any further questions for you, I'll be in touch."

"Yes Captain," he said, accepting it. Somehow, it didn't ease him. It was waiting for the other shoe to drop to use a human expression, but he was a patient man. If there was something else, except some...concern that he'd bolt...he was sure he'd hear about it.

"Well, then, since there is nothing more either of us requires of the other at the moment;" Patricia said. "I suppose this means your dismissal is in order."

He straightened a little, meeting her eyes at the words. "I wish you a good day, Captain," he said, and he meant the words. He gave a nod and turned, leaving the room.

A Mission Post by

Captain Patricia Cooke
Commanding Officer
USS Missouri

Lieutenant Darik Moreau
Chief Intelligence Officer
USS Missouri

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