The Bail Bondsman

Posted on 21 Jan 2026 @ 9:14pm by Lieutenant Commander Elias Harlan

1,926 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Lathira Shoreleave
Location: Lathira IV

Elias was dead asleep—properly, deeply asleep for the first time in what felt like weeks. No red alerts screaming through his skull, no warp-core whine bleeding through the bulkheads, no Jorik lurking in the back of his mind like a bad diagnostic. Just quiet. Dark. The kind of sleep that actually resets something.

The comm panel beside the bed chirped once—soft, polite, the night-shift courtesy tone.

He ignored it.

It chirped again. Insistent this time.

Elias cracked one eye open, stared at the ceiling like it had personally offended him, and growled low in his throat.

“Harlan here,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and irritation. He didn’t bother sitting up. “This better be a hull breach or the captain’s dying, because if it’s anything less I’m spacing whoever’s on the other end.”

A young voice—bridge officer, probably gamma shift—came through, sounding like they’d rather be anywhere else.

“Commander Harlan, sir… apologies for waking you. We’ve got… a situation planetside.”

Elias pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt. “Define ‘situation.’”

“Uh… approximately eight to ten of our junior engineers—and it looks like a couple of bridge ensigns tagged along—decided to ‘fix’ a public mag-lift at the beachside resort. They said it was ‘wobbly.’ Their repair attempt… didn’t work. Caused a localized power outage across half the resort’s beachfront grid. Moderate intensity—lights out, replicators dead, a few hover-carts crashed into each other. No injuries reported, but—”

Elias let out a long, slow breath that was mostly profanity under his breath.

“—the local constabulary found them on the beach. They’re currently in custody. Charges are public intoxication, tampering with public infrastructure, and… one of them may have tried to explain subspace field dynamics to the arresting officer while holding a piece of drift wood like a hyperspanner.”

Silence stretched for three full seconds. Elias sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands like he could scrub the stupidity off.

“Tell me they’re not still drunk.”

“Uh… preliminary report says breathalyzers were positive. Not blackout levels, but… definitely not sober, sir.”

“Of course they weren’t.” Elias swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool deck plating. “Who’s the ranking idiot down there?”

“Lieutenant Junior Grade Ryan Collingway appears to be the ranking officer, sir. He’s… trying to negotiate release right now. Politely. But the constable is insisting on formal processing.”

Elias barked a short, humorless laugh. “Ryan. Kid’s got potential and impulse control in direct opposition.”

He stood, already reaching for a fresh uniform tunic slung over the chair.

“Get me a secure line to the surface constabulary. And wake Commander Batenburg if she’s not already up—she’s going to want to know her security team is about to have a very long night. Tell the XO I’m heading down personally. Beam-out in ten minutes. And someone replicate me the strongest coffee this ship can legally produce. Black. No sugar. I’m not dealing with this sober.”

“Aye, sir. Coffee will be waiting in the transporter room. And… good luck, Commander.”

Elias cut the channel without replying.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a second—rumpled hair, five-o’clock shadow creeping toward full beard, eyes still heavy with interrupted sleep.

“New ship,” he muttered to himself. “New crew. Same damn problems.”

He tugged on the tunic, ran a hand through his hair (did nothing), and grabbed his boots.

Forty-eight hours of leave, he’d told them.

Apparently six was all they could manage before starting a diplomatic incident.

He headed for the door, already mentally drafting the lecture that was going to make Ryan Collingway wish he’d stayed on the pad.

Some things never changed. Even on a brand-new ship.

It had taken most of that ten minutes to get the surface constabulary to even agree to talk to him. They were adamant about damages—power grid disruption, fried hover-cart circuits, a couple of replicator explosions that had turned someone’s beachside dinner into a very expensive light show. Elias had kept his tone flat, professional, and just edged enough with “I’m the one who has to clean up my people’s messes, let’s not make this harder than it needs to be” to finally get them to grudgingly allow an in-person meeting.

He gave his uniform one last critical once-over in the mirror—still only an inch from perfection, which was as close as it ever got on short notice. The five-o’clock shadow was creeping toward full beard, but he didn’t have time to shave. He stomped out of his quarters, boots hitting the deck with the kind of deliberate thud that made junior officers instinctively step aside in the corridor.

The transporter room was already prepped when he arrived. Four security officers waited—sidearms holstered, expressions serious. The moment they caught sight of his face, they snapped to attention so fast it was almost comical. Elias didn’t acknowledge it; he just gave them a curt nod and kept moving.

The transporter chief handed him the large travel mug he’d requested—black, scalding, strong enough to strip paint. Elias took it without a word, wrapped both hands around the warmth, and took a long, slow pull. The burn down his throat was grounding. Necessary.

He stepped onto the pad, mug still in hand. The security team filed in behind him, forming a loose semicircle—close enough to back him up, far enough to give him room to lead.

Elias glanced back at the chief one last time. The man looked like he was bracing for the fallout of whatever diplomatic incident was about to unfold planetside.

He rolled his eyes—half at the chief, half at the entire situation—and muttered, “Energize.”

The transporter beam took him mid-sip.

The world shimmered, the Arawyn’s clean lines dissolved, and the humid salt air of Lathira IV hit him like a slap.
He materialized on a public pad just outside the resort’s main entrance—sand under his boots, ocean breeze tugging at his uniform, distant crash of waves mixing with the faint smell of charred circuitry drifting from the darkened beachfront grid. The four security officers appeared behind him in a neat line, hands near but not on their sidearms.

A local constable—tall, uniformed in light tropical tan, arms folded—was already waiting, flanked by two deputies. His expression said he’d dealt with Starfleet crews before and wasn’t impressed.

Elias took another deliberate sip of coffee, then lowered the mug.

“Commander Harlan,” he said, voice low, calm, carrying just enough edge to remind everyone he wasn’t here to play nice. “Chief Engineer, USS Arawyn. I understand you have some of my people in custody.”

The constable’s eyes flicked to the mug, then back to Elias’s face—taking in the rumpled hair, the unshaven jaw, the quiet authority that didn’t need volume to land.

“Let’s talk,” Elias added. “Before this turns into paperwork neither of us wants to file.”

He stepped forward, mug still in hand, the security team falling in behind him like shadows.

The constable—broad-shouldered, sun-weathered, badge reading “Lt. M. Kael”—stood with arms crossed on the resort’s dimly lit promenade, the beachfront lights still dark behind him. Flickering emergency lanterns cast long shadows across the sand, and the low hum of backup generators did little to hide his irritation.

“You people,” he said, voice carrying the flat anger of someone who’d spent too many nights cleaning up after off-world crews, “swoop in, break things, throw credits around like it fixes everything, then warp out before the dust settles. My people are still trying to reboot the grid, and half the resort’s in the dark because your engineers thought a public lift needed their… expertise.”

Elias took a slow sip of coffee, letting the man finish. He didn’t flinch at “you people.” He’d heard worse.

“Lieutenant Kael,” he said evenly, lowering the mug. “I’m not here to throw credits or excuses. I’m here because my people caused this mess, and I’m the one who’s going to make it right.”

Kael snorted. “Right? Your people are currently in holding, reeking of beach-bar rum and trying to explain subspace harmonics to my desk sergeant. The grid’s fried—transformers overloaded, three hover-carts totaled, and the resort’s emergency lighting is running on battery packs that weren’t meant to last past sunrise.”

“I know,” Elias replied, voice calm but carrying that low, no-nonsense weight. “And I know you’re the one stuck holding the bag when crews like mine leave. So here’s what I’m offering: I’ve got a sober damage-control team—trained engineers, not the ones who caused this—ready to beam down as soon as you give the word. They’ll work under your supervision, help stabilize the grid, replace damaged components, and get your power back online faster than your local crews can alone. We’ll cover all materials and labor. No charge. No paperwork delays.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“In exchange,” Elias continued, “I’d like my crew released into my custody. They’ll be confined to quarters, and I’ll handle their punishment myself—disciplinary measures, extra duty rotations, whatever fits Starfleet regs and fits the crime. They won’t set foot on your planet again without clearance. You have my word on that.”

He met Kael’s gaze directly, no pleading, no bluster—just the quiet certainty of a man who’d spent decades fixing other people’s mistakes.

“I’m not asking you to let them off,” he added. “I’m asking you to let me take responsibility for them. You get your grid back tonight instead of next week. I get my people out of your holding cell before they say something else stupid. Everyone wins.”

Kael studied him for a long moment, jaw working like he was chewing on the offer.

“Damage-control team,” he repeated, testing the phrase. “Not the drunks who caused this?”

“Not the drunks,” Elias confirmed. “Fully sober, fully qualified, and under my direct orders. They’ll follow your lead, your safety protocols, your timeline. You call the shots on the ground.”

Another beat of silence. The constable glanced at the darkened resort, then back at Elias—taking in the travel mug, the tired-but-steady eyes, the four security officers who hadn’t moved an inch.

“Fine,” Kael said at last, voice grudging but final. “Your sober team gets one chance to prove they’re worth the paperwork. They screw it up, I’m charging the lot of them and filing with Starfleet. You get your people, I get my power back. Deal?”

“Deal,” Elias said without hesitation. He lifted his mug in a small, tired salute. “I’ll have the team down in twenty minutes. And Lieutenant Kael… thank you. For not making this harder than it already is.”

Kael gave a curt nod, already keying his comm to release the prisoners.

Elias turned to his security team. “Get me that damage-control squad. Tell them to bring every tool they can carry and zero attitude. We’re going to work until the lights come back on.”

He took one last pull of coffee, then headed toward the holding area.

Lieutenant Commander Elias Harlan
Chief Engineering Officer
USS Arawyn

 

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