The Long Way Around Part 2
Posted on 01 Feb 2026 @ 6:40am by Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney
1,171 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Lathira Shoreleave
Location: USS Cairo, Observation Deck / Forward Lounge
Timeline: 2426.01.31
TIME: 0800 Hours (Ship's Time)
The USS Cairo dropped out of warp.
The transition was smooth, stars snapping back into hard, stationary points of light. The vibration in the deck plates ceased, replaced by the subsonic, comforting thrum of the impulse drive. Grayson felt the ship settle into her new rhythm and knew, without checking a panel, that they'd arrived.
He stood at the panoramic viewport of the observation lounge, dressed now in full uniform: the mustard-and-black tactical heavy, zipped tight, the high collar framing his jaw. His rank pips gleamed silver. He held a mug of black coffee, real beans, hand-ground, a luxury he allowed himself on travel days. The coffee was strong enough to strip paint. He drank it without sugar, without cream, the way his mother had taught him when he was fourteen and sneaking into her engineering office to watch her work.
He looked out at the Lathira System.
It was, objectively, beautiful.
Lathira IV hung in the void like a polished gemstone, deep cerulean blue swirled with gold-tinged clouds. The continents were green and tawny-brown, without the harsh gray scars of heavy industrialization. No orbital defense platforms bristling with weapons. No debris fields. Just a clean, shimmering orbital lattice managing the traffic of civilian transports.
Grayson frowned.
"It's incredible, isn't it, Sir?"
He turned. Standing a few feet away, clutching a PADD to her chest like a shield, was Ensign Lordes Vasquez.
Vasquez was young. An Operations officer on the Cairo, fresh out of the Academy, with eyes that still looked at the stars and saw wonder instead of threat vectors. She'd been shadowing the senior officers all week, eager to learn, asking questions that reminded Grayson of his youngest sister, Bríana, at the Academy.
Grayson smiled at her. It was a gentle expression, softening the severity of his face. "It's certainly... tidy," he agreed, taking a sip of coffee. "Not a lot of worlds look that clean from orbit, Ensign."
"I read the file," Vasquez said, stepping closer to the window. "They say Kestrel Reach has zero violent crime. The terraforming is perfectly balanced. It's... It's like paradise."
Grayson turned back to the window. He swirled the coffee in his mug, watching the liquid catch the light.
"Paradise," he mused. "You know the problem with paradise, Vasquez?"
"Sir?"
"It makes people soft," Grayson said. His voice wasn't harsh, just matter-of-fact. "When the weather's always perfect, you forget how to build a roof. When the neighbors are always friendly, you forget to lock the door. And when you forget to lock the door..."
He let the sentence hang.
Vasquez frowned. "You think something's wrong down there?"
"I think something's always wrong," Grayson said. "The question is whether it's wrong enough to matter."
He pointed a thick finger at the orbital traffic patterns.
"Look there," he said. "The civilian freighters."
Vasquez squinted. "Sector 4?"
"Sector 4. See how they're bunching? They're deviating from standard approach vectors by three degrees. They're giving the high-orbit anchorage a wide berth."
"Maybe... traffic control protocols?"
"Maybe," Grayson allowed. "Or maybe they're nervous. Locals know when the weather's changing before the sensors do. If the grain haulers are skittish, there's usually a reason."
Vasquez looked at him, her brow furrowed. "Do you ever just... enjoy the view, Commander?"
Grayson chuckled. "I am enjoying it, Ensign. I enjoy knowing where the exits are."
He scanned the blackness beyond the planet, looking for something specific. His eyes, sharp, trained by years of staring at tactical displays, found it almost immediately.
"There," he whispered.
"Sir?"
"My ride."
The USS Arawyn drifted into view from behind the planet's shadow.
She was magnificent.
A Sovereign-class starship, sleek and elongated, a sword floating in the void. Compared to the boxy, utilitarian bulk of the Cairo, the Arawyn looked lethal. Her nacelles glowed with potent, restrained power. Her hull plating caught the light of the Lathiran star, gleaming white and gray.
She was too big for this system. She looked like a wolf circling a koi pond.
Grayson felt that familiar spark in his chest, the mix of adrenaline and responsibility that defined his life. He wasn't just looking at a ship. He was looking at his new battery. His new responsibility. His new crew.
"She's beautiful," Vasquez breathed.
"She's a Sovereign," Grayson corrected gently. "She's a heavy explorer with teeth. And she's parked in orbit of a pacifist colony."
He finished his coffee in one long swallow and set the mug on the railing.
"Why?" Vasquez asked. "If it's so peaceful down there?"
Grayson adjusted his cuffs. He drummed his fingers on his holster. Thrum-thrum-tap.
"Because, Ensign," Grayson said, his voice dropping to that warm, confident register that made crews follow him into fire, "peace is a byproduct of security. The Arawyn isn't there to disturb the paradise. She's there to ensure the walls remain strong."
He picked up his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at Vasquez and winked.
"And because someone has to keep the neighbors honest. Good luck with your posting, Vasquez. Keep your eyes open."
"Yes, Sir. Good luck on the Arawyn."
Grayson turned and marched toward the transporter room, the heavy grace of his stride echoing on the deck plates. He whistled as he went, "The Girl from Ipanema," each note perfectly in place, the melody floating down the corridor as if conjured from memory and muscle.
He was ready.
The vacation was over.
The transporter beam released him, and Grayson McKinney materialized aboard the USS Arawyn with his duffel in one hand and a grin on his face.
The transporter chief, a tall Andorian with antennae that twitched in polite acknowledgment, nodded. "Welcome aboard, Commander. Captain Corbin sends her compliments and requests you report to the bridge at your earliest convenience."
"'Earliest convenience,'" Grayson repeated, stepping off the pad. "That's captain-speak for 'five minutes ago,' isn't it?"
The Andorian's antennae twitched again. "I would not presume to translate, Sir."
Grayson laughed. "Smart man. Where do I stow my gear?"
"Deck 2, Section 7, Quarters 14. Your personal effects were beamed aboard this morning."
"Appreciated, Chief."
Grayson stepped into the corridor and stopped.
The Arawyn smelled different. Cleaner. Sharper. The air carried the electric tang of new EPS conduits, the ozone bite of a ship fresh from refit. The deck plates hummed with quiet power, the kind built for ships that hit harder than they looked.
Grayson closed his eyes and just listened.
The hum of the warp core, the faint, rhythmic cycling of the life support systems. The almost imperceptible vibration of the impulse engines on standby. He felt the ship settle into his bones, the way he always did when he stepped aboard a new posting.
There's always a move left on the board, he thought. Let's see what this one's got.
He opened his eyes, adjusted his duffel, and headed for the turbolift.
The Arawyn was waiting.
So was the future.
And Grayson McKinney was ready for both.
End Log
Lt.Commander Grayson McKinney
Chief Tactical Officer
USS Arawyn
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