The Last Door on Earth, Part 2

Posted on Thu Jun 5th, 2025 @ 1:16pm by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil

2,211 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: 6 Weeks Ago

The door chimed.

Jean-Baptiste looked up from folding his last uniform. He hadn't expected visitors--what few people he knew in San Francisco had long since learned that he rarely entertained, and even fewer might dare make an unannounced call this late in the day.

He stepped over to the door panel and tapped it once revealing a fish-eye view of a Tellarite standing in the corridor.

"Commander Birzruk," came the unmistakable rumble of the Tellarite's voice, not as gruff or as deep over the comm. "Open the door before I reconsider this entire detour."

JB blinked, briefly amused by the brusque honesty. Then he opened the door.

The Tellarite stood exactly as he had that morning--shoulders squared, uniform somewhat loose around the waist. A faint scent of spiced meat lingered in his wake. He carried a data PADD in one hairy, thick-fingered hand while he looked around the room with the scrutinizing eye of someone who measured value in functionality--not aesthetics.

"Evening, Commander," JB said, stepping aside.

Birzruk grunted as he entered, pausing just long enough to glance around. The quarters were stark with half-packed storage bins stacked against the far well and bed stripped bare. The only items not yet packed were a brass crucifix, a worn copy of L'Éthique de la Liberté, and an old broken holo-frame that hadn't lit-up in years. Just some lingering personal effects. Most everything else was already sealed, waiting for the morning transport to long-term storage.

"I didn't expect to see you again, "JB said, offering a seat. "Can I get you anything?"

Birzruk waved a thick hand. "No. Quite frankly, I shouldn't be here at all."

He held out the data PADD.

JB took it but didn't look down yet.

"Spyvee's reach is long. Longer than even I realized." Birzruk scratched absently at a tusk in irritation. "Whatever goodwill you earned in the past evaporated the second he walked into my office. He pulled my clearances on six active projects thirty minutes after our meeting. Then he threatened to reassign me to piracy analysis in the Orion sector if I so much as kept your name on file."

"I see," JB replied, feeling a little responsible.

"No, you don't. Not fully." Birzruk jabbed a stubby finger toward the data PADD. "I cannot offer you the posting anymore."

JB put up a hand. "I know."

"But I have a friend at Starbase 718. Here name's Ferivar--Lieutenant Commander Ferivar. She owes me two favours, and I've just spent one."

Jean-Baptiste raised an eyebrow slightly. "Why do this for me?"

Birzruk rolled his eyes. "Because I detest bullies. Because Intelligence has no business gatekeeping the moral integrity of a dying empire." The Tellarite paused and his tone shifted. "And because I know your work and I know you're too damned sharp to be wasted as a civilian or plodding through the quadrant in some patrol vessel."

JB nodded solemnly. "Thank you," he almost whispered.

"I read your file," the Tellarite said with a hint of sadness. "Your real file. And let me tell you something: you're not the first fresh-faced officer to be sucked-in by Spyvee and then spit-out."

JB sighed and rubbed his eyes. "He's been a family friend since I was a kid. That man plucked me out of the academy in my third year with promises to fast-track my career."

"You weren't the first."

"And, Lieutenant," Birzruk said, "you won't be the last... sadly."

JB finally looked down at the PADD. It was a short file simply indicating Ferivar's name and location on a Federation starbase close to Romulan territory.

Starbase 718. Practically on the edge of Federation space. The final light before the dark.

"Ferivar will be expecting your arrival within ten days," Birzruk said. "I had to fudge the timing a bit to get around the block on your personnel file. Don't ask how. Just go. Quickly and quietly."

JB nodded. "I appreciate it."

"You shouldn't." Birzruk moved toward the door. "This makes you a liability. Spyvee won't forget that."

"I'm counting on it."

The Tellarite paused. For a moment, the habitual bluster softened. "You'll be wasted on the frontier," Birzruk said. "But maybe that's the point."

He left without another word.

Later, long after the last light had dimmed across San Francisco Bay, Jean-Baptiste found himself standing in silence at the window, watching the slow blink of signal beacons along the upper towers of Starfleet Command. His duffel was packed and ready.

Something continued to pull at him. Something unfinished.

He picked up his old civilian coat from the hook by the door and slipped it on before leaving.

* * *

Location: Bainet, Haiti, Earth
Timeline: 2310 Hours


The breeze in Bainet smelled of sea salt and hot earth. Thick and close, like being in the embrace of an old friend. Night had fallen, and the humidity clung to everything, dense and slow-moving. The air was alive with frogsong in the hills and the rattle of palm fronds shifting against their weight. It was the kind of night that settled in your bones and made no apologies.

Inside a modest, two-story home tucked away at the end of a worn hillside path, Pierre-Henri Dorsainvil sat at the dining room table, elbows resting on the polished wood surface, his thin-framed antiquated glasses perched low on his nose. A large digital display projected the day's crossword in low amber light in front of him, half-completed and peppered with corrections. A ceramic mug sat near his right hand, steam curling from the thick surface of akasan.

He muttered something in Creole under his breath as he squinted at a clue, tapped a word in place, then reconsidered and deleted it entirely.

The transporter chime sounded just as he reached again for his drink.

A flicker of energy, and then: "Papa."

Pierre-Henri turned.

There, just beyond the small sitting area, stood his son--his frame leaner than he'd prefer, dressed in civilian attire that still couldn't completely hide the precise posture Starfleet beat into its officers. His voice was softer tonight. Tired but familiar.

Pierre-Henri rose from his chair with a quiet grunt and crossed the room, arms outstretched. His sixty-seven year old body garbed in a purple-and-silver robe of local design, shuffled closer to his son and embraced him tightly. He kissed him on the forehead and pulled back to look at Jean-Baptiste properly.

"Ti nonm, ou pa t menm di mwen ou t'ap vini." (Little man, you didn't even tell me you were coming.)

"I had to stop by," JB said. "Sorry for the late hour."

Pierre-Henri waved away the apology and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let me pour your something. You still like akasan, oui? Or has Starfleet taught you to replace all joy with ration bars replicated espresso?"

JB managed a small, grateful smile. "Akasan sounds perfect, papa."

Pierre-Henri moved into the small kitchen nook, still speaking over his shoulder. "Your mother's in Paris. Visiting Angeline and the twins. She won't be back until Sunday. But she'll be furious that you came while she was away."

"I'll call her in a few days. Once I'm settled."

His father paused at that, perhaps a moment too long, then returned with a fresh mug and handed it over. "You still like it with extra honey, yes?"

Jean-Baptiste nodded and took a seat at the table across from his father. The soft light from the crossword cast a gentle glow on Pierre-Henri's weathered face--creased with age, too many years of bureaucratic patience etched into sharp lines at the corners of his eyes.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"I'm fine, papa." JB examined the half-finished crossword and smiled. "Still doing these?"

Pierre-Henri waved an open hand at the display. "It's what keeps me sharp, ti nonm." He smirked at his son.

They sat for a moment in the comfortable quiet. Crickets sang outside. Somewhere across the hillside, a neighbour's dog barked.

"I wanted to tell you something," JB said after a deep sip of the hot cornmeal beverage.

Pierre-Henri looked up. "You're not in trouble, are you?"

"No." He paused. "Not... exactly."

A brow lifted over his father's glasses.

"I've left Starfleet Intelligence."

The older man blinked. "You resigned?"

"I'm transferring out. I won't be in that department anymore."

"But why, Jean-Ba?"

JB looked down at his drink. The steam had begun to thin but the mug was still quite hot. "It was time."

"Your career was just beginning. I assumed you'd stay at Command, or at the very least somewhere within the core worlds. This isn't just a change of division, is it?"

"I'm headed to the frontier," JB said. "I don't have exact orders as of yet but the transfer to Starbase 718 has been approved."

Pierre-Henri was quiet. His gaze didn't falter, but something behind it dimmed slightly. Not quite disappointment but something close. A recalibration--a recognition that whatever map he'd kept close to his heart for his son's future would have to be redrawn.

"I don't understand," he said at last. "Lachlan spoke very highly of you. He said you were indispensable."

JB's grip tightened slightly around the mug, nearly scorching the palm of his hand.

"Please don't contact him."

Pierre-Henri blinked. "Eskize m?" (Pardon me?")

"Spyvee, papa. Don't call him. Don't try to intervene."

His father leaned back in his chair. The lines across his face deepened.

"I've known Lachlan for over thirty years, Jean-Ba. He's always had your best interests in mind."

JB exhaled slowly, unsure of how he could ever explain to his father what a destructive, egotistical man Admiral Spyvee truly was. But he knew there would be no way to qualify that opinion without divulging classified information and even he could not betray an oath. "Has he?"

A moment passed. The silence between them stretched, filled not with tension but something a lot more fragile. Grief, maybe. Regret for words that just couldn't be spoken.

"I'd tell you everything if I could," JB said. "But I can't."

Pierre-Henri studied his son. "Whatever happened, you don't have to carry it alone, ti nonm."

"I know," JB replied. "But I do. I have to find a new path. C'est tout." (That's all.)

He looked at his son for a long while. Then he gave a slow--barely perceptible--nod.

"I always thought you'd be nearby," Pierre-Henri said softly. "Earth. Luna. Maybe Vulcan. Some place where your mother and I could visit, share a meal now and then." He grinned at his son before adding, "Argue about politics in person."

"So did I," JB said with a weak smile. "But life takes you places you can't always plan for."

His father looked away to the open window where the night wind stirred the curtains slightly. The bioluminescent vines in the garden pulsed a faintly teal colour that created an eerie glow through the window.

"When do you depart?"

JB took another sip of his akasan. "In the morning. Zero five hundred."

Pierre-Henri said nothing for a long time, allowing the silence to creep around them. "Your mother will be upset. But I'll explain it to her. We can't be foolish enough to believe you would remain behind a desk forever."

But remaining on Earth and behind a desk was all JB really wanted--he had admitted this to himself before. Once he realized he had a knack for working in intelligence, he couldn't imagine serving anywhere else. For a long time, he thought exploration and deep space assignments were postings for the typical adventure-seeker. Besides, he couldn't picture himself living on a starship or starbase in some far-flung region of space. No, he needed to see a sun rising and setting. Feel fresh air on his face.

Two mosquitoes buzzed softly above them--attracted by the glow of the crossword display.

"Sojourn," Jean-Baptiste said suddenly.

"Kisa?" (What?")

JB pointed to a clue on his father's crossword display. "Nine across. 'A short-lived adventure in a foreign place.'" He pointed to the unmarked spaces. Sojourn."

Pierre-Henri grinned at his son. "So it is!" He tapped in the response and with a satisfied grunt, turned his attention to the next clue before shaking his head in defeat once more.

Pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, he regarded his son. "It's late, Jean-Ba. Shouldn't you be turning in early for that morning transport?"

JB looked to his father and held his gaze for a long moment. "I thought I would visit with you a little longer."

Pierre-Henri nodded, his mouth turning into a big smile. He was genuinely proud of his son regardless of whatever trouble had caused his career to derail. "Dakò," he replied contentedly.

JB shook his head. "Papa, when are you going to have your eyes corrected?"

"Eh, I don't need any eye correction. I love these glasses." He winked at Jean-Baptiste before adding, "They make me look chic."

Both men burst into laughter.

"Let's look at the next clue," JB suggested.

They sat for a while longer, sipping their drinks, collaborating on the crossword puzzle.

Outside, the night deepened. Far across the sea, a transport beacon blinked red against a blackening horizon.

* * *

Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil

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