Parade Rest

Posted on Wed Jun 25th, 2025 @ 3:20am by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil

1,533 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: 5 April 2385

The parade grounds sprawled like a green expanse beneath a cloudless sky. Rows of chairs were aligned with geometric precision and the breeze off the bay carried hints of eucalyptus and salt. Holo drones floated in synchrony overhead as they adjusted the three enormous display screens that hovered above the main stage. Their light flickering across the freshly-cut grass.

Jean-Baptiste moved quickly along the gravel path that ringed the field, his dress shoes crunching in rhythm. He was now dressed in full uniform, cadet red-and-blacks that were expertly creased. A fine sheen of sweat clung to this inside of his collar from rushing. The sun was already warming the academy grounds to a comfortable tepidity, and songbirds in the pines above were singing their songs--not too shabby for an April day in San Francisco.

Ahead, two of Starfleet's events staff--both wearing standard-issue visors and the frazzled expressions of logistical overreach--were gesturing toward a layout schematic projected in mid-air.

"Delta complex enters from south-east stair," one was saying. "One-Gamma and One-Alpha will queue behind Fourth Division, and your lead advisors should already have the seating matrix."

JB raised a hand to show he was present and stepped close enough to catch the last of the rundown. The rest was entirely rote: parade order, anthem timings, an announcement about a last-minute change to the Council speaker. It was the kind of ceremony update that never mattered unless you got it wrong. Once dismissed, JB took a measured breath and turned to leave, only to spot a tall figure in his periphery jogging lightly to catch up.

"Dorsainvil!" a voice called. "Wait up!"

Krišjānis Žiemelis--Kris to his friends--was as unmistakable as ever: blond, broad-shouldered, and grinning like someone who'd never experienced a bad night's sleep in his life. His uniform was tidy and he had the composure of a marble statue. JB knew Kris well enough that with the Latvian cadet's charisma, he could talk a Vulcan into performing karaoke.

"You get all that?" Kris asked, falling into step beside JB.

"More or less," Jean-Baptiste replied. "They changed up the entry point for Gamma again. You're still second row left?"

"Yep. Just behind Diplomatic Sciences. Which means I'll be staring at the backs of people who all think I'm going into Intelligence." He gave JB a quick glance. "You still thinking about using the Command Psych project to shadow someone? Or will you just make it all up the night before again?"

JB offered a dry smile. "I haven't decided yet. Might ask Jacq to let me trail her for a day, but that could backfire if I psychoanalyze her snacking habits."

Kris laughed. "Don't do that, my friend. You might die in your sleep."

They passed under a shaded walkway lined with juvenile cypresses, the red brick of the dormitory complexes peeking in between. Kris was still chatting amiably when his voice took on a slight shift into uncertainty.

"So, actually, I've got a favour to ask."

Jean-Baptiste tilted his head. "Go on."

"I've been thinking of asking someone to the Spring Formal. Scottlyn Conacher."

JB let out a tiny snort. "Jacq's roommate?"

"Yea. I figured you might be able to... I don't know, put in a word? I don't need a wingman or antyhing--unless she's into those--but maybe you could set up a casual meet. Something easygoing that doesn't result in me putting my foot in my mouth."

Jean-Baptiste raised an eyebrow. "You boxed my teeth in last week and now you're scared of a third-year linguistics major?"

"That was just sport. This is all-out war."

"I'll talk to Jacq," JB said, clapping him on the back. "No promises."

"Thanks. And hey--good luck at the ceremony." Kris winked. "Don't let me catch you nodding off during the Council speech."

As the blond cadet veered off toward One-Gamma, the tone of the campus seemed to change. It wasn't immediate. More like the change in air pressure before a storm. Subtle, and then eventually impossible to ignore. Jean-Baptiste felt it before he saw it: cadets moving with greater urgency, instructors pulling up holo PADDs mid-conversation to react to something important. The entire Academy seemed suddenly thinned by tension.

He adjusted course toward his own dorm, following a small knot of cadets whispering low and fast.

The common room was packed.

Dozens of cadets--some in half-uniform, some still in civvies--stood shoulder-to-shoulder in stunned silence. The holoscreen at the far wall showed a view of Mars from high orbit, but the feed was stuttering and fractured. Fire bloomed across the curve of the red planet, massive plumes spiraling up from the surface. Two ships swung into view, unloading torpedoes on Utopia Planitia Ship Yards. Even without sound, the footage was sickening. Mars seemed completely and utterly defenseless. Debris from orbit was already falling into the planet's atmosphere and burning up.

Someone whispered, "Those were the orbital yards..."

Another added," That was the drydock array. The whole things's gone."

Cadet Alvarez, resting his head on a table, appeared dazed. "I've never seen those ships before. Were they Jem'Hadar?"

"Those weren't Jem'Hadar ships, Alvie," someone replied.

Jean-Baptiste knew exactly what they were--small Starfleet vessels that formed part of a defense force for the Sol System. But why had they suddenly attacked Mars? None of it made sense.

There was a collective, suspended disbelief in the room. The kind that came before grief had found the right place to settle. Cadets gripped each other's arms, covered mouths, and stared without blinking. JB stood at the back for just a second--long enough to get the gist of what this was. It was a strike on the Federation--at the very heart of the Federation. It was a watershed moment for each Federation citizen--an attack on Mars and its orbiting facilities.

He glanced around at the faces in the room. Some were on the verge of tears, some were showing their anger through balled fists and gritted teeth. Some were overcome by apathy, as if distancing themselves from such a tragic event somehow spared them from feeling anything. There was one emotion JB could almost smell that all them shared: fear. He knew it was his duty to shut it all down before it grew and overtook them.

He moved through the crowd like a wedge, shouldering his way to the console and shutting the display off.

Murmurs began to swell in protest.

"Back to your quarters," JB said. "Now."

A few stared at him, incredulous.

"What? You can't just--"

"Cadet Regulation Six-Nine Bravo," he cut in. "All cadets are expected to maintain readiness in the event of crisis, same as any enlisted officer. That means returning to your rooms and awaiting orders. Not speculating in the common room."

"Come on, JB," someone said. "We're just cadets. What are we supposed to do--commandeer our training ships and stop the attacks ourselves?"

Before Jean-Baptiste could reply, a new voice cut through the air.

"You're supposed to follow orders."

A Mazarite officer stepped into view--tall and severe. Broad-chested and resolute, the man had the distinctive folded skin flaps above his ears and hair swept-back coming to a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Three full pips on his collar glinted in the common room lighting, and his voice was deep and piquing.

"Cadet Dorsainvil is correct. Return to your rooms. All external communications are being restricted until further notice. Federation protocol now applies. That includes you."

The room broke apart in stages, cadets moving with reluctance but also a dawning awareness that whatever had happened, this was not a drill.

JB turned to the officer, who extended a hand.

"Commander Jherin. Special Security Liaison."

"Cadet Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil. Senior Dorm Advisor."

"I know."

"Commander, no offense but, shouldn't our provost be handling this situation?"

"Your provost has been summoned to an emergency meeting. Starfleet Security is now in control of the Academy grounds."

They walked side by side down the corridor, cadets parting quietly around them.

"Back in the common room--you handled that well," Jherin said. "Not a lot of fourth-years could've turned that room."

"I didn't turn it," JB replied. "They just didn't know what else to do."

The Mazarite commander gave a slow nod. "Mars is on fire, Cadet."

JB stopped. "What's really happening, sir?"

Jherin slowed too. He looked over him again with the same calm, calculating air of someone placing a final piece on a board. He tapped a long finger against JB's chest.

"Every Federation-owned facility in this quadrant is on lockdown. That includes the Academy. You're sealed in until we get orders."

JB's eyes narrowed. "The Martian Defense Net didn't react to the attack. And those ships that were attacking--they were ours."

Jherin's expression didn't change but something in his posture seemed to shift slightly.

"Interesting observation," he said, squinting his eyes slightly as if doing so might yield something about the Haitian cadet he couldn't see.

Before JB could push further, the commander raised a hand to the panel beside his door. The lock chirped once.

"Stay put. We'll come for you."

The door sealed shut behind him.

And outside, JB knew the birds were still singing.


* * *

Cadet Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Psychology & Counseling Major
Starfleet Academy
Earth

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