Trajectory Broken

Posted on Fri Jun 27th, 2025 @ 10:18pm by Lieutenant JG Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil

1,558 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Character Backstories
Location: Detention Annex, Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, Earth
Timeline: 5 April 2385, 2045 Hours

He'd counted the seams in the ceiling tiles twice. Fifty-eight total. A few of them crooked, as if whoever laid them had been on a deadline, or possibly, a bender. It was the kind of thing you only noticed when there was nothing else to look at.

Jean-Baptiste sat on the edge of the bunk in Cell Six, elbows to knees, fingers interlaced. The cell block was quiet--too quiet. No other cadets. No guards hovering. Just the occasional sound of a distant door or turbolift. It was like being left behind on a stage after the production had ended and the lights had gone cold.

He'd replayed the incident a dozen times. A chop to the throat. A disarm. A sprint. It all felt instinctual now, like a reflex--but it had cost him. Whatever future he'd built at the Academy, he might have just flushed it down the reclamation chute. There'd been other ways to approach it. He could've tried reasoning with the guard. Explained that he just needed thirty seconds with her. Just thirty. Enough for a kiss and a proper goodbye. But he hadn't. And now here he was.

He wondered what Jacqueline thought, watching him get tackled like that. Did she know it was for her? Did she think he was reckless? Brave? Stupid? Probably all three.

His parents would be worse. His mother would cry--silently, with her whole body. His father wouldn't even raise his voice. Just that awful disappointment behind the eyes. The same one he'd seen once when he came home with a suspension in secondary school. That disillusioned look had haunted him for a year. This would haunt him longer.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Four sets rumbling along that were heavy, precise, and completely out of rhythm.

Jean-Baptiste pushed off the cot, rising to his feet.

They came into view at the far end of the block: Commander Jherin--the Mazarite security liaison he'd met earlier that day, flanked by an unfamiliar admiral in command red, the same security officer JB had struck, and the holding cell's assigned officer, who keyed in a command to lower the forcefield. The hum died with a fizzle.

JB straightened to full attention. Shoulders back and eyes forward.

The admiral stepped into the room first, pausing just inside the threshold. "At ease," he said, tone calm and entirely unreadable.

Jherin followed him in, data PADD in-hand. "Cadet Dorsainvil," he began, tone clipped, "you've committed an unforgivable offense. You struck a superior officer and disobeyed a lawful order. Under standard Starfleet protocol, this would result in your immediate dismissal, a court-martial, and a two-year custodial sentence at the New Zealand facility."

Jean-Baptiste's eyes didn't flicker. "Understood, sir. I'll accept the consequences. I hope I won't be judged too harshly." He paused for half a second before adding softly, "I was following my heart."

The Admiral gave him a dry smile--nearly a smirk. His eyes wandered over to Jherin. "You were right."

JB took a moment to study the man. He looked like the someone who had been carved out of stone and then sanded smooth by years of being in authority. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly parted a little off-center, his beard immaculately trimmed, and his Australian accent gave every word a gauged, easygoing weight--as if he never needed to raise his voice to be heard.

The Admiral turned to JB. "Following your heart," he repeated as if gently weighing something delicate. "Yes, we've been seeing--" he took the data PADD from Jherin and read aloud, "--Cadet Jacqueline Holder. For thirteen months now."

JB's brows lifted, quick but slight. How the hell did they know that?

The salt-and-peppered haired Admiral moved past him and sat on the cell's lone cot like it was an extension of himself. "There will be no record of this incident," he said casually, "if you issue a sincere apology to--" he turned to the guard--"your name, Ensign?"

"Adelman," the guard said, eyes narrowing.

"Go ahead," the Admiral said, waiting for JB.

He turned to the man he'd taken down. "Ensign Adelman," he said, voice low and steady, "I apologize for my actions earlier today. I allowed emotion to override protocol. You were doing your job. I was not. I hope you can accept my apology."

Adelman's jaw twitched. For a second, it seemed like he might say nothing at all.

Jherin turned toward him with a silent look.

Adelman exhaled heavily through his nose. "Apology accepted, Cadet."

"Dismissed," Jherin said.

Ensign Adelman didn't need to be told twice. He exited swiftly.

Turning back to JB, the Admiral threw him a curious look. "Do you remember me?"

JB blinked. "No, sir."

"We've never met. But I know your father. Very well." Almost as an aside, he added, "Ask your parents who introduced them sometime." He stood again, all effortless through his authority. "We've been watching you for some time now, Cadet. About a year or thereabouts. You've got a strong head and a good heart. That's rare."

JB didn't speak. He wasn't sure if this was going to be a second chance or another kind of test.

Jherin piped up. "Straight A's in behavioral psychology, ethics, psychology of command, crisis intervention..."

Smiling again, the Admiral--reading from the PADD, added, "And a degree in Philosophy and Comparative Religion from the Université de Strasbourg."

"Senior Dorm Advisor, Academy boxing finalist two years running--hell of a left hook," the Mazarite commander added, stepping around his superior. They seemed to circle him, peppering him with observations that seemed both flattering and confusing.

JB's eyes flicked from Jherin to the Admiral and then back to Jherin. "I'm sorry, sirs--am I being drummed-out of Starfleet or nominated for a prize?"

The Admiral turned to Jherin with a look of mock-seriousness. "Not afraid of a wry comment in front of a flag officer, either."

They both nodded to each for a long moment before fixing their gaze back on the cadet in the cell. "My name's Lachlan Spyvee," said the Admiral, his tone turning very serious.

"We know your work in counseling is valuable," Spyvee continued. "But in the days ahead--after what happened today on Mars--Starfleet's going to need more than good listeners. We need people who can think on their feet. People who ask questions most wouldn't."

He turned to Jherin, who allowed himself the faintest smirk.

"We're Intelligence," Spyvee said plainly.

JB's stomach gave a wrenching twist. He should've known. Most officers wound up in Intelligence after ten, fifteen years in either security or the protective services of the diplomatic ranks. Not in months. And certainly not like this. What interest could they possibly have in a third-year cadet?

But something had shifted in the world, and maybe all the old rules were being rewritten.

Spyvee watched him with a kind of studied patience that felt far more intimate than the uniform should permit. "With some additional coursework and hands-on training, you could be a critical asset to us," he said. "We'd get you into advanced programs right away--psych operations, counterintelligence, infiltration analysis. But this isn't something you can step away from once you're in. You have until tomorrow morning to decide."

Jean-Baptiste held his breath. Everything still felt like it was moving faster than he could process. He searched their faces for some sign this was a joke or a setup, but there was none of that. "Sir, I... I'm not sure I can make a decision like that overnight."

Spyvee nodded as if he had expected him to say exactly that. "Go home. Talk to your parents. Tell them the Starfleet you signed up for three years ago is gone. Science, exploration, all those bright first-contact dreams--they'll still exist. But they won't be at the heart of what we do anymore. We're circling the wagons now. Defense and stability come first. We need people who can keep this fragile experiment alive. So go to Bainet. Sleep on it."

The Admiral took the PADD from Jherin and handed it directly to JB. "There's a few things on here you should see before you decide." Then he stepped back, turning with the certainty of someone who had never second-guessed a day in his life. Jherin followed, casting one last look back at him that could have either been caution or encouragement.

JB remained for a long moment, feeling the weight of the PADD in his hand but also the weight of something else. The holding area officer cleared his throat, grabbing his attention before jerking his head toward the door.

He stepped out into the hall, clutching the PADD like it might shatter. His mind was a churning tide--Spyvee's words echoing between images of Jacqueline's face and flashes of Mars burning. He crossed the threshold into the open night, the quiet Academy grounds painted in twilight hues. Somewhere about a billion and a half kilometers away, Jacq was probably stepping off her transport at Titan Station, unaware of how violently his course had shifted. Only ten hours had passed since the galaxy flipped on its own head. Now, standing there in the hush of a wounded Federation, JB realized the choice waiting for him wasn't just about his career. It was about whether to align his soul to this "new" Starfleet--or find another path forward entirely.


* * *


Cadet Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
Starfleet Academy
Earth

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