Sitrep

Posted on Thu Sep 25th, 2025 @ 7:21pm by Captain Philippe Auvray & Major Clay McEntyre III & Lieutenant Xalanth & Lieutenant Ryan Keel & Commander Irene Seya
Edited on on Sat Sep 27th, 2025 @ 8:59pm

2,705 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Peril at the Unification Accords
Location: Security Suite, Conference Center, Argentia City, Barisa Prime
Timeline: MD007, 1000 Hours

Captain Philippe Auvray stood at the head of a small operations table, his round figure casting a shadow against the holoscreens that flickered with schematics of perimeter. The lights glinted off his thinning grey hair in irregular flashes, like starlight caught in tarnished silver. He leaned forward, his hands pressed flat, inspecting each detail theatrically: a pompous man used to being observed, to making authority heard.

Lieutenant Commander Torab, a Saurian field analyst with blotchy scales that seemed to shine in the console light like wet stone, stood across from Auvray. Torab's tongue flicked occasionally while he waited for his commander begin.

"Report," Auvray said, his voice clipped, and carrying a trace of a French lilt that made his pomposity soften into something more comical. "All field units, perimeter sensors, Astrea teams--give me the state. And do not omit a single anomaly. I do not care for surprises at this stage."

Torab tapped a series of commands on a small data PADD. "Perimeter grids supplied by the VSD are active and stable. Repulsor fields fully engaged. Surveillance feeds from all key vantage points are operational."

Auvray straightened, smoothing the crease of his tunic. He squinted at the display, nodding slowly. He looked up and slowly scanned the assembled personnel.

At his left sat Commander Irene Seya, iron-backed and watchful, the Vulcan woman who had built Ambassador T’Varel’s security plan stitch-by-stitch before handing the reins to Vulcans, Romulans, Marines, and Starfleet alike. Beyond her loomed the Astrea's marine major--a broad-shouldered Caitian, mane like flax, presence like a wall. Next came the Dragonian, scales the color of rusted iron, eyes set deep and unblinking. The circle closed with Lieutenant Ryan Keel, the Astrea's man for diplomacy, fingers folded, his gaze very intent. They filled the high-seated chairs around the table as if seated for judgment. Auvray alone remained on his feet, because he believed a man looked stronger when standing, even in meetings that weren’t meant to be formal.

He snapped his fingers and pointed to McEntyre. "Majeur," Auvray said, his French accent bleeding through the word. "I would like your situation report, if you don't mind."

Clay glared down through his glasses at the Captain. Did this man just snap his fingers at him like a cat? It sure seemed like it as Clay straightened.

"My marines are deployed according to operational briefings. All major ingresses and egresses are secured and I have roving patrols throughout the conference center. I will be beaming down shortly to assume ground command and coordinate closely with the attaches down there, Captain ."

Auvray gave a little flourish of his hand, as if Clay's words were notes in a song he already knew. "Très bon, Majeur," he said, without looking at the Caitian marine. He picked up a data PADD from the table and began scanning through it as he continued, "But you will forgive me if I say your tone, it lacks... finesse. We are not storming a beach here. We are protecting diplomats." He smiled at his own words, smugly satisfied, adding, "Precision, not thunder."

"I don't see how storming beaches have anything bearing to the mission at hand. My marines are here to keep the peace. Our diplomatic personnel will have the best protection my marines can provide." Clay responded in a stern, professional tone, his Texan coming through as he spoke.

Auvray lowered the PADD with a sigh that seemed to hold the five hundred years' worth of French disappointment.

"Ah, but mon cher Majeur, you prove my point without even knowing it. Always the soldier, chest out, voice like cannon fire. Admirable, yes--but diplomacy requires silk, not steel. One must glide, not march."

The round French captain turned, pivoting neatly toward Xalanth. "Lieutenant," Auvray smiled, meeting the Dragonian's gaze. "Tell me, are your people prepared? Sensors, checkpoints--what is the report?"

"All sensors running, all checkpoints manned with security in light gear, and we have two teams on standby in full combat gear. Better safe than sorry." Xalanth said professionally.

Auvray's fingers tabbed the air toward the Astrea's Dragonian security chief, then drifted back toward Clay as though conducting an orchestra. "Voilà! Parfait! You hear that, Majeur? Crisp. Professional. Efficient. A situation report comme il faut. Not a weather forecast."

His smile meandered back toward Xalanth, tight and without a hint of warmth. "And they said Admiral Hari was right to doubt you. Mon dieu, what a mistake. If only the Admiral could hear you now." He chuckled, a little rasp in his throat, pleased with himself for playing judge and saviour simultaneously.

Then came the snap--sharp, dry, like a fat match being struck. His eyes slid sidelong to Torab. "Note this: our next meeting will not wait until tomorrow. Advance it to sixteen-hundred hours."

Torab's tongue flicked, but he tapped the order into his data PADD without a word.

Auvray smoothed his tunic again, more a tic than performing any sort of flattening of wrinkles. He swung his gaze onto Commander Irene Seya. "And now, Commander Seya, the floor is yours. Tell us, what does your perfection look like this morning? What strings remain in place, what seams remain so tightly stitched? Enlighten us."

Captain," Irene began, bowing her head slightly, providing him the appropriate respect in her salutation.

"For the last fortnight our team has been reviewing the manifests of all vessels coming and going from Prime and Starbase 773 - at least the vessels that we know about. I'll brief the team on that in a moment," she stated the calm stoicism of her Vulcan half coming through. "We have maintained surveillance on an eight kilometer perimeter around the conference site, and we are confident in the more confined surveillance space."

"As for the conference site itself," Irene continued, "Although Astrea's security detail only recently arrived, we have been in communication with the Major and Lieutenant Xalanth, and agreed upon a modified floor plan for the conference that includes blocking certain access points that will give our Ambassadors, Political Leaders, security, and other important members private and secure ways to move about the facility," she explained. "Those access points were modified and blocked off four days ago, and we've been running security sweeps twice each shift."

"We do still need to determine a final list of who will have access to the secure parts of the conference center," she added turning to Captain Auvray. "I thought you might have some input into who might be on that list."

She had worked with this Captain before, and had found him to be difficult at best, often intolerable. But like most dogs, if you gave him a bone to play with he could be pacified for at least a short while.

Auvray's mouth folded into a sly, feline-like smile. He tapped the edge of the PADD against his palm.

"Mais oui," he said finally, his eyes narrowing in mock-seriousness. "Always the Vulcan, building walls upon walls. A fortress of logic. Impeccable, yes, but so very... dull."

He slid the PADD across the table toward her, stopping it neatly at her elbow. His lips curled. "You ask for a list? I shall give you my list. But you must promise me one thing, Commander--do not bury it under twelve more layers of your... how do you say?--security blankets. Sometimes a leader must be seen. Felt. Not hidden away like a trinket in a locked drawer."

The Captain's smile softened slightly, as if he were addressing a favoured nephew. "And you, Monsieur Keel," he said. "Not a soldier, not a sentry--thank the stars. You are here for words, for smiles, for the delicate stitching of egos. Tell me, then: when our Romulan friends brood in corners, when our Vulcan colleagues sigh at our illogic, when--how do you intend to herd this orchestra of cats?"

Placing his hands palm down on the table in front of him, Keel thought through his words carefully. He had heard about Auvray through the grapevine, and hadn't particularly liked what he had heard. He liked him less now that he had spoken to Clay and Xalanth. Auvray felt as slippery as a Rigellian eel. 'Well,' Keel drawled carefully, drawing on his slow accent to assemble his quick thoughts, 'everyone has something they want. Priorities, impulses, egos. All can be played to - even the Vulcans have their own interests that need to be balanced. If Intel's packets, and the diplomatic working groups, have produced the correct information, my team can assist the Diplomatic Corps in conducting this like a Johann Sebastian Bach piece. Quiet conversation here, diplomatic briefing there. Should be as smooth as can be with the players involved.'

"Très élégant, Lieutenant. Très raffiné. But I must warn you, diplomacy is rarely music. It is noise--cacophony, even. You will not always have your harpsichords and violins. Sometimes you will have only drums, badly beaten, and a flute that squeaks."

His hand cut the air, punctuating his words. "But--ah!--if anyone in this room can charm the flute into tune, it must be you, monsieur. Keep your Bach in mind, oui, but be ready for something closer to Stravinsky. Order from chaos. Harmony out of dissonance. That is where we will need you."

He drew himself upright once more, smoothed his tunic in that compulsive way of his, and smiled like a man convinced he had just bestowed both wisdom and wit on an extremely grateful world. His gaze ticked across the faces at the table--measuring the temperature, tasting their silence, already searching for his next performance.

"Questions?"

'Have we gleaned any additional information about our delegations?' Keel asked, leaning forward. 'We're still working with information that's not been refreshed in a few days.'

The Saurian officer who had been hovering at Auvray's side, suddenly piped up. "I can answer that, Lieutenant," he said, his obsidian eyes reflecting the light from the suite. He exchanged a look with the Captain who nodded his permission.

"Aside from the main players," he went on, a slight lisp behind his soft consonants. "The Federation delegation is fairly sizable, though they are assuming the role of facilitators. Then there are smaller groups from other powers in the quadrant: the Cardassians, the Ferengi... even the Tholians have sent a small delegation."

Auvray peeled himself from the table with a flourish. He drifted toward the broad holographic display that hovered like a suspended rainbow of light. Coloured outlines shifted: Federation blue, Vulcan grey, Romulan green, neutral tones for the rest. The Captain clasped his hands behind his back and rocked a little on his heels, savouring the spot on his imaginary stage.

"Bon, bon," he said, cutting across Torab before the Saurian could find his rhythm. "But we must not lose ourselves in lists. Names, faces--these are the true battlegrounds." He tapped the air with a stubby finger, and the hologram swelled to frame a sharp-boned Vulcan woman with eyes like beach glass.

"Ambassador T’Varel," Auvray intoned. His voice carried a hint of reverence, though it was swallowed quickly by nuanced irony. "Cold as a glacier, yes--but underneath? Fire. She holds the key to this unification. Without her, there is nothing but posturing and tea-drinking. With her… perhaps history."

The image shifted, now a Romulan man with thin lips and hair cropped close, his gaze bright with something both restless and severe.

"And this--ah, this is her dance partner. Ambassador V’Lail. He has made himself the darling of the orphans of Romulus, has he not? A banner of hope, mon dieu. He speaks of home, of unity, and people believe in him. Dangerous, because belief can be stronger than quantum torpedoes."

Auvray’s hand sliced downward, the hologram rippling into a third figure: lean, dark-eyed, wearing the rigid posture of someone accustomed to danger.

"Vice Proconsul Rethel," Auvray said, the name falling like sour wine from his tongue. "A Qowat Milat, do not forget. A zealot who wears honesty like armor, but I ask you: who trusts a zealot? They love their blades too much." He gave a little shrug, dismissive, even if his lips twitched in unease.

The last shift of the hologram brought forth a tall Andorian, antennae slightly bowed with age, his face a series of lines carved from care.

"And here, to herd this menagerie, the Federation sends us Ambassador Ikrab." Auvray spread his arms, mock-grand. "Elder, patient, the perfect grandfather. He will say little, but when he does, the room will hold their breath. A rock in the river, n’est-ce pas?”

He let the images hover there, bathing the room in their pale glow. His eyes went sidelong at Torab, daring him to pick up the thread again.

The Saurian blinked, tongue flicking. "Yes… as the Captain says, these four will shape the Accords. The others—the Ferengi, the Cardassians, even the Tholians--they will be present. The fulcrum remains between Vulcan and Romulan hands."

'A formidable assemblage,' Keel said into the silence. 'Ikrab has a long history of thorny negotiations - if anyone can facilitate it, it's him.' He keyed a few terms into his PADD, then clicked his tongue. 'I have to say though ... I'm curious that the Tholians sent a delegation? It doesn't seem like something they would usually be interested in. Do we have any additional data about that?'

Torab nodded, his tongue flicking for a moment before he opened his mouth. "When the Klingon High Council demanded observer status, the Romulans vetoed it outright. Their reasoning was thin, but absolute. And so--predictably--the Tholians have chosen to answer. They have their own quarrel with the Klingons over border space near Ko'lar. By sending a delegation here, they undercut the Klingons' pride. It is not their way to remain absent where another has been excluded."

Auvray hummed, almost as if Torab was playing some musical instrument and hit the exact note he'd hoped to hear. He pinched bridge of his nose in another gesture of theatrical patience and shook his head slowly. "Mais oui, of course. A larger game, always a larger game. And we sit here, shuffling our pawns, pretending we can see the whole board." His index finger flew toward the frozen image of Ambassador Ikrab. "But that one--he sees. His fingers touch the pulse. When the Tholians twitch, when the Klingons roar, he feels the current."

The Captain snapped his fingers again, sharp. "Enough for today. We reconvene at sixteen-hundred, with our colleagues from the VSD and Romulan security. Until then, keep your ears open, your tongues polite. And remember this above all: speak freely to diplomats, argue with Vulcans, wrestle with Marines if you must"--he glanced quickly to Major McEntyre--"but in the presence of Vice Pronconsul Rethel?" Auvray wagged a finger, his French accent growing thicker. "Say nothing you do not wish carved into your own gravestone."

He smiled thinly, like a patch of oil on water. "Dismissed."

---

Captain Philippe Auvray
Senior Starfleet Security Liaison
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth

(portrayed by JB Dorsainvil)

Lt. Commander Irene Seya
Security Liaison
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth


Lt. Commander Torab
Starfleet Security Assistant
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth


Major Clay McEntyre III
Marine Commanding Officer
USS Astrea


Lieutenant Xalanth
Chief Security Officer
USS Astrea


Lieutenant Ryan Keel
Chief Diplomatic Officer
USS Astrea

 

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