Extinguish, Part II
Posted on Tue May 19th, 2026 @ 2:26am by Commander Kytolos Sh'reyva
2,027 words; about a 10 minute read
Mission:
Lines in the Vacuum
Location: Qo'noS
Timeline: 2168
The beeping continued after the dream had gone to black.
For several seconds, Kytolos could not separate one reality from the other. The sound threaded through the darkness with the same marked insistence as a wonky proximity alarm, and he woke with every muscle in his body tensed and braced for impact. His hand reached out and struck empty bedding where a console might have--should have--been. The motion sent pain through his shoulder all the way down into his wrist.
He drew in a breath that was sharp and hard, and which also hurt.
The chamber around him remained dark except for the dim orange glow leaking in beneath the door from the corridor beyond. Strangely, Klingon architecture seemed to prefer comfort via shadow. Walls rose from black stone that were polished to a matte finish and the heavy ceiling beams overhead appeared less constructed and more carved from something natural.
The beeping continued.
Kytolos pushed himself upright. Sweat that had pooled in places across his chest and stomach now formed tiny rivers and through the pull of gravity, spilled silently onto the bed. The room was oppressively warm and the sheets that had twisted around his legs during sleep, were damp and heavy now. He pulled them aside with impatient irritation and sat motionless on the edge of the bed while the last remnants of the dream slowly fell away from him.
For one strange instant, he still still felt the deck of the Vorchal beneath his feet.
The sensation passed only after he reached down and pressed his palm flat against the stone floor beside the bed. It was warm and solid, proof enough that he was not aboard any starship.
This was Qo'noS. Not a bridge and certainly not an escape pod. Qo'noS.
Leaning forward, he activated the small lamp beside the bed. It's amber glow spread throughout the chamber, touching the edges of sparse furniture and his clothing that now hung over the back of a chair. The light settled unevenly across the room but the objects within it threw ghastly shadows onto the far wall and ceiling.
One corner remained darker than the others despite standing in almost plain view of the lamp, and for the briefest of moments Kytolos thought he saw the outline of someone standing there beside the wardrobe.
The impression vanished as quickly as he perceived it.
He rubbed a hand across his face in a slow motion.
"Enough," he muttered aloud.
His own voice sounded unfamiliar to him after the dream. It sounded rougher and older.
The chain around his neck caught for a moment against the movement of his hand. He glanced downward. The tiny metallic links rested gently against his damp, blue skin. Tirasha had given it to him during their second winter together, long before command, before the Romulan War had hollowed-out the years into their own separate compartments he no longer knew how to move between. He had once removed it during tactical exercises aboard the Vorchal after an uppity junior officer remarked that was in violation of Imperial Guard uniform presentation standards.
Three days later he put it back on and swore never to remove it again. No one had commented on it since.
The beeping persisted.
Kytolos reached for the mug resting beside the lamp. His hand trembled ever so slightly before he closed his fingers around it properly. The water inside had gone warm in the heat of the room, carrying the metallic taste of the city's filtration systems. He drank anyway, until the dryness in his throat receded enough to return his thoughts to the waking world.
Outside, somehwere far below in the Southern part of the First City, he could hear distant Klingon voices carrying through the night air. Laughter followed by shouting. Then silence once again.
His portable workstation had been left open at the far end of the room on an old wooden desk. Something on its screen flashed impatiently.
Kytolos remained seated for a few moments more before finally deciding to rise. He crossed the room barefoot, the stone floor warm against the soles of his feet.
As he approached the desk, he could see the workstation's display blinking a pale blue.
Seating himself, he read the words on the screen:
Incoming subspace transmission: Andoria.
He exhaled through his nose and sat heavily into the matching wooden chair, his muscles and bones aching.
"Of course," he murmured.
He activated the channel.
General Gevolas appeared immediately, crisp even through the subspace compression. Her silver rank markings glinted in the cool light of her office. Unlike most senior officers in the Imperial Guard, Gevolas wore her authority as though it amused her. She did so with the confidence of someone who figured everyone around her would adjust themselves to her, and not the other way around.
Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw him sitting there half-dressed and visibly exhausted.
"Well," she said, "you look terrible."
Kytolos leaned forward. "You contacted me in the middle of the night."
She seemed almost to smirk at the comment.
"Did I? I hadn't noticed the hour there." The lie lasted exactly long enough for the veneer of politeness around it to burn away. "I was only trying to spare you breakfast."
"I've survived Klingon food before."
"Yes," Gevolas replied. "Though I don't think you wish for survival to become your sole identity, Commander."
He almost smiled despite himself.
Gevolas glanced downward momentarily, reviewing something in front of her but off-screen.
"I'm sorry to say the Klingons have rejected the Corvellens' addendum," she said. "Federation delegates are preparing to withdraw by tomorrow evening."
"That was always the likely outcome, General."
"Indeed. Though the humans insist on remaining optimistic."
Kytolos reached for another cup of water he had forgotten on the desk the day previous, taking a small sip.
"And the Andorian delegation?"
"Most are leaving with the Federation contingent." Gevolas folded her hands methodically in front of her. "A few intend to remain behind and pursue bilateral negotiations directly."
Kytolos stared at her.
"Why bother?"
She seemed to almost shrug. "You know how diplomats can be: they mistake stubbornness for strategy."
He felt gas making its way upward along his esophagus and stifled a belch.
"The Klingons want concessions without any reciprocity."
"Of course they do," Gevolas replied, nodding.
"They'll gain nothing here."
"Probably not."
A pregnant silence descended between them and nothing about it felt awkward. They were both familiar with each other going back nearly forty years. The difference being how Gevolas had made a name for herself while commanding the Ruegalik while Kytolos had simply followed orders during the Romulan War. The familiarity came from years of arguments and the shared ability to recognize what the other would say before words were even uttered.
Gevolas seemed to be sizing him up.
"You disapprove."
"I think it's a waste of time."
"That," she said, "Is why you're serving as an advisor to the delegation rather than participating in the negotiations yourself."
Kytolos made a sound that seemed caught between a chortle and a sigh. "Until now, I thought this assignment was simply punishment. Now I know it's abject cruelty and that you're enjoying seeing me twist."
"No," Gevolas replied quickly. "Though I do enjoy watching you endure it."
Outside the tall, narrow window beside the desk, lightning flickered distantly to the east, illuminating the room in cold white for an instant. Neither of them acknowledged it.
She tilted her head slightly and ventured: "You'd rather be elsewhere."
He looked away from the screen and said nothing. Of course, they both knew exactly where he wished to be: back in the command chair of an Andorian ship.
"You know damned well where I want to be. Where I should be."
The General's expression changed very little, but something in her posture seemed to lose a few degrees of its previous edge.
"The Guard entrusted you with a command," he said quietly. "Andorian commanders do not separate themselves from the fate of their vessels. You know that."
"I know the doctrine, Gevolas." He forewent any formality or rank, making it clear to her how open the wound remained.
"You know the culture behind it." Her voice seemed to harden once again, though it did not contain any cruelty. "A commander who loses a ship rarely receives another. Most retire before they're told to."
Kytolos said nothing. Because she was correct.
The Imperial Guard had always preferred dignified disappearances to visible failures. Officers whose ships were destroyed--regardless of the circumstances--often found themselves quietly reassigned to administrative posts until pride accomplished what official reprimand did not. Retirement followed. A focus on personal endeavours and family became a focus in the life of an ex-commanding officer.
Kytolos had chosen to remain and it had nothing to do with possessing a greater resilience than those officers. It simply came down to having nowhere else to go.
Tirasha had been dead fifteen years now. His son now wore a Starfleet uniform. His daughter now, too. Both had abandoned the Guard despite generations of service behind the Sh'reyva name, and both had drifted so far from him over the years that, if asked, he would be unable to name the vessels where they currently serve.
Another flash of lightning lit the room, although thunder seemed to be completely absent.
"Why do you remain in service?" she asked, watching him carefully.
He had stopped breathing for a few seconds at the question and silently hoped she hadn't noticed.
"Why," he replied after a moment, "do you contact me in the middle of the night to tell me something I would have learned in the morning?"
Her mouth turned into a small grin.
"I told you already," she said playfully. "To spare you another Klingon breakfast. And to offer you your next assignment--if you want it."
Kytolos closed his eyes in annoyance. Another assignment. Another advisory role. Perhaps another ceremonial posting where he would sit in rooms with stuffy Andorian diplomats and be patted on the head when he might offer input. All while younger officers commanded ships he could practically fly blindfolded.
"Where this time?" he asked. "Earth? Rigel? Denobula?" His voice thinned a little with fatigue. "Or have you finally decided I belong behind a desk across the hall from you?"
Gevolas leaned back in her chair.
"No," she said. "If I intended punishment, I'd leave you exactly where you are."
That comment earned a slight twitch of amusement from him.
It was then that Gevolas' expression grew more serious.
"The Guard is short on experienced officers," she said. "Too many younger Andorians are transferring into Starfleet service. Seven new ships are scheduled for commissioning over the next several years and personnel projections are depressing to say the least."
Kytolos listened without interruption.
"And," she continued, "there are those within the Guard who believe the Yenaris Incident was handled... dishonestly."
He lifted his eyes to hers and she held his gaze for a long moment.
"Some in the Council think it was much too tidy to hang it around your neck," she said.
It was as though she were waiting for him respond or react. He chose not to.
"If you accept this assignment," she said, "and if you perform well, there is a strong possibility your career changes direction again."
Kytolos stared at her. Carefully now. Almost distrustfully. It was all because he knew exactly what possibility she meant, and because he had stopped allowing himself to imagine it nearly three years on.
"A command?" he ventured quietly.
Gevolas said nothing for a moment. Then she at last smiled.
"Yes," she replied. "Potentially."
That word hit him hard--harder than he expected. He refused to allow himself to hope. Because hope was a dangerous thing--especially in older Andorian men.
But something adjacent to it moved carefully carefully through him nonetheless, as though his blood had found warmth again after his body had gone numb.
"So," he said, his voice steadier now. "What's the assignment?"
Commander Kytolos Sh'reyva
Diplomatic Attaché
Andorian Imperial Guard
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