The Quiet Before
Posted on Mon Jul 28th, 2025 @ 6:06am by Lieutenant Commander Corin Layal & Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen
Edited on on Wed Jul 30th, 2025 @ 5:01pm
1,652 words; about a 8 minute read
Mission:
Episode 2 - The Sins of History
Location: Transport Vessel, Bajor System
Timeline: MD014 1630 Hours
The seat was far too small.
Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen sat near the port window, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, knees jammed uncomfortably into the back of the empty seat in front of him. The data PADD in his hand may have been feather-light, but the text it carried--The Collected Works of Akorem Laan--weighed heavier than expected. He'd downloaded it on a whim back on Deep Space Nine, thinking it might be a good idea to familiarize himself with Bajoran literature. Seemed like the respectful thing to do. Some sort of quiet offering, if anything else.
He'd always avoided Akorem before. Too lofty, even for a poet. Too spiritual. Too quick to sermonize about the pagh. Ezra wasn't much for prophets--neither the ones who whispered from orbs nor the ones who lectured from pulpits. But now, looking out at the copper curve of Bajor as the transport began its descent, the words felt a little closer. Far less distant, and more like something a man might carry in his coat pocket instead of a shrine.
A fit of giggles erupted across the aisle. Ezra looked up.
Milo was lying belly-up in the middle of the cabin floor, tail thumping, while a pack of Bajoran children clambered over one another to scratch his ears. His tongue lolled out like a wet rag, his joy as loose and unguarded as the children's. One of the little girls offered him a twist of dried fruit, which he gratefully accepted.
Ezra's mouth curled slightly.
Trigger, meanwhile, was curled neatly at Ezra's feet. The Malinois didn't blink, didn't flinch--he just watched. Always the quiet sentinel, he was. Always waiting for the next cue, or the next shadow. Ezra reached down and touched the back of his head once, firmly. The dog leaned into it just enough to acknowledge the moment, then resumed his vigil.
There was a tiny chime, signaling an incoming announcement:
[Ladies and gentlemen, we are on final approach to Jalanda City Spaceport. Please prepare for arrival at Gate Seven.]
Ezra switched off the PADD, thumb hovering for a moment over the last few lines of Laan's verse.
There are wounds / even the sky does not name.
He set the device aside and leaned back, shoulder against bulkhead, and let his mind wander.
The Papineau had been good to him. Fine captain, steady crew, half-full counseling schedule most weeks. But no matter how he tried--how often he met with ensigns afflicted with insomnia, or lieutenants who couldn't stop clenching their jaws--he always walked away with the sense that he hadn't quite reached them. Or worse, that they didn't know what they'd needed in the first place.
The Artemis, though, She was something different.
A ship designed to seek-out aftermaths. To trace the outlines of harm and name them, clearly and publicly. A place where trauma wasn't an inconvenience but a mission parameter. Where justice and healing weren't just byproducts--they were the goddamned job.
When the post for Victim Advocate Counselor had opened, Ezra hadn't waited for orders. He'd floated his name quietly. The transfer was approved within the week. There had been no fanfare around it. Just a new destination code and a set of travel coordinates. Fortunately, the Papineau had just wrapped-up a trade conference with the Lissepians near the Bajoran corridor. The timing lined up nearly perfectly.
The cabin jostled softly as the transport set down. A second chime, followed by another gentle reminder:
[We have arrived at Jalanda City Spaceport. Local time is sixteen thirty-three hours.]
Ezra stood. Or tried to.
The row was narrow, and his frame didn't make anything easy. He turned sideways and slid out with the same practiced patience he had learned to endure since filling into his six-foot-five height. Trigger rose with him in a smooth and wordless motion. No leash, of course. Neither had ever needed one since completing their training.
He whistled--softly and steadily--across the cabin. Milo's ears perked, and he bounded back to his master, pausing only to nuzzle a goodbye into a small boy's shoulder.
"Bye, Milo!" several of the children shouted.
One of the parents gave Ezra a tired, thankful smile. He nodded in return, eyes soft, hand resting lightly on Milo's neck as the dog joined the column.
Together, they moved through the gate doors into Bajor's open-air spaceport, where the scent of fried root vegetables and something smokey hung in the dry afternoon air. Stalls lined the concourse--ceramic trinkets, layered fruit, prayer beads strung with red glass--and the indistinct murmur of traffic buzzing past the walls.
Ezra adjusted the strap of his pack and stepped into the crowd.
Trigger kept close. Milo wandered a little, tail high, nose full of possibilities.
The spaceport air was warm, drier than Ezra expected. The sun was still high but had begun its descent toward the horizon. It was the kind of day that you wanted to stop, close your eyes, and let the heat soak into your spine. Somewhere, nearby, someone was frying something that smelled of cumin and roots and maybe a tad too much salt. Milo sneezed once and trotted ahead, tail still high, nose still to the wind. Trigger kept to Ezra's left side, flank brushing his uniform's trouser leg every few steps.
They didn't get very far.
Five Bajoran militia moved into his path in a polished formation. They weren't hostile, but they definitely weren't casual either. All in the same two-toned, off-brown uniforms, phaser pistols holstered at the hip. One of them stepped forward, he was the only one with a collar to his uniform and it bore the rank insignia of a lieutenant in the militia. He looked Ezra squarely in the face.
"Van Wijnbergen?"
Ezra nodded, eyes moving from one officer to another. "That's me."
The man gave a curt, respectful nod, then reached for the strap across Ezra's shoulder. "We're here to escort you to the Artemis. We'll take that, please."
Before Ezra could say anything, his pack was off his shoulder and being passed into another officer's hands.
He blinked. "Escort?"
The same officer offered a thin smile. "Given the current climate, it wasn't wise to take a civilian transport."
Ezra glanced between them. "It was a short flight from DS9. It didn't seem like I'd need--" He stopped. "What climate?"
The lieutenant tilted his head a fraction of a degree. "You haven't been keeping up with the news, I take it."
Ezra's brow furrowed and he thought of Akorem Laan. "I've been reading poetry."
There was a small pause.
Two more officers approached from the opposite concourse, each holding a leash. One was standard-issue, black synthetic leather with a retractable clasp. The other looked improvised, a loop of cord fashioned into makeshift slip-lead.
Ezra raised his hand, calmly. "Easy," he said. "They're therapy animals. Trained to assist in trauma work. They're not aggressive."
The officer nearest Milo clipped the leash on with effortless ease. Milo accepted it like a child accepting a scarf: confused, but clearly game. His tail still wagged, though slower now. Trigger, on the other hand, stood perfectly still as the second officer approached, hackles on his fawn-coloured fur slightly raised, pupils locked on the man's movements--as if daring him to try.
The Bajoran hesitated. Ezra didn't.
"Trigger--af."
The command pierced through the air like a flat stone skipping across water. Trigger's stance eased, the tension drained out of his back, and he let the leash be attached without further protest.
The Bajoran officer exhaled, just a little. Ezra offered him an apologetic smile. "He doesn't like surprises."
Together, they moved--seven officers, one tall counselor, and two dogs with opposing philosophies about public order--through the crowd. Ezra caught the glances this time. Not everyone looked, but the ones who did held their gaze longer than felt polite. An old man near a tea vendor scowled openly. A woman with a prayer scarf drew her child closer.
Ezra leaned toward the lieutenant. "What exactly is going on?"
The officer's voice was low and clipped. "There's a trial scheduled. Very high-profile. Cardassian war criminal. Your ship is the venue. A lot of people have strong feelings."
Ezra processed that. "And they think I'm--?"
"Starfleet," the security officer said plainly. "Your uniform's enough right now. You should have been warned ahead of arriving."
The imposing counselor exhaled sharply, more irritated that rattled. "I turned down a runabout from DS9. Thought I would spend a few hours exploring before reporting aboard."
"You should've taken the runabout."
They reached the transporter station--a rounded pavilion flanked by narrow security gates and wide windows showing the southern skyline of Jalanda City, the late-afternoon haze silhouetting her taller buildings. His pack was handed back to him. The dogs were unhooked without incident.
Ezra stepped up onto the pad and turned once, just slightly. The lieutenant met his gaze.
"If you plan to return," he said, "you'll need your commanding officer's clearance. Planetside visits are currently restricted."
Ezra imparted a measured nod. "Understood."
Stepping back from the pad, the lieutenant nodded in return. "May the Prophets guide you, Lieutenant."
Ezra didn't quite know what to say to that, so he just gave a tired smile and turned to face front.
Milo sat at his side, tongue out again. Trigger was standing, still alert but content--waiting for the next move.
There was shimmer and a high-pitched hum.
And they were gone.
A Joint Post By
Lieutenant Ezra Van Wijnbergen
Victim Advocate Counselor, USS Artemis
Starfleet Criminal Investigations Unit
Lieutenant Commander Corin Layal
Judge Advocate General, USS Artemis
Starfleet Criminal Investigations Unit
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