Destiny Awaits

Posted on Mon Oct 27th, 2025 @ 4:28am by Rear Admiral Josua Frost

1,133 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Second Light
Location: Tarvik System

=/\= Open Space =/\=

Space is almost entirely empty. Over ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine percent of the known universe contains no matter, no light, no sound. Only a fraction of a fraction — less than one hundredth of a single percent — forms anything solid: stars, planets, dust. Everything else is dark energy, dark matter — the unseen framework that binds reality together.

And yet, within that silence, motion persists. Across an ocean of gravity wells and invisible forces, fragments of matter drift, collide, ignite — and out of this chaos, life reaches upward. From almost nothing, it learns to build, to search, to fill the emptiness with purpose.

Then, the void bends.
Light fractures.
The USS Destiny, NCC-72806-A, bursts from warp in a shimmer of blue light. The streaks of faster-than-light travel collapse into the pinpoints of distant stars. For a moment, the ship simply glides — her hull shining against the dark, nacelles fading from brilliant blue to a calm, steady glow. Then the impulse engines engage, burning crimson as the vessel slows and turns toward her destination.

Inside, in one of the side observation corridors, Rear Admiral Josua Frost stands in silence.
Once the captain of this ship. Now retired — detached from command, yet unable to feel detached at all.

He rests one hand against the bulkhead, fingers tracing the cold alloy surface. Before the admiral’s gray and white, he had worn operations gold. Engineering. Those years had taught him how a ship speaks — not through words, but through vibration. The hum of the deckplates, the pulse of the conduits, the subtle shift when the impulse engines cycle down. He had told his officers that a ship’s heartbeat could be felt if you only listened. It had become half myth, half truth. But even now, he can feel it.

The faint tremor under his palm tells him the Destiny is coasting on half impulse — engines balanced, inertial dampers smooth. Perfect performance. Exactly as it should be.

So many thoughts pass through his mind that none can settle. Years of command blur into moments. The crew, the missions, the losses, the triumphs — all drifting through him like starlight through fog. He remembers the ceremony: banners in blue and gold, the shuttlebay filled with music, the sound of his own voice wavering as he handed over command.
Captain Wes Zhaykal, Brikar, Sartre caste — a presence carved from stone and loyalty. Starfleet had chosen him, not Frost, but the admiral had quickly seen the wisdom in that decision. Zhaykal was solid, steady, and carried a kind of quiet strength that ships like the Destiny needed. The right choice, even if it hadn’t been his to make.

Outside, the stars drift past the viewport in slow procession. Ahead, faint lights appear — distant, geometric, organized. A pattern too deliberate to be natural.

Starbase 369.

The station grows with each passing second, a fortress of steel and light suspended in darkness. Docking rings rotate lazily, guidance beacons flashing, the great central bay doors beginning to open. Golden light spills outward, touching the Destiny’s hull as the ship approaches. Frost can feel the minute corrections as the maneuvering thrusters fire — the ship aligning perfectly, one last time, under his silent observation.

He exhales slowly. The vibration changes again — deeper, steadier. The sound of arrival.
The hum he has known for half his life begins to fade.

He leaves his hand on the wall for one more heartbeat, then lowers it. The ship glides forward, into the waiting light of the open dock.

The Destiny disappears into the embrace of Starbase 369.

On the observation deck of the station, a family stands by the wide transparent viewport — parents, and a young child pressing both hands against the glass. The child’s breath fogs the surface as a shape of silver and blue fills the window, vast and silent, engines glowing like twin stars.

Then a voice cuts through the air — amplified, resonant, carrying through the entire station:

“Attention all personnel. USS Destiny, NCC-72806-A, arriving at Dock 07. Repeat, Destiny arriving at Dock Zero Seven.”

The announcement rolls through the promenade, echoing off the walls. The child’s eyes widen as the great ship slips through the massive bay doors, the light of the dock bathing her hull in gold.

“USS Destiny — Dock 07 secured.”

The voice fades.
For a long moment, there is only the quiet hum of the station — and the distant gleam of the ship that has finally come home.

⸻

As the great bay doors seal behind her, the Destiny drifts to a perfect stop. The docking clamps lock with a deep mechanical thud, followed by the hiss of equalizing pressure. Outside the hull, a reinforced transport corridor extends — a shining duranium spine connecting ship and station. Beyond its transparent shell, the stars hang motionless.

In the quiet of the main airlock, Rear Admiral Josua Frost stands waiting.
He could beam across — a single command, a shimmer of light. But he chooses not to.
Some things deserve to be walked.

Across from him stands Captain Wes Zhaykal, the new commanding officer. Massive, calm, his Brikar skin reflecting the corridor lights in copper and bronze. The two men face one another, the silence filled only by the faint pulse of the ship’s systems.

Zhaykal: “So… it’s that time.”
Frost: “It is.”

The Brikar’s lips curve slightly, the gesture small but genuine.
“She’ll always feel like your ship, Admiral.”

Frost shakes his head, a quiet smile.
“No. She’s yours now. A good ship. Keep her steady — and always bring her home.”

“I intend to,” Zhaykal answers, voice low and rough like stone shifting in gravity.

They exchange a final look — not of parting, but of trust. Then Frost steps closer, resting one hand briefly on the Brikar’s shoulder.
No words left to say.

He turns toward the docking tube. As he walks, the hum beneath his boots changes — the pulse of a ship blending into the rhythm of the station. The line between them blurs.

In his mind, one thought settles at last:
If you never make room for the new, nothing can grow.
Change, he realizes, isn’t loss. It’s life.

And somewhere beyond these walls, beyond the bright corridors and polished metal, a new assignment awaits him — one certain to keep his days interesting, his purpose alive.
He is searching for someone very specific — someone with a bond to the Destiny as unique as his own.

For just a moment, as the thought crosses his mind, Josua Frost feels a faint chill along his spine.
Not of fear — but of anticipation.

He doesn’t look back.
The USS Destiny-A gleams in the golden light of Starbase 369 — home again, and waiting for whatever comes next.


=/\=
Rear Admiral Josua Frost
Starfleet (Detached Service – Inactive)

 

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