Romulan Ale
Posted on Wed Oct 29th, 2025 @ 12:07am by Rear Admiral Josua Frost
1,038 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Second Light
Location: SB 369
Starbase 369 – Deck 35, Residential Wing C
He hadn’t come to Starbase 369 for the view. The place was too clean, too balanced. Order so perfect it felt like a lie. Curved corridors, no corners to hide in, every sound measured. The kind of stillness that made you feel watched even when you weren’t.
He paused by one of the large viewports. The reflection that looked back wasn’t flattering – grey in the hair, faint lines around the eyes. Civilian clothes, dark blue and black, but posture still military. Hands behind his back, stance centered. The body remembered what the mind pretended to forget.
“Not on duty anymore,” he murmured, and even his voice didn’t believe it.
⸻
The Docking Ring Lounge sat wedged between two concourses, dim and loud and smelling faintly of metal, ozone and spilled courage. The crowd was the usual orbiting mix – traders, techs, a Tellarite shouting about a rigged game, a silent Lurian at the end of the counter. Behind the bar a Ferengi worked with the focus of a surgeon and the smirk of a pickpocket.
Frost slid onto a stool. “Romulan Ale.”
The Ferengi stopped mid-wipe. “Illegal for Starfleet.”
Frost blinked. He hadn’t said anything about Starfleet – but the tone, the phrasing, the clipped precision – it had sounded like an order. A small, bitter smile tugged at his mouth.
“You guess that about everyone?”
The Ferengi’s grin widened. “Only the ones who can’t hide it. You walk like gravity owes you something.”
“Pour the drink,” Frost said flatly.
“Gladly,” the Ferengi said, filling the glass with theatrical care. “Romulan Ale. Dangerous, expensive, honest. Everything Starfleet isn’t.”
Frost took a sip. The burn bit deep. “Not bad.”
The Ferengi leaned closer. “You people always say that. You spend your lives cataloguing the universe, then act surprised when something actually tastes alive.”
Frost frowned. “You talk like someone who’s allergic to silence.”
“Silence doesn’t earn profit,” the Ferengi shot back. “You officers love silence – because it listens when you talk.”
Frost almost laughed, but didn’t. “You think profit makes you free?”
“I know it does,” the Ferengi said. “You, on the other hand – you call obedience a philosophy.”
That one hit closer than Frost liked. He set the glass down, slower than before. “You’ve got a big mouth for someone living off Federation currency.”
The Ferengi’s lobes twitched. “And you’ve got a big conscience for someone paid to look the other way.”
Something in Frost’s jaw tightened. “You’re one drink away from finding out what a conscience feels like.”
The Ferengi just grinned wider. “Then I’ll risk it. Another?”
Frost hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. Let’s see if you can pour without talking.”
“I can,” the Ferengi said, pouring. “But I won’t.”
⸻
Time blurred. The bar emptied, but they didn’t. Somewhere between the third and the fifth glass the argument lost its shape and turned into rhythm – half philosophy, half insult, half exhaustion.
“You ever think,” the Ferengi slurred slightly, “that you only joined Starfleet because you like giving orders?”
Frost gave a thin smile. “You ever think you only trade because you like losing your soul a little slower?”
The Ferengi laughed, wheezing. “Touché.”
“Yeah,” Frost said, rubbing his temple, “didn’t feel like it.”
The lights seemed too bright now. He pushed himself up, steady enough to pretend he was sober.
The Ferengi waved the rag. “Want me to start a tab?”
Frost shook his head and produced a small credit-chip – standard Federation issue, untraceable once used offline. He placed it on the counter. “No account. No record. Just payment.”
The Ferengi scanned it, eyebrows lifting. “That’s a lot of latinum for a night of insults.”
“Then consider it hush money.”
The Ferengi chuckled. “You’re not half bad for a regulation addict.”
Frost smirked faintly. “You’re exactly as bad as I thought.”
He turned toward the door.
“Hey!” the Ferengi called after him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
Frost paused in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He looked back just long enough to answer.
“Josua.”
The Ferengi grinned, flashing sharp teeth. “Name’s Rallik. Next time you’re bored, Josua – I’ll still be here.”
“Yeah,” Frost said quietly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He stepped out into the corridor, leaving the laughter behind.
⸻
Deck 305 was quiet, the station in night-cycle dimness. His quarters opened with a soft chirp. The air inside felt too still, too contained. He tossed his jacket onto the chair and sat on the edge of the bunk.
The Romulan Ale caught up with him fast – a dull throb behind his eyes, the kind that pulsed with every heartbeat. He rubbed his temples and exhaled, half a laugh, half a groan.
He was surprised how far he’d let himself go. The arguing, the drinking, the profanity – none of it him, not really. Yet somewhere in the middle of it, something inside had loosened. A few bolts unscrewed, pressure released. Maybe it had been overdue.
“Guess I needed that,” he murmured.
For the first time in months, his shoulders felt lighter.
He reached for the console and activated it. The Starfleet emblem appeared – steady, blue, perfectly unbothered by human chaos. His fingers moved through the interface on instinct, long before his mind caught up.
The personnel archive blinked open.
Brevor, Treon – Captain, Starfleet
Status: Retired
Last Command: U.S.S. Destiny-A
Retirement Reason: [Data corrupted]
He stared at the entry. The portrait was formal, regulation lighting, the kind of image meant for files, not memories. Years without an update.
She’d been here. He was sure of it. A rumor, a trace, a whisper in the comm-logs – enough to make him follow it.
He leaned back, the console’s glow carving lines across his face. The headache pulsed, but the haze of alcohol had turned into focus again.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I’ll find her.”
He shut down the console. The emblem faded, leaving only his reflection – older, tired, but not entirely defeated.
Outside the viewport, the station’s docking lights drifted past like slow stars.
=/\=
Rear Admiral Josua Frost
Starfleet (Detached Service – Inactive)
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