...Thus I write to you. It is time for you to wed, or at least affiance if you are still married to your career in the Fleet. Many are interested, as the memory of your good appearance, disposition, and rigorous discipline and prospects within Starfleet (the term ‘Navy’ has been bandied about, as if starships sailed on watery waves of starlight, it alternately amuses and infuriates me), and I have spoken to a handful of young women of good breeding and disposition themselves, whom I believe would suit you well and are willing to meet you. I have made plans to meet with them again, and will give those who survive meeting your sisters permission to send you correspondence. Should you be unable to visit, I do hope you will at least answer them and treat them respectfully.

As ever and always,
Your Mother


Vance Felline, Captain of Fearless, a Corvette in Her Imperial Majesty's Starfleet, ran his hand through his hair and let out a sigh of tremendous volume and emotion after reading the entirety of his mother's message.

'I wonder,' he thought to himself, looking out the view port of his quarters, 'whether there is another Captain of some kind out there who must also dread the sight of his mother's name in his message list.'

Outside the view port, Kuat Drive Yards, that monstrous ring of production around the equatorial belt of Kuat itself, shined with the reflective light from the star. Fearless was but a speck on the gargantuan testament of and to engineering that were the Drive Yards. Fifteen kilometers away a Star Destroyer was also being refitted, and it was itself almost dwarfed by the structure, which still overshadowed it by an order of magnitude.

Despite the grandeur and spectacle of the view in front of him, he viewed it absently, without the usual awe and respect for the effort and resources that it represented he usually felt. His mind was rather completely taken up by thoughts of his mother, family, and the truthfully terrifying thought of leaving a wife and possibly children bereft due to his frankly high chances of being killed in the line of duty.

He was at an impasse. This was not something he could speak of with his staff officers; despite his tolerance for less than professional banter and friendly relations outside of duty, he was still their captain, and they were not his confidantes, for all that he was sure they would be able to understand. Certainly not Knight Iscandar, either. The very thought of speaking to her about his trepidations about marriage were laughable at best. And what woman would—

His mental image of her flashed across his eyes and made him cough on his own breath. He attempted to brush the moment off, but that sight of her in his mind's eye was now firmly entrenched despite the brief amount of time he had granted it. He knew she would be able to understand, commiserate, and sympathise with him. He turned away from the view port in an almost violent fashion, pacing as his thoughts began to race.

While he was no innocent, his career, his station, and his upbringing had very much lodged in him a reticence and what one might call an aversion to beginning or embracing a proposition for a romantic entanglement; one indiscretion might leave him completely ruined: financial, career, and personal, all rolled up into a bow, neatly severed and snipped before he could tie and neaten it to his satisfaction. There were other reasons as well, some which he considered only common sense, and some which he admitted to himself were childishly idealistic. His few liaisons were quiet and well kept secrets; save one perhaps, which was a loud and confusing well kept secret.

He laughed to himself, wondering if perhaps the good Captain and his crew had infected him with some sort of curse of 'interesting times'. Farcically he entertained the thought of patenting an inoculation against such a disease and retiring a wealthy man, until he brought himself back to the topic at hand. He was surely being rash, and further thought would probably give him another avenue, but he knew when his own mind was resolved, even against his own better judgement.

He was dressed in fairly short order, in clothing not unlike his uniform but without insignia or brand. His code cylinder, kept in his jacket breast pocket, would suffice to keep any ambitious security personnel well satisfied. He left the berthed Fearless, and made his way to a communications suite, one which allowed slightly more secure transmissions, though 'secure' was a vague term considering the sheer immanence of the Imperial Intelligence apparatus. For good reason, as well, though it did not suit him at this very moment. Thankfully, he and most other officers knew a slew of codes and commands that would further privatise any transmissions, and further, were used mostly to facilitate intelligence sharing and reports. All he had to do was use a particular code phrase in the initial request after enabling the scrambler, and any intelligence agent or algorithm would think he was in fact making a report to another, far more secretive and opaque, governmental institution.

'I do believe this is the first time I've ever been thankful for COMPNOR,' he thought to himself in amusement. The signal solidified and resolved, and the frequency returned as connected. He waited a moment for the image to project, and he smiled wanly.

"Miss Moreau," he said, bowing slightly. "I do apologize, but I have something I believe I could use your help with, and something you may find amusing as well. I shall bear your mockery if it means I can count on your help."