Residual: Part XII – Carried, Not Commanded

Posted on Tue Dec 2nd, 2025 @ 7:02pm by Sergeant Jace Morven

2,375 words; about a 12 minute read

FGF Barracks, USS Guinevere, 2388

Thought drifts. Not sharp, just slow. Like the way sand settles after the wind gives up. It pulls me back, without warning, to that old forward base. Halric’s voice cutting through recycled air, the rattle of vents when the storm caught the siding just right. Smelled like old metal and dry blood scrubbed too many times. He wasn’t afraid of me. Not exactly. But he looked like a man who’d seen the edge too often and didn’t like seeing it wear human skin. He didn’t know if I was the problem or the solution. Just knew I wasn’t regulation.

In the end, he let me walk.

I was never in command. Not officially. Not on any chain of paper. But that didn’t matter in the field. The ones who came back alive moved when I did. And that’s what stuck. I didn’t take point for the title. I didn’t want it. I moved because someone had to and the others waited. The sergeant who was meant to replace Tho got shipped up to 77th base and never came back. Command didn’t follow through. Didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Maybe they figured we’d manage. Maybe they wrote us off. There was a lot of writing off happening, and no one would have been upset if the entire battalion had been lost during the war. One less headache.

Sure, I stepped up. Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t call it leadership. But I moved, and they followed. That was enough. On the books, it was wartime drift. Makeshift roles. Temporary gaps. One corporal improvising in the middle of a sandstorm wasn’t going to register when the casualty figures kept rolling in. Especially not one with my file. I wasn’t the kind they pinned promotions to. Too much red. Too many after-action reports with more truth than they wanted. Too many operations that got the job done but left the wrong kind of silence behind.

But for a while it worked. Not just running. Not just surviving. There was shape to it. The kind of shape that comes when people start trusting each other without saying it. A rhythm. Tight and brutal and efficient. Not a pack, exactly. But close. The lone wolf line never sat right with me anyway. I didn’t choose solitude. It’s just what was left when everything else was burned out.

I followed orders. Until they stopped making sense. Then I didn’t. Then I shut up and waited for the next one that did. That was the pattern the war taught. Step in. Step back. Keep breathing.

Sometimes I wonder if that was the real moment. Not the firefight. Not the breach. Just the part where I moved, and no one questioned it. Like the shape of me in that silence made more sense than the one the paperwork offered.

I didn’t need words then. Still don’t. Words carve deep. You remember them. You bleed different. Action just... happens. And then you clean the blade.

It’s different now. Peacetime, more or less. I wear the rank. I play the part. The choices come quieter, but they still come. And I’m still here. Which counts for something. Maybe not everything, but it still counts.

Forward Command Base 77th, February 20, 2375

Five days since Theta-9.

Not that I count them in calendar terms like they do on Earth. Just…in the way things settle. The silence after action. The way the others look at me but don’t speak. The pause before orders shift. That’s how I knew. The waiting wasn’t just space to breathe. It was a lead-up. We can almost sense it, all of us, in how the others treat us.

It isn’t a big thing. No court martial, no written warning. What Command do is far simpler, because from their point of view they’re just rectifying an oversight. So…they send us a Sergeant.

I step into the barracks and everything is the same. That’s how it always goes. The moment shifts, but the walls stay still. Same blown-out strip lights overhead, flickering with the effort of staying lit. Same stink in the air…metal pushed too far, sweat that never quite washes out, something scorched and alkaline that seeps into bone if you stay too long. But somehow, I tense with it, as if there’s a weapon aimed at me from a hidden corner. No one speaks. Martinez is by the vent. They don’t look tired anymore, not exactly. Just held together tight. Their bandaged hand rests against their leg, thumb tapping once, then still again. Minor scrapes, not worth getting a dermal regenerator out for, but Martinez says they like the way the bandages feel on their hands. Their eyes lift when I walk in, and I feel them land on me, but nothing shifts on their face.

Banik’s bunk has moved. Again. Tucked into the back corner, pressed against the wall like she wants fewer angles to guard. Her arms are folded, jaw set, back braced like she’s ready to absorb another impact. It’s fine here, now. It’ll be a problem in the field if she doesn’t start breaking the habit.

Terrow’s in his crouch. Not field-stripping his rifle this time. Just holding it. Barrel against one thigh, hands loose. His eyes stay low, but I see the tension in his shoulders. He’d bracing. I don’t know what for.

Kerren’s got a hum in his throat and a beat in his foot, tapping something quiet against the floor. One of his own rhythms, the kind you can’t sync to unless you’ve been inside his head. He doesn’t look up. I never understand why he does it, how…that activity can regulate him. But it is never an issue…except when others’ nerves are frayed.

No one says the name. But I see him when my eyes map the room. Brell. Sergeant Brell now. He stands at the end of the row like he’s claimed the ground without needing to mark it. Arms folded, spine easy but not soft. The weight he carries hasn’t changed. Brell always knew how to hold himself…but there’s a difference now. The tabs on his collar are new. Polished. Assigned.

I don’t look directly at them. I don’t need to. I can feel the shift in the room like pressure through the soles of my boots. The way Terrow sits straighter without meaning to. Banik still, her shoulders drawn in just enough to notice. Martinez, silent by the vent, eyes tracking. The lights buzz overhead, same as always, but something about them feels sharper now. Like a line’s been drawn. It reminds me of Turkana in a way, whenever there would be a shift within a Fraction. The memory sours my throat a little.

I’m getting too many reminders from a past I would like to blow up.

Brell watches me cross the room. He’s taller than me by a few centimetres, leaner in the arms, with a long jaw and sun-scuffed skin that still holds the pallor of shipboard weeks. Brown eyes. Heavy-lidded. The kind that look patient even when they’re not. No rings under them, no visible strain, but I’ve seen those eyes before on officers who learned too early not to flinch. He’s no rookie. I’ve seen him in action too, he’s a sure shot. Sniper. “Morven,” he says. Just the name. Not clipped. Not warm.

“Sergeant.” The word lands in my mouth heavier than I expect. Not because I don’t mean it. But because I do. It’s automatic, but also…I know what it means to say it. And for the squad to hear it.

He nods once. Not stiff, not performative. Like we both just acknowledged something too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Command noticed a paperwork discrepancy,” he says. “They assigned me yesterday.” His voice is low. Not gravelled like mine. Controlled. But there’s no theatre in it. No warning, either.

“You transferred from the Fifth?” I ask. I know the answer, but I’ve been around the others long enough to…recognise some steps in the dance of conversation.

He nods again. “Their new Sergeant showed up. Mine didn’t.”

I don’t say anything. It doesn’t need saying. The hole left by Tho’s replacement never got filled. So I stepped in, and no one questioned it. Until now. When another set of experienced hands went to the Fifth, Brell got his stripes and were sent to us.

“I didn’t ask for the slot,” he says. “Wasn’t a choice.”

I don’t know if that’s supposed to be for my benefit. If it’s an apology or just a statement of fact. I move past him toward my bunk. “Never is.” I sit down slow, hands on my knees. I feel him still standing there behind me, steady as gravity. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t say anything else. Just lets the silence settle. I don’t look at the collar tabs again. But I feel them.

I’d never thought I’d make Sergeant. Not with my record. Not with the kind of decisions I make. And I’ve told myself a hundred times I don’t want it. That I function better without the brass. Without the scrutiny. That I’m not leadership material. But somewhere under all that…buried low, suppressed, there’s something that stings.

I kill it quick. Whatever it is. Because it doesn’t change anything. Not who I am. Not what I do. Still. It settles under the ribs like grit. I glance at him for a moment before ahead, at the wall, taking a deeper breath for a moment. It shakes it away and I blink, looking down. I unlace one boot, methodical as ever. Movements stripped of anything that might read as weakness. My back aches like it’s been ground down to the bone, but I don’t shift. Theta-9 left its mark, and that’s fine. I don’t need to show it. Removing the boots give my hands something to do.

Across from me, Martinez looks up. One glance to Brell. One to me. No words. Just that stillness we’ve built. The kind that speaks if you know how to listen.

Brell steps forward. Not close enough to crowd me, not far enough to retreat. He’s not testing dominance, not exactly. But he knows this moment matters. “I know how it’s been,” he says. Voice low. Controlled. “Who’s kept this squad together. That doesn’t change overnight.” He’s not pretending. Not softening the truth to win favour. His eyes lock with mine, and I can feel the measure in them. Like he’s weighing a decision in real time. “You’ve got instincts,” he says. “They follow you. I’m not here to erase that.”

I look up. Not fast. Just enough to meet the look and hold it. His tone is even, but there’s steel under it. This isn’t praise. It’s a statement of fact. He knows what I’ve done. What they’ve seen. He knows how fragile chain of command gets when it’s built on blood and not paperwork. “So what are you here to do?” My voice is flat. Not defensive. Just direct. Give me the shape of the fight and I’ll decide if I need to move.

He doesn’t blink. “Make sure Command doesn’t rip this squad apart just to remind everyone they still can.”

That feels…I am not sure, but it settles. Harder than it sounds. Because he’s right. That’s how they work. I crossed a line they had set down, one they can’t officially punish us for unless they admit they were happy to leave Federation citizens and Starfleet personnel in the hands of the Dominion. This is all they can do. Get a leash on us.

He waits a beat, then says it. “You’ve done what most don’t survive, Corporal Morven. You carried them. But now they’ve handed me the weight.” His voice doesn’t change, but the depth of it shifts. Like he’s letting a layer show, just this once. “So if you need to fight someone over that,” he adds, quieter, “don’t make it me.” There’s no challenge in it. No bluff. Just reality. He doesn’t want the conflict, but he’s ready if it comes.

My jaw tightens before I catch it. Then I give the nod. One motion. No ceremony. I can respect his stance. “I’m not here to fight my team.”

He gives the smallest nod back. “Good. Because we redeploy in thirty-six. Break’s over.” No groans. No protest. Just the kind of stillness that sinks into your ribs. Everyone here knows what thirty-six hours means. What it doesn’t promise. Brell turns. Reaches the door. Stops with his back to us. “They didn’t want to give me this post,” he says. Voice lower now. Like it’s more for me than for the room. “They just didn’t want to give it to you.” He walks out. No performance. Just gone.

The seal hisses behind him and the old silence returns. Familiar. Settling over the room like the weight of gear you stopped noticing years ago.

There’s a cup waiting on my shelf. Mint tea. Still faintly warm. Sweetened, just a little. Enough to say someone remembered how I take it. I don’t ask who made it…it was most likely Martinez. I take it and sip it closing my eyes as I let it settle. I might not lead the squad anymore…but we’re still alive.

At least I don’t have to make any decisions right now.

---

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, Alpha Squad
Federation Ground Forces
USS Guinevere

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