Stillness Isn't Peace [2/4]
Posted on Mon Jun 9th, 2025 @ 8:34pm by Sergeant Jace Morven
2,188 words; about a 11 minute read
Mission:
Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388
Starbase 173 — Holding Level 3B, Early 2368
It wasn’t a cell. Not officially.
But it felt like one.
Grey walls. A bunk. A wall-screen running endless loops of smiling Starfleet officers…too clean, too calm. He never watched it. The brightness irritated him. The smiles made his jaw clench.
He had enough rage already.
Jace sat on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, chin tucked down. Seventeen, but feeling smaller. The air here was too clean. The silence had edges. Only a low hum under it all, like the starbase was breathing wrong. He was in space. He hadn’t been in space before.
No gunfire. No ration lines. Just time. And thoughts.
He hated both.
The door chimed. He didn’t move. It opened anyway. Dannic. Security. Tall. Steady. She had dragged him here, not roughly, but with no room for argument. She always came. Always calm. Green eyes that didn’t flinch. She never shouted. Just sat. Watched. Talked.
She always brought tea. Mint. Sweet. He liked the smell. Wouldn’t admit it. She set the mug down near him. Sat close, not too close. Watched him like he was a puzzle that didn’t need solving, just…understanding.
He didn’t touch the mug. He never did. She never pushed. After a while, she spoke. “Do you have a name?”
She’d asked before. He’d never answered. But today…He swallowed. Voice barely above a whisper: “Jace,” he said, committing.
She nodded. Didn’t write it down. “Last name?”
“…Morven. I think. I said it once. It stuck.” The honesty of it surprised him. Like a stone dropping into a well.
“Alright,” she said, like that was all she needed.
He tucked his head down again, hair falling like a curtain.
“Do you know what you want?”
He blinked.
He wanted to forget Turkana IV. He wanted warmth but didn’t trust it. Not this kind, not quiet kindness. It felt like bait. “I don’t know,” he muttered.
“That’s okay,” she said. “We’ll figure it out.”
The assessments began. He didn’t understand them.
He didn’t know that Dannic had filed motions, pulled strings. That she’d flagged his age, argued he wasn’t an adult. On Turkana IV, if you could fight, you could die. You were useful or discarded. Age didn’t protect you.
He didn’t know what the interviews were for.
But he ate. Put on weight. Washed.
The sonic shower had scared him at first, too loud, too fast, but he liked the efficiency. The way it scrubbed everything away.
Then came the room. Bright. Too sterile. A table. Cubes. Slates. Words.
He stared at them, jaw tight. The letters wouldn’t stay still. They squirmed. Flipped. Refused to land where they were supposed to. “I know this,” he muttered. “I know the word.” His fists clenched. Heat crept up his neck. He wasn’t good enough.
Dannic moved closer, crouched beside him. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he snapped. Then stopped himself. The heat in his chest was worse than anger. It was shame.
The facilitator, small, grey-haired, calm, looked at the neural scans. Spoke gently. “You’re dyslexic.”
Jace blinked. Looked away. Not in challenge. In retreat. “I’m what?”
“Your brain processes written language differently,” said Dannic. “It’s not about being smart. It’s wiring.” He looked at her. Was she apologising? Then, softer she added, as if she could somehow heal the seventeen years of hardship: “It doesn’t mean you’re stupid.”
And somewhere deep inside…a knot loosened. Just a little. Just enough to breathe.
U.S.S. Guinevere, 2388
The dyslexia still haunted him. He had adjusted over the years. Gotten the computer to read things for him. He was good with recognising languages, picking them up quickly…verbally. Not written. Reading a sentence took more out of him than doing laps. He hated it. So he avoided it. It made some officers think he was stupid. He pretended not to care.
Sometimes he almost believed it himself, that he was stupid. Not out loud, but somewhere in the gut, that quiet doubt gnawed. Not logical. But trauma rarely was.
His body was protesting now. He took a moment to readjust. He had lost track of time…which was regrettable. He could smell himself as well, sweat making his body sticky, white showing where it dried on his black clothes. He went to the replicator, this time getting a drink that had the minerals and vitamins in that aided post-workout hydration.
He didn’t like thinking about nutrition, not really. Food had once been about survival, not recovery. Even now, every mouthful still felt like a calculated decision. He didn’t know how to eat for pleasure. He just knew how not to starve.
It tasted disgusting. Like rainwater down the rockface, not quite clean, not bad enough to kill you. He had never contemplated changing the flavour. He drank it down with shoulders set like a man who didn’t eat or drink for pleasure.
He headed out, finding his way to the barrack’s showers, but made a point of picking up fresh clothes first. Personal hygiene was a luxury he loved. He could deal with being dirty when he was deployed, when there were no other options. But the feeling of being clean was one he treasured, one of the small things he did for pleasure. Personal grooming was something else…it took time and was an annoyance. Face to shave, hair to cut. But the sensation of clean skin and clean clothes? That was priceless.
The showers were sonic. They were little booths, for privacy, for moments when you needed isolation.
He undressed and folded his dirty clothes, standing there naked with no real regard for his own personal privacy. He was alone anyway; he didn’t need to be modest. No one here to ask questions. He headed into a booth and stood under it, turning it on as his eyes closed and his mind drifted.
Starfleet Enlisted Preparation Programme, 2368
Dannic had pulled strings. Had petitioned. His asylum had been accepted, he had come in as a minor, now he was 18, considered a man yet still a ward of the Federation. More due to how damaged he was. He knew the word had been used, had sat across from a counsellor who wore a stoic face but whose eyes told stories after stories. Jace hadn’t volunteered much. Hadn’t needed to, his physical scans told stories his mouth wouldn’t.
The simulation room buzzed with low conversation. Pupils sat at terminals, blue jumpsuits crisp, expressions varying between focused and blank. The instructor’s voice filtered through the overhead system: “Today’s module: Federation Interstellar Relations, 22nd–24th century…”
Jace sat at the edge of the room, his terminal blinking expectantly. Waiting for him to do something, to press the controls.
The words on the screen danced like they were taunting him. Letters morphing, rearranging themselves just out of reach. It was like being cornered in daylight, every eye in the room a silent jury. His chest tightened, not panic, not really…but that sharp, tired pressure that never fully went away.
He didn’t even try to hide the sigh. He wasn’t stupid. He remembered what people told him…dates, events, treaties. But the reading…it was like trying to grip smoke.
He closed his eyes, repeated what he’d heard in the lecture. Memorised words spoken, not written. Still, it didn’t help him finish the assignment.
“Morven,” came a voice behind him.
He didn’t turn. “I’m working on it.” Defensive, subdued. He was used to the tutors expecting progress.
A pause. Then softer, gentle but also firm. “I know.”
Warrant Officer Dalia Korrin stepped around to his side, PADD in hand. She didn’t hover. Didn’t press. That’s why he listened to her.
Korrin had sharp eyes, short hair, and a voice that never pretended. She didn’t pity him. She also didn’t expect more than he could give. It was reassuring in a way. But worrying, because she knew his potential. “Use the audio support,” she said, nodding at the screen. “You’ve got memory for spoken detail. Use it.”
He hesitated. Then toggled the function. He didn’t like doing it, didn’t like to single himself out as a weak target. He was learning that teenagers were worse than adults in a way. Groups had formed. Bullies had emerged. And he hated bullies. Federation voices began narrating the treaties and conflicts he couldn’t parse from the text. His shoulders relaxed by degrees.
Korrin didn’t say good. She just moved on.
Later, during hand-to-hand drills, he stood across from a taller Rigelian youth. The instructions were to hold. Control, subdue, disarm. Starfleet style. Clean and gentle, meant never to hurt and always with the idea that peace was the best option.
Jace’s style was different.
The Rigelian lunged. Jace stepped inside the strike and dropped him in two brutal motions. Efficient. Unrefined. No flair, but it worked. He didn’t mean to make it brutal. But his body didn’t trust softness. The idea of ‘controlled force’ felt like a luxury only safe people got to believe in. His instincts didn’t know rules. They only knew danger.
The instructor frowned. “You’re not here to hurt your own,” he said firmly, shaking his head as he stepped closer. He was getting less patient with Jace.
Jace didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He’d stopped the fight, hadn’t he? He didn’t understand, yet he also did. He understood he was too dirty, too brutal, for what they wanted. What they wished to see.
He was told about his progress, as if he could somehow change things. As if he could change himself.
Physical aptitude: Outstanding.
Mental discipline: Highly variable.
Peer interaction: Severely limited.
His progress report was bleak, but not unexpected. He didn’t bond with the others. They joked, compared notes, asked about home. Jace answered with silence, or monosyllables. When someone pushed, he responded with blunt honesty that left them blinking, unsure whether to be offended or worried.
He didn’t mean to be cruel. He just didn’t see the point in dressing truth up for comfort.
One evening, lights low, corridors quiet, Korrin found him in the gym again. He was punishing the bag. Hands taped. Muscles corded and shaking with effort. Sweat ran down his back like rain. The good diet had helped him, had put muscle on him. Had made him gain another inch, had toughed muscles but also allowed a little more fat to his body mass.
“You’ll tear your shoulder again,” she said.
“I’ll heal.”
“You’ll fall behind.”
He stopped hitting, breathing hard, but didn’t turn around. He was breathing hard, his eyes narrowed and focused on the bag.
“You keep fighting ghosts,” she said. “One day, a real one’s going to look back. You’ll need something more than your fists.”
He didn’t answer for a long time. But when he did, the words came from a place of confusion and pain. Somewhere a lot younger, yet also bitter. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
He looked at her then. Really looked. Saw the evidence of a life of love and laughter, of compassion. She turned the compassion onto him. It made him feel uncomfortable, but he realised something. There were people here who were nicer than him, less hard work. She still came to him. Still worked with him. Still came to see him, when she knew he liked being alone.
It hit him in the moment, a vague hope that maybe she cared.
“You’re still here.”
Korrin gave a small nod. “So are you.”
U.S.S. Guinevere, 2388
Korrin had cared. He knew it and it still sat strange with him. A memory of someone, something, that was beyond him. Dannic and Korrin had cared for him. And them being women had made them less threatening to him, at that age. Maybe it was the softness of them, the years living with the comforts of Starfleet. Maybe it was that they didn’t see him as someone to break or make into a weapon.
Had it been the hope that had made him feel for them? Made him care, even when he didn’t want to?
He exhaled slowly and stepped out of the sonic shower, getting dressed. It was an automatic reaction, not something he truly thought about. It just was. He just was.
He made his way to his bunk and sat down, elbows on his thighs, leaned forward slightly as his hands folded. His eyes were distant, ignoring the sounds around him.
Outside, the ship hummed. Inside, his ghosts stayed quiet...for now.
To be continued in part 3
Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant
USS Guinevere
RSS Feed