A Navigator Answers

Posted on Wed Jan 7th, 2026 @ 8:36am by Captain Zedd Sykes & Science Officer Lindsy

1,160 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Acquisitions & Contracts
Location: Rusty Lobe Cantina
Timeline: Date 2380-01-02 at 0730

The morning cycle lights on Docking Ring Beta had just dimmed to simulate dawn when Captain Sykes pushed through the scarred duranium doors of the Rusty Lobe Cantina. The place was already alive with the low hum of conversation—Ferengi merchants nursing hangovers from last night’s tube grubs, off-duty dock workers arguing over tallies of tri-dimensional chess, and a scattering of independent contractors scanning the room for the next berth. The air carried the sharp tang of fermented slug-o-cola, replicated Kanar, and the faint metallic bite of overloaded power conduits. Holographic menus flickered above battered tables, and a Ferengi trio in the corner played a jaunty tune on traditional tongo drums.

Zedd wore his usual leather jacket and cargo pants, the exemption badge still clipped to his collar from yesterday’s surface dealings. His piercing blue eyes swept the room until they settled on the woman seated alone at a corner booth—back to the bulkhead, clear sightlines to every entrance. Exactly the position he would have chosen.
Lindsy Vaelor.

Her response to his posting had arrived just after midnight: concise, professional, no embellishment. Rigellian. Thirty-nine standard years. A service record that spanned Antican frontier runs, Karemma Trade Authority validation work, and high-end independent contracts. She hadn’t asked for references or demanded a tour of the ship—just a neutral location to discuss terms.

She matched her attached holo perfectly: brown hair drawn into a neat, practical knot, brown eyes that took in everything without seeming to stare, posture straight yet relaxed. When Zedd approached, she didn’t rise, but she did gesture to the opposite bench with a small, precise motion.

“Captain Sykes,” she said, voice calm and low, pitched to carry only across the table. “Lindsy Vaelor. Thank you for meeting off-ship.”

Zedd slid into the booth and signaled the passing server droid for two raktajinos—black, extra strong. “Ms. Vaelor. Your credentials kept me up half the night. That’s rare. Most applications read like cargo manifests.”

A faint curve touched the corner of her mouth—acknowledgment, not quite a smile. “I prefer clarity to exaggeration. You need someone who can navigate the Gamma Quadrant without painting a target on your hull. I can do that.”
The droid delivered the steaming mugs. Zedd wrapped his hands around his, studying her over the rim. “Antican frontier routes, Karemma logistics during the war years, then selective independent work. You’ve kept ships moving through some of the ugliest patches of space this side of the wormhole. Why leave the high-paying contracts for an unknown Saber refit with a crew of one?”

Lindsy met his gaze evenly. “Because I’m done being a cog in someone else’s schedule. The Karemma paid well, but every route served an agenda I didn’t set. Independent contracts gave me choice of jobs, but not continuity. Your posting offered profit share and long-term engagement on a vessel small enough that one voice can still matter. That interests me.”

Zedd leaned back, letting his roguish charm surface. “Long-term engagement on the Dutchman means jobs that pay well, keep us moving, and occasionally require creative interpretation of local laws. It’s not a passenger liner. Right now I’m the entire crew—engineering, helm, tactical, and cook.”

“I read between lines for a living, Captain,” she replied. “I’m aware of the implications. I’m looking for autonomy paired with competent command. Your posting was discreet but specific—light cruiser, private ventures, no fixed allegiance. That matches the kind of work I select.”

He nodded, impressed by the calm assessment. “Fair enough. Let’s talk terms. Officer berth on Deck 2, full mess privileges, dedicated astrometrics station once I finish the refit. Base latinum stipend plus hazard bonus, or…”
“Or profit share,” she finished smoothly. “That’s why I’m here. I want four percent of net contract proceeds. Transparent ledgers I can verify quarterly. In exchange, you get my full routing library, real-time contingency planning, and navigation that keeps us ahead of patrols, gravimetric shear, and obsolete chart errors.”

Zedd whistled low. “Four percent right out of the airlock? Most new officers start at one or two.”

“I’m not most officers. My last three contracts cut transit times by an average of seventeen percent and avoided two separate ambushes by rerouting through legacy corridors the clients didn’t know existed. Four percent is reasonable.”
He considered her over the steam of his raktajino. She was steel beneath silk—reserved, methodical, no wasted motion. He could already see her on the bridge, voice steady while proximity alarms screamed, calmly suggesting a course that threaded a nebula like needle and thread.

“Three percent,” he countered. “Plus a signing bonus—five strips of latinum upfront for whatever personal effects or Rigellian meditation gear you need.”

Lindsy didn’t blink. “Three-point-five. No bonus. I prefer equity to advances. And I want input on any route that deliberately enters active Dominion patrol sectors without a verified exit window.”

Zedd raised an eyebrow. “You’re negotiating like the job’s already yours.”

“I’m negotiating like someone who knows her value and doesn’t waste time on captains who don’t recognize it.”
He laughed—a short, genuine sound that turned a couple of Ferengi heads nearby. “I like you, Vaelor. You’ve got spine. Three-point-eight. Final offer. And you get full authorization to upgrade the astrometrics suite however you see fit—within reason and budget.”

She studied him for a long moment, brown eyes weighing intent. Then she extended her hand across the table, grip firm and professional.

“Three-point-eight. Agreed.”

Zedd clasped it, noting the quiet strength in her fingers. “Welcome aboard the Dutchman, Astrometrics Officer Vaelor. Report to Berth 47-A at 1800 hours tomorrow. Bring whatever you need—we plan to undock in three days, crew permitting.”

“I’ll be there at 1700,” she said, releasing his hand. “Early preparation is a habit.”
As she rose to leave, Zedd added, “One more thing. Off-duty, it’s Zedd. Save ‘Captain Sykes’ for when the red alerts are sounding.”

Lindsy paused, a faint but genuine smile touching her lips this time. “Understood… Zedd.”

She slipped into the cantina crowd, posture impeccable, already cataloging contingencies in her mind.

Zedd finished his raktajino, satisfaction settling warm in his chest. One crew member secured—and arguably the most critical one for surviving the Gamma Quadrant’s tricks. The Dutchman finally had her navigator.

Now he needed engineers, a helmsman, maybe a tactical officer who didn’t flinch at quantum torpedoes.

Out in the corridor, Lindsy allowed herself a small exhale. Captain Sykes—Zedd—was charismatic, quick, and clearly no stranger to risk, yet there was competence beneath the charm. No overt red flags in the meeting. And for the first time in years, the work ahead felt like a genuine choice.

Three-point-eight wasn’t the four she’d opened with.

But it was a solid start.

In this quadrant, solid starts were everything.

 

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