Lieutenant J.G. Samuel McIntyre sat alone in the Counseling Office aboard the USS Chimera, the low hum of the ship’s environmental systems barely masking the tension running through Deck Five.
The office lights were dimmed slightly, a deliberate choice. Counseling spaces were meant to calm nerves. Right now, there was precious little calm to go around.
The main display on the wall cycled through intelligence briefings on Scallax Prime.
Population: 4.2 billion.
Primary exports: dilithium refinement, heavy plasma manufacturing, and agricultural biotechnology.
Current status: Civil unrest escalating toward full planetary secession.
McIntyre leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose as he studied the latest Starfleet Intelligence summary scrolling across the terminal.
PROTESTS ESCALATING INTO ARMED INSURRECTION.
LOCAL SECURITY FORCES FRACTURING.
FEDERATION OFFICIALS ACCUSED OF MEDICAL ABUSES.
ALLEGATIONS OF CULTURAL ERASURE AND ECONOMIC EXPLOITATION.
The door to the counseling office hissed shut behind a departing ensign who had just finished an emergency stress evaluation. Third one this morning.
McIntyre exhaled slowly.
“Hell of a mission,” he muttered to himself.

Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera