Ships Passing In The Night
Posted on Mon May 18th, 2026 @ 6:06am by Captain Rylen Lyo
1,172 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Welcome To Your Life
Location: DS 12, Promenade
Timeline: Current
The Promenade of Deep Space 12 always smelled faintly of ozone and expensive food.
Nobody admitted the ozone part in travel brochures.
Captain Rylen Lyo stood outside Aster Hall for perhaps ten seconds longer than necessary, staring through the transparisteel at diplomats pretending they weren’t watching one another. He’d spent years around politicians and ambassadors. They all watched. Constantly.
The maître d’ inclined his head.
“Captain. I’m afraid we do not have any open single tables. One guest requested a quieter table. He mentioned not objecting to company.”
Lyo frowned.
“Who requests company in advance?” wondered the Kriosian aloud.
The man smiled in that irritating service-industry way.
“Diplomats,” came the response.
Of course. Lyo gestured with his right hand expansively, a sort of universal gesture that said quietly ‘lead the way.’
The Ba’ku was seated near the viewport.
Cream colored jacket. Silver threading at the cuffs. Blond hair touched with age though age meant very little for Ba’ku. He looked perhaps thirty-five by Human standards. Or ninety. Or two hundred. With them, who knew. The man looked up as Lyo approached. His eyes lingered a fraction too long. Not rude. Assessing.
“You’re staring,” Lyo said before he could stop himself.
The Ba’ku blinked once. Then smiled.
“You walk exactly how I expected,” said the Ba’ku.
Lyo stopped.
“…You know who I am.”
“Captain Rylen Lyo. Lord of House Lyo. USS Intrepid. Son of the late Lord Zellis Lyo.” A beat. “Complicated relationship with authority.”
That earned a laugh. Unexpected. Lyo sat.
“I’m starting to dislike diplomats again.”
“I’m not a diplomat.”
“No?”
“Diplomatic liaison.”
“That sounds like diplomacy with extra steps.”
The man’s mouth twitched. “Teren Gil.”
They shook hands. His grip was warm. Odd thing to notice.
“You’re Ba’ku,” Lyo observed.
“Yes.”
“You left your world voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Your people usually think the rest of us are rushing toward oblivion.”
“We are.”
Lyo snorted softly, opening the plush napkin and spreading it across his lap.
The drinks arrived. A bottle of wine from a small, lesser-known vintner on the Terran colony world of Delvan II. It was deep red. Rich and complex.
Then food. Lyo ordered a classic Beef Wellington, sourced with some of the galaxy’s most premium ingredients. Teren ordered zaathnut soup, a recipe imported from the inner reaches of the Delta Quadrant. Conversation moved strangely. Not smooth. Real. Like two people circling subjects instead of attacking them directly.
“You knew my father?” Lyo asked later.
Teren tilted his head.
“No. But I know Ambassador Julaa Tyris.”
That made Lyo pause with his glass halfway raised.
“…Tyris.”
“Yes.”
Lyo stared at him. The Ba’ku noticed immediately.
“There’s history there.”
“You could say that.”
“Gil Tyris.”
Former Commander, now Captain and a leading voice in Starfleet Sciences. Genius. Irritating. Impossible. His old rival. Years of sharp comments during joint operations. Scientific disagreements turning personal. Competition neither admitted enjoying.
Teren exhaled softly.
“His sister serves as Ba’ku Ambassador to Deep Space 12. Julaa mentioned you once.”
Lyo barked a surprised laugh. “Oh, that can’t be good.”
“She called you…” Teren paused. “…brilliant, exhausting, and ‘entirely too attractive for a man carrying that much emotional damage.’”
Lyo stared. Then laughed harder. Actually laughed. People turned briefly.
“I hate that family,” he muttered.
Teren smiled into his wine. “No you don’t.”
The answer came too quickly. “…No.”
Silence settled. Not awkward. Outside the viewport, ships moved against stars older than all of them.
Eventually Teren asked quietly: “Does it become tiring?”
Lyo frowned. “What?”
“Being the surviving son.”
The question landed wrong. Or maybe too right. Lyo looked down at his drink. His thumb moved absently around the rim. “…Every day.” No performance. No noble speech. Just the unfiltered truth.
Teren watched him several seconds.
Then: “Julaa said something else.”
Lyo looked up warily. “Oh?”
“She said after Captain Culver disappeared… you became harder.”
Everything in Lyo stopped. Tiny things. His breathing. The movement of his hand. Even the practiced expression officers learned to wear. The noise of the restaurant seemed farther away suddenly.
Max. Captain Max Culver.
Missing for fourteen months after a strange mission to an unnamed frontier planet. No wreckage worth naming. No body. Starfleet had eventually changed the wording. Missing in action. Then later—Presumed deceased. As if different language altered anything.
Lyo looked back toward the viewport. His reflection stared at him. Older. Sharper.
“Julaa talks too much,” he said eventually. His voice was even. Almost.
Teren did not push. Did not apologize. Just waited. That annoyed Lyo more than sympathy would have.
After perhaps thirty seconds—“He was…” Lyo stopped. Started over. “…Important.”
The understatement hung there, absurd and fragile. Teren’s expression softened. “The kind of important that changes the architecture of your life?”
Lyo laughed once. Short, humorless.
“You sound like a therapist.”
“I’m Ba’ku.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It often is.”
Another silence.
Then:
“We were bonded,” Lyo admitted quietly. “In that particular way that makes talking about it…challenging.” The words came out rough. Unused. His eyes stayed fixed on stars beyond the viewport. “Pretty much only the Intrepid crew and the Kriosian Noblility knew the extent of things.”
Teren did not react with surprise. Which somehow made it worse. Only—“I’m sorry.” Simple. No performance, no diplomatic polish. Just sorrow offered without ownership.
Lyo swallowed. His jaw shifted slightly. The old reflex before emotion surfaced. “Most days,” he said after awhile, “I’m angry with him.”
Teren looked up. “For dying?”
“For disappearing.”
A longer pause. Then, quieter: “For leaving me to become this version of myself.” That one surprised even him. His mouth tightened immediately after speaking. But the truth was already out.
The drinks remained untouched. Outside, a Starfleet transport crossed the stars. Small. Temporary.
Eventually Teren said: “You know… Julaa told me something after Gil lost people in the line of duty.”
Lyo glanced over.
“She said grief calcifies when treated like duty.”
The words settled between them. Heavy. Because House Lyo had always treated pain as obligation. Because captains did too.
Lyo looked at his empty glass. “…The Tyris family really are insufferable.”
The corner of Teren’s mouth lifted.
“Yes.” A pause. “But often correct.”
—
By the time they left Aster Hall, station lighting had shifted toward evening cycle. The walk toward the lifts felt slower. Neither hurried.
Near the turbolift Teren said quietly: “You loved him.” Not a question.
Lyo stared ahead. The answer took several seconds. “I still do.” Then, almost annoyed with himself—“I’m not sure what that means anymore.”
The lift doors opened. Neither moved immediately. And for the first time in over a year, Captain Rylen Lyo realized speaking Max Culver’s name aloud had not broken him. Only hurt. Which was different… maybe? Small thing. Important thing. The kind grief notices before the grieving person does.
__________
Captain Rylen Lyo
Commanding Officer
USS Intrepid
RSS Feed