Ensign Theridion Grallator - Hall of Fame

[Boris Stefanovski]

(( Assembly Bay/Observation Bay, Starbase One ))

(( Overlooking both the USS Chin’toka and the USS Valkyrie-A ))

Grallator did not like big assemblies. In fact, he disliked them so thoroughly that he had once attempted to file a formal complaint against the concept of “gatherings” itself, only to discover that the Department of Abstract Nouns was closed on weekends and only accepted petitions written in triplicate, preferably in blood, though they never specified whose.

He especially disliked assemblies involving people he worked with. Work colleagues, in Grallator’s experience, were best encountered in small, manageable doses—preferably one at a time, preferably in a corridor, and preferably while both parties were pretending to be late for something else. Unfortunately, Starfleet had a uniform policy on uniforms, and Grallator was currently squeezed into his own like a reluctant sausage in a ceremonial casing. The garment had been designed for humanoids of average build, which Grallator was not, and it had the uncanny ability to make him feel both overdressed and underprepared at the same time.

As usual, he was running late. This was not entirely his fault. Time, as he often argued, was a deeply unreliable invention, prone to slipping, stuttering, and occasionally hiding behind furniture when you needed it most. He barely knew the people he worked with, though he had managed to get friendly with a couple of them during the last shore leave. Cosmic narration being what it is—vindictive, ironic, and possessed of a cruel sense of humor—those very individuals had been assigned to his team on the derelict ghost ship.

The ghost ship had been memorable in the way that traumatic dental surgery is memorable. Grallator suspected he would need several more weekends, a small orchestra, and possibly a licensed exorcist to get the screeching voice of the ghost witch out of his head. It was the sort of sound that made you question whether your ears had unionized against you.

Now he was running through the corridors of the Chin’toka like a man pursued by deadlines, bureaucracy, and the faint suspicion that he had left the oven on. The corridors, being Starfleet corridors, were designed to be both practical and confusing, so that anyone attempting to run through them would inevitably look like a madman. Grallator did not disappoint.

He burst into the observation bay just in time to hear Commander T’Ama begin speaking. This was fortunate, because arriving late enough to miss the speech entirely would have been considered insubordination, while arriving just in time to hear the speech was considered punctuality. Starfleet had very flexible definitions of both

T’Ama: Welcome! I am Lieutenant Commander T’Ama, your new-ish First Officer as of about a month ago. Most of you know me, for those who don’t - hello. I’m sure you are all eager to be honored for your outstanding work on this last mission, so without further ado, I will turn this over to Captain Serala.

Serala: Thank you, Number One. Crew of the USS Chin’toka, I have had the privilege of working with some of the finest officers in the fleet, and you are no less so. In fact, I have been honored to have all of you under my command. These recognition ceremonies are just one small way that I can say thank you for all of your efforts on behalf of the ship and Starfleet. And to that end, let’s get to the good part, shall we?

This was the first time Grallator had heard his captain speak.

Then again, upon reflection—and Grallator was very good at reflections, especially the kind that arrived inconveniently late—it was also the first time he had actually seen her. Which raised several troubling questions about the nature of command, visibility, and whether Starfleet captains were issued cloaking devices along with their uniforms.

It struck him as odd that someone could be simultaneously in charge of an entire starship and yet so thoroughly absent from the daily business of existing.

So when the captain’s voice finally reached his ears—smooth, authoritative, and carrying the faint suggestion that it had been rehearsed in front of a mirror—it was like hearing a myth come to life. A myth that immediately reminded him he was late, underdressed, and entirely unprepared for whatever was about to happen.

Serala: First of all, while our mission to Ah’rak IV didn’t exactly go according to script, we did make first contact with a new species. And I have received word that the Vulcans have arrived and are working on establishing diplomatic relations with the Ah’rakkians. Starfleet Command seems to have been satisfied with our performance there as they have seen fit to award us both the First Contact and Explorer Ribbons.

Serala: Commander T’Ama, please receive these awards on behalf of the crew. There are individual ribbons for everyone on the table that can be collected after the ceremony.

T’Ama: Thank you.

Serala: In addition, Lieutenant Commander Azura Ada, I was forwarded a citation from Commodore Rajel which reads:

Rajel: Much to our surprise we have discovered that the artifact who caused our little de-aging problem was not an artifact at all. Instead we found out through various tests and finally telepathic communication that it is a silicone based lifeform native to Vryshaan. This remarkable discovery leads to a few ribbons for our crew. First of all I have the honor to reward everyone who was part of this mission the Explorer's ribbon for the discovery of a new species. As well as a First Contact ribbon for, you guessed it, First contact.

Serala: Congratulations, Commander Ada. You can pick up an extra ribbon of each at the end of the ceremony.

Grallator did not like the artifact being an alien life form. Not one bit. Artifacts, in his opinion, ought to remain safely in the category of “things you put behind glass and occasionally dust,” not “things that breathe ominously and look at you as if you’re the entrée.” The revelation added far too much to the horror, tipping it from “mildly unsettling” into “Stephen King novel from the quaint old days of Earth,” complete with the creeping suspicion that the corridors might start whispering his name in italics.

Still, Ada getting an award was nice. Awards were the universe’s way of saying, “Yes, everything is terrifying, but here’s a shiny object to distract you.” Ada was one of the very few people Grallator actually knew, and more importantly, one of the even fewer who tolerated his company. She had been with him on the ship, which meant she had endured the same ghostly shrieking, the same bureaucratic hauntings, and the same existential dread that came with Starfleet-issued coffee.

It was comforting, in a bleak sort of way, to know that at least one familiar face was nearby—especially when the unfamiliar ones were busy being alien artifacts with opinions.

Ada: Response

Serala: Now, there are some individual awards to present. Commander Sherlock and Counselor S’Rorr to the front please.

Sherlock / S’Rorr: Responses

Grallator hadn’t yet met Sherlock or S’Rorr. This was probably for the best, since introductions in Starfleet had a habit of spiraling into minor diplomatic incidents, especially when Caitians were involved. Caitians, as far as Grallator could tell, had names that sounded like someone had dropped a cutlery drawer down a flight of stairs and then politely insisted it was a cultural tradition.

He sincerely hoped that if he ever did meet S’Rorr, he wouldn’t accidentally roar back. It was the sort of thing that could happen—entirely by reflex, like sneezing in the middle of a funeral or applauding at the wrong end of a speech. And given Starfleet’s tendency to file such mishaps under “cross-species misunderstandings,” he suspected the paperwork alone might take decades to resolve.

Serala: You two were given a difficult task, made even more difficult by the fact that the Ah’rakkians had a previous negative experience with Vulcanoids in their past, not to mention certain events that transpired while there. Commander Sherlock, your efforts were so noted that Command decided to make you Chief of our newly formed Diplomacy Department, which they also deemed a necessity on our crew.

Serala: Therefore, the both of you are being presented with the Diplomacy Ribbon.

T’Ama: So is it like a critical mass situation where if you get enough of these they transfer you automatically into the diplomacy department?

Sherlock: response

T’Ama: Congratulations, ensign.

S’Rorr: Responses

Serala: Congratulations, you two.

Serala: Lieutenant Wright, during the mission you assisted in locating and removing the explosive devices. It was an extraordinary act of bravery and for that reason I am awarding you the Good Conduct Ribbon. Likewise, Commander Brodie, your efforts in assisting me, especially in regards to the rescue operation and reminding me to consider all aspects of the operation, I am also awarding you the Good Conduct Ribbon. Congratulations.

T’Ama: Congratulations.

Wright / Brodie: Responses

He managed to applaud politely for Hana and Brodie, though the gesture felt more like a reflex than genuine enthusiasm. And yet again—another crewmate he didn’t actually know. This was becoming something of a recurring theme, the sort of pattern that would have been obvious to anyone keeping notes, preferably in a large leather-bound book titled Grallator’s Catalogue of Awkward Social Encounters.

The Chin’toka was full of people, far too many for one individual to keep track of without a spreadsheet, a filing cabinet, and possibly a small army of interns. Grallator, however, had only managed to get properly acquainted with a handful. The rest remained vague silhouettes in the corridors, names on duty rosters, and occasional recipients of his misplaced nods of recognition.

It was, he reflected, a little like living inside a novel where the supporting cast kept multiplying faster than the plot could keep up. Every time he thought he had the dramatis personae under control, another unfamiliar face would pop up, smiling as if they’d been there all along.

Serala: Speaking of that rescue operation, Lieutenant Seleya of Khanda, please come to the front.

Serala: Lieutenant, your efforts and skills during the operation were noted, and while you weren’t able to participate in the actual rescue due to an unfortunate injury, Starfleet Command deemed your efforts worthy of recognition. To that end, they have awarded both yourself and I the Silver Star. Congratulations.

Seleya: Response

Serala: Now, there would have been no need of a rescue operation without some of our people having been taken hostage. Number One, I would like you, Lieutenant Is’Kah Xiron, Ensign Koyama, and Doctor Edrei to come forward.

The last time Grallator had met Is’Kah, he’d come away with the firm impression that the little person was an excellent guide—though whether she was guiding him, the ship, or simply the narrative itself remained unclear. She had that rare quality of making corridors feel less like endless steel tubes designed by a committee and more like places one might actually survive walking through.

It also seemed, from the way conversations bent around them like gravity with a sense of humor, that she was a close friend of T’Ama. This was reassuring. In Grallator’s experience, anyone who could befriend a commander without spontaneously combusting from the sheer weight of responsibility was probably someone worth keeping nearby.

Is’Kah had the knack of appearing exactly when needed, like a bookmark in a very confusing novel, and Grallator suspected that if the universe ever collapsed into chaos—as it so often threatened to—she would still be there, pointing out the nearest exit with cheerful efficiency

Is’Kah / Koyama / Edrei: Responses

Serala: From time to time, we run into dangerous situations and those situations result in our capture. It’s unfortunate, but such is the nature of our jobs. Thankfully, each of you returned to us, albeit some of you were in bad medical condition. For this reason, I am presenting each of you the Prisoner of War Ribbon. I don’t like giving this one out, but it’s at least understandable. You have my personal gratitude.

Is’Kah / Koyama / Edrei: Responses

Serala: Number One, I think it only appropriate that you present your team with these ribbons. If you have any words for them, please feel free at this time.

After T’Ama stepped forward to start pinning the awards, V’Nille could just about hear her speak to them, mostly due to her position and keen hearing.

T’Ama: ::quietly:: I want to apologize to you all for getting us captured… And I want to say that I’m proud of you for escaping the brig while I was… not there… and taking care of Doctor Edrei.

Is’Kah / Koyama / Edrei: Responses

Serala: There is another ribbon I don’t like to present, but this one is also understandable. And considering I have four myself, it would be disingenuous of me to condemn the recipients. Doctor Edrei, please remain up here, as well as you, Is’Kah. Ensign Koyama, you may return to your place. Seleya, please come back up here and join them.

Seleya: Response

Serala: Each of you sustained serious injuries during the course of this mission. While it is never desirable to have our people injured in the line of duty, it does happen from time to time. Therefore, I am presenting each of you with the Purple Heart.

T’Ama: ::to Edrei and Is’Kah:: I think I have to apologize again for putting you in that situation. ::to Seleya:: But not you. You’re accident prone and this one was not my fault.

Edrei / Seleya / Is’Kah: Responses

Serala: There was another aspect to this mission that should not be overlooked. Lieutenant Commander V’Nille, Lieutenant Commander Azura Ada, Lieutenant JG Ghee’looth Xiron, and Ensign Theridion Grallator please come forward.

Grallator did not expect to hear his name spoken. Names, in his experience, were things best left to duty rosters, reprimands, and the occasional awkward introduction at shore leave. To have his name suddenly plucked from the air without the accompanying order to “come forward” was deeply unsettling, like being summoned by the universe itself but without any clear instructions on what to do next.

For a moment he fazed out entirely, his mind wandering off to check whether the laws of physics were still in place and whether gravity had renewed its contract for the day. Fortunately, his body had long since developed an autopilot system for such occasions. It propelled him forward with all the grace of a malfunctioning cargo trolley, while his brain lagged several steps behind, still filing paperwork on the matter.

By the time he realized what he was doing, he was already standing in front of everyone, wondering if this was how legends began—or at least how embarrassing anecdotes got their start.

Serala: The derelict vessel presented its own challenges, and from the reports I read it was very interesting. It is unfortunate we were not able to salvage it, but what you were able to learn there will keep Vulcan historians busy for quite some time. Therefore, I am pleased to present each of you with the Investigation Ribbon. Congratulations, each of you.

T’Ama: Congratulations on surviving the ghost ship, all of you.

V’Nille: Thank you. Don’t worry. Next time we find a ghost ship, it’s all yours.

Grallator: Thank you… I think. Though if it’s all the same, I’d prefer the next ghost ship to remain firmly in the possession of someone else too. My ears are still negotiating a ceasefire with the last one, and frankly I’m not sure they’re winning. ::looking at the ribbon::  The ribbon, however, is very nice—shiny, dignified, and most importantly unlikely to scream at me in the middle of the night. It’s comforting to know that Starfleet still believes in rewarding survival as much as success. I’ll treasure this, if only as proof that I didn’t hallucinate the entire ordeal. And should anyone ever ask me about the ghost ship again, I’ll simply point to the ribbon and say, ‘Yes, it happened, no, I don’t want to talk about it, and please stop making that screeching noise.’”

Ada / Xiron: Responses

Serala: Counselor S’Rorr, please present yourself at the front.

Serala: Counselor, I first met you on the Astraeus and I was already impressed with you then. In fact, having served with Commodore Mei’konda for as long as I have, I found you a rather pleasant person much like the Commodore. And it only makes sense given that you’re a counselor. When I learned you were coming to my ship, I was excited about this. Despite myself, I found myself missing having a Caitian around. My pleasure only grew as I watched you work. Your skills and diplomatic ability are quite amazing and therefore it is my pleasure to promote you to the rank of Lieutenant Junior Grade, with all the rights and responsibilities commensurate of your new rank.

Serala: Congratulations, Ensign!

Grallator found himself dangerously tempted to roar. It wasn’t that the situation called for roaring—Starfleet ceremonies rarely did—but the urge arrived anyway, uninvited, like a sneeze at a funeral. The thought of it hovered in his mind: one great, echoing bellow that would rattle the bulkheads, confuse the crew, and almost certainly result in several forms being filed in triplicate.

He restrained himself, of course. Roaring in public was generally frowned upon, especially when one wasn’t technically a species known for roaring. But the temptation lingered, humming in the back of his throat like a badly tuned warp core, reminding him that sometimes the most inappropriate responses are also the most satisfying.

S’Rorr: Response

Serala: There is one final bit of business to attend to. I confess a bit of mixed emotions about this one. I know that this is a good thing, but there is a part of me that is feeling emotional about this. :: She paused long enough to get her emotions under control before continuing :: I chose this location, and this backdrop for a reason. Effective Stardate 240212.13 I will be reassigned from command of the USS Chin’toka to Commanding Officer of Shemsh Colony in the Par’tha Expanse. Additionally, the crew of the Chin’toka, with a few exceptions, will be reassigned to the USS Valkyrie-A under the command of Captain Isara Aleron while the Chin’toka undergoes refits and upgrades. The Valkyrie is a newly commissioned Achilles refit with several upgrades that you all learn about in the next few days and weeks. I have asked Captain Aleron to join us here to say a few words and to introduce herself. Please join me in welcoming Captain Aleron.

Now this was unexpected. A new ship. And not just any ship, but a heavy cruiser—the sort of vessel that looked as if it had been designed by someone who thought “subtlety” was a type of dessert. Grallator found the idea both thrilling and faintly alarming.

On the one hand, it was great. Bigger ship, bigger engines, bigger corridors to get lost in. On the other hand, it almost certainly meant more fighting, or at least more opportunities for fighting to be scheduled, catalogued, and filed under “necessary unpleasantness.” Grallator guessed as much, though his guesses had a habit of being uncomfortably accurate in precisely the ways he wished they weren’t.

Still, there was something undeniably impressive about standing aboard a cruiser. It gave him the feeling that he was part of something vast, important, and slightly ridiculous—like being handed a ceremonial sword and told to use it responsibly, while everyone else quietly hoped he wouldn’t trip over it.

Aleron: Thank you, Captain Serala. You have a fine crew and your record is impressive. It is going to be difficult to take over for you, but I will endeavor to do my best. To the crew of the Chin’toka, especially those of you transferring under my command, I want to assure you that while you may have a new CO, I will not ignore your past contributions to this crew. A few changes are coming, but I am going to try and minimize the disruptions because your dynamic as it is makes you the extraordinary crew that you are, as the awards presented here today prove. I will be a Captain worthy of this crew and will continue to foster and grow you all in your careers. I know it’s going to take time to be comfortable with me, but I hope I can earn the same trust and respect that Captain Serala has engendered in each of you.

Aleron: The Valkyrie will be assigned to a new sector of space, but you will not be far from the Par’tha Expanse, and we will return there often. I daresay, there will even be opportunities to catch up with Captain Serala from time to time. The Solerian Sector is an area that the Federation hasn’t been to in many years, and there have been a number of changes there. To the extent that we really don’t know what to expect anymore. We have a few rumors and theories, but not much more than that. Our mission is going to be to explore the sector and learn as much as we can about it and to make diplomatic ties if we can. This crew is highly skilled and I know we can accomplish this mission together. I look forward to working with you and until the change of command ceremony, I will make myself available to any of you who may have questions of me, or who just want to try and get to know me better.

Serala: Thank you, Captain Aleron. :: to the crew :: I cannot begin to fathom how each of you must be feeling right now, but I will say that I am going to miss you. And after you transfer, any of you… ANY of you … may contact me at any time for any reason. Even just to say hello. As Captain Aleron said, you’re a fine crew. One of the finest I have ever served with, and I am proud to have been your Captain for the time that I was.

Serala: Commander T’Ama, you may dismiss the crew as you see fit.

T’Ama: Please help yourselves to the refreshments. Dismissed.

Well, that felt like the end of a chapter, Grallator guessed. Being hauled in front of everybody like that had all the ceremonial weight of history, but none of the comfort of a chair. It left him with the peculiar sensation that the universe had just underlined his existence in bold italics, which was never a good sign.

Naturally, his first instinct was not to reflect on the grandeur of the moment or the significance of recognition, but to get something to eat. Heroism, he had discovered, was best digested with a sandwich. Standing in front of a crowd was exhausting work, and applause—while flattering—did very little to fill the stomach

V’Nille: Oh! I apologize. I was diving for that … beef, I think? Let me get out of your way.

Grallator: No worries, Commander. I’m currently conducting a highly scientific investigation into whether they serve fermented shark. Judging by the smell wafting through the corridors, I’m fairly certain they don’t—unless someone has accidentally left a warp coil to marinate. Which, frankly, would be an improvement. Still, I remain hopeful. Starfleet prides itself on diversity, and nothing says ‘diverse’ quite like food that doubles as a biological weapon. Until then, I’ll settle for something less lethal, preferably edible, and ideally not screaming at me when I try to eat it.

Any: Response

V’Nille: You’re too kind. Let me just … there we go.

From where Grallator stood, the whole maneuver looked oddly graceful—like watching someone perform a minor ballet with a meat cube as the star performer. She twisted, grabbed, and popped it into her mouth in one seamless motion, the kind of efficiency that made him wonder if Starfleet secretly trained its officers in snack‑based combat.

He noticed the way her muzzle scrunched up, not in alarm but in pleasant surprise, as if the peppers and unfamiliar spices had staged a small but successful coup in her taste buds. Grallator found himself oddly fascinated. Food, in his experience, was usually something you endured rather than celebrated, but here was someone treating a cube of meat as though it were a revelation.

It made him think—briefly, and somewhat enviously—that perhaps he should pay more attention to what he ate, instead of just hoping it wouldn’t scream at him or explode.

Any: Response

V’Nille: Mm, it’s good. So, the Valkyrie-A. What do you think of the move?

Grallator: Well, Commander, I must admit I didn’t expect to be transferred to a new ship quite so quickly. I had imagined settling into this one for a couple of years—long enough to learn which corridors lead somewhere useful and which ones only exist to confuse me. But a heavy cruiser is certainly an upgrade. Bigger engines, bigger responsibilities, and, I suspect, bigger headaches. Still, if we’re going to be hurled into battles, I sincerely hope we win them all. Losing tends to be terribly inconvenient, and I’ve grown rather fond of surviving. What about you?

V’Nille/Any: Response

Grallator’s eyes lit up as he spotted them—pickled eggs, sitting innocently among the sprawling chaos of the food table. To most people they were just snacks, but to Grallator they were treasure: small, briny jewels of questionable nutritional value and undeniable charm.

Without hesitation, he darted forward with the speed of a man who had just remembered that survival often depends on securing the strangest provisions first. In one swift, slightly undignified motion, he managed to scoop up half a dozen for himself, clutching them like contraband.

Satisfied with his haul, he turned back to the conversation, trying to look casual, as though he hadn’t just staged a minor raid on the buffet. The eggs sat in his hand like trophies, proof that sometimes victory came not in battle, but in snacks.

Grallator: Apologies for the interruption, Commander. The transfer to the Valkyrie‑A actually aligns rather well with some of my engineering capabilities—or at least the ones that don’t involve accidentally setting things on fire. I had imagined staying put a little longer, but a heavy cruiser offers… opportunities. Bigger systems to tinker with, bigger headaches to solve, and, I suspect, bigger explosions if I get it wrong. Still, it feels like the right fit, and I’ll do my best to make sure the ship runs smoothly—preferably without screaming at us in the middle of the night.

V’Nille/Any: Response

Grallator: Yes, that too. My parents’ hair would stand on end—if they had any, of course—when I tell them. In fact, I suspect they’ll manage to look scandalized anyway, which is quite an achievement for people who are technically bald. They’ve always had a knack for expressing shock without the usual biological equipment, relying instead on eyebrows, sighs, and the occasional dramatic silence. So yes, when I explain this transfer, I fully expect them to perform the traditional parental display of alarm, hair or no hair.

V’Nille/Any: Response

Ensign Theridion Grallator

Engineering Officer

USS Chin'toka NCC-97187

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