Restricted Access
Posted on Thu Apr 23rd, 2026 @ 2:37pm by Maren Malbrooke
3,265 words; about a 16 minute read
Mission:
The Mysteries of Maren
Location: VIP Quarters, Deck 2, USS Herodotus
Timeline: MD003 - 0905 hrs
The walk back to quarters gave Maren just enough time for the full horror of breakfast to settle properly.
By the time the doors closed behind her again, she had reached the point where even thinking about it made her want to lie face-down on the bed and never speak to another living person. The image of herself spraying water across the table at Major Muscles had lodged in her brain with the sort of clarity usually reserved for genuine trauma, which felt deeply unfair considering the number of actual traumatic things she had been through in the last forty-eight hours.
She dropped back into the room with a muttered, “Absolutely not,” as if saying it out loud might banish the memory.
It didn’t.
Still, the privacy helped. The quarters were quiet, undemanding, and for once there wasn’t an immediate conversation waiting for her. No counsellor. No captain. No one trying to gently explain reality to her over expensive alcohol.
Good.
She was done with emotional devastation for a few hours.
Maren shrugged out of her jacket, let it land where it landed, and made a beeline for the room’s terminal instead. If this universe insisted on existing around her, then the least it could do was start making sense. Information felt better than grief. Facts were cleaner. Facts stayed where you put them.
She sat down, pulled the interface to life, and stared at the display for a second.
“Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than the machine. “Let’s see what kind of mess I’m actually in.”
Maren sat for a moment with her hands resting near the interface, staring at the softly lit display while the room settled around her. The terminal looked almost insultingly simple, all clean lines and patient prompts, as though it had never once been used by someone trying to work out whether the universe outside the hull was real.
Then she exhaled and started with the obvious.
“Computer, date, stardate, and current political situation in the Alpha Quadrant.”
The response came at once, calm and neutral.
“Current date: March 11th, 2399. Current stardate: 76138.4. The Alpha Quadrant is presently defined by the continued stability of the United Federation of Planets and its allied powers. The Federation remains a multi-species interstellar polity centred on democratic governance, exploratory mandate, scientific advancement, and mutual defence. The Klingon Empire continues as a sovereign allied power. The Romulan Star Empire no longer exists in its prior form following the Romulan supernova crisis; successor states, including the Romulan Free State, now occupy portions of former Romulan territory. The Dominion maintains control of the Gamma Quadrant and formal diplomatic relations with Alpha Quadrant powers, but does not possess sovereign territory within the Alpha Quadrant.”
Maren didn’t move for a second.
No Dominion territory in the Alpha Quadrant.
Not contested. Not occupied. Not tolerated behind carefully worded treaties. Simply… not there.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at the terminal, and for the first time since arriving aboard the Herodotus, the scale of the difference stopped being abstract and started becoming geographical. In her universe, the Alpha Quadrant was a map of concessions, enforcement zones, and fear. Entire worlds had learned to survive by bending, hiding, or disappearing. Here, the computer spoke about the Federation like it was still the centre of civilisation instead of its ghost.
She swallowed and kept going.
“Dominion War outcome. Full summary. Public record.”
The terminal shifted, a Federation insignia briefly appearing before text began to populate the screen in blocks clean enough to look clinical.
“The Dominion War lasted from 2373 to 2375 and was fought between the Dominion and its Cardassian allies against the Federation Alliance, consisting primarily of the United Federation of Planets, the Klingon Empire, and later the Romulan Star Empire. Major engagements occurred throughout Federation and Cardassian space. Following sustained military losses, internal dissent within Cardassian territory, and a final Allied offensive against Cardassia Prime, the Founder commanding Dominion forces in the Alpha Quadrant agreed to a ceasefire. The conflict ended with Dominion withdrawal to the Gamma Quadrant, the liberation of occupied territories, and the collapse of Cardassia’s role as a hostile military power. Post-war reconstruction was undertaken across multiple affected worlds and star systems. Casualties were extensive.”
Maren stared at the words liberation of occupied territories for a long moment.
They landed strangely in her chest. Not like hope. Not quite. More like hearing someone describe a miracle in the same tone they might use for weather reports. It was all there on the screen in plain language: the Federation had survived, the Dominion had lost, and the war had ended before it had time to become the shape of everyone’s lives.
She hadn’t realised until now how badly she wanted details.
“Show battle map progression. Major fleet movements, final campaign, Cardassia Prime.”
At once the screen changed again, turning into a layered tactical display of stars, borders, and shifting lines of colour. Red zones marked Dominion-controlled advances in the earlier years of the war. Blue and gold overlays tracked Alliance fleet responses. Names she knew from her own universe appeared in different contexts, some as battlefields, some as turning points. Chin’toka. Deep Space 9. Cardassia. The final movements converged inward like tightening netting, until the map resolved with the Allied push on Cardassia Prime and the collapse of Dominion control in the quadrant.
It was clean in the way old war maps often were. Too clean. Just arrows and colours and neat little legends for places where people had died in numbers too large to think about properly.
Still, Maren leaned in.
In her universe, those lines had not turned back. They had broken.
She looked at the map for another moment, then sat back and scrubbed a hand over her face, not because she was overwhelmed exactly, but because her brain was trying to reconcile two different realities at once and was beginning to resent the effort.
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “So this one really did go better.”
The terminal waited.
Maren glanced toward the viewport without really seeing it, then turned back to the screen, the practical part of her already reasserting itself now that she had the broad shape of the mess she was in.
History first. Then specifics.
And with that in mind, she started narrowing her search.
Maren stared at the tactical map for another few seconds, then flicked it away with a sharp movement of her hand and brought the terminal back to a clean query screen. The broad shape of the universe was one thing. Useful, yes. Necessary, definitely. But she wasn’t here to take a history class from a machine.
She wanted specifics now.
“Betazed,” she said. “Current political status. Public record.”
The computer responded immediately.
“Betazed is a member world of the United Federation of Planets. Following its liberation during the Dominion War, the planet underwent a prolonged reconstruction and recovery period. It remains one of the Federation’s most significant cultural and diplomatic centres, with continued importance in interspecies relations, education, and telepathic sciences.”
Maren sat back a fraction at that, her brow tightening as she took it in. In her universe, Betazed was still one of those names spoken with a particular kind of weight, a place people remembered for what had been taken from it and what it had never fully been allowed to become again. Here, the computer said words like cultural centre and diplomatic importance like the world had been allowed to heal into itself.
Her fingers moved lightly against the edge of the console.
“Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards,” she said next. “Post-2385 status.”
The answer came back in the same maddeningly calm tone.
“Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards ceased operations following the Synth Uprising of 2385 and the devastation of Mars. The planetary atmosphere was rendered catastrophically unstable, and Mars was lost as a viable centre for industrial ship construction. Fleet development and production responsibilities were subsequently transferred to other facilities within Federation space.”
Maren’s jaw tightened slightly at that. Lost. Just like that. The computer said it like it was filing away warehouse inventory instead of talking about a place that had burned so hard it had become unusable to an entire civilisation.
“Right,” she muttered. “Nice cheerful place.”
She flicked the entry away before it could sit too long in front of her.
“USS Pioneer,” she said. “Registry, class, command status, current assignment. Public record.”
The screen shifted, a clean Starfleet display resolving into text and ship data.
“USS Pioneer, NCC-74757. Intrepid-class starship. Current commanding officer: Commodore Tyler Malbrooke. Proud member of Theta Fleet and flagship of Area 51. Present operational theatre includes the borders of and territories within the Cardassian Union. Primary resupply and shore assignment point: Empok Nor, Trivas System.”
That made her stop.
She stared at the line for a second longer than she meant to, then leaned in closer like she didn’t quite trust what she was reading.
An Intrepid-class.
A real one. Whole. Operational. Not a half-gutted relic or something people talked about like the good old days before everything went to hell. And her father, or at least this version of him, commanded it.
“Wow,” she said under her breath, and this time the sarcasm dropped out completely. Then, because she was still herself, she added, “Okay. Bit of a show-off.”
She should have been annoyed by that. Instead, she found herself asking the next question before she’d quite decided to.
“Commodore Tyler Malbrooke. Public service summary.”
The computer complied.
“Tyler Malbrooke entered Starfleet Academy in 2375 and graduated in 2379 with a major in Probability Mechanics and a minor in Systems Engineering. His early career focused on operations and systems management, with successive promotions awarded for distinguished service, technical excellence, and acts of lifesaving intervention. He later served as Chief of Operations, Second Officer, Executive Officer, and Commanding Officer before assuming command responsibilities at fleet level. His current rank is Commodore.”
Maren sat back again, slower this time.
Probability mechanics. Systems engineering. Operations.
That tracked so hard it was almost insulting.
Of course this version of Tyler Malbrooke had gone that route too. Of course some parts of him had stayed the same even when the whole universe around him hadn’t. She could almost hear her father making some dry comment about systems theory and probability trees and how people always underestimated operations until everything broke and suddenly everyone remembered who kept the lights on.
She let that thought sit for a second longer than she meant to.
Then, because she couldn’t help herself:
“Show notable commendations and public citations.”
The terminal shifted again, summarising the highlights of a career that seemed, from where she was sitting, almost offensively intact. Service commendations. Emergency response citations. Recognition for saving lives, saving ships, exposing threats from within. Promotions granted on merit, on request, on the strength of things done well enough that other people had written them down and made them official.
Maren blew out a breath through her nose and rubbed once at the bridge of it, not because she was upset exactly, but because there were only so many times in one day a person could discover that another version of their father had gotten everything he should have had.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Bit overachieving, but fine.”
The terminal, helpfully, did not respond.
That was probably for the best.
Maren sat with the terminal for a moment longer, letting the broad facts settle where they were going to settle. The Federation existed. The Dominion had lost. Her father, or at least this version of him, had built an entire career in the kind of universe hers had never been allowed to become.
Fine.
Useful.
None of it answered the one question that actually mattered.
She opened a fresh query screen and leaned forward a little.
“Search Starfleet records for documented cases of inter-universal displacement and successful return to point of origin. Public access.”
The answer came back immediately.
“Access to inter-universal displacement records is restricted under temporal containment protocols.”
Maren stared at the screen.
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
She tried again.
“General summary, then.”
“General information available. Inter-universal displacement events are considered high-risk temporal anomalies. Civilian access to procedural, historical, and operational return records is restricted.”
Her brow tightened.
“Why?”
“Disclosure limitations are in effect to prevent temporal contamination, unauthorised reintegration attempts, and causal destabilisation.”
Maren sat back slightly and folded her arms.
“So you do know,” she muttered. “You’re just being difficult on purpose.”
The computer, naturally, ignored that.
She leaned in again, quicker now.
“Fine. Non-classified summaries of temporal reintegration outcomes. Starfleet policy. Historical precedent. Anything useful.”
“Access restricted.”
“Abstract only.”
“Access restricted.”
“Metadata only.”
“Access restricted.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re enjoying this.”
No response.
Maren exhaled through her nose and dragged a hand back through her hair, already annoyed enough that she was starting to sound like she was arguing with a person instead of a terminal.
“Okay, let me rephrase. Is there a documented way to send someone back where they came from, yes or no?”
There was a brief pause.
Then: “Query cannot be answered within current access parameters.”
She stared at the display for a second, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, that’s obnoxious.”
The terminal remained politely blank.
That, more than the refusals, told her what she needed to know. This wasn’t random classification. This was a very specific wall, put in a very specific place, and it had her name written all over it whether the computer admitted that or not.
Thorrin had known things. The ship had protocols. Starfleet had records. Somewhere in all of that was an answer about whether people like her got sent home, stayed lost, or simply vanished into a file no civilian was allowed to read.
And the computer was not going to hand any of it over just because she asked nicely.
Maren looked at the denial notice for another moment, then leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms.
“Right,” she said quietly. “So that’s how this is going to be.”
It didn’t make her want to give up.
If anything, it made the problem feel more interesting.
Maren sat there for another moment, staring at the access denial like it had personally insulted her.
Then she leaned forward again, slower this time, the irritation in her expression flattening into concentration.
“Okay,” she muttered. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
The guest terminal looked harmless on the surface, all clean menus and over-polite restrictions, but it was still a shipboard system. It still had to talk to the rest of the computer to pull records, cross-reference archives, and filter what she was allowed to see. That meant it wasn’t isolated. Not really. Just boxed in.
And boxes were systems.
Systems had seams.
Her fingers moved across the interface, pulling up basic user architecture first. Not by asking for it directly, because the computer would have refused that too, but by opening innocuous diagnostic overlays attached to the public archive viewer. Response timing. Query routing. Access partition lag. It was all buried under the sort of maintenance layer most people would never notice and wouldn’t know what to do with if they did.
Maren did.
The public records terminal was running through a guest sandbox, but the sandbox wasn’t generating its own archive calls. It was borrowing them, handing requests off to a broader shipboard library index and then waiting for the permissions filter to clean the result before display.
That handoff was the weak point.
Not a big one. Not stupid. Just narrow enough to matter.
Her father would have called it lazy ops design. Elegant, efficient, and trusting that nobody on the user side would ever be smart or stubborn enough to notice the timing discrepancy between what was requested and what was refused.
“Yeah,” Maren murmured, eyes narrowing slightly at the display. “There you are.”
She didn’t try to break the lock head-on. That would have triggered every alarm the ship had and probably dumped a security team back outside her door before she got through one command. Instead, she routed a false maintenance query through the archive index, piggybacking it behind an authorised public file request so the system would read it as internal clean-up rather than external access escalation.
The terminal paused.
Only for half a second.
But half a second was enough to tell her she’d made it blink.
Maren’s posture changed almost immediately, shoulders curling in closer to the console, fingers moving faster now but no less precise. She built on the hesitation, feeding the system just enough legitimate traffic to keep the public interface busy while she slipped a second query underneath it. This one wasn’t asking for the classified files themselves. It was asking the archive manager to verify whether those files existed and where they lived.
The computer responded.
Not on the main screen. Down in the maintenance echo where it shouldn’t have been giving her anything at all.
A list began to populate in stripped system text.
Temporal Incident Archive.
Cross-Universe Displacement Registry.
Reintegration Assessment Cases.
Containment and Return Evaluation Files.
Maren’s pulse kicked.
“Oh, you idiot,” she whispered to the terminal, and for once the insult was affectionate.
There it was.
Not the contents. Not yet. But the bones of it, the shape of the thing Starfleet had tried to hide from her behind polite civilian restrictions and temporal guidelines. The records were real. They had names, paths, archive codes, and protected storage locations.
Which meant they could be reached.
She moved quickly after that, copying down case numbers and directory strings onto the PADD before the system had time to reconcile what had happened. One wrong move now and the library manager would refresh its permissions check, realise the guest terminal had no business in the maintenance layer, and slam the whole thing shut.
A faint stutter in the display was the only warning she got. Maren killed the maintenance overlay at once, dumped the spoofed query, and kicked the terminal back to an innocent public archive screen so quickly it almost felt like muscle memory. The system settled. No alert. No lockout. No security detail appearing outside her door for round two.
For a second she stayed very still, watching the terminal like it might change its mind.
Then her eyes dropped to the PADD in her hand.
The copied case numbers and protected archive paths sat there in neat rows, dry and technical and absolutely not meant for her. Which, naturally, made them beautiful. A slow, deeply self-satisfied little smile pulled at the corner of her mouth as she read over them again, curled slightly toward the screen like she was sharing a joke with herself and winning.
“Well,” she murmured to the empty room, smug in the quietest, sneakiest way possible, “that’s interesting.”
She sat back slightly, the PADD still in her hand, and read over the copied case numbers and protected archive paths again just to make sure they were really there. They looked dry and boring and completely harmless, which somehow made the whole thing better.
A slow, private little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Yeah,” she murmured to herself, smug in the quietest way possible. “That’ll do.”
A Post By:
Maren Malbrooke
Civilian, USS Pioneer
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