The Elephant in the Room

Posted on Wed Oct 7th, 2026 @ 3:47am by Advisor Ramielos Volsunga & Lieutenant Yosef Zabaan & Petty Officer 2nd Class Odgerel & Petty Officer 3rd Class Atrali & Cadet Senior Grade Tollu & Centurion Irago Artolonok

1,200 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Shifting Shapes [4-5]
Location: Tactical Offices - DS13
Timeline: Morning - Four Days after 'A Picnic free of Ants', Two days after 'Do Space Marines Dance?'

The last three days in the tactical department had been quiet, with their new advisor assigned to scopes, their shorthand for the tactical sensor array interface suite off the main tactical offices. It was a round room with screens and consoles around the outside, and a circle of them in the centre.

There wasn’t a lot to do outside of actual tactical situations, and conversation was usually what filled the space. Lieutenant Zabaan, Centurion Artolonok, Cadet Tollu and Petty Officers Odgerel and Atrali occupied the other positions, and had for the week. And of course, most prominently, in a large custom seat at the centre console with its back to the door, was the new Tactical Advisor, Ramielos Volsunga.

Absent any active tactical situations, the decision had been made to assign him ordinary work. After almost an hour of silence the fourth morning, Centurion Artolonok had had enough.

“Advisor, can I ask you something?” The Romulan asked from the other side of the room. All the attention went to him immediately, subtle for most, sidelong glances or pricked up ears, with the exception of Atrali who turned without guile to face Volsunga, wide-eyed.

“Yes.” Volsunga responded without looking away from his screen, where he was still cross-checking the assigned sectors against the data he kept on a secondary display.

“Are you as bored by this as we are?” Artolonok asked with a subtle grin.

“The task was somewhat stimulating for the first few hours when it was still new to me.” Volsunga admitted. “Now I find it somewhat tedious.”

“Ha. Look at that, there is a person under all that genetic engineering. So what would you be doing if you had the choice?” Artolonok asked.

“I had been providing analyses of historical and contemporary conflicts. Providing feedback and suggestions. But I understand almost any task your department undertakes would be preferable to scanning empty space.” Volsunga said, gruff but neutral.

Tollu laughed at that. “What was your favourite thing to do in your own universe?” The Cadet asked.

“I’m not supposed to talk about that with anyone who doesn’t have senior staff clearance.” Volsunga said.

“Oh come on,” Tollu teased, “You can’t even talk about the good parts of the job you were engineered for?”

“Victory was always satisfying. Overcoming adversarial odds. Defeating tactically superior foes.” Volsunga admitted, finally turning away from his screen.

“Like your victory over that Comms officer whose head you popped?” Odgerel spoke up suddenly, his tone and question betraying his disapproval.

“That was not a victory. He was confident his telepathy could overpower me. He was wrong.” Volsunga explained.

“So you killed him?” Ogderel countered.

“The psychic defences implanted in my mind were honed over ten thousand years, against creatures that can pierce reality from the realms of dark gods, or psykers from ancient empires who destroy and dominate armies from the other side of the galaxy. I do not control them. But they are effective.” Volsunga explained.

Ogderel didn’t look like he knew how to respond to that.

“Kakistos was an asshole.” Lieutenant Zabaan announced. “P’Lar in Security and the Marine Ianka both said they caught him snooping telepathically during… intimate moments. The only reason they didn’t report him is because he cried when they confronted him.”

“So he deserved to die?” Ogderel argued.

“No,” Zabaan countered, “but it sounds like if he didn’t put his mind where it didn’t belong, he’d still be alive today.”

Ogderel didn’t have a response for that.

"I cannot give him back. I can tell you I know what I did. That is all I have. It is not enough, and I am aware." Volsunga said.

"I'm told nobody ever asked you about him plainly. So I asked. And you answered. That’s enough for me." The Petty Officer admitted.

There was another silence, before Tollu interrupted it. “Is it true you ride wolves?” She asked.

“No.” Volsunga said, turning to face her, remaining silent for a beat. “Only the worthy ride wolves. I have not been judged worthy by a Thunderwolf.”

“Neat.” Tollu said. “So what do you think about our weapons?” She asked as a follow up.

So they talked gunnery at length, that being a universal language they spoke. Volsunga told Odgerel where the four-gun convergence on the Achilles-class had gone wrong, one point four seconds late, and fired too tight; the third shot had told the target exactly where the fourth would be, and two degrees of spread on the fourth would have removed the predictability of it on the second volley. Odgerel argued the point for six full minutes with the joy of a man who had not been beaten in an argument about tactical matters for years.

They continued to pay enough attention to their work, which wasn’t very much, as the conversation finally flowed between them.

Atrali wanted to know about his weapons, the boltgun, the plasma pistol, the patterns of the ammunition, and got three sentences of precise, patient explanation that he did not understand at all and would repeat, word for word, to anyone who would listen for the next month. Artolonok wanted to know about the armour and was told it was being analyzed in a workshop by people who did not understand it, which he found funnier than it warranted. Tollu wanted to know whether he had ever been afraid, and got the honest answer, which was yes, and the follow-up, which was that a Space Wolf who says otherwise is either lying or has been dead too long to notice, and she would remember them both.

“I gotta ask,” Zabaan asked at one point, “what should we call you? Advisor is kinda impersonal. Battle-Brother feels kinda formal. And three syllables is generally the amount that gets you a nickname.”

“Some of the Senior Staff have taken to calling me RV.” Volsunga explained.

Ogderel laughed at that.

“Why is that funny?” Volsunga asked with genuine confusion, undefensively.

“RV. Old Earth term. Recreational vehicle. A sort of transport that was significantly larger than the usual varieties. It’s a fun double entendre.” Ogderel explained.

Volsunga exhaled through his nose, and there was the ghost of a smile. The conversation continued.

Before any of them knew it, new staff appeared to relieve them.

As they all departed the suite, Zabaan approached Volsunga on his way out.

“RV, you got somewhere to be?” He asked.

“I am returning to my quarters.” He explained.

“We’ve been finishing our shifts with a game of pool down at one of the halls in blue sector lately. Want to come with?” Zabaan asked.

Volsunga considered it for a moment. Time once was he would have declined. But his time with Flynn had showed him that it could be pleasant to engage in recreation, and the civilian sector was consistently interesting.

“I don’t know how to play.” He admitted.

“It’s easy, we’ll show you. Just don’t lean on the table, it might not support you.” Artolonok said as he approached, hoping the peer pressure might sway his decision.

“Alright.” Volsunga said, and together they journeyed to blue sector.

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