Post 204: Reaching Out
Posted on Sun Feb 16th, 2025 @ 11:43pm by Lieutenant Paul Eschenauer
538 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission: Secrets
Paul Eschanauer stepped into his quarters on Starbase Obsidian, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension of another long shift. The station hummed with its usual controlled chaos, but his mind was elsewhere.
He sat down at his desk and activated the communication device. "Eschanauer to Peter McMahon."
Silence. The standard comm ping was met with nothing but dead air.
Paul frowned. Peter was usually quick to answer, even if it was just with his usual by-the-book professionalism.
Shrugging it off, he tried another frequency. "Eschanauer to Robert McMahon. You there, buddy?"
Again, nothing. Not even a redirect to a message queue. That was odd.
Trying to keep his concern in check, Paul sighed and switched frequencies one last time. "Joe? It's Paul. You around?"
More silence.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t going to panic—not yet. They were McMahons. They were strong, capable, and probably just busy with assignments. The USS Thunderbird was out on patrol, and who knew what kind of high-stakes maneuvers Rob and Joe were up to? Maybe they were just off-grid for the moment.
Still, a small seed of unease planted itself in his chest. He didn't like radio silence from people he cared about, especially now. The Synthulans had been attacking ships, bases, and even planets—including Earth. Starfleet Command itself had been hit, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Communications across the quadrant had been unstable, and for all he knew, that was why he wasn’t getting through. But knowing that didn’t ease the pit in his stomach.
Even worse, Mike and the away team were deep in Synthulan territory, attempting a near-impossible rescue mission to extract Admiral Chris Bradley from a Synthulan Fortress. Paul clenched his jaw. If anything had gone wrong…
No. He couldn't think like that.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the vast blackness of space through the viewport in his quarters. The stars continued their slow, indifferent twinkle.
"Alright, guys," he muttered to himself. "Just be safe."
For now, he’d let it go. But if he didn’t hear back soon, he’d start asking questions.
Standing up, he made his way over to the small kitchenette in the corner of his quarters. Pouring himself a cup of replicated coffee, he took a slow sip, letting the warmth soothe his nerves. His mind wandered to memories of the McMahons—shared laughs, daring missions, the camaraderie that came from years of service together. They had always been there for each other.
He tapped his fingers against the cup, considering his next move. Maybe he should check with the station’s communications officer, see if any messages had been delayed due to interference. Not that it would help with Admiral Bradley—he was captured, and calling him wasn’t an option.
Shaking his head, he turned back toward the viewport, the infinite darkness of space staring back at him. He hated waiting.
"Come on, guys. Just send me a sign you're alright."
The silence remained unbroken, and Paul resolved to wait just a little longer before escalating his concerns. For now, he'd trust that they were as resilient as they had always been.
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