The Ready Room is often the reflection of the Captain who presides within it, a silent window into his or her mind as they proceed in their career. The Ready Room of Jesa Callen is no exception to this rule, but many of the touches are subtler, harder to understand, and often ambiguous.

As one walks in from the door to the bridge, the first thing your eyes are drawn to is the vertical window which interrupts the wall behind the Captain. Through this window one can see out over the prow of the Isannah, a grey expanse of metal falling off into nothingness sooner than it seems it should. Then one's eyes are drawn downward, to the desk of the Captain of the Isannah. A fairly unobtrusive and simple piece of furniture, the black tabletop is often obscured by a variety of padds, neatly ordered and stacked into various piles. The only other object present on the desk is a mobile console that is used for much of the Captain's work, not to mention transferring data between the padds submitted to her by all departments. Her chair is beige, and comfortable, if very basic in design. And there is a chair of similar construction on the other side of the desk for a guest's benefit.

Then, for some reason, one's eyes immediately slide to the right of the room, coming to rest on a small end table beside a couch. At the base of a small houseplant, a white-flowering christmas-cactus, unless you missed your guess, is a picture of a smiling Betazoid man with green eyes, holding the Captain from behind while she is in the middle of a laugh at whomever is taking the picture---her husband. His wedding ring, especially is most visible, though hers is also present. The picture is positioned just perfectly so that from the desk, she can just turn her head a little to see it, without it being overly prominent or out of place.

Next to it is another picture, also with herself in it. There's a pair of older humans, both appearing in their sixties, the man with brown hair and eyes, his hair graying at the temples. He seems to have a very inviting and personable smile. The woman has pale blue eyes, and red hair, not unlike the Captain's. The other three people in the picture, besides the Captain, seem to vary in age. Two of them seem in their twenties, a male and female. The male has green eyes, tight curly hair, and a winning smile. The female has dark eyes, and red hair, and there's a sense of inviting presence from her expression. The pose of the photograph leaves the idea of some closer connection between them, though it's impossible to say what exactly that is. The last person in the picture is about thirty years old, and has blond hair and deeper blue eyes. She has a thin appearance, but not to the point of frailty. There's only a hint of a smile on her face, but the promise that she is capable of more should she find something to smile about.

The couch, of course, is for more informal convenience, and is flanked on the other end by a bare end-table, shaped to fit flush against the couch but also with a rounded edge to keep people from coming into the ready room and bumping against that edge. Over the couch is a magnificently rendered piece of artwork with the Isannah gliding into the tendril's of a blood-red nebula. Several artist's liberties are obviously taken in the rendering, and the warp nacelles almost seem to give off a sense of silent vibration.

Addressing the other half of the room, there's a long padded beige wall, blank of decorations, leading to the to the small door and alcove containing a replicator. There is a small display table along the wall, but it is empty, the two pieces standing an inch apart, as though they are waiting for something to be placed there. In the far corner of the room, a miniature orange tree grows in a large three-quarter meter across pot. It's not a tree for pure decorative purposes, as is evident by the fruit and blossoms on it.

Turning back towards the door, there are two things that one doesn't generally notice until one tries to leave the ready room. Directly above the couch's end-table closest to the exit, a muted gold plaque hangs, with the names of each of the previous Captains of the Isannah.

Mvarek, D'Autel, Steward, Reineer, Jolon, McHenry, Alkonar, Callen.

They were all listed there, with stardates beneath them. Eight Captains in an eighteen year period. Several of the Captains in the later period seemed to serve periods far less than a year…

And for the final name on the list, Jesa R Callen. There was a beginning date, and no ending date. But there was space for one.

On the opposite side of the door, was another plaque, the same size, and made of the same material as the first with the listing of Captain's names. This, though, had a distinctly less formal feel, and was even more ambiguous in its meaning than anything else in the room.

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We have never been a ship of joy, but always a ship of blood
We have never been a ship of model officers, but of the broken searching for good
We were never a ship of war, but a ship of the line we still remained
We were never a ship of honor, but of survival, ties of blood proclaimed

We never will be a ship of triumph, but a ship of hope we will
We never will be a ship of import, but we will be significant even still
We will hold our own against the darkness, though we know we cannot win
We will search endlessly for that which we know cannot exist

There is honor in this as much as anything else
There is glory only in our lives simply dealt
There is hope because the candles are not yet extinguished
And there are dreams because there is weakness

~ Jesa Callen
"Contemplations on the Dreams of the Unimportant."

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But that's not the only plaque in that room of the same design and type. There's another, the third of the triptych, hanging behind the Captain's chair next to the window, also with a poem.

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We are as candles, burning in the night
Raw wounds bound on a distant battlefield
Not of the flesh, nor of the bone
Damage to mind and heart, our bitter companions

We strip our flesh and peer into the depths
See the wounds that never quite heal
Prediction of death is what we find
Repent in blood for our own failings

For what do we continue on this path?
For what do we choose to do as we do?
The relatively simply stated task
To be better than our sins reveal

~ The Unknown Author

Captain's Personal Log
SD:238204.04

I had forgotten how much anger I could hold.

Over the death of one of the crew.

Especially a needless death like this one.

Lieutenant Commander Mike Weller was declared dead this afternoon. The cause of death was explosive decompression. If I didn't have such a careful and alert staff, it would have been listed as a suicide, and then quietly forgotten. But it wasn't. I know without even seeing any of the reports that this wasn't a suicide on the part of a disturbed officer, but the murder of one of my own for no other reason than to make a stupid point!

Outrage and despair climb in me as I contemplate watching even more of my crew fall for the stupidest of reasons---power---and the threat of that power being taken away. How can I continue to do this to them? They never even *know* the danger. Should I just run away? Should I have stayed away? Would everyone have been for the better had I done just that?

But then wouldn't it be dooming them to tyranny forever?

Is it tyranny if they don't even realize it?

The dead think so. But I have to think of the living---the soon to be dead.

I've watched the bodies being stacked in rows in cargo bays---too numerous for the morgue. I've seen friends and comrades fall in battle. I've seen people die as a result of equipment failure. I've seen them selflessly sacrifice for the sake of my continued survival. But nothing fills me with rage like this.

I can almost... almost, justify murder. I can almost bring myself to that point. And nearly did, today. I grabbed Admiral Richard Connolly-Grier by the throat and watched the images of his broken body dance in my vision even as I slowly deprived him of life-giving air. I wasn't going to kill him, but I realized that some part of me wanted to. Even though I am pretty certain he was only trying to do good---though in all the wrong ways.

Is this what I really am? Is that what I would become if I didn't know not to? Would I murder without conscience, sweeping across the brass population of this Starbase like a plague? Moving from place to place, exacting retribution as I saw fit? Would I be *any* different than the Founders then?

Buck is my saving grace. I'm not sure he even realizes it. He's my tie to reality, my support, my strength. I think back through our relationship and can only find good, even in our own weaknesses. I wonder if he even realizes that one of the main reasons I fell in love with him was *because* of his weaknesses---and my weaknesses.

Sometimes... sometimes I think that maybe he is keeping a tally in his head, frightened that someday his weakness will cause him to lose me. I don't know why I think this, or what shadow in his mind has given me that impression, but I do. I'm simply at a loss for how to reassure him, to show him... finally... that I need him as much as he thinks he needs me.

It chills me to think of one of us surviving the other... because I honestly am not sure how either of us could move on. But though I push them away, these thoughts keep coming back to me. Again, and again. I am terrified that my choice... MY choice (though Buck has gone along with it) to come back here will be our undoing. If I have, in essence, signed our death-warrants, and we are simply waiting for the gallows to be built---living on borrowed time.

But then I suppose we've already been doing that for quite some time.

I don't want them to fall with me---not any of them.

End log.

Captain Jesa R. Callen, CO, USS Isannah

The Difference Between Duty and Orders
SD:238204.07

The initial victory of winning back the USS Isannah was short lived for Jesa Callen and Dr. Buck Gear. With the preliminaries completed, the next steps was to select a crew, and certify the Isannah's systems. Paranoia rampant in Jesa's mind, security was posted at every entrance and egress point of the Isannah, with orders that only crew come aboard and all members cursory screened. Of course, this makes the very necessary task of supplying the Isannah difficult at best.

But other problems have already arisen. It began with the arrival of Justine Callen, sister to Jesa, and comatose patient. A dangerous attempt to reach this fractured mind followed, causing her to awaken after over a year of being unconscious, while submerging Buck into a state of strain-induced exhaustion. He then removed himself from the case due to a conflict of interest, leaving Dr. Jen Malcolm floundering for answers where only questions can be found. Meanwhile, the rest of the Callen family arrived to support their shattered member and Justine is eventually released from Sickbay.

Only a day later, the shuttle carrying Lieutenant Commander Weller, XO of the Isannah halted off of the aft quarter. Attempts to hail her go unanswered. Bringing the shuttle inside, the crew came to a gruesome discovery. Weller is dead, apparently by his own hand, with suicide note attached. But the method of death is suspicious---explosive decompression.

Events follow in rapid succession. An armed squad of Starbase goons show up to relieve Ravik of all evidence regarding Weller's death, and the computer records as well. Their opposition bearing the signature of Admiral T. S. Wolfe, they can do little, officially, to disagree. And to bring distress to misery, the Isannah is gifted with a unique personnel assignment; a Reporter for Federation News, whose job it is to bring to public view the daily workings of the Isannah.

While Jesa is dodging difficult questions and situations, she finds herself issuing orders in direct opposition of the Starbase brass. Is this the beginning of the end for her?