Captain’s log, stardate 75747.5. U.S.S. Avenger, Paul Gordon, commanding. After a mostly uneventful six-week patrol mission, we are returning to Devron Fleet Yards for replenishment and much needed shore leave. Commendations to Lieutenant Commander Ino and Lieutenant T’Meris for a successful sequence of simulations that, among other things, kept the crew on their toes during long stretches of inactivity.

On the Avenger’s main viewscreen, the cluster of drydocks surrounding the Unity-class station that comprised Devron Fleet Yards slowly grew larger. Seated in the command chair, Commander Paul Gordon could feel the relief among his bridge crew. Having completed a six-week patrol of high-traffic shipping routes in Sector 348, the Avenger officers and crew, Paul included, were ready for a week of R&R.

“Exec,” Gordon turned toward his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Ino. The Andorian was standing behind him at the master situation monitor, “are you sure you want to take first skeleton crew watch? Ensign Jacobs has been itching to take a shift in the chair ever since he qualified.”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” she replied. She stepped toward the command chair, leaned down and lowered her voice. “You might consider having the base commissary send some actual food aboard, though, for the first skeleton crew shift.”

“Is there a danger of mutiny or something?” Gordon responded.

“No, just some unpleasant grumbling at how the rotation turned out.”

Gordon nodded in agreement. “All right, I’ll speak to commissary officer when we’re ashore.”

Shipping lane patrol made for long days, with not much activity. Avenger had caught three smugglers, assisted two personnel transports with repairs, and rescued a stranded yacht with a malfunctioning astrogation system. Fortunately, they had not been under radio silence, and he’d been able to keep in touch with his wife, Ariana, a physician on the medical staff at Devron Fleet Yards. They had started trying to get pregnant before Paul had left on his most recent mission. He had been hoping to draw a new assignment that would allow he and Ariana to serve on the same ship, and had put in for a transfer he was hoping would materialize when they arrived for shore leave. Paul had no reason to believe it would not happen. He had done everything Starfleet had asked him, including taking command of the Avenger at the last minute when he was slated to take command of the U.S.S. Feynman, a Nova-class surveyor.

Paul practically began his Starfleet career at war in the Battle of Sector 001, when the Borg threatened to travel back in time to change Earth history, making the planet ripe for assimilation. When that threat abated, it wasn’t long until the Federation was back on a defensive footing against the combined alliance of the Dominion, the Cardassians and the Breen. Casualties were many, and Gordon found himself rising through the ranks, thanks to attrition and his own combat experience. It was a double-edged sword. It allowed him to take more positions of responsibility, but it kept him pigeonholed in assignments that were more geared toward defense than exploration.

He hoped, however, that his next assignment would put him back on a path of scientific discovery.

“Exec, open a channel to base operations. Let them know we’re arriving.”

Ino did so and began speaking. “Devron Fleet Yards ops, this is U.S.S. Avenger on final approach, requesting docking bay assignment.”

The reply was quick.

“Negative, Avenger. Follow your escort to the edge of the yard boundaries. You’ll be tractored to drydock facility one-seven for emergency shipfitting. You will be briefed upon arrival at drydock. Ops out.”

Paul became aware that six pairs of eyes were on him, all with the same question.

“I don’t care to engage in idle speculation,” he said, “but I’m guessing shore leave is canceled.”

“Holy smokes.”

Paul stood with about a dozen other starship captains in the briefing room of Commodore Uzoma Ekwueme, commander of the Fourth Fleet’s expeditionary group. A holographic representation of the Paulson Nebula, including several adjacent sectors, was projected above the expansive table at the center of the room. Most of the map was covered in a yellow haze.

“The ion storm, or rather this Century Storm, has hampered communications and travel between planets within the nebula and has made it near impossible for ships outside the nebula to get inside.” Ekwueme’s baritone voice filled the room.

“Except for us,” one of the captains remarked.

Ekwueme continued.

“The areas around these subspace rifts,” he pointed to a few of the rifts blinking on the map, “have become highly agitated. If the storm itself is a navigation hazard, consider the areas around the rifts to be superhazards.”

Paul looked around the briefing room. He knew most of the other ship captains, either personally or by reputation. It wasn’t difficult for Paul to see why these specific officers had been summoned. Each one commanded ships that were small, swift, and agile.

“You’ve each been assigned to rendezvous with three civilian vessels,” the commodore said. “There’s very little time, so if your assessment is that it’s better to rescue the passengers and crew on each ship and abandon it in place for recovery later, then you have the autonomy to exercise that authority.”

“What if any of the skippers protests, sir?” asked one of the captains. “They may not be keen to respond to Starfleet authority.”

Ekwueme did not hesitate in his response. “Tell them your authority comes directly from the Federation Navigator General.” Seeing so many eyebrows raise at that remark, the commodore added, “Yes, it’s that serious.”

Serious, indeed, Paul mused. The Navigator General was the Federation’s highest civilian authority over commercial, personnel and other non-Starfleet interstellar travel, and, not wanting to excessively hinder commerce, she rarely wielded a heavy hand over matters of astrometeorology.

The murmuring quickly subsided and the commodore continued.

“As we speak, your ships are being fitted for the storm: enhanced graviton output for the shields, enhanced ablative armor. Your chief engineers are being sent procedures for other shipfitting items that will have to be completed en route.”

Ekwueme paused and allowed his gaze to fall on every face in his office.

“Given the size of your ships, and the need for space to house evacuees, you’ll need to reduce your crew complements down to one third.”

Paul winced. One third. That was one full shift, officers included, and Avenger didn’t have that many officers when she was fully staffed.

Once again, Ekwueme let the murmurs die down before continuing.

“In the outer office, Chief Harris will have your assignments, including approximate locations and last known weather reports in those areas.” He looked around at the assembled captains. “Good hunting. You’re dismissed.”

As the starship captains formed a loose queue to get out of the commodore’s briefing room, Ekwueme beckoned toward Gordon.

“Commander Gordon, would you stick around? I need to talk about some refit issues that came up.”

Gordon nodded and backed away from the queue. When the last of the officers had filed out and the doors snapped shut, the commodore spoke again.

“There aren’t any refit issues, Paul.”

Gordon chuckled. “I didn’t think so, sir.”

“Avenger will only be evacuating one ship,” Ekwueme said.

Paul was astonished, even a little angry.

“Sir, my crew are more than capable—”

“It’s a special ship.” Ekwueme picked up a PADD from the table, above which the hologram of the Paulson Nebula still hung. He handed the device to Gordon.

Paul read the screen: COMMAND BRIEFING. FEDERATION DIPLOMATIC CORPS. CLASSIFIED.

“You have my attention, commodore.”

Ekwueme took a seat and beckoned toward a chair across the conference table. When Paul was seated, the commodore spoke again.

“Nivax IV is a Federation protectorate, but the planet’s government is applying for full admission.” As he spoke, the hologram shifted, zooming in on a binary star system that was smack in a stretch of open space adjacent to an outer cloud layer of the nebula. “The Nivaxians’ most sophisticated FTL ships travel at a maximum speed of warp three. One of those ships left Nivax two weeks ago carrying the planet’s ambassador and staff, and that journey was interrupted when the Century Storm flared up.” Ekweume tapped a control pad in front of him. “The ship is here.” Once again the map shifted to cube of open space. “There’s an intense front headed their way in thirty-six hours. At their maximum speed, they’ll never outrun or evade it, even if they reverse course.”

Paul narrowed his eyes as he did the math. “Twelve more hours of shipfitting here in the yard. If we leave after that, at maximum warp, Avenger could rendezvous with them in twenty-one.”

“Yes, but the storm isn’t the greatest concern. What they lack in warp speed, they make up for in protective technology. They’d be fine if they sheltered in place.”

“I’m guessing there’s a greater urgency.”

“Affirmative,” the commodore answered. “There’s a faction on Nivax opposed to Federation membership. They have ships. They aren’t as fast as the consular ship, but they are armed. Well armed. Intelligence reports indicate that the separatists’ weapons technology is not native to Nivax.”

Paul furrowed his brow. It wasn’t unheard of for outside forces to attempt to subvert a planet’s admission into the Federation, and it was usually easy to figure out. Given the current state of the galaxy, with a fractured Romulan society, it could be anyone.

“We have very few clues as to who might be supplying them,” Ekwueme said, seemingly anticipating Paul’s question. “That’s something we’re hoping you might discover…if you’re so unfortunate as to encounter them.”

“Do we know they’re even following the ambassador’s ship?”

“Uncertain,” the commodore said. “But the ambassador said the storm presents them a good opportunity for ambush. The Nivaxians are fearful of that.”

“Wait.” Paul held up his hand as if to slow the conversation. “We have direct communications contact with the consular ship?”

Ekwueme sighed and looked down at the tabletop and then back up at Paul. “Not exactly.”

“How are we getting this information?”

“It was relayed by the ambassador’s ship to a trading ship to a passenger liner, to a freighter that docked at Devron this morning for storm-related repairs.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Paul said, shaking his head. “It’s like the telephone game.”

“I’m sorry?” the commodore replied, confused.

“Nothing, sir.” Paul said. “Desperate times, I suppose.”

“Indeed.” The commodore rose from his chair, an indication that their meeting was over. “Avenger gets underway in twelve hours. Dismissed, commander.”

“Aye, sir.” Paul came to attention and turned on his heel, leaving the briefing room.

In the reception area, his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Ino, rose from a sofa upon seeing her captain.

“Loitering, Number One?” Gordon asked.

“It only looks that way, sir. Besides, all the other loitering execs had left with their captains.”

Paul cocked his head toward a corridor leading away and made his way into it. Ino fell into step beside him.

“The good news, exec, is that two thirds of the crew will get to remain on the starbase.”

“Shore leave?” she asked.

“Probably not. Tending to evacuees is more likely.”

Ino’s antennae rose with her eyebrows upon hearing Gordon’s statement.

“Evacuees?”

“I’ll explain on the way back to Avenger. In the meantime, I need you to create a duty roster based on one third of the ship’s complement. I need the best officers and crew. Start with engineering. They’ll need to get up to speed with the yard engineers on the refits, and there are some procedures they’ll need to complete en route to our destination.” Paul took a deep breath. He paused in the middle of the corridor, and Ino stopped next to him. “We depart in twelve hours. Make sure everyone gets two hours of leave on the station.”

“Aye, sir.”

The two officers continued their walk through the corridors of Devron Fleet Yards station toward the small craft docking area.

Captain’s log, stardate 75749.4. The Avenger is four hours out of Devron Fleet Yards. Commander Ino has our skeleton crew hard at work assisting the engineering team with implementing the yard engineers emergency upgrades. These changes will, according to the engineering team at Devron, allow Avenger to safely navigate the Century Storm that has overtaken the Paulson Nebula. The challenge, when we rendezvous with the Nivaxian consular ship, is getting the ambassador, diplomatic staff and crew off the ship using our limited transporter and shuttlecraft resources.

“Well…” Lieutenant Jill Kline stroked her chin as she studied a schematic of the Avenger’s transporter systems on the bulkhead monitor in the captain’s ready room. “We can also recalibrate the cargo transporters for personnel.”

Behind his desk in the small room, Paul Gordon put down a PADD he was reading and focused on the schematic.

“How long will that take?” he asked.

“About three hours by the book.”

The captain scoffed. “There isn’t just a switch you can turn on?”

“The sensors are tuned differently for cargo transporters. And…” Kline looked down at the deck, looking almost embarrassed to continue. “The cargo transporter was made by a different manufacturer than the personnel transporter. The specs and procedures are different.”

“Do you have personnel available for that?”

“Not right now, sir. We’re still working on the yard upgrade procedures.”

Paul shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “This is definitely a government operation. OK. Keep me posted on your progress, and if you need to draft personnel from other divisions, let the exec know. You’re dismissed.”

After the chief engineer departed, Paul gathered the collection of PADDs on his desk into a neat stack and pushed it to the side. He stood from his desk, strode into the corridor, and traversed the short distance from the ready room to the bridge.

“Captain on the bridge!” Ino announced as she spied Gordon enter through the starboard access. She was standing at the situation table at the rear of the bridge, with Lieutenant T’Meris, Avenger’s tactical officer and chief of security.

Gordon joined the pair of officers at the table.

“What do we know about the potential threat force?”

T’Meris was the first to speak.

“After the Nivaxians achieved warp capability, they shared the technology planetwide,” she began. “An altruistic notion, but it potentially created the very danger in which the consular ship currently finds itself.”

Gordon gestured for the Vulcan to continue.

“The faction opposed to Federation membership – they call themselves Independent Nivax – built a small fleet of warp ships. Based on a study of the surrounding systems, they would have had the opportunity to connect with black marketeers, dealing in ill-gotten starship components, specifically weapons.”

The captain let out a heavy sigh. “Naturally. What kind of weapons are we talking about here?”

“Beyond the presence of these black markets, intelligence is not conclusive,” Ino said. “However, based on what little data has been collected, there’s a strong possibility that they could have gotten their hands on Romulan and Klingon disruptors, Orion tractor beam technology and Federation torpedoes.”

“Didn’t we take care of that last month?” Gordon asked.

“That was just one pirate ring, sir, and not within practical range of the Nivaxian ships’ capabilities,” T’Meris answered.

“I was being sarcastic, lieutenant.”

“Very well, sir.”

Gordon noticed that Ino was struggling not to smile at the exchange. He silently admonished the first officer with a stern glare and a shake of his head.

“We’re not exactly without teeth ourselves. How would we measure up against this theoretical, illegally armed insurgent?”

“Ship-to-ship, we will hold our own,” T’Meris said. “The concern is if we’re conducting a rescue operation if and when a threat arrives.”

“I’m listening, T’Meris.”

“We’ll have to act quickly, especially if we’re in the middle of transport operations.”

“That’ll include evacuation by shuttlecraft,” Ino offered. “The shields will be down to accommodate all methods of getting their people over to Avenger.”

“Kline is going to press the cargo transporter pad into service to aid in evacuation. She’s gonna let you know if she needs additional help.” He turned toward the Vulcan. “If the worst happens, be ready to raise shields so we can defend the consular ship and any shuttles we have in the air at a moment’s notice. Go to work, lieutenant.”

T’Meris nodded and offered a curt “aye, sir,” before resuming her place at the bridge tactical station.

Gordon returned his attention to the first officer. “How do we stand on accommodations for our guests?”

“Obviously we don’t have an ambassadorial stateroom, but we should be in good shape. This will be a no frills journey for them, that’s for sure.” She cocked her head, and her antennae pointed toward Gordon. “Unless you’re willing to give up your bunk for the ambassador, sir.”

“That’s a negative, Number One,” Paul said. He cocked his head toward the command chair. “You have the conn. I’ll be in my ready room studying up some more on the Nivaxians.”

“I have the conn. Aye, sir.”

“Carry on.”

The bridge egress swooshed open, and Gordon disappeared through it.