“We estimate they have around 18 hours of breathable air left.”

A warm, itchy silence filled the room. It suffused those gathered there with a supreme sense of dread.

The station officer who organized the briefing, an old, slow and surprisingly taciturn Bolian, finally broke the silence. He turned to Abigail. “Listen, Captain–” the word jumped at her. She was still getting used to it. “I know this was supposed to be a shakedown cruise. Goodwill tour around Deneb.”

Maybe it was being addressed by her new rank. Perhaps it was divine inspiration. But the words jumped out of her. “When duty calls, we answer,” she said with a smile. “Besides, we have an excellent crew, and it’s time to put them to work.

The Bolian gave a wincing smile. “Yes, well. We’re very glad to hear that.”

Abigail nodded.

“Of course,” he continued, “as we’ve described, Starbase 514, the entire Task Group, is stretched pretty thin after that awful business with the Dominion fleet. And Frontier Day.” Abigail saw the downcast eyes of some of the others around the table, intense but ever-shifting gazes at their boots through the transparent aluminum tabletop.

Abigail could feel everyone in the room withdrawing, so she offered something to keep the conversation moving.

“Yes, and many ships of the Fourth Fleet are arriving nearby — the Verity in Sevury, Saratoga in Nasera…”

“Yes. And so…” he sighed.

He was pursuing his course of conversation so slowly she decided to interrupt him and change the subject. Time was, after all, of the essence.  “And this signal came through subspace?”

The lanky young Andorian who had been leading the briefing piped up in a soft, high voice. “Yes, Captain. We’ve never monitored any subspace transmissions from the system before, but this one is clear. And it is an SOS. The ship was operating using radio frequencies until, we believe, it was disabled. We believe they’ve used some kind of rudimentary subspace beacon to signal for help. I’ve transmitted everything we have to your science team”

“Any chance the Breen or one of the old Dominion ships caused this?”

The old man grunted. “Possible, yes,” he said. “But our sensors can’t parse that from here, and you’ll be the first ship to take a look.”

“And this is not first contact, correct?”

The Andorian nodded but had a look in his eyes that seemed unsure. He was unsure. “It’s definitely not, but it is a bit complicated…”

The Bolian made a noise that approached a laugh but landed somewhere closer to throat-clearing.

“You see,” the Andorian continued, “it is — or was — a colony world. They are aware of warp drive.”

“It’s how they got there,” said another of the station crew.

“Quite right,” the Andorian continued, “but shortly after settlement, they chose to cut off communication with the Federation. We know for a fact they destroyed their warp shuttle and subspace transceivers back in the 2340s. They put it on the nets. Their last long-range communication. Until now.”

“Which is their right,” observed another.

“And a damned stupid one,” the Bolian finally concluded. No one was willing to counter that claim.

Another surge. Rising from the table, Abigail offered a small bow and glanced at the others, who instinctively rose as she did. “We’re happy to do our job. Let me talk to my crew. We should have a plan in under an hour. I’ll reach out then.”

It was clear the old Bolian was worried, worried about this green-looking captain and her laughably youthful crew, most of whom had just been promoted in order to properly fill the complement of a refit, but still aged, California-class ship. Perhaps his concerns were well-founded; most of the station crew around him were well below middle age for their various species.

The man who had outlined the dire situation, the thin Andorian, gave a reverent look to Abigail. “We’ll make every preparation to facilitate your immediate departure.”

As she left the ugly little briefing room, she passed into a corridor with massive windows that gave a prominent view of her new command, Mount Shasta. She tapped her commbadge.

“Ralin to Mount Shasta.”

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“One to beam over. And Commander–”

“Captain?”

“Better put on a pot of coffee and tell the senior staff to meet me in the observation lounge. Wait. Do we even have a senior staff yet?”

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled, warm and hearty. “Indeed we do. The doctor came aboard right after you beamed to the station.”

“Alright. That’s enough talk, then. Energize.”

Another chuckle. “Aye, sir.”

Then the stale corridor melted into a swirl of glitter, and Abigail heard the bosun’s whistle as her feet formed on the transporter pad.

Abigail was pacing at the head of the conference table. She didn’t notice, but the seven other officers gathered before her, some old friends, some total strangers, and some something else entirely, did notice.

“17 hours?” one said in clear exasperation, unshielded by decorum.

“Less than two to execute the rescue by the time we arrive, assuming we depart Starbase 514 within the hour,” said another. He was a square-faced, dark-haired man, looking around middle age and rather short for a Vulcan. He wore an operations gold uniform with two hollow rank pips, indicating a chief petty officer.

The exasperated man, a Human with dark eyes and a bit of stubble on his chin just stared incredulously.

“What Chief Skell is saying, Captain, is that we’ll have about an hour, give or take, to conduct the rescue operation.” The woman next to Skrell was another Human, large and beautiful with wide shoulders and big eyes, also in gold.

Commander Ganbold finally broke his disbelieving silence as a small smile broke through for just a fleeting moment. “Oh, thanks for clarifying, Ensign Da Silva.”

She smiled. “Wouldn’t want you thinking this won’t be a good first challenge for us, Commander.”

“And it will have to be done by EV extraction,” calmly added an Arkenite science officer sitting near the head of the table.

“And we may or may not be violating the Prime Directive,” said a notably less-calm Tellarite security officer.

“I’m beginning to think you set this up yourself,” Ganbold said to Da Silva. He looked at the Vulcan. “Skell, did she put you up to this?”

Chief Skell only replied with the common Vulcan reflex of a raised eyebrow, though one that, to a trained appreciator of the subtleties of Vulcan expression, clearly implied some amusement.

Ganbold turned in his chair to face Captain Ralin. “Is this some kind of test, Captain? Is Starfleet teasing us? Or these Starbase guys?” He was joking, but the crew did feel almost entertained by the complexity of this sudden mission.

“I think we can go ahead and take this one at face value,” Abigail said in a light tone. She leaned on the table and grew more grave. She could feel, ever-so vaguely, the nervous energy of her senior staff, and her whole crew for that matter. It was fuzzy, immaterial, hard to touch, to focus on. But it was also impossible to ignore. Her mother always told her it would be hard to parse. It felt increasingly difficult to Abigail as she had been thrust into her new role as the captain of a Starfleet ship. Command of a ship is something different than being a member of the crew. The captain is the Federation, is the ship. And that was especially weighty to those with even rudimentary empathic abilities. Hers were better than that, but not quite so honed as the psionic skills of a full-blooded Betazoid.

“Skell,” she said, her pace picking up, “I know your ratings, and I’ve seen you work in null grav. I know you can ace the EV maneuvers.”

“Yes, captain.”

“Ensign, I need your contingencies ready to deploy as you monitor from the tactical station.”Da Silva nodded casually, as if it was already done, and in fact it was. She had prepared the moment Ralin was called into the station commander’s office. She had already read the comm traffic on the situation.

“Mister nd’Luku,” she said, looking at the Arkenite, “I need you and Mister Roosevelt on the shuttle.” She looked at the conn officer, Roosevelt, a tall Human man, young and sporting a carefully trimmed mustache. “We’ll need incredibly delicate flying, maintaining synchronous movement with a primitive ship that’s dead in space.”

“No problem,” he replied. “I’ll run through it on the holodeck while we’re en route.”

“Good man. Doctor,” she said, addressing a sharp-featured human woman. “I want a triage team on that shuttle, too. Whoever we pull out of there is gonna need it.”

The doctor nodded.

“And remember: We hide our presence until we know we can act. Is that clear?”

Everyone nodded.

When Abigail dismissed them, they all quickly dispersed to program the variables, run their simulations, or brief their teams. All except Commander Ganbold, who walked close to her.

“Worried this really could be some kind of set-up, captain?”

“No,” she said honestly, “but I’m worried it’s a test I might fail. Right out of the gate.”

Ganbold gave her a full-eyed look. “We have an ancient expression in Mongolia…”

“Is that so,” she said archly.

“Many, in fact.”

“Yes,” Abigail said with a smile. She liked his playfulness. Irreverence was a good quality in a first officer. “You know, in just, what, 72 hours, I’ve become acquainted with a great many ancient Mongolian proverbs.”

“Indeed, captain.”

“And?”

“And this one goes: The last camel gets the heaviest load.”

Her pert eyebrows softened a bit. “Meaning?”

He sat on the edge of the table, legs forward, with both arms and legs crossed and his head bowed somberly. “Well, many things, really.”

“Oh, Great Bird–” she began to exit the conference room, causing Ganbold to stand and spin to face her as she turned back from the door.

“Okay,” he laughed. “The good version is something like: Perseverance lends strength.”

She regarded him.

“Well,” he searched. “A lot of us assigned here have been … knocking around the various services for a while. Starfleet NCOs, Merchant Service.” She knew he was talking about himself as well — and her. “So, now we’re here. A proper starship. Doing proper starship stuff.”

“Carrying a heavy load.”

“Exactly,” he said with no trace of irony.

“Is that load a reward or a punishment?”

Ganbold resumed his ponderous pose, now on the opposite side of the table. “That really depends on what we do with it. You see, there’s a great oral storytelling tradition in Mongol culture, and I actually helped an Efrosian researcher at the Academy study it once, and there’s this wonderful aspect of—”

Abigail rolled her eyes. ‘Okay,” she said with a gesture of surrender. “Thank you for the advice, number one.”

He allowed himself a chuckle. “Call me Al.”

She smiled and shot him with a look of mock seriousness. “Let’s see how our camel fares first, commander.

Ganbold picked up a PADD and began relaying orders to department heads, a broad grin on his face. 

The diminutive Vulcan and his handler, that mountain of a woman, were the last people Joel Bush wanted to see entering engineering.

“Oh, no!” he started, “Not today!” They kept coming closer, and Bush kept his eyes on his station, as he continued to punch away commands. “I’m not in any position to grant any fantastical wishes today. All tapped out!” His gaunt face and tousled hair emphasized his irascible energy and made him look something like a mad scientist or a revival preacher.

He snuck a glance at the pair as they arrived at his workstation. He could swear that tiny Vulcan had a smile on his face. His superior officer certainly did.

“Commander Bush,” Da Silva offered as gently as she could, which wasn’t much. “I take it Captain Ralin’s keeping you busy?”

“No,” he puffed, pretending to remain fixed on his work, “the damn idiots at Farpoint Station who turned this warp core inside out are the ones keeping us busy.”

“I see. So you’re not aware that we’ll be departing for the Correolan System within the hour.” Now she hid away a small smile. And so did that Vulcan, Bush maintained to himself.

“No, Ensign, I was not aware.” He leaned on the console in the pose of someone who had just finished an exhausting footrace. “I’m about as aware as the bulkheads when it comes to–”

He was interrupted by the trilling of the intraship comms system.

“Bridge to Engineering.”

He looked at Da Silva and Skell as if they had just revealed a prank they were pulling on him. With his eyes locked on them, he responded. “This is Bush.”

The voice of Commander Al Ganbold came through the comm. “Commander Bush, we need maximum possible warp within the hour.”

Bush signed and rolled his eyes. “You bet, skip.”

“Thanks, Commander. I know the refit did a number on the engines. Appreciate your team’s diligence. I know the captain does, too. Ganbold out.”

“See?” Da Silva said, putting both elbows on the workstation and bringing her face just a few inches from Bush’s. “That wasn’t hard.”

The flirtation, or intimidation, worked. Bush stood up and simply shrugged. He continued to ignore the visitors in an obvious and, Melanie suspected, intentional way.

“Ramirez!” he shouted. A crewman jogged around a corner and stood before Bush. “I need warp seven-point-anything in fifteen minutes or I’m gonna wrap you in duranium, shove you in the torpedo bay and shoot you back to Oklahoma.”

The crewman glanced at Da Silva and Skell and allowed himself a smile. “Texas, sir.”

“What?”

“I’m from Texas, sir. Beaumont.”

Bush dropped a PADD onto the table. “I don’t care if you’re from Talos IV, get with Ensign Bowles and get the damn engine humming! Now!”

“Aye, sir,” Ramirez said in a tone that betrayed his amusement.

As the crewman disappeared again, Joel picked up his PADD and began tapping rapidly.

“Commander,” Melanie began.

“Hm? Yes? Oh, you’re still here?” He was now reining in his performative anger and putting on a simply-too-distracted air.

Even Skell fought the urge to roll his dark eyes.

“Yes, sir. Believe it or not, we didn’t come here to observe your legendary personnel management techniques,” Melanie said.

Joel couldn’t help but let a smile creep in. “Fine, Ensign. What is it?”

“Well,” Da Silva looked to the side, seeming to search for a suitable description.

Skell took a step forward. “We will require a portable force field emitter small enough to be carried manually and large enough to be deployed over a vessel’s hatch.”

Joel cast his eyes down. A new problem to solve. As he had all day, he tried again to hide his excitement. “So, probably foldable?”

“That was our thought as well,” Skell replied.

“And how big’s this hatch?”

“We don’t know.”

Joel looked up sharply. “You don’t know?”

“The vessel is not of a type we’ve encountered before,” Melanie offered. “We won’t know the size of the airlock, or the pressurization for that matter, until we arrive in the system.”

Now Joel let his smile beam. “Is that so? Why didn’t you say so, Da Silva?”

Melanie gave a shrug.

“Now we’re cooking with gas.” Joel shouted. “Come on, Skelly Boy, we’re about to get our hands dirty.” Without looking, Joel began walking back to the fabrication lab. Skell followed without a word, though he looked back over his shoulder to Melanie and revealed the Vulcan equivalent of a smug smile.

“You two have fun, now!” Melanie said. “Play nice, Commander!”

From out of view, she heard Bush shout: “Don’t worry, Da Silva! I always play nice — I just don’t play fair!”

Engineers are expert cheaters, she thought to herself as she made her way to the turbolift.

By the time she returned to the bridge, warp speeds were ready, and shortly, they were en route. Mount Shasta was underway. 

It was a good refit. It had happened a few years ago, but the previous captain, a fastidious Benzite with excellent taste in all things aesthetic, had ensured that it wasn’t simply a pop-open-the-bulkheads-and-change-the-relays job. As Mount Shasta bolted across space to attempt to rescue a seemingly adrift, primitive spacecraft, Captain Abigail Ralin found herself entranced by the ship’s subtle pleasantries of interior design. A little reverie in the finer things of the galaxy was something Abigail strongly believed in, practiced, and promoted. In this moment, perhaps the first quiet one since she took command days ago, she reveled in it.

On the far side of the ready room, the spruce-green wall was inlaid with a two-by-three meter stone relief depicting the real Mount Shasta, on Earth. It was somewhere in northern California, she thought. I should go there some time. The carving was made by an Andorian master, and carved from a very fine, creamy white stone with thin veins of cobalt blue marbling.

But she knew that visit to California wouldn’t be any time soon. The mission was just beginning, and the variables were many and most challenging. Deneb was in bad shape, and the Mount Shasta, at least this iteration of it, was untested. The crew was young, new. That meant fresh, brimming with enthusiasm and quick with new ideas and novel solutions to exactly the kind of thorny problems Starfleet specialized in. After all, that’s why they were here. That’s why, after a highly successful career in the Merchant Service, Abigail resigned her commission and transferred her spacefaring ratings to Starfleet, enrolling in the Academy. She was still young at the time. Her rise in the Merchant fleet was exceptionally fast, and she was among the youngest captains in the service’s century and a half. A sinecure in a luxurious office in Alpha Centauri was all but guaranteed. But there was no fun in that, and while Alpha Centauri could be a lovely place to live, Abigail certainly wasn’t ready to stop trying new things. That was the key to finding those little things to revel in. She had been young then. She was still young now.

A young, thrown-together crew also had the potential for problems. Timid crew could miss opportunities or possible fixes. They could fail to coalesce, never develop esprit de corps. She recalled a story she had read about an expedition to summit Mount Shasta in the Victorian era. The famed naturalist John Muir survived seventeen hours on the mountain, trapped between a lava pool and a sudden, howling snowstorm. He had argued to continue the trek when the storm hit. Had he persuaded them, his companions would have died along with him. But he trusted them, and did not want to unnecessarily risk their lives. They survived due to good instincts, some training, and some luck, but most of all, they survived because of trust.

So much for a nice, relaxing respite, she thought. The desk comm chirped.

“Captain?” Her yeoman’s voice.

“Go ahead.”

“I have that data you requested.”

“Bring it in, please.”

After the yeoman dropped the PADDs on her desk and the door swished shut, Abigail’s eyes lingered on the mountain for a moment, and the galaxy was still.  

They were lucky so many of the new crew were able to cross-train in emergency medicine, otherwise missions like this would be nearly impossible. Taking a three-person triage team on a shuttle was an expected possibility for a starship’s medical department, but with a barely-crewed vessel on a last-minute mission, Dr. Sitara Bellwether was just happy that there would be a couple of warm bodies minding the store while she was not aboard.

In fact, she was even somewhat fond of the crewman who would be holding sickbay in the absence of her, her surgeon and their head nurse. Another nurse would stay behind but another doctor wouldn’t be aboard until Mount Shasta returned to base — whenever that would be. 

The pair of petty officers who would be manning sickbay during the Correolan away mission were rather charming, Sitara thought. A chummy couple of fresh-faced Humans from the security department, recommended personally by Lt. Brod. They were both handsome, young of course, and seemed to have a playful, brotherly repartee. Goofy might be the right word. Good to have around, at least. Decent bedside manner. And after all, when it comes to common illnesses, bruises, contusions and the like, the computer could more or less talk a child through the process.

If these boys work out, she thought, I’ll have to send Prek a gift. Maybe I can convince hydroponics to set aside some space for a few of those very fine Tellarite vegetables. Then: Do we even have anyone assigned to hydroponics?

The lights were low inside the little bay assigned to hydroponics. She made an involuntary noise when the doors pulled open, something between a gasp and the word “oh.”

A silhouetted figure stood hunched over a little palette of sad-looking orchids that seemed to make up the entire contents of the room. The shadow spun around as the ambient light from the corridor flooded in.

“Computer,” the figure said, “lights.”

The room illuminated and Sitara stepped through the doorway.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

The man standing over the flowers was tall, slender, with dark eyes and a neatly trimmed mustache.

“No, no,” he protested. “No bother at all. I just– I was running some drills in the holodeck and just needed to—” he gestured vaguely around.

“Get some fresh air?” Sitara offered with some light behind her eyes.

The man chuckled. “Something like that.”

She took two steps forward and stuck out her hand. “Doctor Sitara—”

“Bellwether,” he said, taking her hand. 

Then, realizing he might need to explain how he knew a stranger’s name, he continued. “I read up on all the department heads.” His tone remained apologetic, which Sitara found entertaining. “And,” he continued, “you were in the briefing with Captain Ralin this morning.”

Oh, damn it, she thought. I didn’t even recognize him.

But he wasn’t telling the full truth. He knew her face well long before the briefing. He had a handful of leave days before his posting to the Mount Shasta, which he filled with painting portraits of the senior staff based on their dossier. He had recognized the doctor’s face so quickly because hers was the one he lavished the most attention on. Standing before her, he felt certain he’d never have the confidence to show the paintings to anyone on the crew.

“Good to meet you, Ensign…”

“Del,” he said. “Roosevelt. Uh. Del Roosevelt. Ensign Del Roosevelt.”

She smiled at his flustered nature. “Well,” she said, releasing his hand, “I came down the hall to see what our hydroponics bay looked like and…”

“It doesn’t look like much.”

“No it doesn’t.”

He put his hands on his hips in the stance of a farmer surveying a fallow field. “I know sciences will use it occasionally, but…”

“But there ought to be something … nice. Something for the crew to enjoy.”

He smiled. “Right. I’d ask the Captain about it, setting up a volunteer chore schedule or something, but.” He stopped, never intending to finish the sentence.

But he wasn’t going to get away that easy. “But what?”

“Well, we’re all new here. And, I don’t know.”

She widened her eyes, encouraging him to elaborate.

“And I’m not sure if that’s worth bringing up, I guess. I mean, the captain came fro the Merchant Marine. I’m not sure if she,” he searched for a word “likes all that Starfleet stuff.”

Sitara maintained her wide-eyed look.

“Enrichment stuff. It feels like they don’t do that in the Merchant fleet. You know, probably not a lot of string quartets on downtime. And I know it’s irrational, but I always get nervous around Betazoids.” He suddenly looked as if he’d heard himself say a slur. “I mean–”

Sitara broke her silence to laugh. “It’s alright, Ensign. I get what you mean.”

He relaxed.

‘But,” she said, “I don’t think you need to worry about the captain.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I bet she’d be extra-amenable to your idea if you offered to grow Antarian moon blossoms.”

A barely contained look of quiet horror spread over Del’s face. “You already know the captain.”

She laughed. “Shared a flat in London for two years.”

The horror was now metastasizing into simple embarrassment. “You were–”

“Roommates, Ensign.”

He could not contain his sigh. “Roommates,” he reiterated, mostly to himself. “Right. Roommates.”

“Roommates,’ she repeated, teasing him.

“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant, I—”

“Don’t worry about,” she said with a smile. “It’s fine. We’ve been good friends since her days in the Merchant Service, when I was finishing my medical degree.”

The sinking feeling of an awkward social encounter wasn’t foreign to Del. While those who only knew him partially tended to assume he was socially dexterous — he was, after all, handsome, caring, and both an ace pilot and an accomplished musician — but he was more often than not tongue-tied and flat-footed when talking to people. Especially new people, and especially ones with space-black hair and big eyes nearly as dark.

“Right,” he said again. “Well–” His communicator activated.

“Ganbold to Roosevelt.”

Oh, thank God, he thought.

“Yes, Commander.”

“Sorry to bother you, Ensign, but Commander Bush and Chief Skell need you down in Engineering when you can. They want to show you the new toy you’ll be hauling.”

He glanced at Sitara, already apologizing with his eyes.

“I’ll be right there, sir.”

Sitara smiled again. “Well, Ensign,” she said playfully, “you’d better see to that toy.”

He grinned. “ Right.” He paused. “Yes. commander, I mean.” He began walking to the corridor without looking away from Sitara. “Okay, then. Thank you, sir. I mean–”

“See you on the shuttle, Ensign Roosevelt.”

Just before the doors slid shut, as he awkwardly raised a hand to say goodbye, a look of realization flashed over his eyes. That’s right. The triage team.

Standing alone in the empty room, she allowed herself a long, hearty laugh before signaling the computer to resume the reduced lighting. She stood in the dark room for a few moments, thinking, before she went back to sickbay.

“You’re telling me they have no contact with the outside galaxy?”

Commander Al Ganbold, a striking man of just under 60 years, stood with his arms folded and his head dipped in thought.

“Not exactly,” Abigail said. “The Federation still maintains a subspace relay near the Correolan System, and we know that the Federation networks have been accessed from that location. Once every five or so years, it seems.”

Al looked up quickly. “So they were hiding a subspace comms system. They didn’t really destroy all their UFP tech.” Another realization crept in. “They have a space program.”

“Yes, something like that. Or someone is checking the relay, at least. I’d guess that they fly out in person, download transmissions onto some kind of data storage, and truck it back. But the SOS was via subspace. They would have asphyxiated before we ever noticed radio frequencies.”

“I guess we do know that they have some kind of space program, not some new aberration.” Al scratched his chin. “Feels like a trap.”

Abigail leaned forward, her elbows on the California-tanoak desk. “Like I said, Commander, I think we need to take this one in good faith.”

“I’d still like to work with Da Silva’s team to prepare for the potential of piracy.”

“Of course,” the captain said. “But I know for a fact you’re already prepared. That stuff’s standard procedure.”

Al bit his lip.

“Okay, number one. Time to tell me what you’re really worried about.”

He sighed and smiled. He appreciated the directness, and the permission. “Out of nowhere, a lost colony reemerges, in space, just after the sector got torn to shreds?”

Abigail leaned back, letting her expression of concern show itself. Ganbold was lively, a gentle iconoclast. An adventurer. What was he feeling so … what was this feeling? Then it revealed itself, that hot feeling.

 Fear. But why so much?

She chose to ease up.

“You’re right. It doesn’t look good.” She swiveled in her chair and looked through the window, then turned back and gave Ganbold a sympathetic look. “What was that thing you said this morning about the camel?”

“I know, Captain. But … I can’t help but feel like— May I speak freely, sir?”

I’d prefer you did, Al.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I can’t help but feel I’m not being used to the best of my ability, Captain.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he said with a forceful exhale, “I think I should be on the shuttle. You don’t need me filling space on the bridge.”

She considered it a moment and folded her hands on the desk.

“Commander, there’s a reason the XO is a bridge officer.”

“I know, sir but—”

“But it is also customary for the first officer to lead an away mission, which this one mostly certainly is.”

“Yes, captain,” He looked relieved.

“But the fact is, Commander, I do need you on the bridge. I do.”

He sat up slightly.

“Listen. This is the first time I’ll be calling the plays, here. You know what I mean, Al.”

He swallowed. “Damn,” he said to himself. Then he said to Abigail “I’m sorry, Captain. That was out of line.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Quite the contrary: I need it. Like I said.”

Al had the look of a man who lost a hard-fought competition, or who had just come to a hard realization. Well, that was pretty selfish, Al. You moron, he thought.

“Commander,” she said as he rose. I really do appreciate the candor. I’m going to need everyone’s help.”

He smiled. “Of course, sir. We’ll be ready.”

Alone again in the ready room, she sat quietly. She considered calling up some music, but decided not to. Idling scrolling her desktop display, she spent a minute pondering her first officer, this Mongolian man bristling with exuberance, and why he was so afraid.

And why won’t he admit it?

Melanie had never seen a giddy Vulcan, and she suspected this was about as close as she’d ever get.

“It’s essentially a small gangway,” Skell continued, his pace quick and voice a bit higher and less controlled than usual; the Vulcan equivalent of what Melanie deemed giddiness. “With better-than-standard magnetic hold and pressurization.”

The device he stood over looked to be little more than a neatly organized pile of telescoping pylons and extravehicular pressurization fabric — like a collapsible fabric container squashed into its closed position.

The door to Main Engineering slid open and Commander Al Ganbold strode in, never lessening his brisk pace as he wove past the harried engineering crew, which seemed to be scurrying in all directions to maintain the engines. He walked beside Ensign Da Silva and crossed his arms.

“Do we know the hull composition of the spacecraft yet?” he asked.

“No,” Melanie said, turning to him. “We won’t until we’re close to dropping out of warp.”

“Well,” Ganbold said, “That will be pretty soon, I believe.”

“Indeed, sir,” Skell said. “The possibility of a magnetic coupling failure is a real one.” Again, Melanie detected the faint whiff of excitement emanating from the Vulcan.

“And that’s why we’ve got this,” said Commander Joel Bush, passing behind Skell and kneeling by the device. He dialed in a command on a small control panel on the side of the device. From one end, where the mouth of the tunnel that would attach to the drifting vessel, a series of barbed spikes shot out from the frame. “This is the backup system. No pressurization lost on the tunnel, so we can grasp the other ship no matter what.”

“Like a grapple,” Melanie offered.

“Quite,” Skell responded, pleased that the functionality, though seemingly crudely old-fashioned, made sense.

“And quite logical,” Ganbold said with an undercurrent of amusement in his voice.

“Quite,” echoed Commander Bush. “And automated functions all have manual backups. I made sure of that.”

Melanie smiled. “If it were up to him,” she said to Ganbold, “there wouldn’t be any automated functions.”

“Damn right,” Bush said with some satisfaction.

Ganbold shook his head but showed a smile. “Well, Mister Bush, you’ll have to tell the story of what made you so skittish about automation some time.”

“What, were you asleep on Frontier Day?” Bush said. Confrontation was not something he avoided.

Ganbold had to concede the point. He felt like he was doing that a lot in recent days. “Fair,” he said.

Skell, who had a Vulcan’s equivalent of a lack of patience, continued. “I will conduct the extravehicular maneuvers, aligning the gangway device and controlling the force field.” As Skell spoke, Bush knelt down and activated a command on the control panel, and the blue flash of a force field activating sparked around the end of the device without the barbed grapples.

“Assuming the vessel’s air lock does not work,” Skell said, “We can pressurize the gangway.”

“A backup airlock,” said Ganbold.

“Bingo,” Bush responded as he turned off the force field and returned to his feet. “Hell, we could operate this thing remotely from Tactical if needed.”

Melanie nodded.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Ganbold said glibly.

Skell responded with earnesty: “Indeed.”

“Good,” Ganbold said. “I’m sure the captain will be pleased. Da Silva, Skell, thank you.”

“Of course sir,” Melanie said. She gave Skell a glance and together, they headed to the turbolift.

As the door shut behind them, Joel walked closer to his executive officer. His typical look — jacket open, sleeves up, hair disheveled — gave him the air of an old-fashioned engineer, the kind who still populated private space facilities and who were almost always playing catch-up on any number of half-finished and half-baked projects.

“So,” he said to Ganbold as he mirrored his arms-crossed stance, “We’re just walking into this trap?”

“What do you mean?”

“Commander,” Bush said with a wry grin. “I know we’re just now getting to know each other. But I also know that any X-O worth their salt suspects that this is a trap. Maybe a lone vessel from the Lost Fleet looking to go out in a blaze of glory.”

“Yes,” Ganbold said with a you-got-me sigh. “Or pirates.”

“Or pirates,” Bush agreed. “Or some other kind of criminal, bandit, raider or any other damn ne’er do well.”

“Or a former colony coming out of the shadows to claim territory…”

“…in the aftermath of a sector-wide disaster.”

Ganbold let loose a sly smile of his own. “Bingo.”

Bush uncrossed his arms so he could throw up his hands. “So what? We just … show up and check?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s our job.”

Bush sighed. “Sure but… No escort? I figured the Fleet would at least send some little cutter with us to do the shooting if things — when things turn out that way.”

The first officer’s coy smile grew into a full grin. “Say, Commander, were you asleep on Frontier Day?” Joel rolled his eyes, admitting defeat, but Ganbold continued. “There’s just not enough security to go around right now.”

The chief engineer scratched his chin. “And what does the Captain think?”

“We’re making all the preparations we can,” Ganbold replied. “But I don’t know what Captain Ralin thinks. I can’t read her mind.”

“Well,“ Bush said, casting his eyes up at Ganbold from his hunched pose of thought. “That’s not exactly encouraging.”

“No,” Al said quietly. Then, more loudly: “But this,” he gestured at the device, “looks good. At least we’ve got that.”

“I’m used to keeping things together with polymer tape,” Bush said, “so I guess I’ll just keep things moving.”

“That’s the job,” Ganbold said as he made his way to the corridor.

“It sure is,” Bush said after Ganbold was already out of the room.

As the wide double door to Engineering was nearly closed, a lanky figure moved into the doorway. The doors paused, half-closed, for an instant before receding at the approach of Ensign Del Roosevelt, whose head was turned fully to the right, his eyes locked on the first officer.

Before he even crossed the threshold, Del turned to Bush. “That was Commander Ganbold.”

“Good,” Bush said with playful condescension. “Pretty soon you’ll know a lot of names, maybe even most of the senior staff.”

Del smiled and shook his head. “Okay, okay,” he chuckled as he strolled to the master system display table Joel hovered over. “I just mean, did I miss something important?”

“Nah,” Joel replied as he pulled off his jacket. “C’mon, Mister Roosevelt,” take a look.  He knelt by the improvised docking device and Del knelt next to him.

Ganbold was already on the turbolift when his commbadge chirped.

“Bridge to Ganbold,” said the captain’s voice. “I need you up here immediately.”

“I’m on my way now. Everything alright?”

“Well,” Ralin said, “we’re being hailed. By Correolan Colony.”

This was a possibility Al had hardly considered.

“That’s unexpected,” was all he could say. The doors whizzed open and he stepped onto the bridge. “What the hell is that about?”

The captain glanced back at him and, to his surprise, Al saw a glint of excitement in Abigail’s shadowy eyes.

“I think we’re about to find out. On screen.” 

The bridge crew seemed frozen with anticipation as subspace static slowly, spastically resolved and the image of a man elderly, rotund human man formed on the viewscreen.

“Greetings,” the man said even before the image coalesced. “I’m Joshua Shepherd. The people of Correolan have elected me as our representative to your vessel. Please state your intentions.”

Commander Altan Ganbold passed behind Ensign Da Silva’s tactical station and seated himself to the captain’s right. He shot a look of concern to the head of security and mission specialist Lieutenant Prek Brod, sitting on the Captain’s left, who returned a characteristically dreary look. Not good, it seemed to indicate. Ganbold could have guessed that. The feeling that this so-called lost colony had set a trap was increasing in intensity. They’d obviously been hiding Federation tech. They clearly had some kind of rudimentary — or greater — space program. What else were they hiding?

The captain studied the old Human man who materialized on the screen. He was concealing a great deal of excitement. She could sense that much. While she lacked the more advanced abilities of other Betazoids, those with two telepathic parents or more practice in a telepathic society, she excelled at the empathic skills that were present in even highly hybridized individuals. It was a practice she honed in the Merchant fleet and which was serving her well in Starfleet.

So, she thought. The game is afoot.

“Mister Shepherd,” she began, rising from her seat and taking a few steps toward the viewscreen, “I’m Captain Abigail Ralin of the Federation starship Mount Shasta. A day ago, our listening post at Starbase 514 received a subspace distress call originating in this system. We’re here to answer that call.”

The relief conn officer, a nearly juvenile petty officer, spoke over his shoulder to the captain.

“We’ll be in the Correolan system in three minutes, Captain.”

Shepherd gave a beatific smile. “Of course, Captain. Starfleet, swooping in to save the day.” He paused but did not receive a response. “Unfortunately, that message was in error. Our engineers tell me that this was an automated message from some kind of … vintage Federation technology that we had…” he groped for a word, “forgotten about. I’m so sorry to have troubled you. But there is no need for your presence.”

Ensign Da Silva watched as sensor data was relayed to the tactical console. It was clear. A small vessel, a capsule really, was floating adrift past the fourth planet of the Correolan system, with four indeterminate life signs.

As Shepherd concluded his explanation, the Captain peered back over her shoulder to catch Da Silva’s eye. The ensign simply shook her head.

He is lying.

Ganbold looked again to Brod, and they shared an unspoken curse.

“Mister Shepherd,” Ralin began, “it’s no trouble at all. Doing our job.”

Shepherd prepared to reply, but the captain cut him off.

“But, sir pardon my curiosity — It was our understanding that the colonists on Correolan cut off contact with the Federation some time ago, in the 23rd century. If you indeed have subspace capacity, this is something I’ll need to report to my superiors.”

The smile remained on Sheperd’s face, and he turned obsequious and gentle.

“Captain,” he cooed, “I understand your surprise. We did recently rediscover some old technology that we … failed to eliminate during our severance. However,” he said, his tone sharpening, “we will shortly be dismantling these devices. I was simply advised to attempt to apprise you of things, since we recognized the trajectory of your ship en route.”

“May I ask how you detected us,” Ralin said with little expression.

“Of course,” Shepherd said. “As I said, we were dusting off some of these old Federation things that came with our world’s founders.” He paused and realized this answer wasn’t satisfactory. “Our engineers only suggested we test them before they are recycled into something more useful for our way of living.”

Abigail returned to the captain’s chair and sat casually with legs crossed and her head in her palm, propped on the armrest console. She was now holding court. You won’t get through this conversation so easily, Mister Shepherd. 

As she sat, Lieutenant Commander Karva nd’Luku silently relayed data from his science station to the captain’s display. One tiny ship, primitive alloys, no artificial gravity. Power supplies depleted. Four lifeforms aboard. And definite, if outdated, Federation tech on the planet.

“Your world’s founders were Federation citizens establishing a Federation colony,” Ralin said.

Another saintly smile. “Yes, Captain. A federation from which we seceded, as is our right, in the Year of Foundation, what you call 2384.”

Prickly under that sycophantic demeanor, isn’t he?

“Yes, Mister Shepherd. And in 2384, your founders informed the Federation that it had dismantled warp, subscape, duolinear and isolinear computing. If our records are correct, there was even a formal ceremony attended by Federation dignitaries. Our library computer contains holorecordings of the people of Correolan dismantling many of those devices.”

The old man’s mask began to slip. “Well,” he began, “that was because we found that technology not only distasteful but also pernicious. Clearly your germ-like computers proved hard to scrub from our planet. But rest assured, Captain, we consider this discovery most serious—”

That much is for certain.

“—and rest assured that, at the conclusion of this little parley, we’ll be removing these accursed things from our world for good.”

Here we go, Abigail thought. He’s lying. There’s no doubt. She cast a glance to Ganbold.

“This isn’t a parley, Mister Shepherd, we’re here to help. And still,” she said, “in your system at the moment — a system we’ll be dropping into in—”

“Thirty seconds, sir,” Da Silva said.

“—thirty seconds,” Abigail repeated, “we currently track at least two active subpace relays—”

“Yes, well, we had to communicate with you, Captain—”

‘—three Federation-regulation duotronic computers under the surface of your planet…”

“That’s absurd—”

“…Federation sensor grids, a regularly-checked Federation relay station — and that’s a direct violation of Federation sovereignty, I’m afraid…”

Shepherd could only sputter with indignance.

“…and a space vessel,” she concluded with mock surprise, “adrift with four souls onboard.”

Shepherd narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

“Can you explain that to us, Mister Shepherd?”

Ganbold nearly let a smile slip. nd’Luku did, but his station faced away from the viewscreen.

On the planet, something beeped and caught Shepherd’s attention.

“Dropping out of warp, Captain,” the conn officer reported.

Abigail didn’t try to conceal her smile.

“Mister Shepherd. As representative of the people of Correolan, I’m reporting to you that the USS Mount Shasta has arrived to render aid to your wayward vessel. We are at your service.”

He fumed. “Leave this sovereign star system at once,” he snarled, his pretense all gone, “or you and your crew will face the consequences.”

The communication cut off abruptly.

Prek finally broke the silence. Tellarites tended to abhor a conversational vacuum.

“Not much of a welcome, if you ask me. Hospitality of a Ferengi mother-in-law.”

Al couldn’t help but laugh. 

From lands that geese cannot attain by wing / The child of man returns, in his bosom jewels enfolding.

— Dashdorjiin Natsagdorj, “To a Distant Country for Education” (1927)

Constant movement was his advantage, and ultimately his downfall. Temujin, the fierce khan of the Mongol tribe, was at work uniting the people of the great steppe of Asia, on Earth, under his banner, and had just been routed. Jamuka, the sworn blood brother who had kept him and his mother alive after Temujin’s father had been poisoned and his family lived by hunting mice, had turned on him. It may have been jealousy, or fear. Or simply a case of two people trying to each hold the whole world in their hands at the same time. Whatever it was, it stung Temujin deep as any indignity ever did, or ever would.

The great khan, who was to be known to the galaxy in generations hence as Genghis Khan, was fleeing. Jamuka had defeated him soundly, and Temujin’s horsemen, as the steppe tribes always did, fled in every direction. Temujin was prepared to die. When he was young, death always stalked the grasslands. The empire he was to build aimed to end that threat. It did so by turning the steppe’s ghoulish fury, its swiftness, ingenuity and determination, toward the outside. And for a time, he would rule the most expansive and diverse empire that the Sol system’s little jewel planet would ever know.

But today, he was defeated. It was mid-year, and the grass was still green, silken and delicate. Though it was also remarkably strong when braided together. He trod amongst the grass, embarrassed to be on foot, like a barbarian. Temujin looked at the grass and pondered death. He pondered laying in that grass and dying, and letting his soul rise from the top of his head to the Eternal Blue Sky. Once his heart was set on dying, things became easier.

Temujin was an iconoclast to the world into which he was born. He valued skill, craft and loyalty above lineage. So, he reckoned, he must at least stay alive for any of his chosen inner circle who might yet live. He waited all night by the cold water of the river. The next day his compatriots arrived, slowly trickling in, mimicking the languid movement of the river. The water was muddy and they had no food.

And in the moment at which every one of the 19 men gathered around Temujin surrendered themselves to Death — which no Mongol willingly would — a miracle was delivered. A small, ropey wild horse crested a small ridge nearby. After realizing with astonishment that the horse was real, they quickly slew and ate it. They would not die.

After they ate, Temujin dipped a hand into the river, scooping some of the murky water, and raised the other hand in the air. He led his comrades in an oath. Those who would help achieve his great vision would share all that was won, as family. The good and the bad would be endured together.

“If I break this word then let me be like this river, drunk up by others,” he told them.

According to some accounts, every man wept. According to all accounts, every man swore the oath, which became known to history as the Baljuna Covenant.

Growing up in Mongolia, Altan Ganbold actively avoided learning about Genghis Khan. Partially it was adolescent affectation, a little social rebellion. No, Al told the world, I will instead venerate the more-forgotten — the poet of one of Mongolia’s communist eras — the more peaceful. But another sharp facet of it, glinting like an arrowhead, was a rejection of conquest, of the notion of “great men.” What did a man who pillaged half the known world have to tell us? What can a boy in 24th-century Ulaanbaatar — a city with a spaceport and a robust public transporter system — learn from a 12th-century warlord, who only knew the endless grass sea and the stench of horseflesh?

He worked a long and mostly well-regarded career in the Federation Merchant Service prior to joining Starfleet. And for most of that time, Al never talked much about his Mongolian heritage. He never insisted they call him Altan, he always suggested Al. It is often said that one out of every 200 or so full-blooded Human males carried Temujin’s Y chromosome, and this was often mentioned, probably once at every duty station or tour, by someone attempting to make a good faith connection. It irked him consistently, though he would unfailingly respond with some equally good-natured joke. He was born in 2343, the year of the water pig. He was good-natured by nature.

Things changed when his mother died. It was when he committed — years before he ever achieved it — to leaving the Merchant fleet and going to Starfleet — and it was the year he finally learned about Genghis Khan.

What he hadn’t cared to learn as a boy was that the men who took the oath with Temujin were not, strictly, Mongols. They were an assemblage of people who endeavored together not because of kinship but by choice, people who agreed with Temujin’s vision. They formed a new kind of brotherhood, based on a shared ideal. It was something akin to the more modern ideal of citizenship and civic duty. Crucially, it came by choice, not familial obligation. People were to be rewarded by talent and skill, not pedigree, religion or tribe. The men who formed the covenant with him were not all Mongols. They were Khitans, Tanguts, Keireits, Naimans and Tajiks. There were Tengrists, like Temujin, but there were also Buddhists, Christians, and Muslims. They shared an idea, and a commitment to each other.

And they conquered the world.

When he got his commission in Starfleet, he went to the Presidio in San Francisco and surreptitiously sprinkled some of his mother’s ashes on the grounds, among some tall grass. He kept another little vial of her in his quarters on the Mount Shasta. He was fairly certain that this is not a particularly Mongolian approach to human remains, but he was certain that he was not a particularly typical Mongolian. Or was he?

He had decided a few years ago, on his promotion to Commander, to let go of any concerns about authenticity. What, he thought, is more authentic than simply being who I am?

He wished he had that little bit of his mother with him as the tension began to set back in on the bridge. He knew they had to act swiftly but he didn’t know the captain well enough to know what she was going to do. Most frighteningly, he had no notion of what this Correolan ruse could hold. He remembered an old quote he’d read several times, attributed to Genghis Khan: An action committed in anger is an action doomed to failure.

He had already learned through harsh experience that it was true. He knew at least that the captain was aware of it, too. He thought about the quote again and wondered briefly if it was real, if Temujin had really said it.

Who cares, he thought. It’s true.

“Bridge to shuttlecraft McCloud.”

“Roosevelt here. Go ahead, Captain.”

The tension was beginning to show in Abigail’s voice, though she worked, mostly successfully, to hide it under a veneer of confidence. “You’re clear for departure. Good luck.”

“Aye, sir.” Ensign Del Roosevelt eyed the control panel before him. It was a simple approach, training exercise stuff, until the docking. Lieutenant Brod had briefed him thoroughly, helping Del develop the mission parameters, and now that Ensign Da Silva had relayed sensor data, it was clear that the parameters were already being pushed.

“Control to McCloud, you are clear for takeoff, repeat McCloud is clear.”

Del raised the shuttle, a big, sleek type-11, and maneuvered it beyond the threshold of Mount Shasta’s shuttlebay one. As the confines of the ship slipped from view, the wash of rich blackness, studded with the gemstone flecks of distant worlds forced a brief moment of quiet awe over the six people onboard the McCloud. It was a thing few spacefarers tired of, and as the ship swiveled toward the fourth planet of the Correolan system, they were again struck by its azure and teal splendor and the pearlescent ring of ice and dust that haloed it.

Karva nd’Luku, the Arkenite Lieutenant Commander in charge of the Mount Shasta’s large science division, was already breathless when he arrived on the shuttle, having rushed down directly from the bridge. Now his breath was taken away again. But he quickly focused on the anomalies of the situation, a skill he had of course honed to a fine point.

The planet was a wonder. Massive continents, shaded deepest green, faded to bright turquoise strips of jungle as they met the oceans, bluer than Risa’s or Betazed’s or Earth’s. Notably, so close to achieving orbit, it was clear to the eye that the world had no cities. They had not anticipated any, but they had anticipated that Correolan IV was too icy and with too-thin an atmosphere to support life, much less this much life.

“It’s a garden world.” Doctor Sitara Bellwether stepped closer to the shuttle’s cockpit-style window, placing a hand on Karva’s seat back.  

“And,” Karva added in his multi-tonal voice, “doesn’t that seem unusual?”

Sitara smiled slightly through furrowed brows, realizing this was not simply a wonder, but a mystery. “You mean, why did the Federation assist in settling the third planet when this one looks like Eden?”

“And,” said Skell, as he stepped behind Del’s pilot’s seat, “how did Correolan IV get that way?”

“And when,” added Karva.Del was feeling claustrophobic. He had already been struggling to justify himself for being on the senior staff. Now he was actually going to attempt a high-stakes mission. He tried to refocus on the controls.

“Setting course for docking,” he said, a little too quietly.

Sitara turned to the back of the shuttle and began briefing her surgeon and nurse, expecting any number of problems associated with oxygen deprivation and spaceflight without inertial dampers.

Skell leaned forward. “The docking clamps will not provide an airtight seal on the vessel,” he mused, reading the scans. “We will have to deploy the device Commander Bush developed.”

Del knew the mission just became twice as hard. And he knew that if Skell needed backup, he would be the one assisting in EV maneuvers.

Karva smiled. “Try not to sound so excited, Mister Skell,” he said in his Arkenite monotone. “It’s unbecoming of a Vulcan.”

Skell said nothing. He walked to the rear of the shuttle to double check his EV suit functions.

“Mister Roosevelt,” Karva continued, “their subspace beacon is no longer functioning, or has been disabled.”

“Understood, sir.” He concealed a sigh. It sunk to his gut, already tense with fear. So now they don’t want to talk to us?

He pulled up a new set of commands on his console. “Initiating visual ship-to-ship hails.”

The shuttle’s signal lamps flashed at the adrift little vessel, only a handful of meters long, in a vague delta shape, similar to the first super-orbital vessels of many Federation worlds. They all quickly noticed its homemade quality compared to even modern sub-orbital vessels. The lights signaled “SOS received – standby – attempting boarding and rescue” on a loop.

“It seems likely,” he said, studying his readouts, “that they do not even have the capacity to respond.”

“Oh,” Del said, “great.” He terminated the signal.

“Don’t worry, Ensign.”

Del gave Karva a hopeful stare.

“It may simply be that the crew is already dead.”

“Oh. Great.” Del turned his attention back to his course heading.

What surprised Del the most was that, for his part, the mission began quite well. The drift of the little rocket-propelled craft was even and predictable, and he was able to align a synchronous movement within a few meters of the craft’s hatch — or what most appeared to be a hatch. It was no small feat, it took a good mind, and a quick one. Piloting was not dissimilar to surgery, Sitara thought, as she finished briefing her own surgeon, Dr. Biln, and watched Del move the McCloud into position. Everyone was watching and, like everyone else, Sitara was impressed when the vessel’s movement was steady and final.

Karva told him well done, and signaled Skell to begin his spacewalk. Skell initiated airlock procedures and rose through the shuttle’s dorsal docking hatch. It was an awkward move to pass through the hatch whilst pulling the makeshift docking bridge behind. He managed and, following some fits and starts, affixed one end to the McCloud, creating a total magnetic seal.

On the far end, however, the damaged craft’s hatch was far too large to fit the docking bridge. He knew he’d have to activate the grappling seal. When he did, the crew inside the McCloud heard a sound like a phaser impact and felt both vessels shuddered as Commander Bush’s makeshift umbilical cord attached and pressurized.

“You are clear to open the hatch and begin disembarking,” Karva said.

“Aye, sir,” Skell said before adding coolly, “I will need to cut away the hull plating with my phaser to open the craft.”

Del spoke involuntarily. “What?”

“Understood, Chief. Proceed.”

Del looked to Karva like he’d just suggested Del cut off his head to save on haircuts and shaves.

“This was an anticipated possibility, Ensign,” Karva said in what he thought was a soothing voice. “And Skell and Ensign Da Silva prepared for this.”

Del was relieved, but now, of course, embarrassed. “Of course, sir, I—”

“Don’t worry, Ensign. That maneuver you just pulled getting us in position was harder than anything the rest of us will have to do.”

“I see,” Del could only manage.

Karva rose. “I am going to assist Mister Skell. Please maintain the conn.”

“Yes, sir.”Karva was right. Skell found it very easy to attune his phaser so that he could slice through the primitive titanium hull to create an opening for any survivors. Karva came up the bridge, wearing a breathing apparatus in case of depressurization, and carrying similar masks for the survivors. It was a silly bit of theater, Skell had always thought. If the bridge material were punctured, the force of the decompression would pose a much more lethal threat than the lack of oxygen, still, the survivors were likely breathing dangerously thin air as their life support systems dwindled.

“They are alive,” Karva said, as if answering the question in Skell’s mind. “Sensors indicate.” 

He floated down the short corridor with skill. Arkenites were an aquatic people, and even wore balance-keeping devices in non-aquatic situations, which in Starfleet was almost always. But space was much closer to the effect of water, and despite the fact that the docking bridge was remarkably cold in just a uniform jacket, he liked it.

Sitara and Biln stood under the docking hatch and just outside the pressurization field, looking up as the last glowing strip of metal lifted from the wayward vessel with a bang.

“Hold it!” Skell shouted as he threw his hands against the makeshift hatch. Karva quickly followed suit, crying out as the freezing metal hit his palms. Together, they slowly began allowing the cutout to rise from the hull, fighting against the suction of the bridge’s lower pressure — something they had not considered, assuming the pressure difference would be little, if any.

“Look out, down there!” said Karva, as the two released the chunk of metal as it shot to the floor of the shuttlecraft, smashing hard but thankfully not shattering. The pressurization field glittered.

At the forward station, Del immediately saw the pressure alert. He hadn’t been shown how to alter the pressurization field, but he had a guess. He tried it.

The field glittered again, and Karva and Skell could feel themselves being pulled by a pressure wave. Sitara looked up, unblinking. As the two officers regained their hold on the opening, a figure came into view, grasping at the edge. A young man, Human, perhaps in his late 30s. Another, younger man came behind. Karva and Skell helped each through the opening, each getting a look of utter shock from their respective Humans before pushing off the hull toward the floor of the shuttle. Before they reoriented and landed, Sitara cast a glance over her shoulder to the forward console.

“Not bad, Mister Roosevelt.” Before he could turn and respond, she was already scanning the Correolan man as Karva jumped back into the docking bridge. Another young man came down, and a young woman. They said that was all of them. All were in bad shape; weak, hungry, oxygen-deprived. Serious, but easy to treat.

The hatch closed and Karva moved back to his station next to Del. He deactivated the pressurization field. He retracted the bridge before turning to Skell, who was walking toward them, helmet under his arm.

“Mister Skell,” he said playfully, “I daresay your little—”

“Commander!” Del broke in. Klaxons sounded. “Ferengi marauder just dropped out of warp, 20,000 kilometers astern.”

Karva whipped around to see that Del was already pulling past the damaged craft, orienting toward their homeship.

“Should I hail them?”

“No, Ensign,” Karva said. “Get us back to Mount Shasta as fast as you can.”

“Red alert! Shields up!”

“They’re targeting the shuttle, Captain.”

“Helm, flanking speed, hard about. Move to intercept.”

Commander Al Ganbold leaned forward and embellished the captain’s order. “Try to position our dorsal shields to take the impact, Mister Cohen.”

The viewscreen displayed the perspective from the Mount Shasta’s bow as it swung swiftly around, the nerve-wracking scene swiping into view. Above the teal crescent of Correolan IV, the Ferengi marauder ship was bearing down on the shuttlecraft McCloud, the Ferengi ship’s rusty crescent closing in on the McCloud like a scythe sweeping a field.

The Mount Shasta raced into range just as the Ferengi ship probed McCloud’s shields.

“Transporters!” Captain Abigail Ralin shouted.

“Negative, sir,” Ensign Melanie Da Silva replied from the tactical station. “Ionic…”

“…Interference from the planet,” supplied Lieutenant Prek Brod from the captain’s left hand. “Typical,” he added.

That practically amused him, Abigail thought. And then, sensing his emotions, but not too much. I guess that’s good.

They watched, distress growing in the pit of every stomach, as the marauder loosed a volley at the shuttle as it shot its way around the planet’s northern polar region to escape the attack. As the observed the little silver glint crest the planet’s apex, the first torpedo clipped the McCloud’s starboard nacelle, the other two torpedoes speeding past and into the void.

“Da Silva, fire at will.”

A searing bolt lanced across the dark and sliced a long, lateral shot across the top of the sweeping ship’s largest section. It rocked under the impact, but the Ferengi shields held.

Even at red alert, with status reports being shouted from all corners of the bridge, Captain Abigail Ralin remained focused on the two junior crewmen at the forward position, the conn and ops stations. Practically cadets. She could the fear radiating off of them. Plenty of young Starfleet members had been jittery, unfocused, wracked with trauma in the wake of Frontier Day — but this felt different.

From the tactical station behind her, Abigail heard Melanie’s report reach her through her concentration. “The shuttle’s being pulled into orbit, Captain. They’ll crash if they can’t—” 

Abigail cut her off. “Pursuit course, ready the tractor beam.”

“Aye, sir.”

Al surveyed the console at his command chair. He leaned sideways toward Abigail and said quietly, “Captain, we don’t know their condition. They might be able to fly out. We’re leaving our flank exposed.”

She appraised him. He was genuine, but frustrated.

“Captain,” Prek said before she could reply, “If we can break their shields, their DaiMon will negotiate.”

Another voice came across the intraship comms. “Captain,” said Commander Joel Bush.

Abigail wanted to laugh. Instead, she let out a measured sigh. “Yes, Commander.”

“Captain, I know we’re all new here, but could you please let me know before we fly into combat… Sir?”

Al — and Prek — suddenly grew very worried about Abigail’s ability to sense their emotions.

Damn, she thought. He’s right. 

“Anything else, Commander?”

“Yes, Captain. Could you please tell whoever’s at the ops station to reroute the EPS conduits away from auxiliary systems if you want your ventral shields to have a snowball’s chance on Vulcan of surviving a direct assault?”

There was a small moment of stillness on the bridge as each officer processed the information.

“Ops!” Abigail intoned. “Explain.”

The young man at the forward port station stammered for a few seconds before his words coalesced into something close to a sentence.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I forgot— I failed to initiate—”

Al cut him off as he rose from his seat and leaned over the ops station.

“No problem, Crewman,” he said, though his voice held a faint quiver. “Watch me.” He began input commands rapidly. “Just make sure you don’t forget again.”

“Shield modulation in progress, Captain,” Melanie reported.

Prek spoke quietly. “That means we’re vulnerable for a few more seconds, Captain.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said equally quietly. Then she spoke to the room. “Tractor range?”

Melanie responded by simply counting down. “Three. Two–”

Al returned to his seat just in time for the impact to nearly throw him out if it.

“Report!” Abigail barked as they regained their composure.

“Direct hit to the stardrive section, Captain. Ventral shields are at 10 percent.”

“Captain!” Shouted the helmsman, Cohen. “The nav deflector is down, I have to fly by hand.”

“Steady as she goes,” Al replied.

“Ralin to Engineering.”

“Bush here.”

“I need a tractor beam now.”

Bush didn’t have anymore time to jaw over the comms, though he yearned to lodge a few dozen complaints. For now, all he said was “Aye, Captain.”

Ralin eyed that viewscreen. The shuttle hadn’t yet breached the atmosphere. They continued to race toward it. “Da Silva, fire at will.”

The screeching burst of the torpedo of the torpedo launch alert rang out, and a sortie of three photon torpedoes  each landed squarely against the fluttering, failing shields of Ferengi ship.

“Their shields are damaged,” Melanie reported before adding to her uppercut with a dizzying jab from the phaser banks.

“Tractor status,” Abigail asked.

Al glanced at his armrest console and, when the ops duty officer failed to respond, he spoke up. “It’s powering up, looks like Bush pulled some magic.”

Abigail gave him a hopeful glance and felt him appreciate it.

“Now, Captain!” he said finally.

“Da Silva!”

The blue fan of energy stretched out and clutched the shuttle. A ripple of relief spread over the crew before they returned their attention to their pursuers, who sent another harsh shot, this time across Mount Shasta’s dorsal section, as the marauder rose to target the saucer. Sparks sputtered from an overhead panel on the bridge, but Melanie remained focused on targeting the weakest parts of the enemy vessel. As she scanned, however, she realized something that made her blood run cold.

“They’re targeting the shuttle again—”

The words were barely out of her mouth before a phaser beam pierced the already damaged nacelle, triggering an explosion that violently knocked the McCloud out of the grasp of its home ship. The tractor beam flickered and disappeared.

“Pursuit course, reestablish tractor lock!”

Abigail could feel Al reeling from the order.

“Captain—” he began, before he was again interrupted, or perhaps joined in complaint, by Prek.

“One good shot, and they’ll send us into a tailspin, too. Or destroy half the ship.”

Abigail didn’t have time to equivocate. The pressure was mounting, it was baring down with its incredible weight. She looked right at Al and spoke quietly.

“The crew is my top priority.”

Al’s eyes softened.

“Captain!” Prek shouted, unmoved, “There’ll be no crew to protect!”

Her eyes still locked on Al, she simply nodded once. “Hit them as hard as you can,” she told Melanie.

Another salvo of torpedoes fractured their shields, and the marauder powered down its weapons. Before they hailed the Ferengi, Abigail looked up to Melanie.

“Ensign. The shuttle?”

The breath caught in Melanie’s throat. She cleared her throat. “They’ve entered the atmosphere. We couldn’t catch them with the tractor if we tried.”

Abigail stood. “Ganbold, I want you leading a search and rescue party. Prek, you’re with him.”

Al rose, too. He took a long deep breath. When Abigail turned to look at him, genuinely surprised — perhaps even hurt? — that he didn’t respond affirmatively and immediately, he finally spoke up.

“Captain,” he said, clearly pained, “I have to protest this course of action.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we don’t know that those Ferengi won’t fire again, or that they don’t have friends in the neighborhood.”

“Or,” Prek said, rising to join them, “Whether they already have friends waiting to ambush the McCloud and their rescuers on the surface. We didn’t even know this world had life. And it looks practically like Genesis.”

Abigail was more dumbfounded and frustrated than angry. They weren’t wrong. As she considered, Al tried to pull her along.

“If anyone can keep them alive, it’s Skell.”

“That’s his whole job,” she admitted.

“We have to trust in them, Captain.”

She sat, and the other two followed, exchanging agitated looks.

“Hail Starfleet,” she said. “Full report. Keep the Ferengi ship in your sights, Da Silva, and stand down to yellow alert.”

“Aye,” Melanie said as a flurry of work continued, the bridge officers reorienting their work.

Abigail continued. “Hail the Ferengi vessel and request their surrender. No conditions.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And Number One, Mister Prek,” she said finally, “I’d like to see you in my ready room. Now.”