“No signals whatsoever?” Ashimola stroked her chin thoughtfully, her fingers twirling through an imaginary rakish goatee.

“No ma’am. No signals in or out, no power signatures, not even a wandering biosign.” The young helmswoman span in her chair to face the two women seated at the bridge’s centre.

“There’s no one home,” she concluded with a shrug before turning back to her console.

“And there’s no sign of damage, a critical issue that would cause them to abandon ship?” Ashimola asked over her shoulder, her curious eye still focused on the viewscreen. In the inky blackness of space, the tapering form of a Romulan ship hung like a creature caught in amber, its slender green wings frozen in the starfield.

“Handwritten note?” Fennick joked quietly, as she scrolled through data on the small pop-up screen that sat between the Captain’s chair and her own XO station.

From the small science console to the right of them a young bolian officer shook his head, before offering another shrug. The second one of the morning, Ashimola did not want this to become a habit.

“Apart from some minor impact damage on the dorsal tip of the port warp nacelle, it looks pretty pristine,” the young Bolian advised.

“Weapons fire?”

“More likely meteoroid impacts, nothing that would entail abandoning the ship though.” He turned back to his console, his chubby fingers beginning a new set of scans.

“The SAR team are ready ma’am. All fitted with EVA suits and emergency supplies,” a voice called across the bridge from tactical.

Ashimola leant in close to her XO, the Bajoran woman’s attention still on the scrolling list of ship registries and recorded flight plans.

“Anything Number One?” Ashimola whispered in hushed tones.

“There was a Romulan ship, the Surlest that was meant to be headed this way but according to logs, it’s still in dock at Starbase Bravo. Some issue with supplies,” Fennick looked up at the Captain, her slender eyebrows bunched together in frustration.

“Not everyone has to log a flight plan I suppose,” Ashimola mused.

“Bravo would have still caught them on long-range sensors, especially with everything that’s going on.” Fennick raised an eyebrow, “unless they took specific measures to avoid detection.”

“That still doesn’t explain why they’re here now, empty but otherwise fine.”

“There’s only one way to be sure it’s empty.” Fennick tilted her head inquisitively.

Ashimola sighed, sending in an away team with such little intelligence was less than ideal. Fennick was right though, it was the only way to be sure.

“Send them in,” Ashimola announced to the bridge. “Tell them to keep their eyes open.”

The silence on the bridge was palpable as they held their collective breaths. A few decks below on the small cutter, 4 figures in boxy white environmental suits disappeared in a flurry of dancing lights. Moments later, several hundred meters away they materialised aboard the empty civilian ship.

A chirp from the comm system cut across the silence on the bridge.

“Away team to Durandal, we have made it aboard into the cargo hold. There is no power and minimal atmosphere, we are making our way to engineering.” A collective exhale wafted across the bridge.

Several minutes passed with a cruel sluggishness, each second falling from the small chronometer in the corner of the spartan bridge with the speed of treacle. Durandal was awfully close to the buffeting edges of three major galactic powers, one of whom had recently become less than friendly. Every second spent here meant their attention was away from the precarious border.

“Durandal, we’ve made it to Engineering. The main core appears to be secure but inactive.” An audibly relieved breath skittered across the comm link. “No risk of singularity implosion.”

“That’s a small blessing,” Ashimola whispered beneath her breath. Despite several years of good relations with the nascent Romulan Republic, Starfleet was woefully under-informed about the functions of the Romulan-made singularity cores. They were, however well aware of the dangerous results of their failure.

“Any sign of life Lieutenant?” Fennick asked, tugging at her traditional Bajoran earring, a telltale sign of her normally well-masked nervousness.

“Nothing yet ma’am. Though they seemed to have left in a hurry, there are engineering kits and equipment all over the place. We’re carrying on to the bridge.”

Ashimola felt a shiver run down her spine as a long-forgotten voice echoed from the campfire light of her childhood. Breathy tales of ghost ships and abandoned freighters, all empty, like the crews had simply disappeared. Her father had loved a ghost story.

Ashimola had not.

“We’re approaching the bridge, ma’am. Still no sign of anyone or anything that might cause the crew to abandon ship.”

Fennick leaned across the central console again, her voice low and buzzing with tension.

“Those transports aren’t designed for automated flight. There had to be someone aboard to get it here,” she whispered.

“How many would it take to fly? Absolute minimum.” Ashimola felt the tingle of another shudder down her spine.

“You could do it with two at a push, but singularity cores are unpredictable. You’d be foolish to fly more than a few lightyears without at least a mechanic aboard as well.”

“How many engineering kits would a few crew need? There must have been more than three.” Ashimola’s tingle was threatening to brew into a worried twinge.

The pair’s quiet consultation was interrupted by the deep baritone of the tactical officer from the rear of the bridge.

“Ma’ams, the away team is beginning a live stream.”

With a short tip of the head, Ashimola gave the order, causing the viewscreen to become a vista of shadowed bulkheads and furniture. Sharp-edged beams of light lept out from the away team’s flashlights, floating through the gloom, silently scanning over dark consoles and vacant chairs.

Slowly, the feed panned across the empty bridge, until it landed on the ship’s centre chair. A security officer stood nearby, his stark white environmental suit glove strikingly alien in the grey brutalistic surroundings.

The video link dipped as the away team officer gave a nod and across the room, the officer swung the chair around.

Draped over the seat lay the familiar tan uniform of the Romulan Republic, its patchwork of lush green and olive pierced by a great silver talon of a Bat’leth.

“Now that,” Ashimola sighed. “Would be a good reason to abandon ship.”