Some weeks earlier…

On the very edge of the Mellstoxx system, far from the hub of excitement above the third planet, a blinding flash of light signalled the sudden, unexpected arrival of one of Starfleet’s most cherished creations. But instead of sauntering through the system at impulse speed, heading gracefully and purposefully towards the berth of her home port, the behemoth of a starship limped forth under thruster power only, creaking under duress and with smoke billowing from open wounds. Such was the unexpected, unceremonious nature of her arrival, it took almost ten minutes before the rapid-response ship, a Reliant-class frigate, arrived to take her under tow and guide her homeward. With nearby traffic cleared in her vicinity and the magnificent Starbase in her sights, the starship succumbed to the will of her rescuers as a tractor beam locked onto her hulking frame and began the process of towing her to safety.

A short while later, having passed a parade of ships halted for her priority docking, the enormous bulkhead doors of Bravo’s dome parted to reveal the inner workings of the station. Bravo’s brilliant lights soon replaced the Mellstoxx star, illuminating the battered silhouette of the once proud Columbia, her scars laid bare for all to see beneath the bright lights of her new home port. A streak of burnt plating along the saucer section, a jagged gash near the port nacelle, and flickering running lights struggling to maintain their rhythm just some of the damage sustained in whatever disastrous scenario had led the ship to this point. A Galaxy-class starship, once a symbol of pride and exploration, an angel of mercy in a dark time, now limping home in disgrace with her wings clipped and her dishonour seemingly complete.

What tragedy had occurred that left the mighty ship in such a state would never be revealed to Lieutenant Dakota Jones from Observation Deck B of Starbase Bravo, or anyone from beyond the hallowed, carpeted halls of Columbia for that matter, save for the few afforded the privilege of top secret information that only came with the reward of rank. Even as mooring beams latched onto her hull with a soft, magnetic hum, the inquest into her fate had begun in earnest. Officers from countless divisions, some of Starfleet’s finest, waited to board, unsure of what they would find. Would dishevelled officers match her fragile condition, or would her external damage simply conceal a madness within? That would be for Fleet Captain Vos and his team to ascertain.

As the massive space doors to the hangar closed and sealed behind her, cutting off the view of distant stars and enclosing the Columbia in the quiet embrace of the station, a final shudder through the ship’s giant spaceframe marked her final shutdown slumber. Only time would tell if she would ever wake again.

“In conclusion, the intelligence gathered in no way indicated any fault on the behalf of Lakota Squadron in the attack on Zaran IV. It is the judgement of the Task Force Strategic Operations Division that all involved be absolved of any blame, and those currently on inactive status be restored to duty at the earliest convenience.”

A wave of relief swept over Commander Vashara Zail, sitting across the stateroom from Fleet Captain Kelvan Vos and the rest of the Board of Inquiry. To say she felt responsible for the atrocity at Zaran was an overstatement for sure, especially since she and her team had worked so hard to prevent the attack that left the world a barren wasteland, but that didn’t stop her feeling guilty. She’d been unfortunate enough to be born into a species so aggressive and so territorial that they couldn’t even unite themselves under a single banner. Cartels galore would fight for recognition and wealth, and every once in a while they would take that battle to another galactic doorstep. In the last few months, the Syndicate had clashed with Starfleet and the Federation more than they probably ever had, and the attack on Zaran was as barbaric as they came.

She knew, like all of those who had served the squadron had known, that they had done all they could to prevent the attack and the enormous loss of life that followed, and listening to Captain Kerina Mertens deliver the verdict of some of the brightest strategic minds of the twenty-fifth century should have come with an overwhelming sense of vindication, but instead, it was simply relief. Relief the hearing was over, relief they could go about their business again and, from a personal point of view, relief that she wouldn’t have to field any more questions about her people or their criminal ways. For a while at least.

The rest of the briefing was a bit of a blur as the committee took turns debating who should be held responsible, and what ramifications there should be, but she simply sat in a daze until a clash of the Fleet Captain’s gavel indicated the meeting had adjourned. She jumped with a start, causing her Cardassian colleague to smirk and shake her head, amused.

“It’s been a long day,” Marten smiled to her subordinate, “you should get some rest.”

Vash shook her head while rising to her feet. “I’m going to stop by Nural’s. Fancy it?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Kerina’s sorrow-filled eyes betrayed her feelings. Her face said “I have to get the draft report to Command by oh-eight-hundred,” but her eyes said, “There’s nothing I’d like more.” Vash understood of course, and was just thankful she didn’t have to do the report this time.

A short while later she was headed for the Romulan restaurant on Bravo’s replimat when she caught a glimpse of a figure fighting his way through the approaching horde. A reach of his arm high above his head and a wave designed to get her attention brought the Orion to a stop. She finally managed to make him out as Ensign Fezyn of Betazed, a native of Mellstoxx and a member of her office.

“Fezyn, she nodded in greeting to the youngster as he slowed on his final approach.

“Commander,” he wheezed.

“What’s got you so excited?” The senior of the two asked casually, her hands in the pockets of her uniform trousers.

“Orders ma’am,” he grinned between sharp intakes. “Your presence is requested aboard the Columbia,” he concluded.

‘Columbia?!’ she asked herself, among other things. For a split second, she forgot the young man with her was a mind reader, and all those good thoughts of before had changed to questions and frustrations. And he knew them, too. Not that he showed it, of course. No, he was far too polite for that. Instead, he simply waited patiently for her response, and it came with an eventual hand gesture down the promenade.

“Best lead the way then,” the Orion smiled, stepping to the side and following after her young apprentice. “Can’t keep Noli waiting.”