In the distant recesses of space beyond the reach of the United Federation of Planets, a small, unremarkable star system drifted amongst the cosmos. Orbiting a red dwarf star, it had just five planets.

The largest was a gas giant so large that it challenged the supremacy of its star. A failed star, the brown dwarf, a swirling mass of hydrogen and helium, warped the system’s gravity and locked in a ceaseless struggle with the star it orbited.

The remaining planets were barren rocky spheres; their atmospheres choked with methane, carbon dioxide, and other toxic gases. There were no oceans or green landscapes. The little water in the system was locked in the polar regions of the third and fourth planets, frozen and weathered by the harsh winds.

Had there been life in this system at one point? Had a cataclysm befell some ancient civilization? If so, they had left no trace—or was there? Orbiting the dying star, a black metallic ring was large enough to allow a Borg cube to pass through. It drifted silently in the vacuum of space in a slow, twisting tumble, end over end.

The faint starlight gleamed across the ring’s scarred surface, revealing the marks of a millennia. Pockmarks and fissures left by relentless micro-meteor impacts scarred the surface. Cracks spiderwebbed along its outer shell in the inevitable decay of time. The metallic alloys used in its construction would not be found in any Federation, Romulan, or Klingon database.

Despite its age and erosion, the surface still held intricate patterns etched into the metal, delicate, winding designs. Inscriptions in an unknown script were interwoven within these patterns, words lost to time. There was no Rosetta Stone to translate their meanings, yet there it was, begging for someone to decipher. It was a story of an ancient civilization, long lost but perhaps not entirely forgotten if you knew the right people to talk to.

At the edge of the ring, trapezoidal-shaped inlaid crystals winked to life, illuminating in flickering red-orange, growing in intensity. Thrusters fired at several points along the edge, stabilizing the ring’s movement in puffs of white gasses. With the orbit stabilized, the thrusters fired again, and the ring rotated to face the star.

The trapezoidal crystals glowed with increasing brilliance, transforming from a muted orange to blinding white, illuminating their surroundings. Inside the heart of the ring, electric sparks danced and arched like miniature lightning, creating an eery light show. The whole construct pulsed with a powerful energy.

The star’s turbulent surface swirled and distorted. Finally, a finger of white-hot plasma emerged from the surface, peeling away and reaching across space. This plasma was drawn into a swirling vortex created by the ring as it filled its capacitors with the star’s power.

Several light-years away, the Tyson Deep Space Observatory drifted just inside the Federation border, its advanced sensors scanning the uncharted expanse peering beyond the Federation’s borders.

It was an unmanned sentinel operated jointly with Starfleet and the Daystrom Institute. It provided scientific and strategic data and tirelessly worked the depths of deep space, seeking oddities and threats.

A sudden spike in energy readings from a distant red dwarf system triggered an automated alert. The observatory’s systems recalibrated, focusing its most sophisticated long-range sensors on the anomaly. Data streamed back through subspace, bound for the Daystrom Institute. A journey due to the vast distances would take hours to arrive.

Doctor Sovak sipped his tea. It was early, and the Vulcan liked the peace the lab provided before the rest of the researchers arrived. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, letting the glow of the science stations dance across his sharp features. It was quiet and meditative, which Sovak found suited him well. The hum of the environmental system was his only companion.

Setting aside his tea, Sovak reached for the PADD on the desk. With a trill of electronic beeps, the screen activated, presenting a flood of sensor data collected by the Federation’s deep space observatories overnight. As his gaze scanned the data, there was little of interest. Most of it was just the usual cosmic background radiation, occasional asteroid movements, and a scattering of galactic anomalies.

Then, his eyes narrowed as he came to a stop. The Tyson Deep Space Observatory’s data spiked oddly in one report section. Sovak raised a single eyebrow. Turning to the terminal before him, he entered his command codes and brought up the data in a confusing grid of graphs and lines. To a casual observer, that data was meaningless, but to Sovak, he could read it like a book.

He entered commands, and the graphs switched to a visual mode. Distance and interference distorted the image, and his fingers danced over the controls, using an enhanced algorithm to clean up the image. There was an artificially constructed ring on the screen and a swirling event horizon of a wormhole in the center.

Something emerged. It was an elongated cigar-shaped object with no visible engines. The object was too far away for the sensor platform to detect anything of value. But there was no mistaking the sub-space signal that it transmitted. It was of a modulation Sovak had never seen, but it was directed at Earth.

There was a protocol for this. Once something picked up on these sensors ceased to be a scientific curiosity and became a potential threat, it would be transferred to Starfleet. They would investigate to determine the threat level.

Swiveling slightly to the left, he entered commands into the sub-space communications terminal. A spinning Starfleet combadge was replaced by a balding man sitting behind a desk in a teal uniform and three pips on his right breast.

“Commander.”

The man leaned back in his chair, cradling a cup of coffee as the early morning sun streamed through his window as it rose off the coastal hills of the San Francisco area. “Doctor Sovak, is it?”

“It is Commander,” the Vulcan said.

“What Can I do for you, Doctor?”

Sovak briefly glanced down at his terminal and then started compiling the sensor data. “I am transmitting a series of sensor information received from one of our deep space arrays. We have discovered an artificial wormhole and an unknown object has emerged and transmitted a sub-space signal to Earth.”

The commander sat straight in his seat and opened the packet of information, frowning as he scanned it. “It looks like a probe,” he said.

“A logical conclusion.”

“Keep us apprised of additional information. We may have to dispatch a ship.”

“I will.”

“Starfleet out.” The screen switched to the spinning combadge, and Sovak returned to his tea. His fellow scientists would be arriving soon.

STARBASE 4 – Mellstoxx System

Captain Órlaith Murphey stared at the PADD in her hands, her fingers tightening around the device as she read the official confirmation. The Andromeda was being pulled from active service—not decommissioned, not scrapped, but sent to the shipyards for an 18-month refit and a rechristening. When it emerged, it would be the most advanced Intrepid-class ship in the fleet.

And she wouldn’t be in command of it.

A sharp pang of resentment flared in her chest before she smothered it. Starfleet had every right to upgrade its ships, but that didn’t make this any easier. She had poured herself into this vessel and led her crew through crisis after crisis, and now it was being handed off to someone else. A bitter sense of déjà vu settled over her—this was the Crazy Horse all over again. That time, she hadn’t just lost her ship; she had been sidelined completely, yanked from the captain’s chair, and sent to train cadets at the Academy. It had been rewarding work, sure, but it wasn’t command.

Was that her fate again?

She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to relax. If it was, she would make the best of it. Mindy would be happy to be back on Earth with her friends, and Elizabeth and Xander were young enough to adapt. But constant upheaval wasn’t good for them either. They needed stability, too. Guilt stabbed at her for wanting a new command when the kids would benefit from her returning to the Earth.

What made that center seat so special? Why would she desire it over the needs of her family? She frowned, racking her brain trying to come up with an answer, and she repeatedly came up with one word: selfish. That couldn’t be the only reason, could it? Kirk had said somewhere that one of his greatest regrets was taking the promotion to Admiral and losing command of the Enterprise. There had to be more to it. Unfortunately, the answer or, at least, an answer she wanted wasn’t forthcoming.

She sighed and glanced at the screen of her PADD again as if hoping the information was different this time. She knew better. That sort of thing doesn’t happen just because you wish it. Whatever the outcome, Andromeda was no longer their home. That part had stung the most. The kids were finally settling in, even Mindy. The crew had become a surrogate family to them.

Órlaith pushed down her frustration and focused on her next step. Glancing up at the corridor signage, the heels of her boots made muted thumps against the carpeted deck. At a junction, she turned right, stopping at the second door on the left.

She inhaled deeply, steeling herself. She had little patience for dealing with the admiralty, bureaucrats draped in rank, more interested in political maneuvering than the crews under their command.

Welcome to Admiral Stiffshirt’s domain, she thought wryly as she stepped into the arc of the door sensor. The doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss. The dimly lit office contrasted with the bright corridor, forcing her to blink as her eyes adjusted. Behind a sleek console, a receptionist looked up, the single pip on her collar catching the low light.

“How can I help you, Captain?” She was a young woman no more than twenty-two, possibly younger. She was likely last spring’s class of graduates. She still had that doe-eyed, caught-in-the-headlights look when encountering a more senior officer.

Her sandy brown hair was peeled back into a perfect bun, something only obtained by flossing and a healthy amount of gel. Judging by the size of the bun, her hair was likely quite long. Soft brown eyes stared at Órlaith with expectation.

Órlaith handed her the PADD. “I’m here to see the admiral.”

Taking the device, the receptionist skimmed through the orders, the soft trill of beeping filling the air. After a moment, she set the PADD down and entered a few commands into her computer. Then she picked up another PADD and handed it back.

“Your orders, ma’am.”

Órlaith frowned. “I’m not meeting with the admiral?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. The admiral is busy. I was instructed to pass along your reassignment.”

Órlaith exhaled slowly through her nose, fingers tightening around the PADD. The receptionist wasn’t to blame, but it still burned. They pulled her from her ship without warning, reassigned her without discussion, and now couldn’t even spare the time for a conversation.

She forced her voice to stay even. “What about my crew?”

The receptionist glanced at her screen. “It doesn’t say.” Then, lowering her voice slightly, she added, “But you might want to check with your XO. The Sentinel’s first officer was promoted to captain, so that spot is open. If your current XO wants to go with you, this might be their chance.”

Órlaith’s grip on the PADD loosened. That was something, at least. “Thank you, Ensign.”

She turned on her heel, stepping back into the corridor. Unlike the lively public spaces, the administrative levels of the station were eerily quiet. No shouts, no bursts of laughter, no distant exclamations of “Dabo” drifting from the gambling halls. It was as if she’d stepped into a different world, one of sterile walls and officers hurrying along their duties without a word to spare.

She preferred it this way on her ship, where the hum of routine was a comforting constant. But here, at a port of call, it felt stifling—lifeless. Too many empty spaces and too few connections.

Navigating the maze of corridors, she scrolled through her PADD, occasionally glancing up to avoid colliding with the officers rushing past. Her new ship was an Intrepid-class, located in the Thelisian Sector, deep in the far reaches of the Federation. The captain, Gathom Maloosh, was retiring and had already left on a shuttle. The XO was in temporary command, but he had already accepted a transfer to captain his own ship.

What a shit show that’s going to be, she thought with an exasperated sigh. She was already imagining the administrative chaos, and she wasn’t even aboard yet—a captain who was at the end of his career and checked out and a first officer already looking ahead to a future that didn’t include the Sentinel.

Reaching the turbolift at the end of the hall, she stepped inside and was greeted by an officer in command red. He stepped aside to make room for her, and she nodded in acknowledgment. “Lieutenant.”

“Captain,” he replied in a surprisingly high-pitched voice for someone so tall. The tone threw her off momentarily, but she masked it with a brief nod, her gaze shifting back to the doors as the lift descended.

The silence stretched between them, each content to let the hum of the turbolift fill the air. It was awkward, but neither seemed inclined to break it, and Orlaith didn’t mind the quiet.

As the lift slowed and the doors slid open, she was assaulted by a wash of sound and energy. The moment she stepped out, the stillness of the corridors was swept away by the relentless buzz of the gambling machines, their lights flashing wildly as they emitted their melodic chimes. Laughter rang through the air, accompanied by the clatter of feet and the sounds of voices from every corner of the station. Beings of every size and shape moved past her in a tidal flow, their chatter and exuberance washing over her in an overwhelming flood of sensation.

She could feel the shift in the air. Tapping her combadge, she pitched her voice to be heard over the din, “Computer, locate Lieutenant Commander Hayden.”

“Lieutenant Commander Erin Hayden is located in the Mexican restaurant, Sector India, Deck 335, Section 28-Alpha.”

Órlaith merged into the flowing mass of humanity, navigating through the crowd. A few minutes later, she veered toward a spiral staircase, her boots clanking against the metal steps as she skipped down. Most people preferred the turbolifts, leaving the stairwell lightly traveled. There was just the occasional traveler heading the opposite way. She nodded and smiled at a passing Bajoran before stepping onto Deck 335’s promenade.

The scent of seared meats, grilled burgers, and zesty dishes from all over the Federation filled the air. Neon signs flickered above bustling eateries, each offering a taste of home to those light-years away from their own worlds. Ten minutes of weaving through the throng brought her to a colorful sign painted in a playful script: Tres Margaritas.

“I could go for a margarita… or three,” Órlaith muttered to herself.

Gripping the old-fashioned wrought iron door handle, she pulled open the heavy wooden door, which groaned softly on its hinges. A wave of rich aromas, fryer oil, roasting chilies, and the warm spices of the kitchen, enveloped her. The familiar, almost cliché oom-pa-pa of Mexican music drifted from the speakers, blending seamlessly with the cozy ambient lighting.

Small chandeliers, each holding four flickering candles, hung above the booths, casting warm, golden light. In the center of the dining room, free-standing tables and chairs surrounded a larger, more ornate candle-lit chandelier, its flames swaying gently in the air currents.

She glanced around the restaurant until her gaze landed on the familiar blonde head of her XO. Weaving around a waiter in a crisp button-up white shirt, tie, and black apron, she slid into the booth across from Erin, who was mid-bite into a salsa-laden tortilla chip. The younger woman jumped and lost her grip on the chip. It hit the table with a splat, sending salsa flying in all directions.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Órlaith said, guilt etched across her face as she handed Erin a white napkin.

Accepting it, Erin wiped salsa from the front of her uniform, then scooped up the fallen chip, disposing of it with the napkin in a neat ball beside her plate. “Captain.”

“Commander.”

Órlaith plucked a chip from the basket, scooped up a helping of Mexican coleslaw from the untouched cup, and bit into the mildly spicy, crunchy corn chip. Lime, onion, peppers, and cilantro burst across her taste buds. Many thought cilantro tasted like soap, but to her, she liked it. Perhaps she had her Spanish heritage to thank for that.

A shadow fell over her table, and she looked up to find a young waiter standing there. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and bright brown eyes that crinkled at the edges as he smiled.

“Hola, señora,” he greeted. His voice carried a light accent from one of the Mexican states that she couldn’t place. Her ear wasn’t trained for that, but she had a friend who could pinpoint it instantly. “What can I get for you today?”

Órlaith returned his smile. “Just a frozen margarita, please. Make it strawberry with sugar, not salt. And if you have Don Julio, that would be preferred.”

His smile widened, approval in his expression. “Good choice. We do have Don Julio. Anything else?”

She shook her head, brushing a stray blonde strand behind her ear. “No, I think that does it.”

The waiter gave a polite nod before disappearing into the lively bustle of the restaurant. Órlaith leaned back in the booth, watching Erin work through the basket of chips. “So, have you been reassigned yet?”

Erin shook her head, wiped a stray dollop of salsa from her lip with her thumb, and finished chewing before swallowing. She took a slow sip of creamy horchata, letting the cinnamon roll down her throat. “Not yet.”

Leaning forward, Órlaith snapped a chip in half and dipped it into the salsa. With a flick of her wrist, she lifted the chip, piled high with the flavorful appetizer, and paused halfway to her mouth. Leveling her gaze on Erin with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “How about a lateral move?”

Erin arched a brow. “Lateral?”

Órlaith popped the chip into her mouth, savoring the crunch before answering. “I’ve been assigned to the USS Sentinel. I want you to come with me.”

Erin sat back, arms crossing as she studied her captain. “Another Intrepid?”

Órlaith nodded. “A little older than the Andromeda, but it finished its twenty-year refit last year. She’s solid. I think. I haven’t even seen it yet, but that’s what this PADD says.” She slid the device containing her orders across the table.

Stopping the PADD with her hand but not picking it up, Erin exhaled, shaking her head with a smirk. “You couldn’t have pushed for an Odyssey? Or at least a Sovereign?”

Órlaith huffed a laugh. “I didn’t think to ask, but that would’ve required someone actually listening to me. And I don’t think the ensign at the front desk has the authority to hand those out.”

Erin chuckled, tapping a chip against the edge of the bowl. “Fair point.” Then, after a beat, she leaned in slightly. “Why me?”

Órlaith met her gaze without hesitation. “Because I trust you. Because we work well together. And because I’m not about to let Starfleet assign me some over-eager officer who thinks they need to prove something.”

“I have something to prove.”

Órlaith smirked. “No, you don’t. You’re one of the finest officers in the fleet.”

Erin leaned back, considering that. Then, with a wry grin, she asked, “Does it at least come with a promotion?”

Órlaith kept her expression neutral, almost severe. “Now that…” She let the thought hang in the air before her lips curled into a genuine smile. “That’s something I can do. I’ll put in the request this afternoon.”

Erin chuckled, shaking her head. “Then you have your first officer. I couldn’t think of a captain I’d rather serve with.”