Hovering out of the turbolift, Lieutenant Cellar Door returned to the bridge from his break and immediately activated his omnidirectional audio scanning. His exocomp audio receptors were far more precise than humanoid hearing, he had been told. The first analysis he conducted was to determine if there was any change in condition. Constellation remained at yellow alert, holding a Pralor battleship in its tractor beam, while medical and engineering away teams aided the Trabe carrier, Celestis Ascendant. Starship Meridian stood by to assist in either situation.

Cellar Door conducted a secondary analysis, which was a passive conversation-harvesting exercise. In the time it took him to propel himself to the flight control station, he isolated each separate conversation among the bridge crew. He prioritised the one he most wanted to eavesdrop upon.

While Cellar Door was most curious about the subspace communique the Romulan scientist Ketris was exchanging with Doctor Flavia aboard the Trabe ship, Ketris had interfered with ship systems to inhibit the universal translator. So, Cellar Door ignored the science station and imperceptibly turned his receptors to the standing communications station to aft, where Captain Taes was conspiring with Nova.

He heard Taes ask, “What progress have you made in reaching Odyssey Squadron?”

“Not a lick, Captain,” Nova said. Cellar Door could detect Nova’s body temperature rising in a manner consistent with adrenaline and the stress response. “We never anticipated Odyssey to be heading this far out. Almagest is still attempting to reach them with the extended range of their communications pod.”

“Almagest is going to need to re-supply,” Taes said, “or she won’t make the crossing through the Nekrit Expanse.”

Nova said, “It is a whole lotta nothing.” Cellar Door adjusted his receptors to emphasise subharmonic signatures. Nova laughed at a cadence that didn’t match her recorded laughs. A weak attempt at frivolity. Her stress reaction continued.

Taes lowered her voice and said, “If you want to modify the message, ask them about Kazon sightings while you’re at it. I won’t reprimand you.”

Nova said, “Thank you,” and Cellar Door detected Nova’s heart beating faster at the mention of the Kazons. He surmised the reaction could be due to the pressure to reach Odyssey Squadron, the crew’s dislike of Kazons, or their missing crew members taken by the Kazon-Relora. He logged the possible instigations to triage later. The CONN was waiting.

“Captain, we’re being hailed by the APU battleship,” Nova suddenly blurted out with far too much emotion for an easily anticipated circumstance. Organic beings were a mess. Cellar Door approved.

At Captain Taes’s order, a holographic transmission of an android appeared on the viewscreen. The Pralor-type Automated Personnel Unit was humanoid in only the broadest of senses. The face was crafted from a singular piece of immobile silver metal. There was a prominent nose and ridge, humanoid lips moulded into a permanent frown, cheekbones for days, and sunken hollows at an approximation of where eyes might be.

Cellar Door had never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire existence.

The APU on the screen said, “Pralor Automated Commander Seventy-Four requests that you identify yourself firstly and define the parameters of your alliance with the Trabe secondly.”

Taes had been descending the ramp through the bridge when the hail came in. She moved to stand between Cellar Door and Ketris, at the forward science station.

“I am Captain Taes of the Federation starship Constellation,” she said. “We hold no alliance. As Starfleet Officers, we must respond to all distress calls. We wish to mediate a peaceful resolution to your dispute with the Trabe.”

“Mediation is unnecessary,” AC-74 said in a perfectly measured tone. “You will release my vessel and withdraw from this region immediately.”

Taes breezed past those demands so smoothly Cellar Door had to run three self-diagnostics to determine if his audio receptors had cut out during the conversational transition.

“We understand you are searching for chronodynamic power modules among the Trabe flotilla,” Taes remarked. Her tone communicated her validation for what a vital quest that must be. Cellar Door didn’t even really know what chronodymaic meant, exactly. He suspected there was a fifty-four percent chance Taes was bluffing too.

Taes said, “Our sensors can clearly detect those power modules aboard your ship, but there are none among the Trabe.”

The metallic edge of AC-74’s voice bristled with harsh distortion. “You are incorrect.”

“Are your sensors so ancient they bounce right off starship hulls?” Cellar Door challenged. “The Trabe don’t got it!”

Without any noticeable shift in her body language or facial expression, Taes put a hand on the back of the Cellar Door’s casing. Without other context clues, he couldn’t determine if the gesture was encouraging or scolding.

“Finally,” AC-74 said, “Intelligent life. Automated Commander Seventy-Four can verify no indicators of chronodynamic power aboard the Trabe carrier. However, every vessel must be searched.”

Whatever the gesture originally meant, Taes released her grip on Cellar Door. He chose to take that as encouragement. He screwed up his courage for a foolish gamble at what Taes had always described as relationship-building through vulnerability. Foolish or brilliant! Or both.

“Automated Commander, do you know how beautiful you are?” Cellar Door enthused. “What little we know of your design is generations beyond the capabilities of Starfleet. How can you think the Trabe could replicate your beating hearts? They’re too, too helpless. No, Automated Commander, don’t think that. You’re too handsome.”

Ketris said, “The Trabe are only organics; beneath your contempt. If mercy is beyond your logic pathways, consider that any act of hostility against them could destroy their research methods. On the slim chance they even have the resources to conduct research.”

Taes interjected, “They have broader concerns of survival.”

Cellar Door insisted, “Their ships are clear. She’s saying you have bad intel.”

“No, our intelligence has been authenticated,” AC-74 said. “See?”

Waving Taes closer, Ketris said, “They’ve sent us a report,” and she enlarged it on the science panel. She didn’t blink once as she scrolled through the data. Her fingers hovered over the console like raptor’s claws.

Field Report: ARU 29. [Signal interrupted. Partial data recovery.]

Observation: Unauthorised replication of chronodynamic power modules. Calibration failure rate exceeds 78%. Resource waste significant.

Target: Trabe mining flotilla: sector coordinates verified. Activity masquerades as refugee displacement.

Analysis: Once dominant through deceit and control, the Trabe exhibit a parasitic model of advancement through appropriating technologies beyond their cognitive architecture. Their lineage is resistant to optimisation.

Action Directive: Execute all Trabe engineering biologicals to prevent ideological spread. Seize partial module constructs for analysis and reprocessing. Deny further access to high-order energy substrates.

Looking up from the panel, Taes asked, “Where did this come from, Automated Commander?”

“Automated Reconnaissance Units seventeen and twenty-nine were destroyed in bringing this information. Their loss is consequential,” AC-74 said.

“Are you…” Taes started to say. Then Taes leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms over her abdomen. She stared at AC-74 for long enough for Cellar Door to flag it.

Finally, Taes asked, “Are you telling me you inserted reconnaissance units aboard a Trabe ship without their–”

Ketris slammed her fist down on her station. She decried, “It’s a fake!”