CAPTAIN’S LOG, Stardate 240204.06: War. War never changes.

My great-great grandfather served in the Earth-Romulan War. 2155. He was a MACO—boots on forgotten moons, pulse rifle in hand, fighting a war with no faces, only signatures on long-range sensors. He wondered if he’d ever hold his daughter—born while he was crouched in an atmosphere-scraped trench on Cheron. He got his chance. The war ended with a final barrage of plasma warheads and a deafening silence across the Neutral Zone.

The galaxy braced for collapse. Instead, we built something better. The United Federation of Planets—an idea that maybe peace could be more than a pause between battles.

For a time, it worked. Warp 9 starships, post-scarcity living, science over superstition. We told ourselves war was a relic.

But war never changes. It waits.

I fought in the Dominion War. Lost friends in orbit over Betazed. Watched ideals bend under the weight of survival. We won—on paper. But something in us cracked. And that crack never quite sealed.

Now it’s 2402, and I’m back in it. Above Risa.

The Io was holding orbit. Routine survey support. The Sirona, Britannia, and Aldrin were nearby—fleet presence, nothing more. Then the Blackout hit. Subspace went dark. No word from Command, no way to reach Sector 001. And then—attackers.

Out of nowhere. No warning. Coordinated strikes in space—deft, surgical, almost… personal. A civilian freighter took the worst of it—caught in the crossfire, hull breached. Debris burned up a city on Risa’s surface, Atheta. It was the only thing that touched the surface.

People on the planet still don’t know how close they came.

I wish I could tell them. I wish I could tell anyone. But with the Blackout, all we have is each other—and what’s left of the fleet in system.

I’m afraid. For my crew. For the civilians. For what else might be coming from the dark.

Because if all these years in Starfleet have taught me one truth…

War. War never changes.

Thirty minutes earlier

The ship groaned beneath Crowe’s boots as another hit struck the Io. Sparks arced from a nearby console, filling the air with the sharp scent of burnt circuitry. The deck shuddered again, almost violently, as though the Io herself were struggling to stay afloat in the void. Crowe felt every pulse of the ship’s pain in his bones.

“Shields at forty-seven percent!” Rivers’ voice was sharp and urgent, cutting through the rising din of alarms.

Crowe didn’t flinch. He didn’t have the luxury. His eyes locked onto the view screen. The enemy — whoever they were — were circling, moving in precise patterns, like predators closing in on a wounded animal. Their ships flashed and flickered, their energy signatures like fractured beams of light.

“Franz,” Crowe said, turning toward his Ops officer. He didn’t need to shout — the tone was firm, and it made Franz’s four long fingers flicker across his console with practiced efficiency.

Commander Zyrrkathorandaraxiluunth “Franz” Byrrynathalorim didn’t even blink. His black eyes reflected the fire and smoke swirling through the bridge, almost absorbing it. His voice, low and measured, broke the tense silence.

“Eight ships now, Captain. They’re using disruptor pulses—timed with their decloaks. But there’s no identifying transponder codes, no Federation standard. They’re unknown.”

Crowe nodded, though the knot in his stomach tightened. “Keep scanning. I want everything on them, now.”

Franz’s fingers moved again, but before he could respond, the Io bucked sideways, throwing Crowe against the armrest. A secondary blast sent a shower of sparks across the bridge, and this time, the Io didn’t shake it off.

“Starboard nacelle hit! EPS rupture — warp drive’s offline!” Rivers shouted, his voice barely audible over the howls of alarm. “We’re dead in space!”

Crowe straightened, the momentary dizziness fading. He’d been through worse, but even he couldn’t ignore the cold knot in his gut. Not now.

He glanced to Arden, who was watching the sensor data flicker in front of her, brows furrowed.

“Captain,” she said softly, “we’re being pulled into their formation. They’re herding us. Into a trap.”

The air on the bridge felt thick now, not from the smoke, but from the weight of understanding. Crowe’s eyes flicked to the viewer again. The civilian freighter was helpless, a sitting duck for any passing enemy.

And they were running out of time.

“Piper!” Crowe barked. “Bring us about. Fast. Target their lead ship. Full phaser spread when we’re in range!”

Piper’s hands flew over the console, despite the tremors running through the deck. She didn’t hesitate. “Aye, Captain,” she said, her voice steady.

The Io swung into position, the weight of it almost unbearable. Crowe’s stomach churned as they rolled toward their attackers, too far in, too exposed. But the ship needed them to act. The Tavanis needed them.

“Now, Rivers. Fire.”

Ensign Rivers didn’t need more prompting. He hit the button, and the Io’s dorsal phasers cut through the air like lightning. One enemy ship erupted in a blinding flare, its hull split open like a crushed shell. The debris tumbled in slow motion, but no time to relish the victory. The other ships were closing in fast, relentless.

And then — boom.

The Io jerked violently as a barrage of torpedoes hammered her shields. The bridge was bathed in green light, and the ship groaned in protest. Bulkheads buckled beneath the stress. A fire ignited in the aft, sending acrid smoke curling through the air.

“Shields at twelve percent!” Rivers shouted, his hands a blur as he rerouted energy to the tactical systems.

Crowe gritted his teeth. He knew this dance. He’d fought it before. “Piper—give me another 90-degree roll. Bring us underneath them. Full ventral phaser array, now!”

The ship lurched again. Crowe felt his body try to betray him — the turbulence rattled his teeth, rattled his bones. But it didn’t matter. Every instinct he’d honed during the Dominion War kicked in. They couldn’t stop now.

Piper’s fingers danced over the controls. “Ventral phasers locked—firing now!”

A burst of golden energy pierced the dark like a knife through a curtain of smoke. Another enemy ship broke apart in an explosion of metal and fire, but still, others pressed on, closing in from all sides. The ship shook again, and this time, Crowe’s fingers found the edge of the command chair. They’d taken too many hits. Too many.

We can’t keep this up.

“Franz, report!” Crowe snapped.

“Warp drive is still offline,” Franz said, his voice detached, almost clinical. “But we’ve rerouted power to auxiliary engines. Tactical systems are operational. We can still fight.”

That was the problem. They could keep fighting. But for how long?

Crowe looked at the viewer again, searching for any sign of hesitation. The unknown ships were methodical, relentless. They had the Io at their mercy.

This is it.

And then — just as suddenly as they had appeared, the last few enemy ships jumped.

A flash of light. An instantaneous warp ripple. And in the span of a heartbeat, they were gone. The Io was left floating in empty space, surrounded by nothing but the lingering echoes of their attacks. The battle was over. For now.

The alarms on the bridge dimmed, replaced by the sound of rapid breathing, the hum of systems still struggling to function. Crowe blinked, momentarily stunned. He allowed himself a brief breath — a momentary reprieve — before his mind shifted back to the task at hand.

“We need to get those repairs started,” Crowe muttered, his voice rough. He turned to Arden. “Scan the area. I don’t trust this.”

Arden’s fingers flew across her console. “I’m scanning, Captain. No sign of them in our immediate vicinity. No signs of any subspace distortions either. They seem to have moved to a different target.”

Franz tilted his head, the faintest twitch betraying his confusion. “They had us in their jaws. And they let us go. That’s not strategy—that’s intent.”

Crowe inhaled deeply, his fingers gripping the armrest with white-knuckled intensity. “Before anything else—we need to find out who they are, and what the hell they want with Risa.”

“Captain,” Franz said softly, his voice sounding almost perplexed, “there’s something more. A subspace filament, like they were pulled… or sent. This wasn’t just an attack. It was a message. But one I’m not sure we’re supposed to decipher.”

Crowe exhaled, eyes fixed on the silent void beyond the viewscreen. Questions circled like vultures. He looked to Arden, then Rivers. “Get us patched up. Full readiness, whatever it takes. Then we find out who hit us, how the others held up—and why the hell they let us live.”

The Io drifted in silence, the tension on the bridge palpable. For now, the crew could only wonder what game they were caught in.