The flat, curved shape of the USS Brawley hovered in geosynchronous lock above the wounded hulk of her sister ship. The scarred Morro Bay looked like a bruised moon as she perched among the stars.

Commander Marlon Smythe stood at the center of the bridge. His tall, dark frame stood poised as if frozen in ceremonial stasis. His light brown eyes swept across his crew as he looked across the room.

“Ensign Ruiz,” he said in a low, formal baritone. “Assume low-high tow configuration. Bring us beneath the Morro Bay. Standard alignment protocols.”

Ruiz was already mid-motion at helm. Adroit fingers flew across the console with the deft speed. “Aye, sir,” she grunted intently.

The Brawley pivoted in space. Its graceful hull rotated on thruster yaw, nose dipping slightly as Ruiz initiated a banking dive that rolled the ship to starboard. Inertial dampeners adjusted in real time. The artificial gravity carried a whisper of the maneuver’s aggression. Ruiz led the California-class through an artful, calculated swoop. The tan woman gave a small grunt as her arms tensed over the helm console.

The Brawley’s belly tipped toward the pale undercarriage of the Morro Bay. Lights from the damaged ship flickered as their distances shrank dangerously.

“Ensign,” came the smooth, toneless voice of Lieutenant Sar from the operations station. His black eyes didn’t blink. His subtle golden complexion reflected the readout screens. “You are precisely 3.24 microparsecs closer than the Starfleet towing protocol prescribes relative to inertial sync.”

Proximity alarms flashed red and beeped loudly at the front of the bridge.

Ruiz hissed a breath. “I know, I know.. Compensating.” Her fingers danced as she adjusted the Brawley’s lateral thrusters. Alarms quieted after a few seconds. “Slipped the roll a little early on the yaw arc.”

Sar offered no affirmation. “Duly noted. A repeat violation will require a review of navigational protocols.”

Commander Smythe clasped his arms behind his back and arched a brow. “Let’s try not to clip our tow job, Ruiz. This isn’t a wedding flyby.”

From her seat near the center of the bridge, Lieutenant Ikastrul Zaa rose slowly. The Betazoid counselor’s dark eyes were fixed on the main screen. The battered Morro Bay loomed, now with the Brawley easing underneath.

“There’s pain on that ship,” Zaa said softly. “The away team did what they could. I can feel the suffering even through the hull. Not just fear. Profound grief.”

Her voice had a low melodic cadence. She smoothed her hands along her uniform jacket, before adjusting the jeweled clasp holding up her wavy brown hair.

“I’ll be in Sickbay,” she said, stepping from her station. “They’ll need more than hyposprays.”

Smythe nodded without turning. “Understood, Counselor. Let Doctor Dowa know you’re en route.”

The bridge doors hissed shut behind her as Ruiz eased the Brawley into final towing position. This was a textbook alignment. The Brawley’s nose faced forward beneath the Morro Bay’s lower hull, facing where they’d be pulling.

“Lieutenant Sar,” Smythe said as he turned. “Engage tractor beam protocol. Lock onto their lower fore tow-point.”

“Acknowledged,” Sar replied, fingers already tracing over control surfaces with machine-like precision. “Activating lateral emitter arrays. Adjusting phase variance for optimal grip on the ventral anchor structure. Compensating for hull degradation in the Morro Bay’s engineering deck. Locking…”

A low tone sounded on his console. The Vulcan looked up after staring at a screen. “Tractor beam lock acquired.”

Smythe gave a tight nod. “Engage the beam.”

A wide white-blue arc bloomed into space from the rear of the plucky ship. It was luminous in the darkness of space. The radiant, rippling stream widened as it ascended and curled up around the Morro Bay’s round body. The tractor beam wasn’t just a line. It was a cocoon of energy that wrapped her carefully. It drew the vessel gently, but firmly into alignment with the Brawley’s path of forward motion. The Morro Bay was guided slightly starboard as the beam took hold and both ships straightened out.

The lighting on the bridge dimmed slightly as power redistributed.

“Tractor beam stable,” Sar confirmed. “Energy fluctuation well within containment thresholds. Structural integrity of the Morro Bay holding. Minimal stress levels detected.”

Commander Smythe stepped toward the helm, voice smooth as old stone. “Ruiz, set course for Starbase 514. Use route vector Echo-Nine.”

“Aye-aye, Commander.” Ruiz tapped her fingers across the navigational console. Overhead lights cast shadows across her auburn-tinted hair. Her brow furrowed slightly as she studied the stellar cartography feed, marking routes and anomaly zones. “Plotting now.. Routing past the Veilin Drift to avoid a massive debris field. Warp Seven recommended for towing.”

Ruiz’s red-brown eyes flicked left. “Course is clean. Plotted and ready.”

Lieutenant T’Naagi’s green fingers hovered above the Science interface. The Orion woman’s every word seemed measured by intellect rather than impulse as she glanced toward Marlon.

“Commander.. I am detecting residual signatures of Underspace instability approximately 4.7 light-years off our present heading,” she said. “Low threat at current distance. However, long-range sensors are registering several low-yield aperture remnants. They’re fading though, not active. These are likely the result of the recent strike on Vaadwaur infrastructure.”

“Confirmed,” Sar added, tone unchanged. “Cross-referencing reports from across the fleet. Joint operations have collapsed a series of anchor stations. Strategic Underspace access in this corridor is now reduced by 76.3 percent.”

Smythe exhaled through his nose as he stepped back from the center of the bridge. The T-shaped man straightened his uniform jacket with a sharp tug.

“Excellent work,” the Commander said as his voice boomed. “Lieutenant Sar, keep monitoring the Morro Bay’s stress levels. If we exceed tolerance at warp, I want to know before their bulkheads scream.”

Sar nodded once. “Understood, Commander.”

“Ruiz,” Smythe added as he glanced at her. “Let’s not take any scenic turns through subspace tornadoes.” His stoic expression warmed slightly, lips wrapping upwards.

Crismarlyn nodded and gave a half-smile. “Aye, sir. Keeping it smooth, not sexy.”

“Lieutenant Sar, take the bridge for a second. I’m going to contact Captain Raku from the Ready Room.”

“Yes, Commander. I shall assume command for as many seconds are required.” Sar met Commander Smythe’s gaze. Both men seemed to reflect each other as emodiments of military bearing. For a second, Marlon wondered if this was the Vulcan’s attempt at humor.

“Very good, Mister Sar”. Marlon chided himself for sounding like Captain Raku with the use of ‘Mister’.

With one final glance at the readouts, Smythe turned on his heel and walked toward the Ready Room. As the doors parted for him, the hum of the bridge softened in his wake. He listened to the quiet symphony of consoles and voices before the doors closed.

He crossed the room in a few long strides and stood behind the Captain’s desk. The display panel on the wall flared to life at his touch.

“Computer, open secured channel to Captain Raku aboard the Morro Bay. Report readiness for tow and current Underspace threat status.”

The system chirped.

While the channel connected, Smythe looked briefly out of the room’s circular viewport. The lights of nearby stars and planets twinkled outside, like marbles floating in a dark sea.

There was still a pit deep in his stomach. Things seems to be winding down, but it didn’t feel like it. His emotions were running high, anxiety barely held in check by measured breathing techniques. Was this really the end of the Vaadwaur? Of Underspace? He inhaled for four seconds, holding that breath for seven. He released the breath for eight refreshing seconds before drawing in the next long breath.

It seems like he managed to get through another adventure, just one of many throughout his career. He wondered if his father Marcus ever went through moments like this in his Starfleet time. Marlon’s thoughts turned to the Morro Bay. He was glad to have bridge time. A weak smile crept across his lips as he mentally pat himself on the back.

Not only had the Brawley repaired the IKS Votaragh after the initial assault. The little vessel now stood ready to carry out the crew’s first recovery assignment.