The bridge of the USS Brawley was full of action. Officers found themselves on a shift where several officers received time off. Captain Raku worked out a system of rotating several officers off of bridge duty during the next few days.

Mobra tapped his commbadge. “Raku to Engineering. Lieutenant Moon, how are the engines holding up?”

Her response was immediate. “Holding stable, Captain,” came the voice of Lieutenant Moon Ji-hee, She was as brisk and professional as ever. “It’s just that, at Warp 7? I’m seeing the beginnings of gravimetric shear along the containment edge. It’s nothing critical yet. It is worth keeping an eye on, though. I suggest checking with Ops. Lieutenant Sar might have a better reading on the tractor envelope.”

Raku gave a quiet nod to himself and turned his head toward the Ops station. “Mister Sar?”

The Vulcan officer raised one sloped brow as he bent over his console. Golden-hued fingers moved quickly across the interface in front of him. “Performing micro-calculations,” he said in his unshakable monotone. A few seconds passed. “Confirmed. Warp field interactions with the tractor beam are exhibiting efficiency decay at a magnitude of 0.16 percent per light-second. At our current velocity, this will result in measurable slippage of the Morro Bay’s relative position within one point seven hours.”

Raku’s dark brow raised anxiously. “Is that dangerous?”

“No,” Sar replied, “Inefficiency stil has the potential to become mission-impacting. Recommend reducing speed to Warp 6.7 to restore optimal phase harmonics.”

“Very well,” Raku said as he turned to the helm. “Ensign Ruiz. Bring us to Warp 6.7.”

Crismarlyn Ruiz nodded sharply from the flight console. Her chestnut hair bounced slightly as she input the adjustment. “Warp 6.7, aye-aye Captain. New velocity confirmed.”

As the change in speed rippled almost imperceptibly through the ship, Raku glanced toward the executive officer’s seat next to him. M’kath was temporarily acting as the Executive Officer. The Klingon stood in front of the seat silently, arms crossed and eyes forward. The dim bridge lighting caught the harsh angles of his ridged brow and the sandy brown sheen of his ponytail.

“I know Lieutenant Zaa’s not aboard right now,” Raku said as his voice softened slightly, “I just want to check in on everyone. It’s been a hard few weeks. We took hits. We lost people. I’d like each of you to tell me something. How are you holding up? How are your departments?”

M’kath turned his head slightly before straightening to his full height. His voice was low and heavy. “My staff are disciplined, Captain. Grief still makes itself known, even in silence. We lost friends. We shall recover. The Brawley’s security teams have been pushing themselves in the phaser range and the gym. Harder, longer.”

Mobra nodded and paused. “Very good, Commander M’kath.” He glanced towards Ensign Kim filling in at Tactical. “We have rest rotations in place. Some grumbled. That is good. It means they still want to do what brought them to Starfleet.”

“Thank you,” Raku said, voice low with shared weight. “And your own morale?”

“I’m holding up, but”… Ensign Kim glanced up from her console, then down again as if debating on whether to speak. Raku saw the hesitation and gave her a small nod. “Go ahead, Ensign.”

She exhaled quietly. “I know a few officers from Tactical who knew people that were lost aboard the Morro Bay. It’s been tense. We’ve doubled up on simulator drills and group sparring matches. It helps get us moving. Uh, gets the tension out. Lieutenant Commander M’kath has been a big help.”

“Discipline is integral,” M’kath murmured approvingly.

Kim nodded. “Honestly, I think it’s helping. The enlisted are tired, but they’re standing straighter. Morale’s not great. But it’s stable.”

Raku turned his attention toward Ops. “Lieutenant Sar?”

The Vulcan did not look up. “Operational efficiency across bridge-adjacent departments is at eighty-three percent. This represents a statistically significant decline from our pre-combat average of ninety-six point seven. The deviation correlates with heightened counselor referrals and elevated biometric stress markers in shared crew quarters.”

“Translation?” Raku asked dryly.

“The crew is functioning well under the extended strain,” said Sar as he finally turned towards the Captain. “I suggest no further combat engagements without the application of sufficient recovery time.”

“Agreed,” Raku said. “And how are you doing, Lieutenant?”

There was a pause. “I am a Vulcan.”

Raku gave him a look.

Sar hesitated before adding, “I have found meditation helpful. I am… processing.” That seemed to be as much as he would offer.

T’Naagi cleared her throat as she sat at Science, cleared her throat softly. “If I may, Captain?”

He nodded.

“My science teams were hit hard by the sensor bay depressurization. No fatalities luckily, but there were several serious injuries. One was temporary blindness due to radiation exposure. I’ve rotated those on shift and encouraged creative projects. We’re reconstructing part of the Underspace eddy in simulation. It gives them something to focus on.”

She tilted her head, olive-gold skin catching the ambient light. “Morale is like a bruised plant. It may be a little wilted, but she’s still reaching towards the light.”

“That’s poetic,” Raku said with a slight smile.

“It just came out,” she replied as a copper blush crept along her cheeks. “But thank you.”

Ruiz chimed in from Helm, not looking up from her readings. “Captain, if I may. I’m just glad the XO’s taking a break. I caught him in the flight lounge at 0600 hours yesterday running drills with the shuttle pilots. Again. Some poor kid looked ready to melt.”

There was a quiet ripple of subdued chuckles across the bridge.

Raku let the warmth of the exchange settle for a moment as he watched his crew. They were tired, but engaged. They were all still reaching for the stars as T’Naagi said.

“Thank you all,” Mobra said. “This crew has faced more than most in a short span. I’m proud of each of you and your teams.”

There was a quiet murmur of acknowledgment.

As silence returned, Ruiz adjusted their heading again with a soft tap of the controls. “Course holding steady. The Morro Bay’s wake signature is syncing with ours like a dream.”

Sar nodded from Ops. “Tractor field integrity is restored. Slipstream harmonics performing at optimal rates.”

Captain Raku leaned toward M’kath and muttered, “I think you scared the efficiency back into it.”

M’kath gave a dry, grunting snort that was probably some sort of laugh.

As the stars streaked past on the forward viewscreen, Raku walked to his chair and slunk into it. The hum of the warp core was a steady presence under his feet as he grounded himself.

=/\= Meanwhile on the Ttaren =/\=

The matte obsidian paneling of the lone Orion destroyer shimmered faintly under the light of a dying red giant. From the bridge viewport, the view was stark and unnerving. The three sped crawled past the edge of a desolate system. The USS Brawley led the procession, towing the battered USS Morro Bay behind. The Ttaren was smaller and deadlier. It took up an overwatch position in the rear of the group.

The Renzo-class destroyer was uniquely modified. Blades arced like fins along the nacelles, sculpted and ceremonially engraved. They were a declaration of its crew’s pride. Low light bathed the bridge in hues of soft violet and green. Light from the star barely reached them now as they quickly moved past and left it in their wake.

Captain T’Iruven stood near the command station. Her long green hair was pulled back into a series of elegant loops and braids. A bright white uniform shimmered with faint threads of silver. She studied the Federation ships ahead with narrowed eyes that were a shade between teal and jade.

“They move like wounded crelthas,” muttered Virellia at Ops rank equivalent to Lieutenant Commander. Her voice was rich with amusement and disapproval. Bangles clicked as she crossed her arms. Every finger was adorned with rings that sparkled in the dim bridge lighting. “You would think the humans could have found a nicer ship to work out in these parts of space.”

“They’re not interested in elegance,” replied T’Iruven without looking at her. “They’re interested in survival.”

“You can have both,” Virellia said with a smirk. “I know I do.”

Korran grunted, still studying data that streamed along an illuminated readout. “The Brawley performs well for its type. Those ships aren’t built for style. They’re built for utility and extended logistics.”

“Lira,” T’Iruven began as she watched the viewscreen, “how are the Morro Bay’s life support fields holding?”

“Stable,” the ensign replied, running her fingers across a sleek black console. “If we weren’t moving at a steady pace, I’d worry about field bleed through. A warp core explosion is serious.”

Korran added, “Her logs say she took multiple boarding attempts. I commend their crew. Orion ships would have a hard time sustaining that kind of assault.

“Discipline and redundancy,” murmured T’Iruven. “Say what you will about Starfleet. They are prepared to die for each another. That still means something.”

Virellia scoffed softly but didn’t argue. She spun in her chair. Long, delicate fingers played with her necklace as she studied the Captain. “Speaking of dying for something… I heard Clan Ilyrran pulled out of the Council’s resource pact again.”

Korran didn’t turn. “They always do. They think they can profit more through solo ventures.”

“It is absolutely embarrassing,” Virellia said as she waved a hand. “The rest of us invest in unity, trade, and cultural leverage. Yet they run off like classical pirates to strike out alone. It’s why no one takes their holdings in the Cascade Nebula seriously.”

“My cousin runs one of those holdings,” Korran said dryly. “They’re profitable.” His voice carried a hint of insult.

“They are an embarrassment,” Virellia replied without apology. “Your cousin should buy better diplomats.”

“Ilyrran pragmatism isn’t your style,” T’Iruven said as she stepped down toward her seat. “Don’t assume they don’t serve a purpose. Every stubborn clan reminds the council what happens when we choose to care only for ourselves.”

“I care for my family,” said Virellia as she settled back in her chair. “Our textile holdings near Kaleth Prime are flourishing. Not by accident, I might add.”

Lira perked up. “Are those the moon-silk production chains? The ones used in gala sashes?”

Virellia nodded proudly. “The very ones. My aunt T’Sarria pioneered the automatic looms two years ago. We now export across five sectors. Even to Ferenginar. Can you imagine Ferengi in our silk?”

Lira laughed. “They’d wear it with pride. Especially if they think they got a deal.”

Korran grunted in amusement. “My family runs mining ops on Skaar’s Reach. Nothing glamorous. It is still fairly essential to the region.”

“Mining is power,” T’Iruven said. “We can all play at politics. It means nothing without raw power and infrastructure.”

“That’s what I always tell my brother,” Virellia said. “He thinks our family should invest in dance academies.”

“Dance is culture,” Lira defended. “But mining keeps culture from starving.”

A long silence stretched, filled with the low hum of the ship.

“We’re far from home,” T’Iruven said after a moment. “The Typhon Expanse is not that far from Deep Space 11. We’re one of the first Orion warships to patrol this deep in a few years.”

Korran’s face remained unreadable. “There are reasons most of our clans stay closer to trade routes and known ports.”

“Fear of Federation gravity,” Virellia said as her jewelry tapped against her console. “Once you’re in too deep, you can’t spin free.”

“Or opportunity,” T’Iruven countered. “Deep Space 11 is the last real starbase before the edge. Ooh! They have holodecks… and that gravity sauna. I might try it this time.”

Virellia laughed outright. “I’m more interested in the culinary offerings. I simply must experience what their chefs are cooking.”

“I just want time in the holosuites,” Lira said. “There’s a Risa simulation. Open ocean, no buildings, just beach.”

T’Iruven gave a warm nod. “You’ve earned it.”

Another pulse of violet light washed over the bridge as a new passing star let their voyage. Stars streaked past around a central point in front of the group. The Morro Bay hung like a ghost in front of them.

After a few moments of thought, Lira spoke. “We’ll be farther from home than ever. I wonder what the Council really thinks about us being out here. Being this deep in Federation territory.”

“The Council trusts me,” T’Iruven said with finality. “They trust that having a dagger along the frontier is sometimes wiser than posturing at home.”

“We are the dagger,” Korran said, pleased at the thought.

“A very stylish dagger,” Virellia added as she studied her console.

The Ttaren sailed onward, deadly and proud. The three ships continued limping towards the safety of DS11.