Ionised plasma surged across the void like an ocean tempest threatening to drown all who sailed near. Deflector shields drew the plasma field’s energy like a lightning rod through space, violent flickering blinding those within as the mighty explorer’s hull plating groaned under the strain of yet another spatial distortion slamming into the port bulkheads.

Standing behind the helm, hands glued to the leather headrest behind Lieutenant Shaal’s smooth, hairless cranium as they watched another lightning strike on the main viewscreen, Century’s commander remained silent, unwavering. She didn’t so much as blink, even as her ship shuddered in protest beneath her feet. It wasn’t enough to be dangerous, but enough to remind the crew that this place did not care how advanced a starship was, even the strongest could succumb to the pressures of the Badlands plasma fields.

Keziah Nazir had always hated the Badlands.

Too many variables. Too many experiences. Too many memories.

Too many ghosts.

With dancing fingers and a piercing gaze directed at the forward viewer, the ageing helmsman let out a sigh at last. “Stabilisers holding at eighty-nine percent,” he turned and looked up at the Captain. “But plasma density is increasing. We won’t be able to hold our position for long.”

Stoic, silent. Keziah said nothing. Even in these early days as a crew, when relationships continued to be forged between crewmates who had come together from a variety of postings, she had to put her trust in the people around her and their ability to navigate the dangers of the galaxy. That wasn’t easy in an area such as the Badlands. The Badlands were many things: volatile, chaotic, unforgiving. And they had become increasingly so in recent months, as if something in the fabric of subspace itself had been stimulating the particle streams. Something that had drawn the gaze of Starfleet Science.

It wasn’t easy when one had lost talented friends and colleagues, like she had in recent months. While she was certain that Lieutenant Shaal was a more than capable officer, he had yet to earn her trust and respect in the same way someone like Henry had. Or Prida. He would, in time, as they all would, of that she was sure. For now, she would watch them all closely.

She was experienced enough to know that her own reputation meant that the crew would be watching her, also.

“Captain…”

A voice from the operations console drew the Trill’s gaze from the main viewer.

“I’m picking up a signal. Very low frequency, possibly a subspace echo of some kind, but it’s definitely out there,” Lieutenant Commander Peri Anya, the Bajoran at Ops, informed the crew, bringing the ship’s executive officer to his feet.

Skipping down the few steps to the forward stations, the grey, mottled-skinned Cardassian came to a stop beside the diminutive Captain and placed a hand on the back of the Ops chief’s chair.

“Source Commander?” Commander Prenar questioned, gazing over her shoulder and at the LCARS display.

“Struggling to pinpoint its location,” Peri wrinkled her nose as she looked hopefully across at her red-clad companion at the CONN, but even he was struggling to locate the source of the reading.

Several feet away, a disgusting, pig-faced brute of a man was already hard at work, his fingers furiously tapping at the controls. “Adjusting targeting sensors,” he barked towards the officers at the front of the command center. “I’m detecting something at heading 245 mark 351,” the Nausicaan known as Denen Nes finally said.

Leaning over to the Ops station, Captain and XO alike watched as Peri focused in on the identified location, her sensors finally agreeing with the tactical chief. “My best guess is it’s some kind of distress beacon; badly degraded and there is still significant interference, but…” her head swivelled towards the senior leaders, “…I think it’s Federation.”

“How quickly could we get there?” The XO spun on his heels and glared at the helmsman hopefully.

“Navigating the storm could take time. About twenty minutes?” Shaal responded, glancing up at the Cardassian. “That’s the best estimate…” he added, knowing exactly what the XO would be requesting… and expecting.

Nazir nodded, tapping the headrest of Peri’s chair before heading up the steps to her command chair, XO in hot pursuit. Joining the diminutive Trill in their traditional domain, the Cardassian slipped into the comfort of his chair.

“Might it be time to put sickbay on alert, Captain?” Commander Prenar asked, keen to ensure the Captain knew he was doing his best to ensure the ship’s preparedness, not to mention continuing with his efforts to prove himself as First Officer. Even though she was the new crewmember and he’d been aboard for a significant amount of time, he knew that any new commander had the right to appoint their own senior staff. He, like everyone else, had no desire to be replaced, hence the constant struggle to impress.

Nazir felt that same struggle. After everything that had happened, there were plenty in Starfleet who believed her actions at Eridanus should have seen her dishonourably discharged; many felt she’d already paid a high price and, luckily for her, those voices carried enough weight to see her career back on track. Starfleet was short on captains post-Frontier Day, and the command shortage had only worsened during the Blackout and subsequent Vaadwaur invasion, so her reinstatement was both practical and reasonable, even if it was politically risky.

A second chance was needed for both ship and Captain, and it was a chance she was grabbing with both hands.

“Do as you feel necessary, Commander,” she smiled at the man reassuringly, trying to impress upon him the same message she had with Noli, the same message that had, at one time, made them highly effective – they were a team, not a dictatorship. Short of making mission-critical decisions, she was happy for her staff to use their initiative and share their opinions. Whilst that wasn’t new to her, it seemed almost alien to some of her crew. XO included.

Over the next quarter of an hour, the turbulence grew to such a degree that, as Century crept deeper into the Badlands plasma storms, inertial dampeners failed to protect everyone from the effects of motion sickness. For those who escaped unscathed, the tension was palpable as they waited for further updates from their colleagues.

Eventually, Peri let out a sigh accompanied by furrowed brown brows of frustration. “It’s badly degraded, no doubt due to the effects of the plasma storm and… apparently, its age. The signal is several months old.”

“It’s a ship…”

Nazir planted her left foot and used it to rotate her chair to the left to make eye contact with the hulking brute at the tactical operations station. “Lieutenant?” she inquired, her complete attention focused on the Nausicaan.

“It’s a ship’s transponder signal,” the Nausicaan grunted between tapping at the controls. “Registry number NCC-75751. USS Orison.”

“Impossible,” Prenar remarked, rising from his feet to stride to tactical and confirm the tactical chief’s findings. “No ship could survive adrift in the Badlands for all this time,” the Cardassian told, frustratedly. Only when he saw the readings for himself did he stand bolt up right.

“I stand corrected,” the strange melting away at the realisation that it was he who was wrong, not Lieutenant Nes.

For Nazir, the name seemed all too familiar. Orison was the ship that had ferried her to Caelum Station all those months ago.

“That’s Roger Baxter’s ship. Reliant-class. She was supposed to be on a patrol route near the Tzenkethi Border,” the Trill seemed contemplative as she rubbed her chin and considered the new information she received.

“It seems they never made it,” Shaal posited from the CONN.

In that moment, it was as if a grenade had exploded beneath the mild-mannered commanding officer. Nazir sprang to her feet, standing in the command pit and directing orders in all directions, with no signs of rust or doubt. Like Nazir of old.

“I want an accurate reading on how long the Orison has been here,” the Trill commanded, her choice of words exact, leaving no misinterpretation of her orders.

“Close the distance and bring Orison under our control. I want as much data as we can get, and I want to ascertain if there are any survivors,” she slid into her command chair again, “we have the finest ship in the fleet. Let’s put it to good use.” Her final words did the intended job, signalling the end of her orders. At that second, the staff burst into life, carrying out the orders of their commander.

As the bridge bustled with activity, Keziah allowed her mind to wonder for a few moments. Orbison had supposed to be on the Tzenkethi border. What the hell was a frigate doing in the Badlands? A possible casualty of the Blackout, or the Vaadwaur themselves? Or were other forces at play?

Moving behind the helm station, Commander Prenar’s voice was quiet as he addressed the CONN officer. “Position?”

“Bearing two-three-zero mark four, range two million kilometres. It’s in the eye of a plasma eddy,” Lieutenant Shaal revealed, his cranium twisting to adjust his gaze as Century responded to his commands.

“We have visual,” Commander Peri added, throwing up the visual from within the plasma field.

Stepping g forward as the viewscreen activated, Nazir squinted until the outline of a starship emerged through the cascading funnels of phased energy. Twisted. Scorched. It was hard to believe anyone could be alive over there in that moment.

“I can’t believe she lasted this long,” Prenar shook his head, his gaze trained on the damaged vessel.

“It’s our job to find out how,” Nazir frowned, “and why she was here in the first place.”