The crew of the Gilroy waited an hour before daring to jump to warp again, fearful that they would be picked up by another patrol. It was a miserable time. With systems largely powered down—leaving them with limited sensors or comms—they felt collectively paralyzed as the ship drifted slowly through the system.

The lack of small talk—even from Jules, their ever-gossiping communications officer—told Commander Mall that anxiety levels were high. People were stressed. Which left him nervous. The only bright side, in his eyes, was that the crew had finally stopped complaining about the cold sweeping over the decks. Having nearly been caught by whatever this Hierarchy was had at least convinced everyone that the power restrictions, including to life support, were worth it.

The mood only marginally improved when, engines reignited, the Gilroy launched forward at Warp 3. The slower pace—designed to further keep them from showing up on scanners—meant they had a longer journey ahead of them. It felt like days—though it was only hours—before the helmswoman called out.

“Arriving at the Tiro‘s last known coordinates,” she said matter-of-factly. The bridge seemed to let out a collective breath.

Though his instinct was to start barking orders, Tehm caught himself and, taking in a deep breath, he turned to the Captain and offered a nod of the head. He replied with his traditional wide grin.

“Bridge to Lieutenant E’Spor,” said Captain Sands, activating the communications device from his chair. “Please move to phase one of power restoration—and can we include environmental systems too.”

E’Spor, their Chief Engineer, acknowledged the message, and just moments later, an inviting hum began to fill the bridge as screens came to life. Finally free to get to work, the bridge swelled with an energy that even Mall noticed had been missing for some time.

No one rushed to be the first to report in. As Mall walked around, stretching his practiced chest and arm muscles to relax in the quickly rising heat, he examined each officer and their station. Everyone seemed focused, diligently reading data or entering commands. He stopped, only briefly, feet away from Lieutenant Jules who, comically zeroed in on a splatter of graphs of waves and frequencies, had his tongue out in full concentration. Cracking the quickest smile before catching himself, he completed his rounds and returned to the side of his Captain.

The two men sat there, waiting for the crew to do its thing. More than once Mall felt like it was taking too long, but each time, just seconds before he spoke up, Captain Jericho placed a quick hand on his shoulder to silence him, a reassuring look in his eye.

“The EPS relay on deck 3 is overheating,” said a crewman, fast but calmly. “I’ve alerted E’Spor,” she followed up, already anticipating Mall’s order. Her report, it seemed, broke the dam.

“No physical signs of the Tiro,” announced the junior officer who had summoned Mall back to the bridge hours earlier. “No wreckage or escape pods.”

“No comm buoys or Starfleet distress signals either,” added Jules, who was leaning so far forward onto his station Mall couldn’t tell if his nose was pressed against the screen or not.

“No detection of Hierarchy or other ships, either,” came the tactical officer.

“E’Spor reports they’ve redirected power from some systems through deck 2,” updated the first crewman.

“I’ve got something,” shouted the helmswoman, who spoke so quickly and in such a high pitch that it almost appeared she was shouting.

Mall felt her exhaustion, radiating out in waves that threatened to drown the Betazoid. He realized, now, that she had been piloting nonstop for the better part of the day. The rest of the bridge seemed surprised by her words, too, as the cacophony of sound present just seconds ago came to a halt.

After a pause, Captain Sands said, “Report, helm?”

She seemed to stumble over her words, exhaustion tipping to panic, and Mall stood up from his chair and approached her quickly. In a move he would later admit reminded him too much of Captain Sands, he reached and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Breathe, officer,” he said, deep but calm. “You’re running on fumes. You got us here. Take a moment and report in.”

She turned, a look of shock on her face, and studied him. Slowly, she turned back to her console and pulled something up.

“I… I have two residual warp trails. Both heading in the same direction. One… well, one matches what we would expect from the Tiro. It is degraded, significantly. But the computer is confirming a possible match.”

“Very good,” spoke the Captain. “Can you follow it?”

Mall tapped at the helmswoman’s screen, instinct taking over, as he ran through a series of local star charts. “There’s a nebula a few light-years in the same direction. Perhaps she’s hiding, like us?” asked Mall, more to himself. “We should set a course.”

“Let’s pause for just a few minutes,” said Captain Sands, the tiniest degree of firmness entering his voice. “I want five minutes of solid scans—give me everything you can with the power we’ve restored. We’re going dark again afterwards.”

Mall looked back at his Captain, confusion parting way to begrudging understanding. Holding in a sigh, he moved back to his seat, opened the data viewer on his chair’s console, and began to review the onslaught of information now rolling through the Gilroy‘s systems.

“Helm,” the Captain called out, his usual softness returning to his voice. “Run to the mess and grab a quick bite. And something caffeinated. If you don’t want me to rotate you out—I need you as fresh as can be. Understood?” He was smiling wide, cheeks pushing up to his eyes, and he held eye contact with the officer until she relented.

Mall could sense her rebellion—or was it apprehension?—bubbling under the surface. She wanted to stay. But, he thought, the Captain’s probably right.

She got up, leaving quickly, and Mall froze. His eyes blurred quickly, again dividing between versions of white, gray, and black ship designs as the helm was split between 3 scenes—a ship combat, a ship so pristine and modern it dwarfed the Gilroy, and his own, current, bridge. He didn’t dare look anywhere else.