Deck 3 had seen better days. Entire sections of hallway were littered with removed panels, spare tools, and bits of engineering regret. Spools of cable snaked over burnt carpet, stretching endlessly in both directions. Darkness stretched out along uneven patches, too, as power had been disabled in an ad hoc fashion in a desperate attempt to stop the cascade of failures that had rocked her earlier in the day.

The group of six humans, dressed in brown leather uniforms foreign to the Gilroy, walked slowly along the corridor. Two were armed with rifles whose flashlight attachments shot narrow, powerful beams down the darkened hallway. The other four, all tucked in the middle between the two gunmen, walked unarmed and smiling.

“What a disgraceful sight,” said a woman with short black hair. Her voice was raspy, and she was in the center of the group. She was over six feet tall and the sleeves of her uniform were short, exposing well-developed forearms and a bulky device on her wrist. “They can’t keep their ships running? Trash.”

Another human, an equally tall man with a long beard, stopped the group as he knelt down to examine one of the open panels. He pulled a device from a satchel at his side and a bright blue light began to shine. He took a moment to inspect the wires and circuits exposed by the removed covering, even venturing to touch one or two components.

“It looks like they’ve burned out their power relays,” he said. “They must have been working on it before we caught up with them. This work looks like it’s been happening for the better part of a day.”

“Do you recognize the tech?” asked the woman in a bored voice.

“Yes and no,” replied the man. “I can tell what it is – but it looks different than our own. Different aesthetic. Different architecture. Some alien designs, too,” he said. “It would be great to study. So try not to blow up the whole ship.”

He yelped as the woman punched the back of his head. “Don’t ever presume to tell me what to do.” From the way both reacted, this seemed to be a frequent enough interaction between the two.

Slowly the group of intruders started to walk again. After several feet, the slamming of a panel caught their attention. They rushed around a bend in the hall, the two gunmen with their weapons up and ready, but saw no one. A moment later, a section of paneling fell from the ceiling, landing with a loud clang that echoed through the hallway.

“Go check it out,” ordered the woman, tapping the shoulder of another uniformed man who quickly ran forward.

The armed humans took point, one forward and one back, as the middle three watched as the other officer – the youngest appearing of the six – positioned himself beneath the exposed ceiling catwalk. He bent his knees and, in one quick motion, launched himself up over 10 feet and braced himself, arms on either side, into the exposed hole. His feet dangled as he easily propped himself up by his elbows.

“Nothing,” said the voice of the man, without even an ounce of strain in his voice. He turned his head from side to side, continuing to survey the narrow catwalk.

A few seconds ticked by, and the man who had inspected the power systems earlier bent down and placed his ear against the wall. He closed his eyes, pushing his face hard against the cover. “I hear something,” he said, a hint of confusion in his words.

“What? Someone hiding behind the panel?” asked the leading woman, smirking as she rolled her eyes.

“No,” he answered, more serious. “It’s ticking.”

A full second passed before she turned to fully look down at the other man. She opened her mouth to yell at him when a blinding light, followed right by a concussive boom, filled the area. Dust and air cannoned out in both directions as bits of debris, smoking and on fire, rained down on the carpeted floor. The youngest man, who until now was still holding himself up in the catwalk, dropped down in confusion and pain. He landed harshly, not expecting one of his legs to be wounded, and stumbled onto his knee. He looked around, trying to see through the smoke, when a sharp orange beam connected with his shoulder and stunned him.

Several more shots from Federation hand phasers came streaming down the corridor, blindly filling the smoky space as they hoped to connect with any target still standing.

Lieutenant E’Spor, the Vulcan Chief of Engineering, held a phaser rifle in his arms, his eyes carefully scanning from a dozen feet away as his rifle recharged.

It took nearly a minute for all the smoke to clear, and when it did, E’Spor counted four bodies, all bloodied and unconscious, lying around the panel where the explosive device he had planted had just gone off. “Building a bomb,” he had said to his repair team after the announcement of incoming boarders echoed around the ship, “is second nature to an engineer. It’s often as easy as wiring things in reverse.“

He motioned for one of his team, armed with a hand phaser, to move in closer with an established hand signal. She moved slowly, both hands on the weapon, as she pressed up against a wall. One step followed the other until she met the stunned human who had fallen from the ceiling. She bent down and placed two fingers on his neck, nodding as she felt a pulse. She repeated this two more times, shaking her head the third time to signal the man had died, and proceeded to the fourth body.

As she bent down, fingers ready to check the man, a body flung itself fast from around the bend. A brief scream was the only alert E’Spor and his team had before their fellow officer’s body rocketed backwards, flying the dozen or so feet back to where the Vulcan stood. He moved to catch her and, surprised by the weight of the impact, fell backwards. He looked over the officer’s shoulder, standing up quickly, and spotted the tall, leather-clad woman staring straight at him. She was burnt and bleeding but still standing, a wild smile across her face.

“So you’re not entirely boring, then,” she half said, half yelled. Behind her came the rear gunman, a shorter woman armed in the same brown leather as the others. She dodged to the side and, taking aim as fast as any expert, shot two blue disruptor bursts at E’Spor’s team. Two officers fell instantly.

“Covering fire,” ordered E’Spor, voice flat, as he rolled out from the unconscious body. The only other repair technician with him discharged his hand phaser, orange bursts flying past E’Spor as he pulled himself up and retreated a few feet. He turned, phaser rifle raised, and made to take aim. But somehow the leading woman had closed the distance in the seconds it took him to position himself and, with two hands, she gripped the phaser rifle and began to tug it away from him.

The two locked themselves in a tug of war, their hands latched onto the rifle, the woman still smiling wildly. E’Spor noticed she wasn’t sweating, and even with the damage from the earlier explosion, she was hardly breathing hard. “You are human?” asked E’Spor as casual as a Vulcan in combat could, as he increased the intensity of his grip on the weapon.

“What of it, Vulcan scum?” she asked before spitting a glob of blood on E’Spor’s outfit.

“Fascinating,” he said, scanning her quickly up and down with his eyes. “Then you must be an augment?” he asked. “Given how much stronger you are than what I’m used to?”

A chuckle escaped her as she tugged hard, nearly ripping the rifle from his grip. “The best humans always are, knife-ears.” She released her grip, causing E’Spor to stumble backwards. He fist flung out and snapped into his jaw, a white, searing pain shaking the man.

He panted as he bent his waist, leaning into his stumble, and swung out his leg in a fierce kick to the woman’s ribcage. It was now her turn to stumble backwards, the Vulcan’s blow well placed, and the rifle fell between the two of them. They each took  a second to recover, before they both dove for the rifle. The augmented human was faster.

“Vulcans think they’re better than humans. Always have. You might be a few times stronger than the average, mundane human. But when our potential is unleashed, you’re nothing but ants.” She smirked and pulled the trigger.

Rather than a phaser blast erupting on E’Spor, the device sparked with energy, beeped twice, and discharged in a concentrated overload. The rifle, having been set to kill, sent enough energy through the woman that E’Spor could only watch as she glowed a bright orange before being reduced to ash.

“What did you do?” yelled the gunner, who now had E’Spor’s repair tech in a headlock.

“I rewired the rifle during our back and forth,” said E’Spor. “Obviously.”