The Strategic and Intelligence Studies Suite had earned its nickname for a reason. The Tank was buried deep within the Odyssey, away from the grand sweep of the bridge and the warmth of the ship’s public spaces. There were no windows, no decorative comforts, no attempt to make the room feel welcoming. Instead, it was all darkened bulkheads, illuminated display panels and layered holographic projections that turned slowly above the central planning table. Every corner of the suite was alive with information.

Starship movements. Sensor telemetry. Intelligence summaries. Tactical assessments. Squadron disposition reports. Known Kazon planets, including the recent Nistrim withdrawal routes. The projected position of the nu-Odyssey.

At the centre of it all, a large holographic representation of the Tenarus Cluster rotated in slow motion, its stars marked with coded symbols and threat indicators. The current Odyssey and the rest of the squadron were marked in blue. The nu-Odyssey glowed a sharp, warning red.

Lieutenant Commander Colbie Grant stood at the edge of the main table, arms folded across her chest as she studied the projection for what felt like the hundredth time. She had spent the last few hours trying to find a tactical pathway that did not end with the squadron taking devastating losses.

So far, the universe had been entirely unhelpful, and if they proceeded with any plan or strategy developed, they would all end up either in escape pods or dead. It was a gloomy outcome.

Across from her, Lieutenant Commander Grethan Wrenth had not sat down once. The Apergosian intelligence officer stood with a PADD in one hand, and one of the wall displays reflected faintly in his eyes. He had been silent for several minutes, which Grant had learned usually meant his mind was moving faster than the rest of the room.

That did not comfort her.

“Run it again,” Grant said.

Wrenth looked up. “Which scenario?”

“All of them.”

His expression did not change, but Grant knew him well enough by now to recognise the smallest flicker of dry judgement. “Come on, Colbie, that’s a waste of our time.”

“So is getting vaporised by a future version of our own ship,” Grant replied. “We must have missed something. We need to be certain.”

Wrenth inclined his head slightly, accepting the point, and tapped a command into the table. The holographic display reset, the nu-Odyssey reappearing near the centre of the projection. Around it, the squadron’s ships shifted into a loose containment formation.

The simulation began.

The Ithaca, Themis and Triton moved to flank. The Whirlwind took the forward position with the Destiny and Concordia covering. The Astra remained behind the main formation, tucked out of the direct line of fire. The current Odyssey held the centre; every projected shield curve and weapon arc fed into the tactical model.

For a few seconds, it almost looked feasible.

Then the nu-Odyssey opened fire.
Gold-and-amber torpedo tracks erupted from the red icon, cutting through the model with brutal precision. Shield projections collapsed across the squadron’s forward ships. The Whirlwind marker flickered and turned orange. The Astra lost propulsion. The Concordia was pushed out of formation by a simulated cascade failure across her port shields. The Ithaca spun out of control and smashed into the side of the Themis, causing both ships to explode.

Grant watched the results settle. Nothing was different. “No,” she said quietly.

Wrenth tapped another command, stopping the simulation before the casualty estimates could appear. “Let’s stop there.” He insisted.

Grant rubbed her thumb against the side of her index finger, resisting the urge to pace. She had never liked standing still when a problem refused to open. “Even damaged, she outmatches us.”

“By a considerable margin,” Wrenth replied. “We are dealing with an Odyssey-class starship modified with approximately twenty years of additional technological development, much of which appears to have been designed in response to Borg threat profiles.”

Grant looked at the red marker. “A ship refurbished to fight the Borg.”

“And survive them,” Wrenth added.

“That makes us the underqualified obstacle.”

“In tactical terms, yes.”

Grant shot him a look.

Wrenth continued, untroubled. “In diplomatic terms, Captain Reyas’ approach remains the most viable path.”

“That is what worries me,” Grant said. “Because if diplomacy fails, I would like our survival not to depend entirely on optimism and reinforced hull plating.”

Wrenth’s mouth moved by the smallest amount. It might have been amusement. With him, it was difficult to tell. “Optimism is not currently listed among our defensive capabilities.”

“Then add it as a weakness.”

Before Wrenth could answer, the doors to the suite opened.

Lieutenant Dannik entered first, his Vissian features drawn tight with concern. Beside him came Lieutenant Rythorn, the Odyssey’s Andorian chief tactical officer, whose antennae were angled forward with the sort of alertness that immediately made Grant’s attention sharpen. Neither man looked like he had come with good news.

Grant turned from the table. “Please tell me you’re here because you have found a miracle we can use.”

Dannik gave her an almost apologetic look. “Not quite.”

Rythorn stepped closer to the central display. “Dannik has intercepted a Kazon transmission from a nearby colony world.”

Wrenth’s gaze lifted fully now. “Which world?”

“Torvanar,” Dannik answered, moving to one of the side consoles and transferring his data into the suite’s systems. “Small population, limited industrial base, but historically loyal to the Kazon-Nistrim sect.”

Grant frowned. “I thought the Nistrim had withdrawn most of their ships from this region.”

“They have,” Rythorn said. His antennae twitched slightly, irritation or focus, perhaps both. “The message suggests not everyone is pleased by that decision.”

The holographic map shifted as Dannik fed the intercepted transmission into the display. A M-class world appeared in amber on the edge of the projected region, its local traffic patterns highlighted with thin orange lines. Several old relay buoys flickered nearby, their signatures unstable and poorly maintained.

“Source?” Wrenth asked.

Dannik worked quickly. “A Third Maje Rulet transmitted the message. It was addressed to his First Maje and Second Maje through a partially encrypted Kazon command channel. The encryption was poor.”

“That is generous,” Rythorn said.

Dannik allowed himself the faintest smile. “Very poor.”

Grant moved closer to the table. “What did he say?”

Dannik tapped the console, and the intercepted message began to scroll across one of the suspended displays. The computer translated the rough Kazon phrasing into Federation Standard, though it retained enough of the original structure to make the arrogance obvious.

“Rulet claims his scouts detected a disabled Federation vessel within striking range,” Dannik said. “He believes it is damaged, isolated and valuable. He intends to capture it before other sects become aware of its presence.”

Grant’s eyes moved immediately to the red marker at the centre of the map.

The nu-Odyssey.

“Of course he does,” she muttered more to herself than to the others.

Wrenth’s expression hardened with interest. “It sounds like a Kazon third maje attempting to improve his standing.”

“More than that,” Rythorn said. He entered a command, and the projection expanded to show a series of faint movement trails converging from several nearby systems. “Long-range sensors have picked up a Kazon flotilla moving at maximum warp. Their formation is dispersed, likely to reduce their sensor profile, but the projected course is clear.”

The amber trails bent across the map, all of them narrowing toward the nu-Odyssey.

Grant felt her shoulders tense. “How many ships?”

“Seventeen,” Rythorn replied. “Four Predator-class warships. The rest appear to be raiders of varying configurations.”

Dannik glanced up from his console. “They are not broadcasting standard identification markers. They are running quietly, or as quietly as Kazon vessels can manage.”

“They know she is wounded,” Wrenth said.

Grant looked at him. “And they think they can take her.”

Wrenth gave a single nod. “I bet all the gold pressed latnium in any universe that this Third Maje Rulet likely believes that capturing an advanced Federation vessel would strengthen his position with the remaining Nistrim leadership. If he can deliver such a prize to his First Maje and Second Maje, they may convince the Nistrim to reverse the withdrawal and reassert control in this region.”

Rythorn’s antennae angled outward slightly. “He is ambitious.”

“He is Kazon,” Wrenth replied. “The two frequently overlap.”

Grant stared at the display, watching the projected arrival time tick downward. “The nu-Odyssey is damaged, but she is still an Odyssey-class heavy explorer. A heavily modified one, at that. Seventeen Kazon ships may not be enough.”

“They may not need to destroy her,” Rythorn said. “If they can overwhelm compromised shields, board through damaged sections and seize engineering, the situation changes.”

Grant looked at him sharply.

Rythorn did not soften the assessment. “The Kazon are crude, but they are not incapable. A disabled starship with advanced weapons and future technology would be too great a prize for them to ignore.”

Wrenth folded his hands behind his back. “And if they capture even a fraction of that technology, the balance of power in this region would destabilise overnight.”

Grant’s mind moved through the consequences quickly. Kazon raiders with access to future Federation weapons. Transphasic warheads. Defensive systems designed against the Borg and propulsion technology that was potentially decades ahead of anything the Kazon had managed to steal before. It was an ugly thought, very ugly.

“And if the nu-Odyssey defends itself?” Dannik asked quietly.

Grant looked back at the red marker. “We already know what she can do,” she said.

No one challenged that. They had all seen the recording of the future Orion’s destruction. One volley. One decision. Nothing left.

Rythorn’s voice remained controlled. “If Captain McCallister-Reyas-Hart chooses to engage the flotilla with those weapons, the Kazon will be annihilated.”

Grant looked toward him. “You sound certain.”

“I am.”

There was no arrogance in it; it was just a tactical conclusion.

Wrenth stepped closer to the map. “Either outcome is unacceptable. The Kazon cannot be allowed to capture the nu-Odyssey, and the nu-Odyssey cannot be allowed to demonstrate overwhelming force against a local power. Not if Captain Reyas intends to convince its commander that this reality is not his battlefield.”

That was the problem, neatly carved open. Grant hated how good Wrenth was at that. She turned to Dannik. “Have Captain Reyas and Commodore McCallister been informed?”

“Not yet,” Dannik said. “They were still in a secured meeting, and Commander Tomaz is off-duty. I thought it best to confirm the transmission and projected course before interrupting.”

Grant shook her head once. “Interrupt them.”

Dannik did not argue. He was already reaching for his combadge.

Grant held up a hand before he tapped it. “No. Do it in person if you can reach them faster. Take Grethan with you.

They will want the intelligence context as well as the message.”

Wrenth inclined his head. “Understood.”

Dannik nodded. “Aye, Commander.”

Grant looked back at the display. The amber trails continued their slow crawl toward the red marker, each second tightening the situation.

“And Dannik,” she added.

The Vissian stopped.

“Make sure they understand we may have an opportunity here, not just a threat.”

Dannik’s brow furrowed slightly. “Opportunity?”

Grant looked at Rythorn before answering. “If we help protect the nu-Odyssey from the Kazon, or help prevent the Kazon from forcing a confrontation, it may help Captain Reyas’ diplomatic approach. Future Alfie needs proof that we are not his enemy. This might be the first chance we get to show him.”

Wrenth considered that, then gave a slight nod. “A calculated gesture of restraint and assistance.”

“Exactly,” Grant said. “Assuming we survive making it.”

Rythorn’s antennae flicked, his expression remaining stern. “That assumption requires work.”

Grant almost smiled. “That is why you are staying.”

Dannik and Wrenth left together, the doors sliding shut behind them. Their departure left the suite quieter, though not calmer. The Tank continued to hum around Grant, every display now seeming to pulse with new urgency.
Rythorn moved to the tactical interface opposite her and began pulling in the raw sensor data. “The Kazon flotilla is maintaining speed. At current velocity, they will reach weapons range of the nu-Odyssey before the full squadron can reposition.”

Grant joined him at the table. “Then we need to know everything about them before Reyas asks for options.”

“I have already begun cross-referencing their warp signatures against known Nistrim vessels,” Rythorn said. “The four Predator-class ships are older hulls, but heavily armed. Their raiders are inconsistent. Some may be little more than support craft.”

“And some may be packed with boarding parties,” Grant said.

“Likely.”

She adjusted the display, pulling the nu-Odyssey back into the centre and widening the tactical field around it. “Show me approach vectors that keep our ships between the Kazon and the nu-Odyssey without making us look like we’re defending her against the entire quadrant.”

Rythorn looked up at her.

Grant raised an eyebrow. “I know. Impossible brief.”

“Difficult,” Rythorn corrected. “Not impossible.”

“That is the spirit.”

He tapped a series of commands, and several blue formation markers appeared between the amber Kazon trails and the red Odyssey icon. Most of them turned orange almost immediately as the computer rejected them due to exposure, insufficient response time or projected losses.

Grant watched the failed options disappear one after another.

“Wonderful,” she said. “The computer is feeling optimistic.”

Rythorn’s antennae angled toward the display. “The computer is being honest.”

“Honesty is overrated in tactical modelling.”

“Only when the results are inconvenient.”

Grant allowed herself a breath that almost became a laugh, then focused again. “Try widening the formation. Not a defensive wall. More of a corridor. We give the Kazon a visible route to withdraw while making the route forward unattractive.”

Rythorn considered it for a second, then began adjusting the model. “A deterrence formation.”

“A polite one.”

“There is no such thing.”

“There is if Starfleet writes the report afterwards.”

This time, Rythorn almost looked amused. Almost.

The display shifted again. Blue markers spread into a wider arc, leaving open space behind the Kazon approach vector while narrowing the route toward the nu-Odyssey. It would not stop a determined flotilla, but it might force them to slow down, reassess, and hesitate. Hesitation might be enough. Or it might not.

Grant folded her arms as she studied the simulation. “We need to keep the nu-Odyssey from firing first.”

Rythorn looked at the red marker. “That may not be within our control.”

“No,” Grant said. “But if Captain Reyas is right, we need to make it harder for him to see everyone out here as an enemy.”

“And if she is wrong?”

Grant did not answer immediately.

The red icon continued to glow at the centre of the map, wounded and dangerous, while the amber Kazon contacts closed in like sparks heading toward dry timber.

“If the captain is wrong,” Grant said eventually, “then we need to buy the squadron enough time to survive being right.”

Rythorn gave a single, sharp nod and returned to the console.

Grant watched the projected battlefield shift again, every possible route looking worse than the last. The nu-Odyssey was still the larger problem; the Kazon had simply made it immediate.