“Um, Lieutenant Michaels, ma’am, can I get your opinion on something?”

The question posed by the Andorian at Operations, Solan Th’chiral, had that undercurrent of ‘something is wrong’ to it. Hesitancy in asking the question in the first place, the unnecessary ‘ma’am’ in the middle, and the tone of voice. That they hadn’t even looked away from their console, eyes firmly locked on a readout, confirmed it for Sam as she looked up from the padd she was reading. Solan wasn’t risking looking away and having something change on them without catching it in action.

“Solan, call me ‘ma’am’ one more time, and I’m going to throw a padd at you,” Sam stated as she pushed herself to her feet from the captain’s chair. It wasn’t a serious threat, one that she’d repeated more than a few times with her juniors. Ensigns she’d allow it, but JGs weren’t that far separated from her own lofty rank that they couldn’t be on a first-name basis. It took only a handful of steps to cross to Ops, her normal duty station, to look over Solan’s shoulder at the readouts that were causing consternation. “What’s up?”

“I’m getting some weird tetryon readings off our starboard.” Solan twisted just enough to let Sam get closer and have a look at the sensor readings. “They showed up a minute ago, but I didn’t think much of them at first.” A hand flicked at controls, manipulating the sensor logs to replay the last minute. “But they’ve been parked consistently since they showed up.”

“Probably a sensor glitch, or some sort of emissions issue on one of the other ships out there,” Sam offered as she reached out, tapping at a screen and issuing demands to the ship’s computer. A happy little chirp later, and she was tapping a few more commands. “Okay, so not a sensor glitch,” she voiced as the computer reported the self-diagnostic, satisfied with its own answer.

“There haven’t been any new arrivals in three hours either,” Solan said, answering the other half of Sam’s assumption. “And not expecting any more until tomorrow.” They pulled up long-range sensors just to confirm which ships were still at warp, light-years away, and still making their way to Colludia.

“That we know about,” Sam muttered as her brow furrowed. “Draw a line from us to the tetryon emission, then keep going in a five-degree cone. Who’s out there we could talk to briefly?”

Fingers tapped at keys, a confirmatory beep, and Solan had their answer. “USS Kennedy, ma’am. Sam,” they hastily corrected themselves. “Why?”

“Send them a request for a tachyon pulse. One second, wide-band emission, aimed at us.” Sam held out a hand to stop Solan from typing. “Tell them it’s for sensor calibration.” Solan’s querying look prompted her to explain. “Give them a reason; otherwise, whoever’s been left with watch duty will waste time asking questions. This way they should hopefully just do what we’re asking and not think anything of it.”

“Should they think anything of it?”

“Don’t know,” Sam answered. “It’s why we’re asking for a tachyon pulse.” As Solan nodded, finally getting to type in their request, Sam tapped her comm badge. “Commander Velan to the bridge.”

“On my way, Lieutenant,” came a reply after a second.

The reply from Kennedy came back, a simple acknowledgement from one ops officer to another, followed by the screeds of new sensor readings on Solan’s displays. The vague tetryon emissions suddenly had a silhouette, backlit by the diffuse emission from one of Atlantis’ sisters in orbit.

“Great bird,” Solan muttered as the computer suddenly blurted out an approximation of the readings. “That’s-”

“Yellow alert,” Sam ordered, bypassing the thinking brains of those present on the bridge, invoking trained responses.

The officer at tactical, bored out of their mind, was immediately bringing up the shields while preparing the phaser arrays. Solan’s hands ordered the klaxon that started to ring out in every space throughout Atlantis. Over half the crew were planetside, but those aboard were right now racing to their duty stations.

“Cancel that!” shouted Lieutenant Commander Ra-tesh’mi Velan as he half-threw himself out of the turbolift. “Cancel yellow alert!” he ordered while trying to suck in a breath from running. “Cripes, Sam, you want to start a panic amongst the fleet?” he asked as he leaned against the tactical arch, patting the young man there on the back. “Good work, Jenson,” Ra said with a solid nod of his head before turning back to Sam. “We’re on leave.”

“There’s a cloaked Klingon ship off our starboard,” Sam stated. “And you don’t want me to panic?”

“Panic, yes. Start a panic, no.” Ra shook his head, having caught his breath finally, and descended down the ramp. “Call the senior officer left on the ship, notify them of what’s going on, let them make the call. Not jump straight to an alert and have everyone out there asking why we’re raising shields and charging weapons.”

“Regulations state that-”

Ra cut Sam off with a raised hand. “Okay, yes, regulations. And you were on the bridge; I wasn’t. If we’d been anywhere else, you’d be in the right.” He only tilted his head under Sam’s withering glare. “But…” He trailed off.

“But what, sir?” Sam asked.

“You did pass the test,” Ra answered with a smirk. “Hail the Romulans.”

“Klingons,” Sam corrected. Then she saw the look of concern on Ra’s face. “I said Klingons.”

“No,” Ra countered, dragging out the single word. “Romulans. It should be Romulans.”

“Klingon battlecruiser decloaking, starboard, two hundred kilometres,” Solan suddenly announced in agreement with Sam. Then a chirp from their console as the computer registered another contact. “Romulan warbird decloaking, port, two hundred kilometres.”

“See, Romulans,” Ra stated, passing off that all was well from this latest revelation, though the grin he gave to Sam told the truth. He did not expect the Klingons at all. “Hail the-”

“Incoming hail from the Klingons,” Solan interrupted. “HoD Hor’keth.”

“Put them through,” Ra ordered as he collected himself. A second later the viewscreen snapped from the star-field fore of Atlantis, the curve of Colludia to one side, and was replaced with the dark, oppressive environs of a Klingon bridge. “HoD Hor’keth, I’m Lieutenant Commander Velan. How can I help you, sir?”

“Where is Captain Kennedy?” Hor’keth half growled from his throne-like command chair. “I wish to speak with him.”

“Unfortunately, sir, he departed the ship yesterday on leave. He’s presently outside of communications.” Ra straightened his back, trying to find some extra height. “I’m sure I can-”

“Pah!” Hor’keth spat out. “Send me his location; I shall find him myself.”

“I have orders that he’s not to be disturbed.” Ra found the extra height in his back that he was looking for. “I will, however, send him a message asking if he’s entertaining guests and your request to me.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Hor’keth challenged. “I was demanding. His location, now.”

“And I was informing you, sir, he’s not to be disturbed.”

It looked like a staring contest was about to start when Hor’keth started to grin. It started at one corner of his mouth and slowly spread across his face, like the smile was waging a slow, grinding campaign against entrenched surliness. “You’re not afraid. Good.” The smile had finally won its fight, dominating not just Hor’keth’s face but his mood as well. “Tell Kennedy I want to meet. And tell him I have bloodwine for his hunt.” Then he leaned forward. “But be quick about it, boy, before I drink it all.”

And then the channel went dead as Hor’keth waved a hand in a sharp gesture, one of his crew acknowledging the order.

“Well, he’s a barrel of laughs,” Sam interjected. “Wait. Hor’keth? Wasn’t he the one that Gantzmann fought back during the Deneb crisis?”

“Beats me,” Velan answered as he rested a hand on Solan’s shoulder. “Hail the Romulans, would you?”

“Aye, sir.”

Compared to the Klingon bridge, the Romulan bridge was brilliantly lit. Not as well-lit as Atlantis’ was, but serviceable enough. Roomier, less brooding, clearly laid out. The bridge felt like someone in the Republic had been peeking at a Starfleet bridge designer’s homework.

“Lieutenant Commander Ra-tesh’mi Velan,” the woman in the middle of the bridge spoke with a faint purr. “You still owe me a dinner.” That statement earned a few turned heads with questioning looks from both bridge crews.

“Commander Kendris.” Ra’s response was decidedly warmer than he’d been with the Klingons. A broad smile, a more relaxed posture, and a slight dipping of his head in acknowledgement. “It would be my pleasure. Perhaps, ma’am, you’d be interested in a tour of Atlantis at your convenience?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Kendris answered. “I’m sure Lieutenant Michaels,” she acknowledged Sam with a slight nod, “can keep an eye on Atlantis for an evening by herself. You can beam aboard the Terix in two hours.” And then the comms channel cut off, Kendris’ way of ending the conversation without rebuttal or negotiation.

“Commander Kendris is back,” Sam remarked.

“If I don’t return from her ship,” Ra said, walking backwards towards the ramp and the turbolift beyond, making his exit from the bridge, “don’t send a rescue party. I’m exactly where I want to be.”