Captain’s log, Stardate 2401.4. We’re a week out from the disaster of Frontier Day, but work doesn’t stop on the actual frontier. The Scarix Facility is a large mining operation beyond the border, into the old Neutral Zone, and its director has asked for Starfleet’s help. They think someone’s stealing the mining equipment deep in the asteroid belts.

This isn’t the biggest crisis, and it’s not what I hoped for on my first mission commanding the Tempest. But you never know. Could be trouble.

‘I’m still not getting anything,’ Lieutenant Danjuma reported apologetically from Science.

Shepherd scrubbed her face with her hands. ‘Are we sure that these aren’t just malfunctions?’ On the bridge’s viewscreen, a map of the system – officially designated HD 168746-Gamma – sprawled on the display. ‘Their automated systems go dark, they’re still there, someone’s complaining they’re being ripped off the asteroids?’

‘Director Dyke says his men found an asteroid stripped of equipment,’ Commander Song reminded them from Tactical.

‘He said they found a bare asteroid. In an asteroid field? Wow.’ Shepherd stood, hands on her hips. The Tempest was a light and fast ship, a scout, and despite her age, Shepherd had hoped she’d be used for exciting, rapid-response operations launched out of Gateway Station. Instead, this was the equivalent of community peacekeeping when someone reported something going through their bins at night. ‘There are a million things that could be going wrong. Most of them minor.’

‘The system has one of the densest asteroid and magnetic fields possible without significantly disrupting orbital patterns,’ said Danjuma. ‘I’m not confident our sensors are getting a clear read on the presence or absence of anything from here.’

Shepherd looked at the dot on the map that was the Tempest, nestled close to the Scarix Facility, a large station in orbit of an ice world at the system’s periphery. ‘We could get closer,’ she said, mischief entering her voice.

‘We should not get closer,’ Song said immediately. ‘Navigation of the field is restricted to small craft only, and the Caliban is -’

‘Having all the fun. Spoilsport.’ But before Shepherd could lambast her tactical officer further, the comms chirruped, and she rolled her eyes again. ‘Ugh, put Dyke through.’

It was indeed Selwyn Dyke, Director of the Scarix Facility and younger son of Amadeus Dyke, the company’s owner. With ruddy cheeks, sleepy eyes, and the bearing of an underachiever launched to mediocrity through nepotism, he had put in the request for help, insisted the problem was not his own people’s incompetence, and pestered her every hour on the hour. ‘Commander. What have you found?’

Shepherd kept her hands on her hips as she rounded on the viewscreen. ‘If I had something, Director, I’d tell you.’

‘I was going through our records.’ Selwyn spoke like she hadn’t. He was sat in his office, all professional opulence with gold finishes on his fixtures and desk. When he sat back, his comfortable-looking chair rocked back with him to show pictures behind the desk; holo-images of him at sporting events where it looked like he’d been more audience member than winning participant. ‘Sector D-5 has certainly reported less borite intake in the past week.’

‘Sector D-5 looks like all of its equipment is working fine.’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re done with the vein.’

‘Or the thief isn’t just stealing our equipment, they’re stealing our borite.’

‘It’s not your borite,’ she said, unable to stop herself. ‘Nobody owns this system, and certainly not a Federation-registered company in independent space. If someone’s tinkering with your equipment, we’re happy to take a look in case of foul play. But anyone can come running into this system and start mining.’

‘And if someone wants to claim the resources of Scarix system, we can enter these negotiations –’

‘It’s also not called the Scarix system; it’s not your system, you don’t get to name it!’

Selwyn Dyke stopped, lips quivering with indignation. He sat forward. ‘My equipment is going dark. My borite intake is falling. This is a dangerous frontier, Commander. Starfleet is here to keep us safe. I’d like answers.’

Shepherd bit her lip. ‘We’ll see what our reconnaissance flight finds. In the meantime, Director, I’ve got work to do. Tempest out.’ As the screen went blank, she covered her face with her hands and made a frustrated noise.

Behind her, Danjuma looked at Song. ‘Is it time to get the sign back out?’ she asked her husband.

‘It couldn’t hurt,’ he said, deadpan as ever.

Shepherd knew what she’d see when she turned to him, but it didn’t make the PADD in his hands with its oversized writing any less annoying.

Remember, it read, Rosewood’s always right.

‘Did he have to make that the message?’ she protested, not for the first time.

‘I was not in a position to negotiate,’ said Song, putting the PADD down. ‘But Commander Rosewood’s sentiment holds. He believes the region will benefit from the commerce Dyke Logistics brings with their investment in this system.’

‘Yes, yes, and a company like Dyke being invested here means the Federation will want to throw us resources to look after this interest.’ Shepherd brushed off her hands. ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want to airlock Selwyn Dyke for being a weasel.’

‘That would not only be a breach of Federation law,’ said Song, ‘but Commander Rosewood’s instructions.’

‘I’m venting, Song.’ Shepherd sighed noisily. ‘I hope to God the Caliban either finds something to prove Selwyn wrong, or nothing at all.’

‘Steady as she goes.’ Adamant Rhade tried not to sound chiding as Lieutenant Harkon eased the Waverider-class craft Caliban, the Tempest’s integrated runabout, through the asteroid field deeper into the system than the Scarix Facility.

‘Oh, really, Commander? ‘Cos I was gonna smear us against an asteroid until you said that,’ came the young officer’s retort.

But Rhade had known Harkon a while now. She’d been the Hazard Team’s preferred pilot when he’d lead them on Endeavour, and this pattern of caution fighting derring-do was familiar between them. He gave a gentle scoff. ‘We’re not in any rush.’

‘I am,’ said Harkon. ‘As this is boring as shit.’

Across the cockpit, Commander Far smothered a giggle. ‘We’ve not seen any sign of anything being wrong with these mining platforms. This does seem a bit… beneath us.’

‘Don’t say that while Commander Shepherd’s around,’ Rhade warned. ‘You’ll only encourage her.’

‘Is that why they bumped you to Gateway? Commander?’ Again, Harkon put a soft emphasis on the rank, light as the gleam on his new third pip. ‘To make Commander Shepherd behave?’

‘I don’t think that’s a power anyone has,’ said Rhade.

‘It feels a bit entitled. Of Dyke Logistics, I mean,’ Far ventured uncertainly. ‘To rush over the Federation border, gobble up a resource-rich system nobody could get their hands on because of the Neutral Zone, and then… ask Starfleet to help you?’

‘They’re Federation citizens,’ Rhade sighed. ‘And Gateway Station is here to support everyone in the Midgard Sector, on any side of the border.’

‘Yeah, but some people over the border don’t have reliable fresh drinking water,’ said Harkon, ‘while these guys are mad their expensive mining tech is malfunctioning.’

It was more complicated than that. They knew it was more complicated than that. They couldn’t just waltz up to a world and dump supplies without disrupting the delicate balance of the region. Nowhere was as starving as Harkon was making out, either. But the exaggeration still drove home the point, keeping it bitter in Rhade’s mouth.

‘We help Dyke Logistics today on a minor matter, and they keep us informed of happenings beyond the border. A reciprocal relationship with one of the biggest pro-Federation factions beyond the border is good, Lieutenant.’ It was the party line, he knew it was correct, and it still tasted ashy.

A chirrup at Far’s console distracted, and the Xahean officer turned. ‘Huh. That’s – I’m picking up movement on sensors. Out near our next checkpoint. Heat signatures, engine signatures.’

‘Get us over there,’ Rhade said to Harkon at once, and gripped the armrests as the Caliban swerved. ‘Tell me what you have, Commander.’

There was a beat as she worked, a beat as the deck surged under them at Harkon’s delicate navigation, where even the slightest miscalculation would flatten them across an asteroid. They had been here for hours, manually checking each mining platform and finding little sign of the reported mishaps or foul play. But now, something sparked in his chest at the prospect of an answer. A challenge.

A feeling that was something he could latch onto, instead of the personal issues he’d rather not look at.

‘Three ships! I’m picking up energy signatures from one which seems Romulan in design, but it’s the smallest. The other two… I’m not sure.’ Far shook her head, and then her eyes widened. ‘That’s weapons fire.’

‘Pick up the pace,’ Rhade told Harkon, who had already accelerated.

The borite in the asteroids meant the depths of the field, the depths of most of the system, were obscured by sensors. Anyone could have come in from the far side of the sun to the Scarix Facility and slipped into the midst without being noticed. Rhade had wondered if there were thieves or prospectors, but a fight was something else.

Minutes later, the view on sensors and through the cockpit gave answers: two Kaplan F17s facing off against a much smaller, one-person craft of Romulan design. Scoring along the Romulan ship’s hull told half a story.

‘I don’t think they’ve spotted us,’ Harkon said. ‘Our sensors will be better than theirs. We can -’

‘Hail them,’ said Rhade, and almost heard Harkon roll her eyes as Far nodded and hit the controls to open comms. ‘Unidentified ships, this is the Starfleet runabout Caliban. My name is Commander Rhade. Is there a problem here?’

A beat. Then, words spilling over the comms, voices running over each other.

‘No problem, Starfleet –’

‘We have the right to be here –’

‘Please, Commander! Help me!’

That last was from the Romulan ship. Rhade nodded to Far. ‘Raise shields. Charge weapons.’ He shifted his weight. ‘That’s a request for help from a ship you’ve fired upon, Kaplans. Might I have some introductions?’

This time, the Romulan ship answered first. ‘My name is Narien; I’m a monk from the Order of Ste’kor. I’m travelling with artifacts from Romulus; these pirates have waylaid me for my belongings!’

The response from one of the Kaplans came swiftly. ‘This man is a liar and a thief; these are our belongings, and he’s trying to make off with them.’

Rhade hit the mute button and glanced about the cockpit. ‘Far, scan those Kaplans. I want to know where they came from.’ He looked back to the front, tapping the comms again. ‘Tensions are high, but this doesn’t have to come to blows. I invite you all to return with me to my ship. Then we can mediate the dispute and make sure everything ends up in the right hands without any bloodshed.’

‘They won’t agree, Commander –’

Indeed, Narien was cut off by one of the Kaplans. ‘This isn’t your business, Starfleet.’

‘Commander, they’re from the Three Lost Crows; you cannot believe them!’

Far muted this time. ‘There’s definite build-up on their hulls and bussard collectors of particles that match the composition of the Synnef Nebula.’

‘Being in the Synnef Nebula doesn’t make you a pirate,’ Rhade pointed out. ‘Nor does being accused of it by someone they claim is a thief.’

‘Sure, but this is a lot of quacking for guys who say they ain’t ducks,’ said Harkon. ‘Three Lost Crows are bad news.’

Another bleep from Far’s controls. ‘And,’ she said, eyebrows raised after reading, ‘I’m detecting borite in their cargo bays and signs of equipment that matches the composition of the mining platforms.’

Harkon blew out her cheeks. ‘They couldn’t have just taken the borite. They had to rob Dyke Logistics, too.’

‘Allegedly,’ said Rhade mildly and looked back to the viewscreen. He reopened the call. ‘Kaplans, you are under suspicion of piracy, both against Mister Narien and of stealing the property of Dyke Logistics. I want to invite you to clear this matter up by following me out of the asteroid belt and returning to my ship so we can make sure everyone’s treated fairly.’

A small alert went off, and Harkon quirked an eyebrow. ‘They’re targeting us.’

‘And if we refuse?’ came the Kaplan’s reply.

Harkon dropped her voice. ‘This is a twenty-year-old runabout, and there are two of them. I bet I fly better, but I don’t like this.’

Rhade found himself smiling as he replied on comms. ‘Right now, this is a small squabble or even misunderstanding. You attack me, and however this ends, you’ve brought the ire of Starfleet back into the Midgard Sector. You heard what happened at Teros. How would you like this meeting to proceed?’

There was a beat. Then the comms system went dead. Far let out a breath. ‘They’re breaking off.’

Harkon winced. ‘Do we pursue? They’ve got Dyke’s stuff.’

Rhade shook his head. ‘We’re in no position to engage. It seems that the director wasn’t completely wrong after all. But we should help this monk. And find out how he ended up on the wrong side of the Three Lost Crows.’