Captains Log. It’s been 41 hours since we evacuated the Amundsen in an effort to avoid destruction or capture at the hands of the Breen. The first few hours in this ghost town of a colony were tense as we geared up for an assault from the Breen. That assault, thankfully, never came. Planetary sensors are offline, along with most everything else here minus emergency power and some climate control, so we have no idea if the Breen captured the Amundsen and absconded with it or if they arrived, found nothing, then left. Even the shuttlecraft and runabout sensors are having issues. With each passing hour I doubt that there a possibility of them still lurking in orbit, but we’re cut off from the outside world. I can only hope that Starfleet search parties arrive quickly but in the mean time I have the crew focused on fortifying our position and getting restoring function to the colony’s systems. If we can at least get basic sensors online I can verify that there no enemy vessels nearby and send the runabout to retrive help. With the ion storm only 5 hours away from delivering a glancing blow to the planet, we have to do everything in our power to prevent any further damage. Once that crisis has passed we can focus on the question that is ever present in all our minds: what happened to the nearly 800 people who lived in Archi? The small area we have explored so far has yielded no information, no bodies and no signs of a fight. Something happened to the colony and this planet and I’ll be damned if I don’t find answers.

“Captain!”

Clara turned to face the doorway of the colony administrator’s office that she, Demar, and Conklin had been using to coordinate efforts. It was cramped but about the only place that offered a little privacy. The figure of Broheth approached quickly; he was a picture of a stereotypical engineering officer during a crisis: covered in some grease or dirt and wearing only his uniform undershirt. 

He paused in the doorway, catching his breath. “I think I finally have some good news. I think I’ll be able to get some of the main power systems back online in the next few days. I still can’t figure out who or what tossed a pile of tubes in the tornerth soup and gunked up everything however I was able to hotwire a fix with some of the less important power systems. I can get us some lights, better climate control, and maybe some local building sensors by the end of the day tomorrow.”

Clara did her best not to chuckle as a chill from the cold room ran through her; sometimes the translator didn’t get species-specific idioms quite right and always made her smile. She’d also be grateful for a little more heat in the building. “Thank you Mr. Broheth. Any chance of getting main power online anytime soon?”

The Bolian grimaced and sat down. He’d spent hours trying to find the root cause of the power failures but kept coming up empty. In theory, everything should be working but the fusion power cells refused to charge despite not having anything wrong with them. “No, not yet. I can’t pinpoint a reason either but we’re working on it.”

Clara sighed and leaned back in her chair. What Broheth, and most of the crew, did not know was that Conklin had found some non-Federation computer programming buried deep in the computer core this morning. There was an all-crew meeting scheduled for 19:00 tonight and she’d hoped Alex would find a few answers before then. “Very well. Keep at it and if I have any new updates I’ll pass them along at the senior staff meeting before our crew meeting tonight.”

The Bolin stood, nodding as he did so. “Aye, ma’am.” He paused in the doorway. “One last thing, right before the ion storm hits the planet, I’ll have to shut down all power systems for about an hour while it passes by. Can’t risk anything else happening.”

Clara nodded as another shiver passed through her. “I’ll be sure to find another blanket.”

[2 hours later]

Geden sat down in the chair with a sigh. He’d spent the last 8 hours trying to access other parts of the central colony complex but had little to no luck; doors that had no power or were locked blocked him every inch of the way. They had access to most of the main administration building and power plant, but little else. He rubbed his face; exasperation settling in. How did he always end up in these half-assed situations? All the psychologists that Starfleet had thrown at him had tried over and over again to convince him that ‘Being in Starfleet means facing challenging situations and you have to adapt to that.’ Perhaps he was just too jaded, or the PTSD from that first mission so many years ago on Vexer hadn’t faded as much as the doctors said it had, but it was hard not to see that as a line of bullshit. Ships named Enterprise, Voyager, Excelsior, and Defiant were supposed to encounter crazy things while everyone else spent years studying gaseous anomalies and making first contact with alien species that had barely mastered warp drive. That was what he wanted: mundane, happy, content. Anxiety had started to curl in the pit of his stomach, like a viper ready to strike, over the last day and it was getting harder and harder to keep it at bay.

The sound of the door opening distracted him from the darker thoughts that had begun to worm their way inside the Trill’s head as Captain Myers walked in, Commander Conklin right on her heels. The expression on both their faces made it clear that good news wasn’t coming.

Geden watched as Conklin sat down opposite of him, PADD in hand. 

“It seems we have a bigger issue than previously thought.” The blonde man tapped a few buttons on the PADD. “I think I’ve uncovered the origin of the non-native computer code that I found in the core.”

Geden glanced at the Captain, assessing the near grimace on her face. “Not good I take it?”

Clara shook her head. “Nope, not at all. It explains why the Breen were on their way back here though.”

Conklin gave the Trill a small smile as he handed the PADD over. “It could be worse; at least it’s not Borg code.”

Demar took the PADD, saying nothing in response to Conklin’s effort to lighten the mood. Tapping the down arrow on the PADD, he skimmed through sentence after sentence, the anxiety coiling tighter and tighter in his stomach. He spent a decade as a science officer; it wasn’t hard to see where this was going. He got to the bottom of the PADD, reading the final sentence of the report, the viper of anxiety that had coiled so tightly in him finally striking. 

He looked over at Myers, eyes wide. “What the hell do we do now?”