“Station still isn’t responding to hails,” Sam said from Ops as she looked up at the bulk of CR-718 on the main viewscreen.

The station proper wasn’t that large unless one counted the outstretched arms of its vast and sensitive arrays and mix of supplementary solar collectors. It was a fat little spider sitting in the middle of a symmetric and glistening web, tinted vaguely red-orange by the lonely little star it orbited through the void. A web that, if it could move, could easily envelop Atlantis, if the ship wasn’t holding ten thousand kilometres away.

“And no life signs either,” Sam continued after a chirp from her console at the conclusion of another scan.

“No further luck with the station’s computers?” Tikva asked, ensconced in her seat at the centre of the bridge.

“Still won’t take commands, but it is giving me some more information now.” Sam brought up on the viewscreen as an overlay on the right-hand side a series of bullet points. Each was a collection of technical jargon varying in colour from white, to orange to an attention-grabbing red – colour codes for the severity of the error the station’s computers were exhibiting.

The most alarming, sitting at the top of the queue and in red, simply read ‘General System Alert – Unattended Critical Malfunction’. If Atlantis hadn’t been en route to CR-718 a few days ago, or accelerated to high warp a half hour ago when the distress call started, that alert message would have had someone on their way here at speeds reserved for critical threats and admiralty coffee orders.

Hyperbole much? Coffee orders are at most a warp eight sort of deal.

And critical threats to the Federation don’t warrant speeds that burn out engines.

Well, that’s not entirely true and we know it.

That wasn’t us making the decision though.

Wonder if anyone’s been able to get that AI to say boo since it went back to sleep?

Unattended Critical Malfunction could only mean one thing – Lieutenant Conway, the station’s sole occupant, wasn’t there to at least tell the station’s computer he was aware of the problem. And combined with the lack of life signs wasn’t a good indicator for the lieutenant’s health.

“Warp trails? Weapon signatures?” Kendris asked as she stood from beside Tikva, stepping forward enough to turn and face Kurtwell at Tactical.

Standing right where Mac would so he could swivel to see the whole bridge.

Standing right where you taught Mac to stand so he could do that. At least she’s not standing right in our spot.

Mac won’t need to on his fancy new ship with his fancy swivel chair.

I want a swivel chair.

No! You’d just spend hours going around in circles.

Would not.

Would to.

“Nothing in the system,” Kurtwell answered. “And the nearest ship to us right now is the super-freighter Blue Bajor, doing warp six, five lightyears out and on course to Bajor.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but is there any record of the Breen or Tzenkethi using cloaking devices?” Kendris hadn’t posed the question to anyone in particular but to the entire bridge.

“No ma’am.” Kurtwell’s response was quick and seemingly enough to satisfy Kendris’ inquiry.

“Could be something as simple as an unfortunate accident while he was attending to one of the many malfunctions the station seems to be having,” Tikva spoke up, though the look between her and Kendris told both of them that neither was buying that line. At least not until someone beamed over and told them it was an accident.

“Guess you were right then to insist on the hazard team,” she continued, to which Kendris offered a simple and respectful nod in response. With a realisation she needed to get things moving along, she tapped on the controls by her right hand. “Bridge to transporter room one. You’re good to go.”

“Afternoon ma’am.” Lieutenant Gavin Mitchell’s greeting was just as Adelinde expected from him – professional but warm. He was after all Ch’tkk’va’s deputy in Atlantis’ distinct Security department and aside from a few junior members, the whole team tended towards a warm, welcoming presentation. “Lieutenant Ch’tkk’va informed me you were placing yourself under my command?”

“Your team Lieutenant, I’m just subbing in for Fightmaster. No different than the training exercises we did last week.”

Mitchell nodded in understanding, then turned to Amber Leckie, who handed him a spare phaser rifle, which he then helpfully passed along to her. “Silver Three it is then.”

She, like the others assembled, had donned the standard hazard team away gear – a vest with extra padding and advanced fibres designed to absorb and distribute physical and energy attacks, shoulder-mounted lights and a set of glasses chosen to help in low-light conditions. Ch’tkk’va’s hardware choices had been informed by decisions of other hazard teams across the fleet as well as their own experiences into a somewhat unique blend. The chemical scratch pads on the arms, visible only under the shoulder lights and through the glasses, were one such addition.

“Three,” she replied as she checked the phaser in two quick motions to confirm the charge indicator and power setting. “One, Two, Four and Five,” she rattled off as she looked at Mitchell, Mackeson, Brek and Leckie in quick succession. A series of head nods as she got them was all she needed.

“I count five,” Mitchell uttered.

“Five come home,” they all replied in unison. She hadn’t needed to even think about it, it just happened, the ritual something this team did even before practising in the holodeck.

“Bridge to transporter room one,” Tikva’s voice came to them as if from all directions. “You’re good to go.”

The time between that statement, their collecting on the transporter pad and rematerialising aboard CR-718 was only a handful of seconds, Mitchell’s “Energise” having been said just as Amber Leckie was stepping onto her one of the pads, the team turned so someone was watching in all directions and weapons at the ready.

“Mitchell to Atlantis, we’re aboard. Proceeding to control.”

The space they’d beamed into was central to the small station and when more populated likely served as a multi-purpose social space. Right now it was simply an atrium that spanned three floors at the heart of the circle space. A quick scan around showed the lone turbolift here, a few corridors leading away and a staircase that led to the next level along the outer wall.

“Roger that, keep us –“ The comm line didn’t sputter or fade, it just stopped, as if closed by Atlantis mid-sentence from Samantha Michaels.

“That’s not good,” Amber said, sweeping her particular arch with her lights and phaser. “Clear.” This brought on an echo from all of them.

A tap at his commbadge, a nod for others to try and it didn’t take long for all of them to confirm their commbadges weren’t working.

“Okay, so someone cut the comms?” Rosa asked.

“A possibility,” Brek replied. “Or something has happened to Atlantis, though that is highly unlikely. If comms are down it is likely Atlantis may beam us back.”

“If they can,” Mitchell grumbled in thought. “We’ll proceed to control.” There was no dissent from any of the away team. “Commander, take point. Brek on rearguard.”

With one more check of her phaser, Adelinde took the lead, crossing the small space to the turbolift door in a handful of powerful strides. Instead of a swishing of doors at her presence, they remained steadfastly closed. A wave of her hand, then a tap at the controls elicited only an angry little ‘blurp’ from the electronics.

“So, guess we’re taking the stairs then?” Amber asked.

“Roger that, keep us informed,” Sam said. It took her a few moments with no response from the away team before she looked at her console. Then started tapping away at it as she sought to verify what was displayed before her.

“Lieutenant?” Kendris asked, having read Sam’s concerned body language just as Tikva was picking up that phantom-aroma she associated with concern, worry and laced with an element of fear.

“Comms with the away team have been cut,” Sam answered straight away, still checking her readouts. “And it’s stopped transmitting its distress call.”

“The station just raised shields,” Kurtwell said from Tactical. “Uh, that’s not right,” he said straight away.

That got both Kendris and Tikva back out of their seats, turning to face him.

“Ma’ams, the station’s shields are a couple of orders of magnitude greater than they should be.”

“Explain,” Kendris ordered.

Tikva sighed, running numbers in her head quickly, then locked eyes on Kurtwell. “You’re telling me that a comms relay station is about as well shielded as…Deep Space 47?”