“Clear,” Adelinde announced just loud enough for the team behind her on the stairs in the gloom of the station’s emergency lights.

The second level of the station’s atrium was merely a walkway around the central space that granted access to a few doors that branched off to various parts of the station. On the opposite side were the stairs that led up to what was charitably called the command deck and situated between both sets of stairs on what was referred to as ‘Fore’ on the station’s diagram was the sole turbolift, though it had more in common with a dumb-waiter than any turbolift on a starship or starbase.

Passing the first door, moving clockwise around the walkway, Adelinde paused long enough to try the door, rejected once more with that angry ‘blurp’ denying her access.

“Brek, open it,” Mitchell commanded, the rest of the team taking that as the cue they needed to form up, weapons ready for any surprises.

The Vulcan wordlessly let his weapon relax on its shoulder strap, stepped up and took only a few moments seeking purchase for his fingers on the edges of the seam before exerting himself. Silence eventually gave way to a slight hiss, both from Brek and the door’s systems resisting him, but eventually, the Vulcan won out as he pushed past the rated limits of the door – designed as such to allow someone to force it open in an emergency if need be with help or the right tools, or a single Vulcan actually struggling.

Normally unflappable, Brek stepped back, breathing deeply as Adelinde and Rosa both took hold of a door half and pulled it the rest of the way open now the door wasn’t able to fight them. Torchlights illuminated the darkened hallway, the closed doors and the single cleaning bot that was vacuuming along the wall, its programming interrupted by light and scurrying to get out of sight and out of mind as quickly as it could.

“Clear,” Rosa said.

“Run Stubby, run,” Amber joked at the sight of the cleaner bot, referring to Atlantis’ infamous tow-stubbing cleaner that didn’t seem to care if people saw it or not, unlike the rest of the unseen cleaning fleet.

“Amber,” Mitchell chided her for the joke with just her name. “What’s down here?” he asked, not waiting, or needing a response from the young woman.

“Crew quarters, storage, airlock two and an escape pod.” Brek had stepped up just enough to point down the hall at the various doors, the airlock at the far end with a red glowing light above the door.

“The rest of this floor?” Mitchell asked.

“Station computers through there,” Brek pointed to a door that was starboard on the station plan. “Life support and secondary power generation as well.” His lights turned to the port door. “Primary power and communications processing are through there.” Then the ‘aft’ door was crowned in torchlight. “Sickbay, shuttle bay and the array maintenance drones are through there.”

Both Mitchell and Adelinde stepped up to the railing to look down at the bottom floor, which was relatively sparse. A social space ringed with expansive windows, each with flower beds. A few tables dotted around but it was clear to a casual observer where the station’s lone occupant trafficked – the one table where the chairs weren’t tucked in perfectly, the beanbag that had been dumped by one of the windows. Otherwise lacking in anything mission critical.

“Station control is above us, as well as the transporter room,” Brek said as he finished his verbal tour.

A look from Mitchell, a nod from Adelinde and the team was once more on the move, circling the atrium before working their way up the curving stairway. They left the one door they passed closed this time. They stopped only briefly before the door to control, one side still closed but the left having been forced open at some point. It had only taken a mere moment for Adelinde to step, brace her back against the still closed door half and pushed against the door frame, widening the gap for the team through the non-functional barrier.

Multiple console screens were blinking in the dark, demanding attention from a user who wasn’t obviously present, their screen elements in a variety of red hues. Others were just holding a silent vigil in muted blues and greys, reporting the status of systems or tracking traffic volumes passing through the station’s arrays as it sat in the heart of a subspace spider web. The majority of consoles however were dark, either from not having been activated, or as lights scanned the room, weapons fire of some sort having claimed them.

“Lot of consoles for a station with only one user,” Mitchell said as the team proceeded into the control room.

“CR-718 operates normally with a crew of one, but was originally designed for a team of five, with a capacity for fifteen.” Brek’s statement wasn’t necessary, but at least put the size of the station and its spare but functional amenities into scope.

“Amber,” Rosa blurted out, her tone drawing everyone’s attention. Lights coalesced on one of the consoles, the chair in front of it and the slumped form draped over it. The reason for Lieutenant Matt Conway’s lack of communication over the last few hours was plain to see.

Silence reigned for a few minutes while Amber conducted an investigation, interrupted only by a few angry computer chirps as Brek peeled away to try accessing one of the still functioning computer terminals. A few isolated electronic protests turned into a quiet orchestra that faded into background noise as the other three simply stood there, waiting.

“Plasma weapon,” Amber finally announced. “One shot, set to kill. Right in the back at the C7 vertebrae.”

“Rules out Cardassians,” Rosa announced from where she’d perched herself on a nonfunctional console.

“Tzenkethi and Jem’Hadar as well,” Adelinde rattled off. “Breen are still a possibility, but not their regular forces.”

“Someone killed Conway, only a few hours ago, but last I heard there were no signs of another ship being in the area.” Mitchell turned to one of the windows looking outward, collecting his thoughts for a moment. “So, if there are no signs of another ship and our man here was only killed recently, it means our killer is still here.”

“That would be the logical supposition,” Brek said. “Especially as it would appear someone has raised the station’s shields and deactivated local communications.”

Adelinde was at Brek’s side in quick succession, the Vulcan stepping just to the side to share his console with her, pointing at relevant parts of the screen before him to draw her attention promptly to his findings. “That can’t be right,” Adelinde said at one of the pieces of data, taking a moment to double-check a reading, then looking up to everyone else. “According to this, the station’s shields are extended across the entire transceiver net and are roughly comparable to the shields on Deep Space 47.”

Rosa’s face adopted confusion, her mouth agape slightly and an eyebrow raised. Amber only looked up briefly before returning to her examination of Conway, holding the man’s head back carefully to check his neck. Mitchell adopted a mere raised eyebrow.

Brek broke the silence. “The orders, however, originated in the station computer core.”