The USS Astral Queen was the first vessel crewed by the Starfleet Auxiliary to pass into the Delta Quadrant. The Olympic-class starliner had been guarded every step of the way under the watchful eye of not one but two New Orleans-class frigates, armed to the teeth and ready to take a bite out of anything that might have threatened this fast but vulnerable passenger ship. The pair of them now stood guard as the Astral Queen reached her ultimate destination: the starship Arcturus. Though she had a passenger capacity of two thousand in very comfortable accommodations, she was dwarfed by the Odyssey-class explorer as she came alongside to dock. She was carrying just over three hundred passengers for this trip: a hundred or so for standard crew rotations, two-hundred Starfleet and civilian scientists, and a squadron of 20 senior cadets who would be spending all of the year 2400 aboard the Arcturus to finish their academy careers. The rest of the ship had been stuffed with technical supplies and consumables that couldn’t easily be made in the industrial replicators aboard the explorer.

As Commander Dorian Holland walked through the cofferdam connecting the two ships, he felt acutely aware that he was about to embark on something much more significant than he’d imagined, not just because of the physical size of his new ship but because of the way the Arcturus sparkled in the light of Eta Torrensis. On the other side of the Arcturus, the Vulcan ship T’Amandra loomed, taking the other main docking port for its own resupply and transfer operations.

“I have always wondered what would happen if you strapped a pair of warp nacelles to a starbase,” Holland quipped.

His partner let out the same melodious chuckle that always made Holland’s heart skip a beat. The other man’s eyes were filled with stars as he surveyed their new home through the transparent aluminum docking tube, and seeing him marvel made Holland fall in love with him all over again. Carrington was incapable of concealing his emotions, which Holland found incredibly endearing after studying his whole career how to put on a poker face.

“I don’t think that’s quite fair to the elegant curves and raw power we see before us,” Dr. Elijah Carrington noted. “She’s beautiful. This is going to be fun,” he added before reaching over to grab Holland’s hand.

“I think you’re right,” Holland agreed, as the two of them stepped through the airlock and onto the promenade deck of the Arcturus, which wrapped all the way around the ship’s widest deck with lounges, greenspace, and art installations all integrated into one long horseshoe, broken only by the ship’s main lounge, which was far beyond their sight at the docking port.

The commander and the doctor walked up to the deck officer’s station, occupied by a very tall lieutenant in a red uniform. He lit up as they approached, standing up from his stool and offering a handshake to each of them, even as the queue stretched back through the tube and all the way to the Astral Queen. From the threshold, the Arcturus was a temple of sparkling gold, Federation blue, and other refined finishes, looking no more ornate than any other Starfleet ship but rich enough in its color palette to make one think they were in the Palais de la Concorde, or at least that’s where the mind of the ship’s new diplomatic officer went.

“Permission to come aboard?” Holland asked.

“Granted, sir. Welcome aboard the Arcturus,” the lieutenant replied. “Lieutenant Commander Elijah Carrington, Senior Medical Officer. You’ll be reporting to Captain Anjar in sickbay on Deck 7,” he said, looking to Carrington. “Lieutenant Commander Dorian Holland, Chief Diplomatic Officer. The captain has requested that you report directly to him in his ready room.”

“You’re not going to ask for our transfer orders?” Holland replied, arching an eyebrow.

The lieutenant chuckled. “The ship’s internal sensors scanned you before you got halfway through the gangway, sir. If you weren’t supposed to be here, you wouldn’t have made it through the airlock,” he noted, grinning as he turned to the table next to his station. “All members of the crew are issued WRIST devices–Wearable Remote Interface and Scanning Tool–which is a fancy acronym for a holo PADD that can also perform class-1 scanning functions and communicate with every other WRIST on the ship. Once you put them on, the computer will automatically log you in through biometrics,” he explained before handing the two officers their new toys.

To Holland, the devices looked just like a simple exoprene bracelet, but once he clipped it around his wrist, it lit up with his name and the Starfleet delta; he’d heard of them before but hadn’t served on a vessel that employed them. It would sure cut down on the endless stacks of PADDs that tended to accumulate in his line of work. Holding his wrist parallel to his body brought up the display. Carrington beamed as he flicked through a few screens on his own device.

“Neat, right?” the lieutenant said. “They’ve been pre-loaded with your quarters assignment, which is on the starboard side of Deck 11, directly above us,” he added.

“You were able to get all of that information in the time it took us to walk across the docking tube?” Holland asked.

“I memorized the roster of incoming personnel,” the lieutenant said with a shrug. “I’m Lieutenant Nate Windsor, Officer of the Watch. Let me know if you need anything, but I’d hurry up to the ready room if I were you, though, as patience is not exactly one of the captain’s virtues.”

“Valuable information to have. Thank you, Lieutenant Nate Windsor,” Holland said, with his’ diplomatic smile,’ which was just one percent shy of flirting.

The lieutenant smiled back, and the two newcomers cleared the way to allow the next officer to check in. Carrington continued to look around in pleasant surprise at how nice the ship was. Holland never went into any situation blind, so he’d looked over the ship’s specs. Given Starfleet’s tendency to describe things in dry, technical language, he wasn’t expecting the ship’s promenade to be quite so impressive.

“There’s a whole mall aboard as well, with actual restaurants. Talk about luxe,” Carrington said as they walked towards a bank of turbolifts. “We have to explore later. Better not keep the captain waiting, though,” he noted.

Before they stepped into separate turbolift cars, Holland leaned over to kiss Carrington on the cheek.

“See you later, Romeo.”

When Dr. Carrington stepped through the doors to sickbay, he was unprepared for the sheer scale of the operation, even having gone over the briefing materials meticulously. Seeing a four-deck medical department in person was dramatically different than reading about it. He entered through a spacious and well-appointed ready room which nearly made him need to adjust his eyes at how bright and white the walls were, relegating the rich Federation blue and gold to the furniture and accent lines and clearly communicating that it was a clean, sterile space.

“Dr. Carrington?” an ensign in blue asked, standing up from the reception desk.

“A very lucky guess, Ensign…?”

“Lewis Gardner, sir. Nursing officer.”

The other man was about 10 centimeters shorter than Carrington was, with an athletic build and a square jaw. While Carrington wasn’t usually one to pick up on flirting until it was very obvious, even he was able to see that the nurse was rather nakedly checking him out as he extended a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Ensign Gardner,” Carrington replied politely. He accepted the handshake but kept it as short as was socially acceptable. “Did you also memorize the crew rotation list, like Lieutenant Windsor?”

Gardner chuckled. “No, sir. But you’re the only new doctor coming aboard, so it wasn’t that much of a leap. I can take you back to Dr. Anjar now,” he said, gesturing to one of the doors that led further into sickbay. “Windsor really memorized the list? It’s amazing how a man that hot can also be such a dork,” he added with a laugh.

Carrington followed Gardner, not entirely sure what his read on him was yet, but at least for the moment, the needle was pointing to ‘amused.’

“You know him?”

“Not very well. We both go to the Plowman’s Tap for shows, so we’ve chatted some. It’s a big ship, but everyone still pretty much knows everyone around here,” Gardner replied. “Oh, and I mean, the whole crew saw him get the Medal of Honor a few weeks ago, so, there’s that. He dragged two officers out of a burning room and then blew up a couple of Kazon carriers as a party trick,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

The new doctor hadn’t heard that story about the Arcturus’s adventures yet. How often were they going to end up tangling with the Kazon?

“That’s very impressive,” Carrington said. “To have a Medal of Honor recipient working as the deck officer… It must mean that everyone on this ship is above average at the least.”

Gardner looked him up and down again. “Yeah, I’d say that checks out, sir,” he said, with a wink, before they stopped at the open door to the Chief Medical Officer’s office.

The room had a large window on the corner, which gave the CMO a good view of anyone entering or leaving sickbay through the front entrance. When Carrington stepped inside, he saw a Bajoran captain leaning against the desk, facing two officers bearing the insignia of full commanders, a Human man, and an Orion woman. The Bajoran turned and smiled, but it was the Orion who spoke up first.

“I see the captain is still using the same mail order service. Another pretty Human. Really?” she said, looking from the man sitting next to her on the sofa to Gardner and then to Carrington himself.

“He claims it’s a coincidence,” the Bajoran quipped. “Welcome aboard, Dr. Carrington. I’m Alenis Anjar, Chief Medical Officer. These are my two assistant chiefs: Dr. Hertane Tenesh, who is only teasing, and Dr. Luca Sheppard.”

Carrington chuckled at the observation; he couldn’t entirely disagree with it based on only having met Lieutenant Windsor, Ensign Gardner, and the three people in the room before him.

“Happy to be here. And, no, I’m not related at all to that Carrington, to get the other elephant out of the room,” he said, giving them all a genial smile.

“I was going to ask, actually,” Dr. Sheppard said, matching his smile. “That’ll be all, Lewis,” he said, leaning over to look past Carrington to shoo away the curious nurse who seemed to be hoping to avoid further work by lingering at their meeting.

The ensign bit his bottom lip but dutifully retreated.

“He’s certainly… friendly,” Carrington noted once he heard the door to the reception area close.

“Oh, definitely. He’s mostly harmless, though. Very talented, as well,” Anjar said. “I hope the trip was uneventful?”

“Thankfully, we didn’t need any of the protection Starfleet sent with us. I heard that the Arcturus has gotten into some scrapes here, though.”

Dr. Anjar grimaced for a moment. “That’s putting it mildly. We’re reasonably sure that the rest of our mission in this region will be uneventful, but our support ship was heavily damaged in the last battle, and we lost two runabouts. There were seventeen casualties,” he explained.

Carrington nodded. “How is the crew coping?”

“I would say well, but the counseling department is keeping a close eye on everyone,” Anjar replied. “And don’t worry–you’re not replacing anyone.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Carrington admitted. “As I said, I’m happy to be here. The Princeton was a good assignment, but I can already tell that the Arcturus is something special.”

Anjar smiled. “No disagreements here. You were one of two doctors, right? Things are a little more complex here. When the ship is integrated, Dr. Tenesh generally oversees our specialists, and Dr. Sheppard oversees our generalists, such as yourself. When we’re separated, Tenesh handles things here, and Sheppard goes with the stardrive section. I go with whichever section the captain’s in.”

“Right,” Carrington said as he processed that. “Does that happen often?”

“More than you’d think,” Anjar replied. “I’ll let Sheppard show you around, as I have the great privilege of attending what is sure to be a very tedious reception with the captains of the Astral Queen and the T’Amandra in twenty minutes, so I need to go find a dress uniform. The party tonight should be a lot more fun, at least,” he said.

“Party?”

Anjar just grinned. “I’ll see you later. Welcome aboard, again,” he said before leaving the office with Tenesh.

Dr. Sheppard stood up as well and ushered Carrington back out into sickbay. “Most of the time, this is the only deck that sees a lot of use,” he explained as they walked into the starboard ward. “Both wards on this deck have six standard ICU biobeds and one advanced biobed which can be isolated.”

Carrington nodded, seeing that the space was basically identical to the whole sickbay of the Princeton. As they walked the other way, they passed a nursing station, situated in the center of the deck, across from three exam rooms and a small lab.

“There are always three nurses and three nursing assistants on duty. A nice feature of this ship is the private exam rooms, which the crew tend to prefer to being poked and prodded in the ward,” Sheppard explained before leading Carrington to a larger-than-usual turbolift which was big enough to hold a gurney quite easily. “This lift only goes within sickbay, and there are stairs on the other side.”

They went down one level to the long-term care wards, which featured a full-on mess hall just for medical personnel and patients. Carrington was surprised to see that his name had already been put on one of the five office doors, considering he didn’t have one at all as Assistant Chief Medical Officer on his other ship.

“My office is in the stardrive section, with the other four generalists. Specialists are on the next level, with suites for everything from ophthalmology to dentistry to physical therapy. We can do anything a starbase or a hospital ship can do, and we can probably do it better,” Sheppard said with a grin. “We have a full pharmacy and three surgical suites on that deck, along with another long-term ward. Below that is the morgue and two isolation wards.”

“‘Sickbay’ doesn’t seem to be a grand enough term for this facility,” Carrington noted.

Sheppard nodded. “If it weren’t tradition, yeah, I’d call it a hospital. We have ward space for 60 patients here, and the complex in the stardrive section is identical. Both facilities have a dedicated transporter room, their own redundant life support systems, and holographic systems to support up to ten instances of the EMH at once. In terms of starship assignments for medical officers, it’s hard to beat this ship,” he explained.

“So, with a hundred and twenty beds… around 300 staff members? That’s larger than the whole crew of the Princeton,” the newcomer marveled.

“With you, 303. 22 physicians, 120 nurses, 120 nursing assistants and corpsmen, and 40 lab and pharmacy techs. At any given time, there are about a hundred people either on call or on duty,” Sheppard replied, a tinge of pride creeping into his voice. “My first few weeks, I got lost every other day, it felt like. My husband and I were on the Opportunity for several years, and it had a nice facility, too, but the novelty of being in a hospital within a starship 70,000 light-years from Earth still hasn’t worn off for me.”

“Oh, who’s you’re husband?”

Sheppard grinned. “The captain.”

“That’s ironic because that’s who my husband is meeting at this very moment,” Carrington replied with a chuckle. “The old cliche of command and medical officers falling for one another, I suppose.”

“They usually need people like us to take care of them or talk them out of their bad ideas, so it’s a natural fit.”

Carrington laughed; that much was definitely true, though as a diplomat, Holland generally wasn’t rushing into danger the same way a starship captain might. He did have a way of concocting overly elaborate negotiation strategies that Carrington was usually able to talk him out of, though.

“So, what’s this about a party?”

Meanwhile, Holland had just been shown into the captain’s ready room. Lancaster was facing away from him, pulling at the cuffs of his white dress uniform, but turned to face him after a moment. Though still relatively young, Lancaster definitely fit the part of ‘Starfleet Captain.’ Handsome, but not distractingly so. Fit, but not bulky. Well-groomed, but not obviously made up or garishly attired. In Holland’s estimation, he was the sort of man who looked good on a viewscreen when making first contact.

“Lieutenant Commander Dorian Holland, reporting as ordered, sir,” Holland said, coming to attention briefly.

“At ease, Mr. Holland,” Lancaster replied, gesturing to one of the seats in front of his desk. “I’ve never needed a diplomatic officer before. Tell me why I shouldn’t send you right back to the Princeton,” he said, once Holland had sat down. “Speak freely.”

Holland’s jaw dropped. 15 seconds in, and he had to audition for his own job after crossing the vastness of space and spending two weeks at high warp to get there. He quickly pulled himself together, though, the wheels in his mind turning for a suitable answer. In a flash, he decided to not just fly close to the sun but straight into it, in an Icarian gamble that had a strong chance of getting himself hauled off the ship.

“We don’t ‘need’ these WRIST bands, sir, but they make our jobs easier,” he started, holding up his wrist for effect. “I studied your record before I accepted this assignment. You’ve been involved in seventeen first contacts, including two as captain, but you’re a scientist. Well-educated and knowledgeable, but not a diplomat. Neither is the Admiral, though fifteen of those first contacts were under her command. What you two have learned through trial-and-error and instinct, I spent six years studying at Starfleet Academy to earn a juris doctor in interstellar law. I have written six treaties, created over five-hundred briefing books, and organized more cocktail receptions, banquets, and welcome ceremonies than anyone on this ship, all without killing even one person via misunderstood dietary instructions,” he said, looking Lancaster straight in the eye.

“More importantly, I look at least as good as you do in a dress uniform, but I’m shorter than you are, so I won’t draw focus while telling you how to pronounce the Devore ambassador’s polysyllabic and polytonal surname. I also have the advantage of being married to a gorgeous doctor–a quality which I believe we share–who looks better than either of us dressed to the nines and who is more than willing to be used as a prop at receptions to stroke egos and mollify objections, and so I am, as they say, more than the sum of my parts, sir.”

Lancaster leaned back in his chair, shaking his head for a moment as a slight grin spread across his lips. “That’s not a very deferential answer, is it?”

Holland smirked, though his heart was pounding and his back was already sore from sitting so perfectly straight. “When dealing with a hostile party in a negotiation, I find that it’s generally most effective to match their tone rather than risk appearing weak,” he explained. “You didn’t look like you wanted a metaphorical blow job consisting of me telling you how much I wanted to serve under you, how much I hoped to learn from you, or how exciting it was to be on a ship of this size. But if that was not the right answer, the good thing is that I haven’t unpacked yet.”

The captain stared at him for a moment. “I was worried you were a lightweight, Commander, but I obviously was mistaken. I don’t need a fawning sycophant; I need an advisor. The first officer has a diplomatic background, but you have significantly more experience with first contact scenarios. That’s why I chose you,” he explained, which made Holland relax ever so slightly. “Based on our long-range sensor data, the area of the quadrant we are moving into is likely home to at least 30 or 40 inhabited M-class planets, and we expect at least a dozen may meet the requirements for first contact. A few will go to the cruisers accompanying us, but you’ll have your work cut out for you over the next year.”

“Promises, promises, sir,” Holland replied with a chuckle. “I’m looking forward to the opportunity.”

“Good. The administration section has assigned you a yeoman and office space on deck 10. As needed, you’ll be able to requisition personnel from the social sciences department. Whatever problems we run into out here, a lack of resources won’t be one,” Lancaster said, before standing up, which forced Holland to his feet as well. “I will spare you attending what is sure to be the most boring reception in the history of receptions with the command crews of the T’Amandra and the Astral Queen, but there will be a welcome reception for senior officers at 1900. My gorgeous doctor suggested it, so attendance is mandatory,” he said, with half of a smirk, though he conveyed absolute sincerity about the essential nature of the gathering.

“Of course, sir. I’d offer you small talk suggestions for the Vulcans, but I don’t think such suggestions would even be possible,” Holland replied.

“Dismissed. And welcome aboard, Commander.”

The reception with the Vulcans was made less dull by the chance to look at some of their actual sensor data, but Captain Rakan still wished that either the time of day or protocol would allow for a glass of kanar. Omicron Torrensis was not predicted to contain any inhabited planets from long-range spectrography, but the Vulcans had found a perfect M-class world there. Perfect for Humans anyway; it looked awfully moist to Rakan.

“The Oort Cloud must be functioning as a scattering field. It’s unusual that it would be so regular in composition as to achieve that effect, though,” Captain Lancaster noted, looking at the data being projected. “Do you have any theories on how this formation occurred?”

“That was not the purpose of our mission,” the Vulcan replied.

“Ah,” Lancaster replied, glancing up at Rakan, who shrugged. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to survey it yourself. Vacant garden worlds aren’t exactly plentiful in this region.”

“The fact that it is a Minshara-class world is precisely why we are not interested in surveying this world, Captain Lancaster. Our mission is to catalog the availability of resources in this quadrant so that future exploratory missions might be planned with greater precision.”

The conclusion that it might be more efficient and thus more logical to do the actual exploring now, rather than waiting for a later expedition, made Rakan chuckle. A Cardassian mission would never have been planned like that, and an M-class world would never go to waste. She stifled her smile by taking a long drink from her cup of red leaf tea.

Observing that conversation was almost as painful as being part of it would have been, so Rakan walked to the other side of the captain’s mess where the captain of the Astral Queen and Captain Okusanya were having a much more friendly discussion.

“I’ve always admired the Olympic class. Such a solid design. She’ll be a workhorse for a hundred years,” Okusanya noted as she fiddled with the straw in her glass of ginger ale. “The fact that you were pushing nine-five all the way here goes to show what a good job they did putting her together.”

“My Chief Engineer was displeased–that’s where he is now, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb to make sure we’re ready for the journey back to the wormhole. With its short period, we’ve got a tight schedule to keep,” the Tellarite woman replied. 

Members of the Starfleet Auxiliary wore similar uniforms and insignia to members of Starfleet Proper, but with inverted colors and a different insignia. Okusanya thought that the Tellarite looked roughly like a strawberry in her predominantly-red uniform with her stature and bushy hair.

“Chief Engineers are never pleased, in my experience,” Rakan interjected as she extended a hand. It prompted Okysanya to roll her eyes slightly, but she didn’t contradict her. “Captain Iro Rakan, First Officer of the Arcturus.”

“Captain Tora bim Larl, at your service,” the Tellarite replied, looking her up and down. “A shortage of captains will never be a problem around here. Three of you seems like overkill, no matter how big this ship is. And didn’t I just drop off another?”

Rakan chuckled. “There are four of us, actually. Dr. Anjar is also a captain by rank. Commanded a ship like yours, in fact. Our latest O-6 is part of the admiral’s staff, though, so he doesn’t count,” she replied, turning to look for the Bajoran who was doing an outstanding job of pretending he was attending to some important business on his WRIST in the corner.

“It will be interesting to see how he alters the realpolitik aboard this ship,” the engineer noted. “What’s his background?”

“I have no idea; I don’t have access to his service record,” Rakan admitted.

“Which means you tried to access it,” Okusanya replied with a grin.

“Some Cardassian stereotypes are true,” she replied with a shrug.

Captain Larl snorted. “Sometimes, I wonder what it would like to be an explorer, but every time I get a glimpse into all of the egos and tempers involved on a ship like this, I’m happy to be on the bridge of my simple passenger ship.”

The Cardassian captain gave her a tight-lipped smile in return, as she couldn’t imagine spending a whole career just shuttling other people to and from their adventures, but she could appreciate a worldview where not having to deal with the petty bickering made such a dull assignment more palatable. Larl was also the mistress of her own vessel, a starship captain with perhaps less formal authority over lesser vessels than she would have had in Starfleet, but no one’s lackey at least.

“And to top it off, you still get to go to the Delta Quadrant,” Rakan offered.

“At high warp, all quadrants are pretty much the same,” Larl noted. “I wouldn’t mind having a mess like this, though,” she said, gesturing to the room around them.

Located a deck above the ship’s forward lounge, the captain’s mess was big enough to handle dinner for thirty or a reception for sixty. The walls were paneled with authentic mahogany, and the floor was a rich midnight blue terrazzo inlaid with flecks of gold. In the center of the large viewports was a bronze ship’s wheel from one of the naval vessels to have shared the name Arcturus, mounted just forward of a large rendering of the ship’s seal set into the floor. On either side of the doors, Shelves had artifacts from the other two Starfleet vessels to bear the name, including china, log devices, and images of past captains. Starboard past a set of doors, there was a private galley and servery, and port there was a secure communications suite that guests could use without ever getting too far from whichever fancy party they’d been invited to.

“Some of my finest work,” Okusanya said, agreeing with their Tellarite visitor. “The commodore–now the admiral–thought it was ‘a little much,’ but our core mission is diplomatic, and we can’t do to have our guests think they’ve been sent a second-rate ship.”

Rakan smirked again, knowing that Okysanya’s ambitions were to one day command the ship herself after spending four years building it. She doubted the other woman would actually like a command, and without significant command experience, it was unlikely she’d be given the center seat on an Odyssey-class explorer in the first place, but stranger things had happened. Before she could tease her colleague about that point, the doors to the corridor opened to reveal Yeoman Kaplan, who made a bee-line to Lancaster.

“You’re needed on the bridge, Captain,” Rakan overheard Kaplan say, which was a curious message to relay in person rather than over the comm, or for Kaplan himself to relay rather than the Officer of the Watch; a transparent machination.

“My apologies. Captain Rakan will see you back to your ships. Pleasant journeys,” Lancaster replied before exiting the mess with Kaplan following in his wake. 

It was good to be the captain, after all.

Ten minutes later, Timothy Marshall’s leg was bouncing as he waited for the order to go, a habit he’d never quite been able to shake. The newly-minuted lieutenant commander was ready to see what the Arcturus could do, and he was champing at the bit to get out into open space. Next to him, the ship’s operations officer put in the final commands to separate the Arcturus from the transport that had brought Marshall and the Vulcan ship. He’d gone straight from reporting in with the first officer to assume his station, so there hadn’t been a chance for introductions yet, so all Marshall knew about his colleague was that he had large, brown eyes and olive-toned skin.

“Umbilicals retracted, Captain. Both ships are now moving off,” the operations officer reported. “We’re clear to maneuver.”

“Course-heading, sir?” Marshall asked, turning around to offer a broad smile to Captain Lancaster, who was sitting with his legs crossed in the center seat, flanked by the first officer and the senior officer of the watch, Commander Song.

“When’s the last time you performed an Oberth maneuver, Mister Marshall?” Lancaster asked, prompting the two officers sitting next to him to look at him and then each other in surprise.

“A powered fly-by? A real one? Not since the Academy, sir. With modern impulse–,” Marshall started before Lancaster held his hand up. 

The Oberth effect was why gravity assists worked: a spacecraft can go faster than the force of its propulsion systems would allow for when accelerating towards an object with sufficient mass. Marshall had done it several times with Sparrow-class trainers at the Academy, but in modern space travel, it was rarely done. Impulse engines did not move the ship solely through the propulsive force of their exhaust, but using subspace driver coils that reduced the ship’s mass sufficiently to allow for comparatively small amounts of thrust to move the ship much faster than would be permissible under ordinary physics, and which compensated for the time dilation effect one would typically experience at close to half the speed of light. 

“I’m aware of how impulse drive works. Are you saying you can’t do it?” the captain asked. 

“No, sir. I can execute any order you give me,” Marshall replied, not batting an eye at the challenge. 

Marshall did not consider himself particularly good at registering other peoples’ motivations; his brain was wired to take people at face value. That being said, he knew he was being tested, and if it weren’t speaking out of turn, he’d have told the captain, “Bring it on.”

“Your service record tends to agree, but let’s test that,” Lancaster said. “Bridge to Engineering. Disable the subspace driver coils and configure the impulse engines for purely propulsive flight,” he ordered.

There was a slightly longer pause than Marshall would expect before the response came.

“May I ask why, sir?” a female voice asked.

“You heard the order. We’ll be leaving orbit shortly. Bridge out,” Lancaster replied, closing the channel with his thumb on the intercom button. “Mr. Marshall, switch to manual control.”

“Aye, Captain,” Marshall replied, tapping in the command to override the computer’s automatic course correction.

After a moment, a few indicators changed on Marshall’s station to indicate the altered capabilities of the ship’s main engines. Without the engines in their standard configuration, a quick estimate of power to mass ratios told him that they would actually need the Oberth effect to get out of orbit, rather than it just being a stunt.

“Engines reconfigured, Captain,” the operations officer reported. “Though, I feel obligated to point out that if our course is off by even a few degrees, we will crash into the planet.”

That comment made Marshall bristle, his jaw clenching as he laid in the course on his station. It was a basic maneuver, even if it wasn’t one he’d performed recently. With the mass of the ship, the mass of the planet, and the available acceleration all being known quantities, it was a simple matter to figure out the angles and timing required.

“Noted, Commander. Helm, show me what you’ve got,” the captain ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” Marshall replied before cracking his knuckles. “Executing bi-elliptic transfer in preparation for gravity-assisted departure.”

The helmsman kept his attention split between his station and the viewer in front of them, watching as the ship began to pick up speed, the raw thrust from the engines pushing them out from a circular orbit to an elliptical one, which momentarily brought the viewer away from the planet. Monitoring their speed to ensure that they were gaining enough momentum, he kept the ship on course with the lateral thrusters.

With consistent power, the ship accelerated through its first orbit in an excruciating five minutes, the bridge watching Marshall in silence except for occasional updates from the operations officer. The following rotation was even faster, and that’s when Marshall shifted into the escape maneuver. 

“Executing gravity assist,” Marshall announced, lowering the ship’s bow.

On the viewer, it appeared as though they were going to crash into the planet, the atmosphere looming larger and larger until Marshall successfully executed the break-away burn after they’d picked up their maximum possible acceleration. The clouds and icy surface of the planet swam past the viewer and were replaced with the blackness of space. 

“Maneuver complete, Captain. We have left orbit,” Marshall reported, looking over his shoulder to cast a well-deserved smirk towards the man in the center seat.

“Well done, Mr. Marshall,” Lancaster replied with a nod. “Plot course to the Omicron Torrensis system. Warp 6.”

“Aye, Captain!” Marshall replied.

As he turned back around, Marshall noticed that the operations officer had the warp field controls brought up on his station. Establishing a low-level warp field would have enabled the engines to push the ship out of orbit without the subspace driver coils. It would have been necessary if Marshall had miscalculated. Talk about a lack of faith.

“Course plotted,” Marshall announced.

“Execute,” Lancaster ordered, prompting Marshall to engage the warp drive to take them to their next generation. “Commander Song, you have the bridge. Let beta shift have their stations back,” he ordered, almost as soon as the ship went to warp.

That announcement was followed moments later by the crew, who would generally be on the bridge during that time of day to relieve the senior officers, who’d been summoned just for the ship’s departure. Marshall followed the operations officer out of the bridge through the starboard exit and into a turbolfit car.

“Deck 8,” they both said at the same time.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence back there,” Marshall said, not wanting to start a fight but also not being one to back down very quickly when insulted.

“Larus Alesser,” the other man said.

“Well, Larus Alesser to you too…,” Marshall replied, confused; he didn’t know that language.

“No, it’s my name,” Alesser clarified, shaking his head. “All I know about you is that you’re amongst a legion of pilots on this ship with pretty faces. I won’t jeopardize the safety of the ship to sate your ego. It’s nothing personal.”

Marshall nodded, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. The comment about his looks hadn’t gone unnoticed and did mollify some of his annoyance, though he often wished that people could find a compliment about something else for him.

“Timothy Marshall,” Marshall replied, extending his hand, which Alesser accepted with a very firm grip. “I guess that’s all I know about you, too.”

Alesser laughed. “Well, if we’re going to be sitting next to each other, we’ll have to change that. Are you going to the reception later?” he asked.

“Yeah, it didn’t seem optional,” Marshall replied. 

“Well, we can get better acquainted there, then,” Alesser noted, with a wink as the turbolift doors opened. “Shame. My quarters are on the opposite side from yours, so we’ll have to continue this later,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the port side. “Welcome aboard, by the way.”

Lieutenant Robinson was sitting on the reception desk in the flag suite, marveling at a holo Master Chief Yeoman Diemc’s family. He had no idea that the Zakdorn were so… prolific until he saw the image of her sitting amidst her 14 children and 21 grandchildren while holding her very first great-grandchild on her most recent shore leave. He turned around to hand it back to her, shifting on the desktop to cross his arms and look at her. 

“Zakdorn can live even longer than Vulcans. How do you all fit on one planet with families so big?” he asked. “I have six older brothers, and people think I must have been born into a cult or something.”

Diemc chuckled. “Oh, that’s easy. Zakdorn Prime is twice as big as Earth or Vulcan, but also half as dense,” she explained. “There are also seven other habitable planets in our system that don’t have sapient life of their own.”

“So you’ve got room to spread out. Got it,” Robinson replied. “Must be why your species has such a reputation at being so good at logistics. You’d have to be, with a hundred billion people.”

“Exactly,” she replied with a wink. “We’re whatcha’d call homebodies, though. We don’t have any colonies outside of our home system.”

“And the rest of the galaxy thanks you for that,” Robinson replied. 

For their reputation for being snobby, fussy, and generally unpleasant, Robinson generally liked working with Master Chief Diemc. She’d been with Hayden for decades, so they had a very effective working relationship, and Diemc was quick to tell Robinson when the admiral needed or wanted something done in a particular way, which kept him out of trouble. With that being said, he thought that the Zakdorn were probably amongst the ugliest races in the galaxy, with unusual pouches of fibrous tissue on their cheeks. 

“Do you think it’s true? That the Zakdorn are the best strategists in the galaxy?”

The yeoman laughed. “Well, I know I could kick your scrawny Human behind at chess, go, or strategema without breaking a sweat, and I’m just a simple secretary,” she replied.

“Scrawny?” Robinson asked, hopping up off of the desk. “My body is a temple, madam. Dr. Sheppard even complimented my form the other day in the gym.” 

“Oh, my mistake,” she teased. “I wouldn’t mention that within the captain’s earshot, ya know. Michael’s a sweet boy, but you shouldn’t play with fire around him.”

The idea that Captain Michael Alexander Lancaster could ever be described in any context as a ‘sweet boy’ intrigued Robinson, considering that he always struck him more as a ‘terrifying fascist,’ but he’d save that line of questioning for another occasion. He knew the two of them had served for seven years together under Hayden before the launch of the Arcturus, so if there was anyone aboard who had the scoop on him, it was her.

“I’m not stupid,” Robinson replied as he checked his nails. “Unfortunately, I think he was talking about my technique with the free weights and not my ‘form,’” he added, gesturing at himself. “I could be called at any time to hold a flag for the admiral, or carry her briefcase, or pull out a chair for an ambassador. I’ve got no choice but to hit the gym every day.”

“Better you than me. I’m turning a hundred in a few weeks, and I’m a great grandmother, so with all due respect to Starfleet’s physical fitness standards, they can deal with the fact that I have my own orbit,” the woman replied, which seemed like an exaggeration.

“When a human becomes a centenarian, we enter our final stage of life: twenty or thirty years of being a desiccated monkey skeleton, so you’re looking fabulous right now, momma,” Robison replied earning a smile. “Why didn’t you take leave time? Don’t you want to spend your birthday with them?” he asked, nodding to the picture of her family.

Diemc made a sort of equivocating move, looking at the image for a moment with a sad smile. Robinson momentarily regretted asking the question, as it seemed to bring up unpleasant memories.

“Oh gosh, I do miss them, but I like to save up my leave time to spend as much time at once at home as I can. Plus, she needs me. Not that you don’t take care of her, too, but the last mission was hard on her. She hates keeping secrets. The place I need to be is here,” the Zakdorn explained, cocking her head back to the door leading to the admiral’s office.

“And I need you, too, of course!” Robinson enthused. “If you’re extra nice to me, I won’t even mention your birthday to Her Majesty.”

“She’s been threatening me with a centenary party for quite a while now. I think it’s inescapable. I just don’t want a lot of fuss, ya know?” 

“It’s okay for things to be about you sometimes,” Robinson countered, looking back at the door and tightening his crossed arms. “They’ve been in there for an hour. Why do we even need yet another captain around here?” 

“She needs another perspective with actual command experience, and that’s not something she can get from either of us,” Diemc reminded him. “I never thought I’d hear you objecting to having another attractive man around.”

Robinson laughed. “Are you calling me a whore, Master Chief?”

“Oh, no, hun. That would imply that your romantic escapades have been both profitable and successful,” Diemic replied with a saccharine smile. 

“Fuck. You’ve been practicing your shade,” Robinson replied.

“You know I do not appreciate that language within the admiral’s suite, Mr. Robinson,” the yeoman replied, shaking her head. Ironic, given that the most frequent user of that word was the admiral herself. “According to the definitions you provided me with on the topic, pointing out a fact is ‘reading’ while ‘shade’ would require significantly more wit.”

“I hate that I taught you about that,” Robinson said, rolling his eyes. “And that—what you just said—is definitely shade. Well done.” 

“I guess you can teach an old glorchuform new tricks!”

“I really hope that’s like a dog because the word sounds like some sort of ten-foot slug or something,” Robinson replied, wrinkling his nose at the sound she’d made. “You don’t think Captain #5 is going to push us out?”

“He’ll be in charge of her whole staff–the forty people who work in the CIC, the JAG office, and the mission support center,” Diemc noted. “But not me, my yeomen, or you. We take care of her, and we report to her. And he’ll take care of her by elevating her above the fray and handling the nonsense for her.”

That made Robinson stand up a little straighter.

“But don’t let that go to your head. You don’t want to get in a fight with him,” Diemc replied pointedly. “You want to be a bridge officer. A man in his position will want a ship of his own. Just do what you’ve been doing: be impressive.”

“Seduce him. Got it,” Robinson replied, winking at her. 

“Oh, no, sweetheart. I think working out your ‘daddy issues,’ as I’m told they’re called, is something you should probably save for the holodeck.”

Before Robinson could think of a response, the door to the admiral’s inner office opened. Hayden stepped out first, followed by her new chief of staff: Captain Blake Bennett. He was just at Robinson’s height of a lofty 1.9 meters, but about twenty years older with dark hair and blue eyes. Very handsome and very much at risk of proving Diemc correct, should Robinson slip up and check him out further.

“The heads of my personal staff: Master Chief Diemic, who you’ve already met, and Lieutenant Cooper Robinson, my personal aide,” Hayden said as a way of introduction. “I’d be lost without them.”

“I think you’d be okay, ma’am. You’ve got, what, three Christopher Pikes and a half dozen Silver Palms? I think you know your way around just fine,” Robinson quipped.

“Is he always this sarcastic?” Captain Bennett asked, looking at the admiral.

“Not always. I find the impertinence amusing, though,” Hayden replied, smiling at Robinson.

While the teasing was very gentle, it still made Robinson blush, feeling momentarily as if he were being described as a court jester. “Sometimes I’m sardonic and cynical, too, sir,” he said, deciding it was easier to push through the joke. 

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Lieutenant,” Bennet replied, extending his hand for a handshake, though he didn’t show any sign of having been amused by the banter.

Robinson accepted it; the gesture was short and perfunctory, making him blush more deeply. Evidently, something about him was found to be lacking.

“Cooper, I was hoping that you’d show Captain Bennett to his quarters and help him get familiar with the ship, so I can handle my scheduled call with the Sophia Danenberg,” the admiral said.

Robinson nodded, though he didn’t like that his first real interaction with Bennett would be as a jumped-up yeoman for a man who was in danger of displacing him in the admiral’s affection and patronage. 

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you both later at this party Dr. Sheppard is throwing,” Hayden replied, smiling and patting Robinson on the shoulder before returning to her office. “Oh, and for the sake of domestic tranquility, I’m ordering you both to have a good time tonight,” she added before the doors closed behind her.

“You don’t get to attend tonight, Master Chief?” Bennett asked.

Diemc smiled. “No, sir. I need to be here to monitor communications,” she said.

Bennett gave her a dubious look but then turned back to Robinson. 

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Of course, sir,” Robinson replied, walking with the captain out of the suite and into the corridor. “We have you on deck eight, which we can access through the atrium or direct via turbolift at your discretion.”

“I’ve been in a lot of starship turbolifts in my day, but never a starship ‘atrium,’ Lieutenant, so why not?” Bennett replied. 

Robinson led Bennett aft from the office complex towards the ship’s atrium. One moment they were in a standard corridor, and then after passing through a nondescript door, they were standing on a balcony overlooking the dramatic open space in the center of the saucer section.

“Most of our sister ships call it a ‘mall’ but the captain prefers ‘atrium’ because it sounds more ‘dignified.’ Some of the Galaxy and Nebula-class ships have them, too, but the Arcturus is the only starship in the fleet that has its very own steakhouse, Arcturus Prime,” Robinson noted, rocking on the balls of his feet as he watched Bennett’s reaction. “It’s meant to give the crew a sense of terrestrial living and connects deck twelve with deck eight.”

“More or less, any starship is the same as any other. I guess I should’ve read the briefing book,” Bennett noted. “I spent much more time preparing on the political and strategic situation than the physical arrangement of the flagship.”

“A ship like this is special, sir,” Robinson enthused.

“Is the steakhouse any good?” 

“I’ve… never been,” the lieutenant admitted.

“Let’s fix that. Lead the way, Mr. Robinson.”

“I… Well, the admiral told me to take you to your quarters.”

“Do you really think I couldn’t find my own quarters? She also ordered me to be nice to you because she’s worried you’ll see my presence as some sort of threat. So, let’s have some steaks and get on the same page,” the captain replied.

Robinson wished for a moment to be literally anywhere else, turning brick-red at hearing that Admiral Hayden was looking out for him, especially since it implied that she thought he wasn’t mature enough to handle another addition to the staff. He studied Bennett for a moment, though, and didn’t see any malice in the revelation, just absolute candor.

“Alright, Captain Qowat Milat. It’s one level down. This way,” he said. “But the rule here is that in a social space is that I get to speak my mind, so prepare yourself.”

A few minutes later, Robinson found himself seated opposite Captain Bennett at a table in Arcturus Prime, which was fitted out in antique-looking wood paneling, low lighting, and the other accouterments necessary to make its guests feel like they were eating in an authentic steakhouse on Earth. 

“I admire the admiral. She’s an impressive figure, no matter how you slice her record. I don’t plan on being in this job forever, but while I have it, I’m going to do everything in my power to make her life easier,” Bennett said, once the holo-waiter had delivered a glass of bourbon for him and a cosmopolitan for Robinson. “Whatever working relationship you have with her, I have no intention of interfering.”

“I don’t really know what to say to that,” the lieutenant replied, taking a sip from his fluorescent pink drink.

Bennett shrugged. “Alright, Robinson. That’s fair,” he noted. “All things being equal, I don’t think I’d care very much about your feelings about me being here, but since Admiral Hayden wants us to be sanguine, that tells me that she values you a lot, which means I also need to value you because you understand what she wants and what she likes.”

“So, you want to use me to further your own agenda,” Robinson replied with a grin.

“Nothing quite so transactional, but I’m the newcomer here. I need to understand the political landscape,” Captain Bennett admitted. “For instance, letting me know what to expect from this party tonight?”

“Well, you did buy me a drink, so I guess it’s the least a girl can do,” Robinson replied, warming up to the idea of being on his side. “It goes both ways, though. I can be your cha’DIch, but I don’t report to you, and I’ll never betray her. I want to be a bridge officer, and if I enter into some unholy pact with you, you’re taking me with you when you get that ship you’re looking for.”

“Prove you’re useful, and that won’t be a problem.”

Robinson grinned. “You really know how to make a guy feel special on a first date, sir.”

“No, no, no. You’re not going to start that,” Lieutenant Commander Nayar chided. “First of all, I am not even two months pregnant yet. Second, I reject any claims of ownership you may think you have over my body.”

MacRory held his hands up in defeat. “I retract any statements which may have had unintended patriarchal implications. All I was saying was that you could have someone else do those spacewalks. Morning sickness and EV suits do not mix, Nehal,” he offered.

Both Nayar and her husband, Lieutenant MacRory, had been excited about starting a family for some time, and now Nayar was in the early stage of a twin pregnancy. She knew he was only looking out for her safety and the health of their children, but she was not going to abandon her duties just because of the minor inconveniences of her current condition. If she didn’t nip that sort of thing in the bud now, she would never hear the end of it from him.

“I’m the head of structural engineering. When we mount the new bridge to the Hokule’a, I will be there to supervise. End of story,” Nayar replied. “Though, I suppose I could accomplish that from a work bee. Depending on the conditions and how I feel when we arrive,” she conceded.

“See? Progress. Now, I’m sure I could negotiate that up to a shuttle pod,” MacRory replied, winking at her.

The turbolift doors opened, and Nayar took MacRory’s hand as they started down the corridor. She was carrying a decorative tin she’d filled with homemade laddoo, something she’d found herself making a lot of in recent weeks. Today they weren’t just to sate a craving, though. They were a present for Nate Windsor. Nayar glanced over at her husband and smiled as they walked, still so relieved that he’d made it off of the Hokule’a alive. Likely, he wouldn’t have if Windsor hadn’t pulled him from the burning bridge–the same bridge that Nayar had spent the last few weeks redesigning and fabricating.

“Do you think we should have called ahead?”

MacRory shrugged. “I think that’d spook him, honestly,” he said as they stopped at Windsor’s door.

A few moments after hitting the chime, Lieutenant Windsor appeared in the doorway and immediately gave them a broad smile.

“Is this a good time?” Nayar asked, holding up the present she made.

“Of course,” he replied, allowing the two of them to step into his quarters.

Nayar and MacRory sat down on the couch, facing Windsor in one of the armchairs. The younger man looked very curious about their unannounced visit, eyeing them cautiously. It was hard to know where to start with what they were going to ask him, so Nayar just dove right in.

“Nate, I know I’ve said this before, but I’m just so grateful for what you did. You brought Finn back to me, and that’s something I will never forget,” she said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “So, we would like to ask you if you’d like to be our babies’ godfather. You’re the reason they’re going to know their father, and it just seems like the only appropriate choice.”

“You don’t have to decide right away. And we’re not going rope you into babysitting or anything like that,” MacRory clarified.

Windsor beamed. “I don’t mind babysitting. I love kids. I’m really honored… I’d love to be their godparents!” he replied immediately, which made Nayar and MacRory chuckle at his eagerness. “Either of you would have done the same thing for me, though. We’re all Starfleet. It’s part of the job.”

“It’s okay to take a little credit, though, Nate. You saved Cody, too. And then pulled off a Medal of Honor-winning stunt,” MacRory reminded him.

Windsor shook his head, clasping his hands between his knees as he looked at them. Though he was tall and muscular, looking like an idealized version of a Starfleet lieutenant in his uniform, his youthful features and shy, self-effacing nature made him look like a wet-behind-the-ears cadet at that moment. Nayar noticed a flicker of sadness on his face for a split second.

“May I ask how you are doing?” she asked.

“I wasn’t able to save Lieutenant Commander Selon. It’s tough,” Windsor admitted; the ability to conceal his true feelings was nearly totally absent at the best of times. “Counselor Kaer called it ‘survivor’s guilt,’ so I guess I get that things in my brain are still working things out, but it’s hard not to dwell on it.”

“I feel the same way, Nate. You’re right. It’s tough,” MacRory replied, squeezing Nayar’s hand. “I was on an away team once. There was a cave-in, and I just happened to be on the side of the cavern that they could get a transporter lock on. Two people died, and it cut me up for months. I don’t think it ever goes away, but you learn to process it.”

The lieutenant nodded in response, looking pensive for a moment. “I didn’t know that. What did you do to get over it?”

“I had a good group of friends and a very supportive girlfriend at the time,” MacRory said, grinning at Nayar. “Other than that, I don’t think I really ‘did’ anything specific. That’s probably not a very satisfying answer, though.”

“At least I know I’m not doing anything wrong so far, then,” Windsor said with a chuckle. “Arturo has been great. And so have you two. I’m worried about Cody, though. He lost his dad–the admiral–almost a year ago now, and his runabout got into it with the Kazon just a little bit before that battle. That’s a lot to handle in one year. He’s always pretty quiet, but he seems withdrawn. Sullen.”

Nayar smiled at him. “I think that’s pretty normal in a situation like this. All you can do is be there for him,” she offered.

Windsor’s badge chirped.

“Hidalgo to Windsor.”

“Go ahead.”

“Holosuite 24 is free. Want to find a beach somewhere?” 

“Absolutely. I’ll be right there,” Windsor replied.

The three of them stood up, and Windsor surprised them by wrapping his long arms around both of them.

“Godfather. I like the sound of that. Thanks for talking about the other stuff, too,” he said.

“That’s what family does, right?” MacRory replied, looking like he was tearing up slightly.

“Absolutely, Finn.”

“We’ll get out of your hair so you can go have a nice beach day,” Nayar said. “Arturo loves these, by the way,” she added, pointing to the tin before the two of them left his quarters.

“He’s a good kid,” MacRory noted when they were in the corridor again. “That went really well.”

“It did, but I don’t think you can really call him a ‘kid’ anymore,” she reminded him. “I saw you get a little emotional back there.”

“I’m Irish. I’m entitled,” he teased. “And as a man, I’m also entitled to resume bottling up my feelings until I develop a significant mental health problem, so let’s change the subject entirely and go back to looking through the replicator catalog for baby items.”

“Have it your way, caveman.”

 The sounds of a string quartet mingled with indistinct snippets of conversation as Lieutenant Commander Najan Osho navigated through the captain’s passed hors d’oeuvres reception, a glass of champagne in one hand and a very passable hasperat puff in the other. All of the ship’s senior staff were present, along with most of the department heads and a few sundry others who’d made the invite list for whatever reason. Everyone was dressed in their Starfleet best, breaking out the stiff-collared white mess dress uniforms for the occasion. 

The stated purpose of the event was to welcome new senior officers aboard the Arcturus. Still, she could tell from the way her new comrades were fully indulging in the cornucopia of food and beverages around them, laughing and swapping stories in the process, that there was far more catharsis present than you’d expect at a welcome reception. The crew was tired, and they were ready to let their hair down, white tie dress uniforms or not.

After finishing the second of two bites to consume the tiny morsel of Bajoran comfort food, Najan decided to hone in on one of the few wallflowers, the ship’s head physician. 

“Dr. Anjar?” she asked, approaching him as he seemed to be studying some sort of antique nautical instrument in one of the display cases. “Examining our auxiliary navigational equipment?”

“It’s a sextant from a naval ship that bore the same name as this one, apparently,” Anjar replied, looking up with an arched eyebrow. “Humans almost have the Bajorans beat for sentimentality, Mister Najan. We’ve got the wheel from another one over there, too. Imagine holding onto this junk for almost four centuries, just to shove it in a display case.”

Najan chuckled. “You know who I am, sir? I’m flattered. Najan Osho, Starfleet Intelligence,” she said, offering her hand.

Anjar accepted the handshake with a perfunctory squeeze, not seeming annoyed by her per se, but rather with the social nicety in general. He clearly would rather have been somewhere else. Evidently, even being a captain himself wasn’t sufficient to find an excuse to skip the evening’s social festivities. 

“There aren’t that many Bajorans on this ship in the first place, and you’re the only one in the latest rotation,” Anjar replied, studying here. “Given that you called me by the correct name, I’m sure that you already know who I am as well. You intelligence officers really make introductions much more efficient.”

Anjar wasn’t exactly famous, but the Bajorans hadn’t been in the Federation that long, either, so there was still a pretty finite number of command-level officers of their race in Starfleet. Beyond that, though, he was well known to be the son of Anjar Morin, an influential vedek. He’d left all Bajoran customs behind, including the order of his names to become Alenis Anjar on joining Starfleet. The why of all of that was not in his personnel file, though.

“I think medical officers and intelligence officers both put their shipmates at a certain disadvantage, sir,” Najan noted. “I’ve read some of Vedek Anjar’s writings, though, beyond just familiarity with your file.”

The doctor stiffened noticeably. “I wasn’t aware that he’d ever written anything that would be of interest to Starfleet Intelligence,” he noted, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t believe he has, but I was interested purely for self-edification,” she replied, reaching involuntarily to the bare ear. She had stopped wearing her earring when she was embedded on alien worlds for intelligence gathering, and she’d found that hiding her religious affiliation made it harder for people to make assumptions about her. Anjar himself wasn’t wearing the traditional earring, either.“Are you religious?”

“Absolutely not,” Anjar replied without hesitation. “Growing up with a vedek in the house does that to you, though,” he quipped. 

“I find great comfort in the ritual of religion, myself, sir,” Najan replied. 

“Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time with humans, but I don’t even really think of myself as culturally Bajoran anymore, Commander,” Anjar noted, crossing his arms. His expression flickered slightly. “Which isn’t to say that there’s anything wrong with being culturally Bajoran or religious; it’s just not for me.”

Osho chuckled. “I spent three years on Vashti with a surgically-altered nose and ears to blend in with the Romulans there, so I empathize with the idea of cultural disconnection,” she offered.

Before Anjar could respond, there was the sound of a knife tapping against a glass, and they both turned to see Captain Lancaster standing near the ship’s wheel, apparently ready to address the group. 

“Thank you all for coming. For those of you who have been aboard for our whole mission, I’m sure you know how reluctant I am to host these sorts of social events, so credit where it’s due to Dr. Sheppard, who was quite… persistent about us doing this,” Lancaster started, earning laughs from the crew as he looked over at his husband. 

“For those of you that are new, welcome aboard. The Arcturus is a special assignment, not just because of her size but because of the unique mission we get to tackle: exploring further than anyone else in history has ever managed. 2399 has not been an easy year for this ship or her crew, but I have some good news: we will be moving into 2400 with a full survey of the Omicron Torrensis system. Long-range scans and the Vulcans’ reports indicate that the fourth planet is pristine and suitable for shore leave, so we’ll have a chance to catch our breath and indulge in a little pure science. The first officer will have duty assignments for each of your departments. Thank you. Please, enjoy the party.”

When the captain was done speaking, the crowd’s murmur picked back up immediately, and Osho could sense the excitement in the room. A system survey wouldn’t typically be conducted by such an important ship, but the Arcturus had earned the break after a year of combat missions. 

“I hope you won’t be too bored,” Anjar replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early for your physical. Try not to drink too much,” he added, clapping her on the shoulder before moving off into the crowd. 

Towards the edge of the room, though, there was another anti-social party-goer. Lieutenant Commander Evandrion was easily recognizable, being the only Deltan aboard the Arcturus. He was scanning the room, which made Najan wonder if it was social apathy or a heightened sense of awareness that was relegating him to the corner by the service entrance.

“Not a fan of parties?” she asked, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as she approached him.

“I would prefer not to have such a high concentration of the ship’s senior officers in one location,” Evandrion replied, though he offered her a small smile. “I take it you are our new spook?”

Najan chuckled. “I suppose you could say that. Najan Osho, Starfleet Intelligence,” she said, offering him her hand.

“Evandrion, Chief of Security,” he replied, accepting the handshake. The contact was brief, but Najan noted a slight tingle, likely because of the inescapable potency of the Deltan nervous system. “How do you find the Arcturus so far?”

“She’s a marvel, surely. Perhaps less heavily-armed than I imagined for Starfleet’s largest ship out this far, but it sounds like she held her own with the Kazon,” Najan said. 

The majority of the reports she’d read about the Arcturus’s previous missions had been relatively routine until she ran into massive redactions and limitations placed on the ones from the last month and a half or so. Whatever the origin of their conflict with the Kazon, Starfleet hadn’t felt the need to loop her in, which did intrigue her, but she also knew that Starfleet didn’t keep secrets without a very good reason.

“I believe the intent is that we should be able to defend ourselves, but not so apparently powerful that we’d risk unifying threat forces in the area,” Evandrion explained. “I will sleep more soundly knowing that we will have a full intelligence department aboard, though. This is not a safe or accommodating quadrant.”

“Happy to be a source of solace, if I can. Though, I see my role as much anthropological or diplomatic as tactical in nature,” she replied. “I’m… intrigued at the idea of providing perspective based on a set of decades-old reports.”

“The reality that we’re some of the first explorers to be out here does temper the danger somewhat,” Evandrion agreed. “Have you met the captain yet?”

“I have not yet had the pleasure. Any tips?” 

Evandrion chuckled. “No, that would not be fair. They say you’re an expert in sapient intelligence collection, so I am sure any advice I could give you would be… redundant,” he said, looking past her towards where Lancaster was standing near to the ship’s wheel. “Good luck, for what it’s worth.”

The plant in the containment vessel looked a lot like paeonia parnassica to Ensign Serrano, the hand-sized bloom bearing a brilliantly-orange center. He had no idea why it would be behind a centimeter of transparent aluminium, though, and he reached out to touch the container without much thought. The bloom hit the side of the tank with a thud, making Serrano jump. The petals struggled to pull back, revealing sticky residue.

“Holy shit!” Serrano exclaimed.

“That’s the Delta Quadrant for you. They found it a few planets ago… Took them weeks to un-paralyze Lieutenant Harrison,” Ensign Belvedere replied, hopping down from the nearby lab bench he was sitting on.

“That’s so cool!” 

The other ensign grinned. “The word ‘paralyze’ didn’t scare you off?”

Serrano laughed. “Well, you said ‘un-paralyze,’ so, I’m going to stick with ‘that’s so cool’ as my scientific appraisal of this specimen,” he said, as he thought about how evolution could take enough turns to lead to such an organism. 

A few moments later, the door to the botany lab opened to admit yet another ensign in a blue sciences uniform, this time a Trill with sharp features and a square jaw. He rushed over to where Serrano and Belvedere were standing, pulling up the PADD projection from his WRIST and hurriedly flipping through the recent scans.

“You’re not messing with my plant are you? What are you even doing in the botany lab, Matthew?” the other man said, clearly agitated.

“Your plant, Corvol?” Belvedere challenged. “I’m on liaison duty today. This is Santiago Serrano, an actual, factual botanist,” he said, clapping Serrano on the back.

“Pleased to meet you,” Serrano said, offering a handshake.

“Corvol Taom, general biology,” the Trill replied, with a smile, accepting the handshake very gingerly. “Sorry, but if this thing gets out, I’ll be on the line for it,” he explained, blushing a little. 

“Wait, what? It’s a plant. How is it going to get out?!” Belvedere asked.

“Well, it can hop. It’ll jump up to grab prey and then replant itself in situ until it can absorb the nutrients,” Taom said. 

“That’s badass,” Serrano replied, circling around the tank to look at the specimen.

“No, it’s insane. Kill it. Kill it with fire,” Belevedere insisted, noticeably moving back from the containment vessel and putting himself behind Ensign Taom. “Why would they bring something like this aboard?”

“We needed it to develop the antidote. Now we’re studying it,” Taom replied with a shrug.

“Wait, wait, wait. What makes this a ‘plant’ anyway? It demonstrates predatory behavior and it’s mobile,” Belvedere asked. 

“Cell walls,” Serrano and Taom replied together.

“Nature doesn’t make it all that easy to make a distinction between flora and fauna sometimes, but that’s generally the distinction we use, yes. It’s also largely stationary and photosynthesizes,” Taom elaborated. “Whether it goes into the zoology lab or the botany lab is often more about whether it can be planted or not.”

“Got anything else like this?” Serrano asked, still staring at probably the most dangerous organism he’d ever encountered in person. “Like, amazing, freaky stuff?” 

Taom grinned. “I’m pretty sure this is the most impressive specimen on the ship. We haven’t done a lot of planetary exploration. Mostly first contact type stuff,” he explained. “And archaeology,” he said, nodding towards Belvedere.

“Corvol here is on one of the hazard teams, which makes him some sort of interstellar ninja hero,” Belvedere said, miming some karate moves and earning a roll of the eyes from Taom. “He’s been places. Seen things. All very, very impressive,” he drawled.

“What’s a hazard team?” Serrano asked, wrinkling his nose at the unfamiliar term.

“They get special training and then get to strut around in dangerous situations in exoprene bodysuits, which absolutely lift and separate,” Belvedere said, which didn’t really help Serrano understand at all. “Like away teams, but with bigger guns and bigger muscles.”

“Doesn’t sound very Starfleet,” Serrano noted, as he tried to wrap his head around the idea.

“I’m the team medic and science specialist. We are usually sent in first to make sure a planet or a ship is safe for the senior staff to visit. I’ve never actually had to fire my phaser at all,” Taom explained. 

“Yes, yes. But those suits. They turn twinks into twunks, twunks into hunks, and hunks into gods,” Belvedere replied. “The captain changed into one during our mission on Eta Torrensis. It was extremely distracting.”

Taom shook his head. “Don’t sexualize the captain.”

“Why not? He’s sexy, in a kind of terrifying, authoritarian way,” Belvedere replied, eyes glinting. “And you know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s disrespectful. He’s the captain,” Taom said, looking genuinely scandalized. “Don’t you have a boyfriend anyway?”

“That’s what I was getting to: I know something that’ll really put a spring into you two nerds’ steps,” Belvedere replied, making a show of checking his nails. “Austin is best friends with Luca Sheppard, the captain’s husband, and he told me that we’re going to be lingering in this next system long term. You’ll get to do a full planetary study.”

“Oh, wow! My last assignment was on a starbase, so I’ve never got to do that before. This ship rocks,” Serrano enthused, his attention drawn away from the deadly plant. “What about you, Corvol?”

The Trill shook his head. “This is my first posting, and we’ve never been given the time to really dig into a planetary study. That’ll be a nice change of pace,” he said, with a smile. “Want to feed Seymour?”

“Feed who?”

“Seymour. The plant. He named it,” Taom replied, pointing to Belvedere. 

“What kind of self-respecting homosexual doesn’t get a Little Shop of Horrors reference?” Belvedere said, sucking his teeth. “Wait… feed it? What are you feeding it?”

“Just protein cubes. We don’t have any spare rabbits onboard,” Taom replied, with a laugh.

“No to literally all of this,” Belvedere said, waving his hand dramatically towards the containment tank. “You’re both disgusting, and not in an attractive way. Even still, there’s a show in the forward lounge tonight. Make sure he’s there at 2200 sharp, because I can’t watch this debauchery,” he added, before leaving the lab entirely.

“Is he always like that?” Serrano asked, while Taom went over to a supply cabinet to receive a container of protein cubes. “I’m not going to get paralyzed, right?” he asked, grabbing one when he returned.

“I think he’s just trying to impress you,” Taom said. “And, no, as long as you don’t linger. You need to be about a meter away, though,” he explained. “Ready?”

“Do it,” Serrano said. 

Taom tapped a command into the terminal next to to the containment vessel and the top opened up in an iris. Serrano stood back and tossed the gelatin-like protein cube in, jumping when the plant caught it quite easily. The petals folded in over the food source and the two of them watched in fascination and slight horror as it gobbled it up right in front of their eyes.

“Sick, right?” Taom asked, as the vessel sealed itself again.

“Oh, absolutely. Makes roses look quite boring,” Serrano agreed. “What’s the show he mentioned, though? Like, a concert?”

The Trill chuckled. “I’m not giving you any hints, Freshman,” he said, imitating Belvedere quite well. “But it’s a lot of fun!”

Ensign Sam Solomon’s orientation was much more sedate than his boyfriend’s, but at the end of the day he found himself the subject of an enthusiastic retelling of the entire day from Serrano’s perspective, including an interlude with a predator known as Seymour. 

“You’re so much, all the time,” he observed, hugging Serrano tight and planting a kiss on his forehead, as Serrano narrated the minute details of Seymour the Plant digesting a protein cube. “But I still love you.”

“Apparently we have a party to go to tonight. It sounded mandatory.”

“My liaison officer didn’t mention it,” Solomon said.

“Mm. Well, mine did, so… Wash your face? Fix your hair?”

Eleven minutes later, Solomon found himself with Serrano in the ship’s forward lounge, which was known as the Plowman’s Tap. The pun wasn’t too difficult to understand: Arcturus was the brightest star in the constellation Boötes, the Plowman, and a Tap was a name for a pub, ergo the Plowman’s Tap. What neither of them were expecting was to walk into a full-on dance show, with multiple drag queens strutting their stuff and lip syncing to the latest pop music. 

“This is amazing!” Serrano said, pulling Solomon along by the hand towards the ensign-dominated corner of the room, where he introduced him to his fellow scientists. Ensign Knox was also there, looking a little cow-towed, but not seeming like he was having an entirely unpleasant time. 

Before any pleasantries could really be exchanged, the lights went out and a moment later a spotlight was on an immaculately-dressed woman in the center of the stage, who walked towards a standing microphone and waited for the crowd to calm down. At that point, Solomon realized that Captain Lancaster was sitting front and center in front of the stage in a dress uniform, along with a half-dozen other members of the senior staff. What had he walked into?

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! The Plowman’s Tap is the place to be on this ship, so I’m impressed that all of you managed to sneak in an appearance,” the hostess started. “I am Miss Nomer, and this is my bar. Don’t you raise your eyebrow at me, Captain. Your ship, my bar,” she added.

The captain shook his head.

“Folks, I was happy in retirement, but His Majesty made me re-enlist so that I’d still have to call him ‘sir’ running this bar. Dr. Sheppard couldn’t be reached for comment,” Miss Nomer replied, earning a hearty laugh from the captain’s apparent husband. “But making fun of the captain isn’t the full agenda for the evening, sinceI only have an hour. I see we’ve been joined by Commander Alesser, as well. He’s single, ladies. He’s also full of shit, so, you know, make smart decisions,” she added, to a round of applause. “What’s your name, hun?” she asked, moving towards the front of the stage.

“Dorian Holland.”

“Dorian, huh? No bets on whose team you bat for,” the hostess teased, to a round of laughter. “The Queen clearly has taste, I’ll give her that. But the look I’m getting suggests that I’m about to be beamed into space, so… let’s take a little break? Swarm the bar!” 

“This is great,” Solomon said, hugging Serrano from the side. “A drag show 70,000 light-years from Earth? How is this real?”

Serrano chuckled. “The gays find a way.”

After a long run at high warp, the Arcturus sailed into the Omicron Torrensis system. It had given the crew some time to acclimate to one another, and the prospect of surveying a brand-new M-class world in front of them had spirits high. Science Officer Vahlen was happy to have an actual project to focus on, something to distract his department from the departures of Commanders Walker and Galbraith at the end of their last mission. There were, of course, rumors as to why they had departed, but he didn’t particularly care since it meant that he was no longer burdened by Galbraith’s idealism or Walker’s cheeriness. Neither personality trait was particularly useful in a good scientist, after all.

“Now approaching Omicron Torrensis IV, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Marshall reported from the helm. 

“Standard orbit, please,” the captain ordered from the center seat. “Commander Vahlen, run a full sensor sweep,” he added, glancing back to where Vahlen was standing at the primary science station.

“Aye, Captain,” Vahlen replied, though he’d already begun accessing the lateral sensors and the planetary sensor dome. 

The data the Vulcans had given them in advance was cursory at best. Once they’d seen that it was an M-class planet, they’d abandoned detailed scanning efforts because of Federation protocols preventing the use of garden worlds for resource harvesting. When Vahlen put the complete resources of the Arcturus’s planetary sensor array towards scanning the surface, he immediately began to get much more exciting results.

“Oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, well within tolerance levels for most humanoids, though the O2 closer to Vulcan or Andor than Earth,” the commander noted, before frowning at the following data point. “The upper atmosphere has a thin but concentrated band of tetryon radiation. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

Tetryon radiation could only be created through subspace anomalies, so to see a band so distinct in a planet’s atmosphere without obvious subspace tears or other phenomena was a bona fide mystery to even an experienced scientist like Vahlen. The fact that the planet was still habitable below that level was practically a miracle in terms of meteorology, subspace dynamics, and a thousand other factors that came to his mind.

“Given the scattering properties of this system’s Oort cloud, however, it does suggest that there could be transient subspace anomalies in this system, which may account for this radiation band,” Vahlen added, after another moment of thought. “Transport to the planet’s surface will be inadvisable.”

“Agreed,” Lancaster replied, standing up from his seat to face Vahlen. “Do you see any potential risk with sending a shuttle?”

Vahlen shook his head. “No, sir. A shuttle’s shields should be more than capable of withstanding this amount of radiation. At most, it’s an inconvenience,” he replied.

“The difficulty of detecting this planet and the transporter barrier go a long way to explaining why no one has colonized it. It almost suggests intent,” Odea noted from tactical. “I’m not detecting any evidence of recent activity in this system at all, other than the ion trail from the Vulcans.”

“What we have now is a coincidence, and there is nothing to suggest advanced technology at work,” Vahlen replied, frowning at his colleague. The evidence in front of them only pointed to two distinct natural phenomena that might have some connection to the subspace topology in the region. Even as he said that, though, he wondered about some purposeful design to conceal this world. “Discerning the manner in which this radiation belt is maintained without dispersing into the atmosphere should be a high priority, though.”

“Have full-spectrum subspace sweeps of the system run,” Lancaster replied before turning to the first officer. “Captain Rakan, assemble a team to take readings from the planet’s surface. Once we’ve determined it’s safe, we’ll begin large-scale survey operations.”

“Marshall, Evandrion, and Vahlen with me,” Rakan replied while Vahlen inputted the orders to begin the subspace scans. “Rakan to Okusanya. Please join me in the main shuttlebay. We won’t be transporting down.”

“Understood,” the engineer replied.

Vahlen joined the security officer and pilot on the transporter pad, waiting for a moment until the first officer joined them. After she called for “Main Shuttlebay,” they dematerialized, the bridge vanishing in a swirl of energy and then being replaced with a view of the cavernous main hanger from an alcove at the rear of the room matching the one on the bridge. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Marshall enthused as they walked off of the pad.

“Transporting?” Vahlen asked.

“Within the ship, I mean. It saves so much time.”

“It’s the exact same concept used by the transporter arches on starbases,” Vahlen reminded the younger man.

“Well, yeah, but we’re on a starship that’s as big as a starbase,” the pilot replied, looking a little starry-eyed. “You don’t find that even a little exciting?”

Vahlen shrugged. “Not particularly,” he replied to the apparent disappointment of the other officer. “But I appreciate the efficiency.”

“He’s German; he doesn’t do praise or wonder,” Captain Okusanya volunteered as she approached their group, which just made Vahlen frown more. “The Waverider is being brought up from the hanger now,” she added.

As they passed around the central tower, which contained the control booth, turbolifts, and a few repair and parking bays, Vahlen saw the Ella Fitzgerald rising up from the lower level on the elevator. It was much wider than standard runabouts, so its aerodynamic wingtips had been redesigned to fold up over the nacelles for storage, giving it the tightest possible clearance on the platform. It was the perfect vehicle for planetary surveys and wasn’t a normal part of the ship’s complement, but Admiral Hayden was reportedly a fan of the design.

Beyond the Waverider, the massive bay door had already been opened. The blackness of space dominated the port side, starkly contrasting the blue-green surface of Omicron Torrensis V to starboard. From that vantage point, the planet’s large oceans were very evident, encircling the entire equator with four or five large continents to the north and south, themselves separated by expanses of water. Vahlen, for a moment, though he had an inkling of familiarity from that view but brushed it off as that same feeling he’d had upon seeing his homeworld, Penthara IV, for the first time from orbit.

“Ella Fitzgerald II. What happened to the first one?” Marshall asked, noting the name on the side of the hull as they boarded.

“Blown up,” Evandrion replied with a shrug.

“Great,” the pilot muttered. “No pressure.”

With systems checks underway, Vahlen took his seat at the science station in the rear of the cockpit, across from Evandrion and Okusanya on the other side. Rakan and Marshall took their seats at the front, the ship shuddering slightly as the wingtips locked into position.

“Fitzgerald to Bridge. Requesting departure clearance,” Rakan said over the comm.

“Permission granted. Safe flying, Fitzgerald,” Alesser replied.

 Moments later, the Fitzgerald lifted up from the deck and dove through the forcefield out into space. Vahlen reflexively gripped the sides of his station as Marshall pointed them towards the planet and engaged the impulse engines, even though the inertial dampeners cushioned 99.5% of their movement, leaving just enough to let the crew feel that there was movement at all. 

“Any preference on a landing site, Commander Vahlen?” Rakan asked, turning to glance at the science officer.

“Initial scans suggest the northern continent has the most biodiversity. I’m sending appropriate coordinates to the helm,” Vahlen replied.

There was a slight shimmer across the viewports as the vessel’s shields engaged for atmospheric entry. They lit up briefly again as the ship started to glow from friction, and they passed through the radiation belt as if it weren’t even there. Vahlen glanced briefly at the airspeed meter but looked away when he saw they were still above Mach 25 on a ballistic atmospheric entry vector. Thankfully, Marshall had been selected not for his looks but for his talent at the helm, and they quickly slowed to more reasonable speeds, leaving Vahlen to focus on the sensor data that was already coming in.

“The upper layers of this planet’s atmosphere are unusually stratified, in terms of their gas composition,” he noted. “Otherwise, one might say that this planet is as pristine as it looks.”

“One, but not you?” Rakan asked, chuckling. “It is permissible to have some excitement, you know.”

“I am merely noting that a layman’s observation would be substantiated by the data we are receiving, sir,” Vahlen replied, turning his attention to a different set of scans. “This world is atypical for those we’ve encountered so far in this region of the Delta Quadrant, but well within averages for M-class planets further towards the core and those within Federation space.”

“Lucky us that the Vulcans found nothing worth their time here,” Okusanya noted.

“Approaching the coordinates,” Marshall replied, nudging the nose down so that they could see temperate forests and grass meadows stretching out in front of them.

The pilot put their small ship into a brief pirouette before settling down in a clearing. They each grabbed a tricorder and a phaser, while Vahlen confirmed that the atmosphere outside the vessel was safe. Once all the preparations were made, Rakan stepped out first into an extremely pleasant 23-degree day on Omicron Torrensis IV.

“A little cool for my tastes, but still incredible,” Rakan reported over the comm back to the Arcturus.

“We’ll try to find a dessert world for the next one,” Lancaster replied. “Standard survey orders: Establish baseline safety and identify priorities,” he ordered.

Though a hand tricorder couldn’t tell Vahlen much that he couldn’t get through the shuttle’s sensor package, it was still pleasant to be able to actually examine specimens up close. He quickly determined that the grass and other local foliage were safe to touch, but it was the soil that interested him more. If this planet experienced sudden bouts of tetryon radiation, the soil would tell the story.

“Anything interesting?” Marshall asked as Vahlen scanned a vial of dirt. 

Vahlen ignored him momentarily as the results flashed across his device. All of the standard elements were present that he would expect, but there was also one that he wasn’t expecting: cormaline. It wasn’t the rarest of minerals, but it was rare enough that Starfleet put a high priority on locating useable veins of the stuff, and it sparked another memory for him.

“Vahlen to Planetology. Send me whatever you have in terms of the planet’s topography,” he said, tapping his badge.

A few moments later, his WRIST device beeped. He held it up to show the first version of the planet’s whole surface, projected as a sphere. He knew he’d seen that somewhere before, and then it came to him. 

“Computer, cross-reference our scan data with all records of Ocampa V,” he ordered. 

A second globe was projected, looking almost nothing like the first. Where Omicron Torrensis IV was covered in water, Ocampa V lacked it almost entirely, except for a line of barely-there brine that crossed the planet’s equator. The computer showed a few data points and then overlaid the two images. Topographically, the two worlds were identical.

“This is impossible,” Vahlen muttered.

“Well, it’s happening, isn’t it?” Marshall offered with a grin.

Vahlen tapped his badge. “Vahlen to bridge.”

“Go ahead.” 

“Based on the readings we’ve taken, this planet is precisely what Ocampa V would have looked like before the accident that destroyed its water cycle. Combined with the tetryon radiation in the atmosphere and the scattering field, I am now prepared to conclude that Nacene intervention here is extremely likely.”

There was a noticeable pause. “Send everything you have to my ready room and get back to the ship as soon as you’ve finished collecting your samples. If the Nacene were here, I want to know what they did to this world and why.” Lancaster ordered. 

“Aye,” Vahlen replied before tapping his badge again. “Don’t say it,” he said, looking at Marshall.

“What, that Odea may have been right about this place?”

Vahlen frowned. “Yes, that.”

After two full days of scanning from orbit and much debate, the diplomatic launch Da Jiao had been sent down to the planet’s surface to serve as a base of operations for the survey of Omicron Torrensis IV, which the crew was now calling New Ocampa, on account of its unmistakable resemblance to Ocampa V, or at least what Ocampa V would look like if the Nacene had not devastated its atmosphere by accidentally removing all nucleogenic particles, and thus removing its ability to form rain or any other precipitation. The why and the how of this resemblance were the subjects of intense speculation, though, as they had yet to find any evidence of either Nacene or Ocampa influence on the world, beyond the tetryon radiation barrier present in the upper atmosphere; tetryons were a hallmark of Nacene technology, and now served as the basis for Ocampa technology as well.

Commander Marcus Armstrong was firmly in the camp of letting the evidence speak for itself and building theories based on observations, but he felt firmly in the minority. He was not confrontational by nature, and his direct superior was the one who posited the Nacene theory in the first place, but he was worried they would miss something by focusing too firmly on what could just be a coincidence. Until just over a month ago, he had been the head of the planetary science department, and he was quite content there but had been bumped up to the deputy chief scientist role vacated by Commander Vahlen’s move to the top job. By virtue of needing a senior scientist on the ground to coordinate sample collection and because of his background, Armstrong found himself in command of their surface operations on New Ocampa.

That assignment sounded grander than it was in practice, though, as it essentially meant that he was organizing a series of tents and prefabricated structures placed in a circle around the Da Jiao to catalog specimens, allow them to quarantine, and then pack them for shipment up to the Arcturus via cargo shuttle, while the operations department was still working on figuring out their transporter issues. The landing zone selected by the captain was very close to where the Ocampa city would be if the planet were Ocampa V, which was thought to be a likely place for any evidence of alien influence. In a grassy clearing on the edge of a jungle, it was just before the foothills of a jagged mountain range, deep within the rain shadow. Incredible biodiversity was paired with humidity close to 100% and temperatures peaking at 35 degrees Celsius.

Starfleet officers weren’t accustomed to complaining, though, and even the muggy weather didn’t seem to dampen his team’s spirits as they toiled to get the camp set up. The excursion uniforms helped, too; silver form-fitting and moisture-wicking fabric with hiking boots were much more suited for exploring a brand-new planet than the business suits they usually had to wear. 

“Pedology? You’re a foot doctor?” Armstrong heard as he walked into the soil science tent. 

The ship’s new helmsman, Lieutenant Commander Marshall, had been assigned to take the team down to the surface and make sure the area was prepared for more shuttle arrivals. He was pitching in where he could to help with the science, but the level of cluelessness he displayed limited his ability to help without causing more work for others. Armstrong did appreciate the aesthetic contributions he made to their team, at least, as did the half of his team that found Human males attractive, judging by how popular he seemed to be with them. When he entered the soil sciences tent, he found Marshall smiling and laughing with Lieutenant Zhuan amid several tables ready to accept samples from their survey teams.

“No, no, no. They do come from similar roots in Greek, but pedology is the study of soil. You’re thinking of podiatry,” the young woman said, shaking her head with amusement; she was toying with her pitch-black hair in a way that made Armstrong roll his eyes slightly. 

“So, you study… dirt? Were you last to pick when they were handing out jobs or something?” Marshall teased.

“Studying a planet’s soil can tell you so much about its history, ecology, and a whole lot of other things. It also bridges chemistry, mineralogy, hydrology, and biology into one exciting field of study!” she enthused.

Marshall grinned at her. “So, just to be perfectly clear: you had the choice between studying the stars or dirt, and you picked dirt?” he asked. 

“Not all of us can have our heads in the clouds, Fly Boy,” Zhuan challenged. “Without pedology, there’s no agriculture, and without agriculture, you can’t truly colonize a planet.”

“I stand corrected. So, should I grab a shovel and go get you some ‘samples?’” he asked, with air quotes and a laugh.

“An hour ago, you tried to collect a tree bark sample for the botany department and almost cut your hand off, so no thank you,” the pedologist reminded him when she glanced over and saw Armstrong. “We’re set up here to catalog and quarantine samples, Commander,” she said, taking a more respectful posture.

“Thanks to Mr. Armstrong’s help, I’m sure,” Armstrong replied, watching as Marshall stood up straight from his position, leaning on the tent’s center support pole. “You don’t have to be out here with us, you know. It’s much more comfortable on the ship,” he added, pointing his thumb to the Da Jiao.

“Come on, sir. Put me to work. The landing beacon’s up and running, so there’s no point in me sitting with my feet up in the cockpit while you are out here doing real cool Starfleet exploration stuff,” Marshall replied, getting closer to him. There was a glint in his hazel eyes and a very earnest grin. “Please?”

“Well, I could use some help setting up the perimeter fence. It’s probably the worst job on our checklist, though,” Armstrong offered.

“Perfect for earning a little cachet around here, then. Let’s get to it,” the other man replied, looking positively ready to burst with enthusiasm.

The perimeter fence was a set of 30 two-meter-long metal rods that needed to be driven into the heavy clay soil all the way around their camp. They connected to form a barrier of hypersonic pulses that would repel most lifeforms from attempting to cross between them or stop intruders directly with a low-level forcefield. They were pretty heavy, and getting them driven deeply enough into the soil to remain stable while still in alignment with their neighbors was tedious.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit in your nice, air-conditioned cockpit?” Armstrong asked when they were halfway through the project, sitting on the hover dolly with the remaining fence posts and drinking from their canteens.

“Are you kidding? What more could a guy want beyond a full-body workout in the fresh air and sunshine?” Marshall asked. 

The pilot set his canteen down on the dolly and then unfastened the upper half of his excursion uniform, peeling off the skin-tight fabric down to the waistband and then lying back with his hands behind his head to just soak in the sun with his eyes closed. He was in his late twenties and in peak physical shape, with the sculpted definition that Armstrong had always wanted for himself but which he’d never been able to achieve.

The sight made Armstrong choke on his water. Not subtly, either. Full-on coughing, which he couldn’t disguise as anything else. Marshall sat up and gave him a very concerned look before reaching over to pat him between the shoulder blades. The physical contact sent Armstrong’s heart rate into the rafters, but it did actually help him stop coughing.

“You okay?”

Armstrong nodded. “Yeah. Just… distracted,” he managed, reaching for his canteen again but then deciding that it probably wouldn’t help. The two of them were very close, and Armstrong found himself fixating on how pink Marshall’s lips were. He also smelled nice, which was infuriating given that they’d been working in the hot sun.

“Personal Fragrance #719,” Marshall noted.

“What?”

“My cologne. Your nostrils were doing that flaring thing,” the pilot explained.

“Oh. It’s nice,” Armstrong replied.

“You’re not going to tell me off for it? I’m not in danger of luring in some lurking predator?” the other man asked with a laugh.

“Other than me? No,” Armstrong thought, fixating on the seven- or eight-year age gap between them and their difference in rank, plus his temporary status as his commanding officer; nothing good could come from flirting with him. 

He shook his head. “No, but we should get the rest of this set up to keep anything like that from getting into the camp,” he said, springing up to put as much distance between himself and Marshall as he could. 

Marshall slipped his arms back into the upper part of his jumpsuit, which limited the distraction at least a little bit, even though he didn’t bother to fasten it all the way. With the first half done, they were able to finish setting up the poles in a lot less time for the second half. The last post included the control unit, which was activated by twisting a heavy metal ring near the top. It was challenging to get the leverage to turn it (which was the point, to keep animals from turning it off), so Armstrong struggled with the device for a moment. Without asking, Marshall reached up to help, and they managed to get the ring to click into the on position, which turned on amber lights on each of the posts. They touched again, briefly, and Armstrong pulled way to open the display on his WRIST device.

“Looks like everything’s aligned. Good job,” Armstrong said as he flipped through to the fence’s activation panel.

A moment before the fence could be activated, Marshall pulled Armstrong closer by the elbow. Armstrong was about to ask why until he saw that he was now on the right side of the fence and not about to lock himself out of their camp.

“My head must be in the clouds today,” Armstrong muttered before turning it on.

There was a brief hum of energy as all of the fence posts turned on, their lights switching from amber to green. They projected a visible set of glowing lines between the posts, which were just to show the team where the sonic barrier was. It would be enough to deter most small creatures at its lowest setting, while at the highest, it could keep things as big as elephants from passing through.

“Now what?” Marshall asked as they started to walk back towards the center of the camp where the Da Jiao was. 

“You’re not ready for a break?” Armstrong asked.

Marshall grinned, stopping in his tracks to turn around and stare Armstrong down. He stepped closer and reached in to pull the fastener of Armstrong’s jumpsuit down just a few centimeters while maintaining eye contact.

“Why, are you trying to get rid of me, sir?” he asked, leaving Armstrong speechless.

Someone cleared their throat, and Armstrong leaned around Marshall to see Ensign Serrano standing there. Saved by the Ensign. The young man had the control unit to the ground-penetrating sensor system in his hands.

“Sir, we’ve set up everything for the ground scan, if you’re ready?” Serrano asked, his head cocked as he looked at the two senior officers. “Unless you’re busy?” he added with a smirk. “I can come back later.”

“Give it to me,” Armstrong ordered, glaring at Serrano, which just made him smirk more. The ensign walked over to them and handed the device to Armstrong. It was a tablet about 60 centimeters wide, not heavy, but a little unwieldy. “T-Thanks for your help with the fence,” he said to Marshall, once Serrano had retreated back to the botany tent.

“Don’t mention it,” Marshall replied.

The two of them started walking again, and Armstrong quickly realized that he wasn’t getting rid of Marshall anytime soon. On the one hand, he liked being near to him, but on the other hand, he was intensely distracting. It wasn’t just his good looks, either. As Armstrong was setting up the ground scan pattern back on the Da Jiao, Marshall was leaning over from the other side of the table, asking questions about how it all worked. Most of them were pretty basic, given that he wasn’t a scientist, but it was satisfying to see the look of actual curiosity in his eyes, even if some of these explanations needed two or three versions to get to that ‘ah-ha’ moment with him.

“This will take about 12 hours to complete,” Armstrong said, once he’d started the scan. If there was an Ocampa City or some Nacene creation under them, they’d know about it soon enough, but 12 hours was practically glacial by comparison to the speed at which most of the Arcturus’s systems operated. “It looks like they’re still working on the transporter issue.”

“Good. I like being close to the action, anyway. Plus… this is still a luxury vehicle, even with the protocol department having gone through and removed all of the art. It’s not like it’s painful to be here,” Marshall replied. 

That much was true enough; the Da Jiao was meant to host four dignitaries and a crew of eight on diplomatic voyages. Twice as big as a mere captain’s yacht, the two-deck craft was a symbol of the Federation’s prosperity and the seriousness of which it took interacting with other cultures. Given that the Delta Quadrant was still so unknown, though, it had not been used to that role to date, and this was the second mission that it was being used as a ground base for survey operations. The center of both decks was relatively open, which made it perfect for fitting in scientific equipment while also being able to house a survey party indefinitely. But it also had a bar, a banquet table, and even a whirlpool tub on the lower level, which was ostensibly for aquatic beings but also had massage jets. 

Armstrong was grateful when he was called away to give a report to the bridge and Commander Vahlen, retreating to the privacy of his stateroom (another perk of using the diplomatic launch). He stayed there for most of the afternoon, reading the initial survey reports after he’d changed back into a standard duty uniform. He heard laughter coming from the upper level when he emerged for dinner. Once he got up the spiral staircase, he saw most of the team eating together at the round banquet table, with Marshall clearly the star of the show.

There was a jolt of jealousy mixed with envy in the pit of Armstrong’s stomach, wanting both to be the object of Marshall’s attention but also wanting to have his magnetism with a group of people. Both of his brothers were also naturally popular, so he was used to observing social scenes from the periphery, but that didn’t make experiencing it any easier each time it happened. 

Edging towards the side of the room, Armstrong took a seat at the bar, where he had the computer make him a salad to eat while he went over reports. He was almost done with it when Marshall walked over, ducking under the bar to get behind it and lean across the surface at him.

“Hey there, wallflower,” Marshall teased. “Lemme make you a drink?

“You’re a bartender, too?” Armstrong asked, as Marshall dove under the bar to look for supplies. 

“I’m a man of many talents, Commander,” Marshall replied, emerging with a bottle of whisky and two rocks glasses with the ship’s seal on them. 

“Arco,” Armstrong intended.

“I thought your first name was Marcus.”

“It is. It’s a long story. But I had a speech impediment when I was growing up, and the name stuck,” Armstrong replied. ‘Arco’ was the best he could do, when trying to learn to say his own name. It had even led his brother Alexander to go by ‘Lex’ in solidarity. 

“Timothy,” Marshall said, as he poured two very generous glasses. “To fraternization,” he said, holding his up.

“Cheers,” Armstrong replied, matching the gesture and then taking a drink. It was smooth, but also very strong. “Woah. Not synthehol.”

“Triple-distilled Balmoral scotch… 2352,” Marshall read from the bottle.

“They definitely did not mean to leave this on the ship,” Armstrong realized, his eyes getting wide. “It was already open when you found it.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“No. It was. We definitely didn’t just open a bottle of whisky that’s older than either of us.”

“Oh. Yes. It was open when I found it,” Marshall replied, getting the picture. “To not getting into trouble,” he said, raising his glass again.

Light from Omicron Torrensis was glinting through the windows as Lieutenant Commander Marshall emerged from his stateroom’s en suite with a towel cinched around his waist. He’d already taken the liberty of disposing the evidence from the previous night: an apparently quite rare bottle of scotch whisky that was empty by the time he and Commander Armstrong had gotten done with it. Evidently, Armstrong was still passed out face down on the bed; it had been too late in the evening when Marshall had realized that his new friend had spent much less of his time out at the bars than he did himself and had exaggerated his ability to hold his liquor.

“You need to get up, Arco,” Marshall said, sitting down to run his fingers through the older man’s dark hair. The scientist stirred a little bit but didn’t immediately wake up. “It’s 0615. The others are going to be out of their rooms soon.”

“Did we do anything last night?” Armstrong asked the question muffled from his unchanged position on the bed.

“We drank a fifth of whisky, buddy,” Marshall teased.

“Not what I meant.”

“We kissed, but we didn’t have sex, Arco,” the pilot replied.

Though they’d had the same amount to drink the night before, Armstrong had been significantly more intoxicated, so Marshall had made sure that nothing untoward had happened. That hadn’t really been the vibe of the evening, anyway; Armstrong had been highly affectionate but not outwardly sexual. All in all, it had actually been a really enjoyable evening getting to know him, even if it had ended with Marshall needing to keep Armstrong on his side during the night, knowing what could happen to someone who threw up in their sleep.

“Good.” There were a lot of responses to that statement, but “good” was not the one that Marshall wanted or expected. He scoffed and began to stand up before Armstrong grabbed his hand, bolting up. “That came out wrong. I mean, I’m glad we didn’t, because I’m glad I didn’t forget. Not that I wouldn’t… want to. I remember kissing you. It was nice,” he explained with an endearing wide-eyed panic.

“Nerds say the sweetest things,” Marshall replied, pecking him on the lips, glad that he’d made the commander brush his teeth the night before. That explanation was sufficient to placate his nerves; he’d have never forgiven himself if Armstrong had regretted their night together. “How’s your head?”

“Better than I thought I’d be,” Armstrong replied. The lack of a hangover, or at least the lack of a painful one, was likely because Marshall had forced him to drink several liters of water and take a few electrolyte supplements before bed. “Thanks for taking care of me last night. I’m embarrassed I needed you to, though.”

“Don’t be. We’ve all been there,” Marshall said, pecking him on the lips again.

Armstrong laughed. “This is my first time. Blacking out, I mean. And ending up in a stranger’s bed,” he said, blushing as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Marshall frowned. “Stranger? I know what the inside of your mouth tastes like, so we’re not strangers.”

The scientist squirmed. “Er… Yeah. Fair enough. I guess I just mean that I don’t normally do things like this. But I don’t regret it either. But I also don’t want to imply any claim to your friendship or… I’m really bad at this, aren’t I?” he tried.

“Take a shower, Arco. You can be anxious later.”

Marshall gave Armstrong a wink and then went over to the duffle he’d brought from the Arcturus with his spare uniforms. He smirked to himself when he heard a sharp intake of breath from the other man when he dropped his towel but didn’t turn around until he was fully clothed and he heard the sonic shower turn on. He didn’t quite know if he was interested in Armstrong romantically or if he was interested in that sort of thing at all being so new to the ship, but the scientist was definitely nice to spend time with. He was endearing and sweet, seemingly without guile—but also without any game at all, until you got a little whisky into him, judging from how long it took him to react to a day of Marshall’s flirting.

Marshall left Armstrong behind in the cabin so that they wouldn’t be seen emerging from the same room; he didn’t care particularly for his own sake, but he doubted Armstrong’s introversion would be able to handle the gossip. There wasn’t much for a pilot to do on a grounded ship, but he still went up to the cockpit to check the diagnostics and make sure she was ready to fly after a night on the surface. When he returned to the banquet hall in the center of the upper deck for breakfast, Armstrong was already there reviewing telemetry from their ground scan at a standing console near the side of the room.

Armstrong perked up a little and offered him a smile, but when he returned to the data, he had a look of apparent confusion on his face. “Uh, Zhuan, could you join me over here?” he asked.

“Can’t I have my banana first, sir?” the other scientist replied, from her seat across from Marshall at the breakfast table.

“No. I need you to look at this,” Armstrong replied, more sharply than Marshall had heard from him before. Zhuan blushed and then rushed over to where Armstrong was standing. “This can’t be right, can it? Did we not calibrate the sensor correctly?”

“No, we triple-checked it. There’s nothing wrong with the sensor. This planet is hollow,” the lieutenant replied.

“Shit. I was hoping it was the hangover,” Armstrong grumbled.

Twenty minutes later, Armstrong had brought Captain Lancaster and Commander Vahlen up to speed, with a lot of technical data that Marshall didn’t understand, but the main point being clear: the crust of the planet was about 5 kilometers thick, like that of most other terrestrial worlds, but there was no mantel. Or core. Just a massive void, held together with technology that they couldn’t begin to understand.

“I think this puts to rest any ideas of a possible coincidence at work,” Vahlen scoffed. “This is a Nacene construction.”

“We know that it is artificial. The Nacene angle is still speculation until we have proof!” Armstrong insisted.

“Enough,” Lancaster said, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Marshall, I want you to pull stakes. Get the Da Jiao back to the Arcturus,” he ordered.

“Captain, no! We have to continue our studies!” Vahlen insisted.

Lancaster glared, and Marshall was rooted in place, knowing the likely outcome of their discussion, but also caught between the two senior officers.

“We will, but as this is not a planet, there is no point leaving a planetary surface team on the surface, Commander. I am not going to risk their safety. Marshall, you have your orders,” Lancaster snapped.

“Aye, Captain!” Marshall replied.

While the transporters couldn’t penetrate from orbit to the surface of the planet, they still worked in the local area around the Da Jiao, which allowed them to pull all of their equipment back in before Marshall took the helm and brought the small vessel off of the planet’s surface.

“Well, that’s a fuck-ton of work gone to waste,” Armstrong complained from the co-pilot’s station.

Marshall grinned at him. “I think you can agree it wasn’t entirely to waste, sir,” he whispered.

They had been hoping to uncover some sort of hidden control center or analog to the Ocampa City, but they had instead discovered that Omicron Torrensis IV was entirely hollow. It wasn’t just terraformed; it was artificial. Commander Armstrong was correct; there was no solid evidence that it was the Nacene, at least not yet, but Lancaster was still secretly on Commander Vahlen’s side. No other explanation made sense to him, dangerous as that might be for the integrity of their scientific conclusions. The data from the ground sensor array had allowed Lancaster to develop a scanning program that could penetrate the planet’s crust to get an even better picture of what they were dealing with. 

“Engineering to Bridge. We have applied your modifications to the deflector array, Captain,” Okusanya reported from deep within the bowels of the ship.

“Acknowledged,” Lancaster replied, tapping his badge. “Begin survey program, Mr. Vahlen,” he ordered to the chief science officer, who was standing at his station aft of the command area.

“Initiating,” Vahlen confirmed. 

There was a visible burst of energy from the deflector as it focused a steady stream of nadions through the long-range sensors to penetrate the crust. Lancaster knew it would work, but he wasn’t prepared for how fast it would do so.

“This is incredible, sir. I’m detecting what appears to be a Nacene array at the center of this structure. It’s what’s providing the gravitational field, as well as projecting the tetryon radiation fields around the planet,” Vahlen replied. “Wait… Something is changing. The array is emitting a lot of energy.”

“Shields up,” Lancaster ordered. “Yellow alert.”

There was a low hum as the ship’s defensive systems energized, but moments later, a band of energy appeared on the far end of the bridge, passing methodically through the compartment and through everyone in it without any sense of being slowed by their shields. Lancaster stood up, turning to Vahlen for an explanation as they were scanned.

“That was a coherent tetryon beam,” the scientist said.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Lancaster replied. 

“Our databases are being accessed!” Alesser reported from operations. “Our… our entire computer has just been downloaded, Captain!”

“That’s impossible,” Lancaster replied. “Secure our–,” he started before he vanished mid-sentence.

When Lancaster regained consciousness, he was suspended by his arms and legs in a chamber he didn’t recognize. He knew he was nowhere on the Arcturus, not that there were any restraint devices on his ship capable of holding him that way. He couldn’t move his head at all, but from the pinpricks on his skin, he could tell he wasn’t wearing any clothes. In front of him, there was a cylinder running three meters or so from floor to ceiling, which swirled with purple and blue light.

“YOU ARE NOT THE EXPECTED INPUT,” a voice boomed throughout the room. Lancaster let out an involuntary gasp of pain from the sheer volume; it felt like the sound was all around him, shouting directly into his ears. “You are not the expected input,” the voice repeated, at a normal speaking volume; Lancaster wondered if it had calibrated itself based on scans of his physiology or if the first time was just for input.

“I am Captain Michael Lancaster of the Federation starship Arcturus,” he replied.

“This is known. I have scanned your ship. Why are you here?”

“If you have scanned my ship, you know that we are here to explore.”

“That is an incomplete explanation. Do you seek to settle or exploit this facility?”

“We only seek knowledge. We have no interest in settling this part of the galaxy,” Lancaster replied. “Who are you? Are you a Nacene?”

“I am of the Nacene, but I am not Nacene. They created me to complete this project. I now await the expected input.”

“What is this place?”

“You call it Omicron Torrensis IV.”

“Well, what do you call it?”

“Habitat Project Zero-Zero-Zero-One.”

“For the Ocampa? We have a working theory that this is some attempt to make amends for destabilizing their atmosphere,” Lancaster suggested. 

“Yes.”

“We’ve met them. They would certainly be grateful for this world.”

“They would be welcome here. They would be an acceptable input,” the device replied. “You are not welcome here, though.”

“We are allies of the Ocampa!” Lancaster exclaimed.  

“Irrelevant. You are extraneous variables. You will be returned to your origin.”

“We will leave orbit on our own if you do not wish us to be here,” the captain said.

“No. I have completed my analysis. Your ship could wield significant destructive power in retaliation for denying you settlement rights. It must be removed. You will be returned to your origin.”

“Wait! Look at our logs. The last time the Nacene moved one of our ships, there were significant casualties!” Lancaster replied in a cold panic. 

There was a pause. “Confirmed. Adjustments will be made to minimize this possibility,” it said. “Do not attempt to return to this world. My defenses are significant.”

Moments later, Lancaster found himself face down on the cold deck of the bridge. First Officer Rakan was at his side shouting for the medical department as someone else draped a jacket over his back. Whatever process had been used to transport him had left him dazed as he tried to process what had just happened.

“Computer, emergency power to structural integrity fields and inertial dampeners. All hands, brace for impact,” he ordered in a whisper. 

The computer picked up his command, though, moments before the entire deck rocked under him. Whoever had covered him was holding him down to the deck as well, and Rakan was tossed off to the side. The ship’s structural members seemed to groan and whine for what seemed like an eternity before everything went silent.

“Report!” Lancaster gasped.

“Checking all systems, Captain,” Alesser reported. “No apparent damage or casualties.”

“What is our position?” 

“We’re… We’re in the Alpha Quadrant, Captain. At Epsilon Indi, according to these readings,” Marshall said from the helm.

Lancaster furrowed his brow. He was expecting Earth until it dawned on him: the Arcturus was built at Epsilon Indi Station. “I guess we’re back at our point of origin, then. Serves us right for poking around in paradise,” he muttered before blacking out.