“What I wouldn’t give for my husband’s bad coffee right now.”

Alicia Gregory stood in front of the food synthesizer, her hands wrapped around an insulated mug sipping what passed for coffee.

“I hear the next software update is going to improve the bacon and eggs,” Richard Salvador replied. He glanced over at Alicia, who took a seat next to him at the survey monitor table. “A shame they couldn’t assign us a cook.”

Alicia grunted in agreement as she sipped the bad coffee. She knew, however, that the mission profile did not permit luxuries like a cook or even a galley. The three members of the Mercia Duckblind Observation Team – the third member, Simon Rasmussen, was on a field observation outing – relieved the previous team two months ago and were nearing the end of their three-month hitch studying the pre-industrial civilization on Mercia VII.

The Federation’s Duckblind Initiative was new and had only been deployed to a limited number of pre-industrial planetary civilizations. Three-member teams of the Federation’s best anthropologists were assigned to a small base built into the natural landscape near multiple native settlements. The observation portals and access door were masked by hologram, camouflaging the duckblind to the native inhabitants. The teams would send updates weekly and a starship would deliver a new rotation of personnel every three months.

Although the weeks passed slowly, Alicia found the experience professionally fulfilling. Although team members were forbidden from interacting with natives during the daily field trips, she found there was great value in on-the-ground observation. There was a significant difference, for instance, in speculating what a tool was used for and actually watching it being used. She would take her experiences here on Mercia to the digs of long dead civilizations on other planets.

The communications panel beeped softly, and Alicia took the opportunity to return the half full coffee mug to the synthesizer for recycling on her way to answer the call.

“Mercia Base here,” she said after opening the channel. “Go ahead, Simon.”

“Hourly check-in. I’m hearing talk of a jousting tournament next week in the village to the west of here.” Simon’s distinctive and precise British accent filtered through the speaker. “I’d really like to see that.”

Alicia smiled. Across from her Richard chuckled and shook his head.

“We’ll draw straws for that one, Simon,” Alicia answered. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Can we push back beam-in about thirty minutes today? I want to pick some wild fruit.”

In addition to being a top-notch anthropologist, Simon Rasmussen was a wilderness survivalist, which meant he knew the safe fruit to pick and from which trees and bushes. If it weren’t for his occasional sojourns into natural groves of fruit bearing trees, the team would have been limited to meals produced by the dubious food synthesizer.

“Go right ahead. We’ll see you at eighteen-thirty then. Mercia Base, out.”

Alicia was getting ready to return to her technology survey report when the sensor alert sounded.

Richard looked up from his own reading. “What’s that?”

Alicia shrugged as she brought up the sensor readout on the small base’s main viewscreen. Her expression morphed into one of confusion as she studied it.

“There’s a ship in orbit,” she said, sounding perplexed.

Richard looked over the top of his book. “We aren’t due for replacements in three weeks.”

Alicia shrugged again, and was about to reach for the communications control again when four orange columns of light coalesced into Mercian natives. Alicia’s face gasped in surprise as they lifted Klingon disruptors.

Exclaiming in excitement, she made a move toward a nearby weapons locker, but was taken down by a disruptor bolt, falling dead to the deck. Another blast made quick work of Richard, who never even had a chance to react. His body keeled over onto the survey monitor table.

One of the Mercians pulled a communicator from a leather bag slung over his shoulder and spoke into it.

“It is done,” he simply said.

“Good,” came the reply. “Place the charges and return immediately.”

The Mercian replaced the communicator and grunted commands to the other three, who began quickly placing charges throughout the duckblind – on consoles, bulkheads, in storage compartments. In another ten minutes, the four figures dissolved in an orange transporter beam.

Seconds later, the duckblind interior was consumed by a cascade of explosions.

“Rasmussen to Mercia Base.”

Having finished his observations for the day, Simon followed procedure and walked far enough away from the settlement for safe beam-out so as not to be seen by any of the native Mercians. He had finished his fruit gathering and arrived at his usual spot to be returned to the duckblind. Except he’d been waiting about three minutes for a reply from the base. If there was going to be delay, they’d usually let him know, but this was strange. After ten minutes, Simon was starting to get worried. He dumped all but a few of the native pears he’d picked, storing them in a native fashioned knapsack, and began the eight-kilometer hike to the duckblind location.

By the time he arrived, the sun had started setting and it was getting darker. It was the low light that caused him to question what he saw: a column of smoke emerging from inside the hill where the duckblind should have been. He approached cautiously, and saw a fire raging from within the hill where his colleagues would have been awaiting his return. As he got closer, Simon saw flames and was horrified. The holographic projection had been deactivated. Or damaged. He wasn’t sure which, but he suspected the latter.

As he neared the portals he peered inside, seeing the remains of his two teammates within. He backed away for a few moments, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. When he turned around and approached the portal again, he noticed the camouflage flicker into existence for a moment and then disappear.

“Maybe I can fix it,” he said quietly to himself.

Simon crawled through the portal and began beating out flames. The heat was not so intense that he couldn’t stay in the compartment. Whatever happened, it must have been hours ago. The duckblind site had been selected for its proximity to major settlements, but also for its remote location that would reduce exposure in the unlikely worst case scenario that Simon was now faced with. The likelihood that a native might have passed by and seen the exposed duckblind was low, but Simon did not want to take that chance. He pried open an access panel to the holoprojector. It was difficult because the metal was still warm and he was trying to move quickly. Simon pulled at wires and relays, succeeding at getting the projector activated for about ten seconds at a time before shutting down for thirty. Finally, he stumbled upon the right sequence and got the camouflage up permanently.

Well, he thought, at least for as long as the emergency battery holds out.

The further he got into the duckblind, the more perplexed he was about what happened. Equipment malfunction? Not likely. Hostile attack? The Duckblind Initiative was still classified. There were high-ranking Starfleet personnel who didn’t even know about it. And there was much better classified material for the Klingons or Romulans to want to get their hands on that had nothing to do with studying pre-industrial civilizations. Who would do this?

Simon gathered what little he could from the supplies that had not been vaporized and vacated the duckblind. Something else they had trained for was the loss of the base. It was something they had joked about quite a bit, but now it was Simon’s reality. The first order of business, said the manual, is survival.

The sun was getting low in the horizon and the sky was becoming dark. Simon hefted the knapsack upon his back, gave one last look at the hill, said a silent blessing for his lost colleagues, and disappeared into the night.

Captain’s log, stardate 8791.8. The Phoenix is en route to the Gamma Ceti star system for a in-depth survey mission following up on the initial visit by the U.S.S. Kongo three years ago. This will be the Phoenix’s first mission under my command, and the entire crew is anxious to put the system upgrades through their paces. Included in our mission will be a planetside excursion to Gamma Ceti IV, the only M-Class planet in the system. I may even let Mister Jarvis land the saucer to test out its independent flight mode. I’m anxious to see how it performs myself.

Commander Jack Conrad popped the lid off of one of the small cargo crates sitting on his bunk, removing two framed photos, and placing them on his desk. One of the photos showed a much younger Jack, with another human male and an Andorian female, each dressed in gray Starfleet cadet dress uniforms. The iconic Golden Gate Bridge loomed large above the Presidio campus in the background. The other photo was from his honeymoon five years ago. He was shirtless on a beach in Costa Rica with his wife, Commander Jessica Morales, arms wrapped around his chest, hanging on his back. Their smiles beamed in the Central American sunlight and their hair was damp, having just come in from a swim in the ocean.

Jack reached back into the crate and removed another frame, this one containing a sketch Jessica had done about halfway through the Phoenix’s twelve-month refit. Art had not been a natural skill she possessed, but during the refit, she had taken to sketching design ideas out on paper. In between working out equations she would doodle, and eventually her doodles evolved into proper works of art. She had done caricatures for almost every major member of the Project Phoenix refit team, with the exception of Commodore Babish, who would not have cared to see her treatment of his prodigious nose.

The work Jessica produced of her husband depicted Jack in a spacesuit, waving a Stetson hat in one hand and holding a lasso tied to the Phoenix in the other. In giant letters above Jack and the starship were the words “SPACE COWBOY,” a nickname Jack had acquired at Starfleet Academy given partly because of his childhood spent growing up in an agricultural community on Benecia Colony, but also because of his bravado, and sometimes reckless nature, as a pilot.

As he affixed Jessica’s sketch to the bulkhead above the desk, the door chime sounded.

“Come on in,” he announced.

The doors parted to reveal the Phoenix’s engineer Ned Hennessy. Jack heaved a sigh of relief.

“For a moment, I thought it was going to be T’Prana,” he said to the engineer.

Ned offered a weak chuckle in response. The Vulcan officer, who was serving as first officer and science officer, had been Jack’s shadow from the moment she arrived on board forty-eight hours ago. She was just out of command school, newly promoted to lieutenant commander, and eager to please. Jack found it uncharacteristic of a Vulcan to want anyone’s approval, much less a human’s. He was sure there was a story there.

As Ned stepped inside Jack’s quarters, his gaze scanned the room, finally falling upon the photos on Jack’s desk.

“That’s a good one of you and Jess,” he said pointing toward the honeymoon photo.

“We need another vacation,” Jack replied as he put his skivvies into a drawer. “Would you hand me that paperweight in that crate near your leg?”

Ned looked down and retrieved the glass orb, handing it carefully to Jack. As he did so, his eyes squinted behind the round frames of his spectacles as he lifted the other frame to take a look at the second photo.

“My God, we were young,” he said as he looked at his younger self next to Jack. His hair was longer and his face full of excitement for the future. They all had that expression: young cadets on the way to their first assignments, ready to conquer the universe. Ned replaced the photo on Jack’s desk.

“Don’t I know it,” Jack answered. “How’s everything in engineering?”

“By the numbers so far. The upgraded electroplasma distribution network is handling power demands well. Warp field stability is surpassing expectations. So is the engineering staff.”

“Ned, you could have told me this over the comm system.”

“You asked, sir.”

“Ned, twenty-four hours ago, you were still calling me ‘Jack.’ There’s no need to go formal now.”

“I’m just trying to acclimate to my new life.”

Jack looked around his quarters, still in disarray from not yet being unpacked. There was a small box on one of the two chairs in the room. He moved it and pointed toward the now vacant chair. “Sit,” he said.

Ned lowered himself into the seat, as Jack moved a crate aside to sit on his bunk. The two men stared at each other for a long moment before Jack finally spoke up.

“You got a raw deal, Ned. There’s no one who’d argue against that.”

“Commodore Babish-”

“-is a horse’s ass for doing this to you,” Jack said, finishing Ned’s sentence. “I can count on one hand the number of times the reserve activation clause has been used, and in those cases the officers who were affected actually requested it.”

“It’s retribution, Jack,” Ned said. “He’s trying to get me out of the way.”

“Retribution for what, though?”

Ned merely shrugged.

Jack stood up and began pacing the deck in what little space was available, avoiding the cargo crates as he did. Jack and Ned had gone to Starfleet Academy together and eventually their careers brought them back together on the U.S.S. Lexington. Jack was the senior helm officer and Ned was a science officer. They were both on board the ship during the disastrous M-5 wargames with the U.S.S. Enterprise, and they both had seen friends die in the attack. After that, while Jack remained in the fleet, Ned spent the rest of his time in Starfleet teaching at the academy before mustering out. Without the routine of Starfleet duty, Ned charted his own course, pursued advanced degrees in engineering, and eventually fell into a professorship at University of the Federation, where he had achieved a great level of success as a teacher and researcher.

In a very big way, Jack was responsible for Ned being taken out of Starfleet mothballs, and right now he was feeling immense guilt over it. When he was given command of the Phoenix and the refit, his first call was to Ned, asking his old friend to take a sabbatical from academia. “It’ll be fun,” Jack said at the time, and Ned did not hesitate. Indeed, Ned’s contributions to the team had allowed the ship to launch on its test missions months ahead of what had initially been projected.

Then came the mysterious personnel orders. The officer assigned as the Phoenix’s chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Musa, was finishing up teaching a semester at Starfleet Academy and would arrive at Meridian Station mere days before the ship would launch. Babish put a hold on Sotonwa’s transfer. When Jack asked why, Babish merely said he was examining some other options. Less than twenty-four hours before the ship left drydock, Babish activated Ned’s reserve status, assigning him as the Phoenix’s chief engineer. Ned did not take the news well, showing up at Jack and Jessica’s apartment dressed in his old blue Starfleet tunic, reeking of Aldebaran whiskey. Jack protested to Babish, and threatened to take it over the commodore’s head. Babish acknowledged that it was Ned’s right to appeal, but that the matter would get tied up in bureaucratic red tape for so long that the Phoenix would have concluded its two-year mission by the time a ruling was made.

It wasn’t fair, but it was the reality both Jack and Ned were stuck with. Jack had apologized profusely for bringing him onto the refit team in the first place. He could not figure out Babish’s logic.

“We both butted heads with him,” Jack said. “I don’t understand why he’d-”

“Jack, let’s just drop it,” Ned said. “None of this is going to make the next two years go by any quicker.”

Ned sounded defensive, and Jack wanted to pursue the topic, but the engineer’s tone indicated he wanted to drop the subject. Jack sat back down on his bunk.

“All right. Fair enough, but you obviously stopped by here for some reason, so what’s up?”

“Do I have to wear this all the time?” Ned gestured at the maroon uniform jacket and trousers.

For all the melancholy that was hanging in the room, Jack managed a smile and a laugh.

“No, I’m not going to make you wear it on duty. If the commodore or any other brass ever visit, you’ll have to, but to me you’re a civilian contractor on temporary assignment to Starfleet, and specifically to me. Outside of port, I have broad authority in that matter. However…” Jack rose to open up another of the cargo crates, he dug around for a few moments until he produced a small box. “I do need to change your costume jewelry. Stand up, Ned.”

Ned rose from the chair, and Jack approached him. He removed the lieutenant insignia from his shoulder strap and sleeve. He opened the box and removed two lieutenant commander pins, placing them on Ned’s uniform.

“This is another perk of starship command. I’m granting you a field promotion to lieutenant commander. It will boost your pension and might even get you free drinks at most any civilian bar in the Federation.”

“Charming, though after the other night, I think I’ll be on the wagon for the time being.” Ned looked at the newly placed insignia on the ochre shoulder strap. Jack detected a barely perceptible smile on his face.

“You should have spent your academy years building a tolerance, like I did.”

“Agreed. I’d have needed to be drunk most of the time to fly the way you do.”

The commander clapped the engineer on the shoulder. “At least you’re getting your sense of humor back. Now, get out of here and go put on that ratty lab coat you love so much. I’m due on the bridge.”

“Actually,” Ned said looking down again at the new insignia, “I think I’ll keep this on a few more hours, just to remind the folks in engineering who’s in charge.”

Jack was about to retort when the communications panel whistled.

 “Bridge to captain.” It was T’Prana.

Jack stepped over to his desk and pushed aside a crate that was obstructing the communications panel. He thumbed open the channel.

“Conrad here. Go ahead.”

“We have an incoming transmission from Commodore al Rashid at Starbase 21, sir.”

“On my way. Conrad out.”

Jack picked up his uniform jacket and slipped into it. He beckoned Ned to follow him. “Tag along, engineer. After all, that little bauble I just gave you also makes you second officer.”

Ned grimaced at the statement. “And I thought it was for my winning personality.”

It was a short walk from Jack’s quarters to the bridge. Lieutenant Rains, the communications officer, was the first to see him enter.

“Captain on the bridge,” she announced.

T’Prana rose from the command chair and took her place at the science station. Ensigns Jarvis and Robinson sat at helm and navigation, respectively. Ned leaned on the railing behind the engineering station where one of his junior officers sat.

“I have the commodore standing by, sir,” Rains said.

“Put him on screen, lieutenant.”

The screen switched from standby mode to an image of Commodore Faisal al Rashid, seated at his desk on Starbase 21. Jack didn’t know the commodore personally, but knew him by reputation. He was from an old Federation family. One of his ancestors was Haroun al Rashid, one of the early Federation presidents after holding several leadership positions in Terra’s United Earth planetary government. He had been captain of the Constitution-class U.S.S. Ti-Ho before being promoted to fleet captain and command of the dreadnought U.S.S. Directorate, showing the flag along the Klingon neutral zone. After that, there was no place for him to go but up into the flag ranks and a starbase administration assignment.

“Commodore,” Jack said as he settled into the command chair. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“I apologize in advance for the inconvenience, captain, but your present mission is being put on hold. I’m placing you on detached duty for a special assignment.”

Jack tried to stifle a worried expression, but al Rashid saw through it.

“I assure you it’s only temporary, but time is of the essence, Commander Conrad.”

“We serve at the pleasure of Starfleet, commodore,” Jack replied. “What are our orders?”

“The cultural survey team on Mercia VII was supposed to transmit a routine check-in forty-eight hours ago. They did not. Repeated attempts to contact the team have failed. There’s no time for you to come to Twenty-One, so I have dispatched Doctor Aidan Grant via shuttlecraft. Doctor Grant was part of a Starfleet mission to Mercia VI twenty years ago, and will brief you on the planet’s culture, humanoid inhabitants, and Prime Directive protocols related to landing parties integrating into pre-warp societies.”

“Hold on, commodore,” Jack said. “Did you say ‘landing party’?”

“Yes, commander. If the team has been compromised, we’re looking at a possible cultural contamination on a grand scale. Mercia VII’s current state of development is comparable to Earth’s Middle Ages. Doctor Grant will have more information for you when he arrives.”

“I see,” Jack said. I guess we won’t be test landing the saucer.

“I’m sending a coded transmission with the rendezvous coordinates. Proceed with all speed.”

“Aye, sir,” Jack said, rising from the chair. “We won’t let you down, commodore.”

“Good luck, captain. Starbase 21 out.”

Stepped up toward the science station and addressed his first officer.

“Get me everything Starfleet has on Mercia VII. I want to be up to speed on this before we meet Doctor Grant.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll start selecting a landing party.”

Jack almost did a double take at his first officer’s statement. For a Vulcan, she sounded over eager, if not a tad presumptuous.

“Reign it in, commander,” he said quietly. He turned toward the rest of the bridge and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let’s wait until our visitor briefs us.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain,” Rains’ voice rang from the other side of the bridge, “receiving encoded coordinates from Starbase 21.”

“Decode and transmit to Mister Robinson.” He stepped down to the helm and navigation console. “Set a course for the rendezvous point. Most direct route.”

“I’d like to see a weather report before I—”

Jack smiled at the young man.

“You’re in deep space now, ensign, and we have to move quickly. We can correct the course along the way.”

“Of course, sir.” The young ensign averted his gaze from Jack as his dark skinned hands programmed the course into the navigation console. “Course set.”

“Mister Jarvis, ahead warp…”

Up by the engineering station Ned was subtly signaling to Jack with six fingers.

“Warp six.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jack allowed his gaze to circle the bridge, finally settling back on Red Jarvis at the helm.

“Let’s go to work.”

Doctor Deni Valaja stood in the Phoenix’s small sickbay, frowning and picking at her lip nervously as she studied the patient record on the datapad in her hands. Opposite her, hovering above the deck was a metallic grey sphere affixed with sensors and a central blue “eye” at the sphere’s equator and a what looked like a speaker grille below it. Four appendages extended out from the sphere, two from each hemisphere.

“Forgive me, ensign, I’ve never met a Medusan before,” she said after a few moments.

“There’s no need to apologize, doctor.” The voice emitted from the speaker. “There aren’t many of us in Starfleet.”

The Medusan spoke with a sedate, feminine voice without much modulation. If the Medusan had not been right in front of her, Doctor Valaja would have thought she was listening to the ship’s computer.

“In fact, I’ve never met any noncorporeal lifeforms. I’ve only been out of medical school a few years. This is my first deep space assignment.” She glanced down at the datapad and then placed it on a tray of surgical instruments, picking up a tricorder and Feinberger. “Ensign Zarrus. Did I pronounce that correctly?”

“Your pronunciation was accurate, however my classmates at Starfleet Academy took to calling me ‘Zee.’”

“A nickname? You’re lucky. They must have liked you.” She waved the Feinberger over the sphere containing Zarrus’ energy.

“Eventually. At first there was understandable fear. After all, we are the only known species whose natural form can drive humanoids to insanity.”

Even without the natural inflection, Valaja could tell that Zarrus had practiced the subtleties of humor, and she chuckled. She returned the Feinberger to its spot on the instrument tray and consulted the tricorder.

“These readings line up with Doctor Setal’s recommended baseline for a healthy Medusan.” She replaced the Feinberger on the tray. “If you don’t mind my saying so, ensign, I might get a decent research paper out of you.”

“Not at all, doctor,” Zarrus replied. “Though I don’t know what could be explored that Doctor Setal has not already written about.”

Valaja picked up the datapad and a stylus and made notes on Zarrus’ file.

“May I ask a question, doctor?”

“Certainly.”

“A moment ago you called me lucky for having a nickname. Did you not have a nickname at the Academy, doctor?”

Valaja chuckled again. “No, I did not, ensign. No one expects much from you when you come from a resort planet.” She pointed to the Risian family emblem affixed to the center of her forehead.

“I recognized the emblem. I am familiar with Risa from an academic standpoint. I have not had occasion to visit. Should I?”

“Well, you may not enjoy it as much as corporeal beings.” She continued entering notes on the datapad. “Honestly, I don’t miss it all that much. It’s home and it always will be, but when you grow up on a planet that is engineered to provide every manner of pleasure, a natural side effect is that you lose a desire to leave. We don’t yearn for…” she paused a moment and gestured around the small sickbay, “…this.”

“This?” Zarrus asked.

“A life off Risa. A life out here in space.”

A long moment of silence hung between them. Valaja wondered for a moment if the concept of reaching beyond one’s grasp was alien to Zarrus, who, by their very nature, was confined to the small floating habitat.

“I believe I understand,” they finally said.

Valaja smiled and walked the datapad over to the nurse’s station, handing it to Jix, her K’tarian head nurse.

“That does it for your physical, such as it is,” the doctor said. “I’ll continue studying Doctor Setal’s notes with regard to your physiology and how to monitor your health. In the meantime, I’ll tell you what I tell all my patients: if you feel sick, I don’t know unless you say something.”

“I am well attuned to what you would call my ‘personal health,’ doctor. If I notice any changes, I will alert you immediately.” Zarrus hovered toward the sickbay door. “I have enjoyed the conversation, and would stay, but I must meet Ensign Robinson in the astrometrics lab. He requires an updated weather report.”

The sickbay doors parted and the sphere carrying Zarrus passed through easily.

Valaja left the ward area and stepped into her small office. There was a desk and a chair and that was it. Not even a place for a visitor to sit. The cup of tea she had made still sat on the desk top. She lifted it and took a sip. It had gotten cold. She touched a control on her computer console.

“Computer, begin recording. Patient notes: Ensign Zarrus, Medusan. Using data from Doctor Setal’s texts on Medusan physiology, I will establish baseline norms for patient every two weeks for the next twelve weeks. Will contact Setal if —”

“Doctor, your next exam is here!” It was Jix calling from her station.

Doctor Valaja sighed, closed her eyes for five seconds, and stood up.

“On my way.”

At the bridge science station, Lieutenant Commander T’Prana familiarized herself with the planet Mercia VII – geography, atmospheric composition, cultural development, geology, flora, fauna and anything else she thought Commander Conrad would ask when she briefed him on the planet later. Though she was trying to commit it to memory, a pervading thought intruded upon her attempts to assimilate the information.

“Rein it in, commander,” Conrad had said to her earlier on the bridge. To his credit, he said it quiet enough that no one with standard humanoid hearing acuity could discern the words, unless they could read lips. She had not familiarized herself enough with the crew to know if any of the bridge officers possessed that talent.

“Rein it in.” All she had done was recommend selecting a landing party, which was standard procedure for a mission such as the one Phoenix had been ordered to undertake. And based on her research, it was advisable to start thinking about that now. The cultural briefing alone would require at least 48 hours to instruct the landing party on the local customs. Based on the ship’s ETA, they would be arriving in the middle of a monthlong festival designed to celebrate the first harvest of Mercia VII’s calendar year. Maybe she needed to recommend to Conrad that he request another ship be assigned to this mission.

“Rein it in.”

Her first meeting with Conrad had been less than seventy-two hours ago. They had never even spoken via subspace before her arrival at Meridian Station to report to the Phoenix. She had just completed command school at Starfleet Academy, expecting to be assigned back to the Saratoga, when she received orders to report to Conrad on the Phoenix as his first officer. From the moment she beamed aboard, it was very rushed. He greeted her and promptly handed her off to Chief Mort, who grabbed her duffel bag from where it was slung over her shoulder and launched it into the arms of a young crewman. Mort’s guided tour of the Phoenix was perfunctory. It took less than 15 minutes, which she deemed not near enough time to orient herself, but Mort insisted that he had launch preparation duties, and left her at the door to her quarters. To Mort’s credit, the crewman he had assigned to take charge of her duffel had delivered it and set it neatly on her bunk. She had not even begun to unpack it when she was being paged to an officer’s briefing.

That was her first thirty minutes aboard.

It was a marked contrast to the life she had just left at Starfleet Academy’s command school – structured, regimented, and at a measured pace. Indeed, it was the life she experienced in most of her other assignments. So far, life aboard Phoenix was coarse, uneven, undisciplined. As a Vulcan, she was supposed to possess the control to keep her ego in check, but in this moment, she confessed to herself that she was failing. Was the Phoenix a punishment, and if so, for what offense?

“Commander.” It was Lieutenant Rains at the communications console. “The captain wants to know when you’ll be delivering your report.”

T’Prana sighed to herself. “Tell him within five minutes, lieutenant. Convey my apologies.”

At the helm, Red Jarvis snickered.

“Jack doesn’t really care for apologies.”

T’Prana spun around to face the helmsman.

“Mister Jarvis! You’ve been warned about using that familiar tone while on duty.”

“Aw, commander, Jack isn’t even around.”

The first officer rose from her seat and stepped down toward the front of the helm. She turned her icy gaze on him.

“But I am, and right now this bridge is mine.” Her words came out at a rapid clip. “And if you can’t follow simple Starfleet regulations on decorum, I have no reservations about relieving you and confining you to quarters.”

Red appeared unfazed at the Vulcan’s threat.

“C’mon, commander,” he said with a smirk. “He and his wife used to have me over for dinner all the time at Utopia Planitia. He’s almost like—”

“I don’t give a damn!”

The words escaped her throat before she could think about them. Her face felt flush, and she detected the eyes of every member of the bridge crew locked on her. She allowed her gaze to shift over toward Samantha Rains. The communications officer looked shocked. T’Prana suspected Rains wasn’t the only one.

“Lieutenant Rains, you have the conn. I’ll be delivering my report to the captain.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rains answered quietly.

T’Prana rushed toward the bridge egress. When the doors shut behind her, she leaned against the bulkhead, closed her eyes, and took three deep breaths. In her mind, the first officer replayed the events of less than a minute ago, always seeing it from outside her own body. What had happened? She would have to fit in some meditation during her off-duty hours later. In the meantime, she needed to focus. She took another deep breath, turned toward the captain’s quarters and nearly ran into Gilan Fideran, the ship’s yeoman. She gasped.

“Commander, are you all right?” the Zakdorn woman asked.

“Yes, chief, I’m fine,” T’Prana answered immediately.

“The captain—”

“—is waiting. Yes, I know. Thank you, chief.” She gave Fideran a dismissive wave. “Carry on.”

Fideran gave a curt nod and headed toward the bridge ingress.

As the door hissed and T’Prana was sure she was alone again, she composed herself, and walked briskly toward Conrad’s quarters. She touched the door chime and waited. A moment later the doors parted admitting her. Upon stepping inside, she saw the captain seated at his desk, sipping a steaming beverage from a mug and studying an engineering report from Lieutenant Commander Hennessy. His uniform jacket laid neatly on the bunk.

“Commander T’Prana reporting, sir.”

“T’Prana, when it’s just us you don’t have to be so formal.”

She relaxed her stance, and hoped that in the low lighting that her disappointment was not apparent. It didn’t matter. Conrad had not yet looked up from the engineering report.

“Mercia VII, sir,” she said coming right to the point. The sooner she could push through her report, the sooner she could return – well, the bridge was not likely to be any more comfortable than here in Conrad’s quarters. “It is as Commodore al Rashid described it – decidedly pre-warp. Mercia VII is in the equivalent of your native Earth’s medieval period.”

Conrad slowly looked up from his engineering report, an amused smirk on his face.

“Sir?” T’Prana said, looking confused.

“I’m from Benecia Colony, commander.”

She looked down at the deck and sighed. “I’m sorry, captain. I will commit that fact to memory,” T’Prana said. In this moment she recalled something one of her academy roommates once said. There are some people do don’t need to give a shovel to. They’ll dig their own hole without your help. She did not fully understand the sentiment until now.

Conrad nodded and gestured for her to continue.

“Yes, sir. Rather than a feudal system, the Mercians have a benevolent monarchy. Most of the kingdom is concentrated on one continent. There are pockets of nomadic tribes on the minor continents that, at the present level of technological advancement and migratory patterns, will not encounter the dominant civilization for nearly half a century.”

Conrad stood up from his desk, and began pacing the small cabin, rubbing his forehead with the heels of his hand.

“I’m sure it’s a fascinating planet, but why do we have a cultural survey team there?”

“I’m afraid there are more questions than answers to that, sir.” T’Prana felt herself slipping into science officer mode. “I found a few research papers on the planet written by a Doctor Eric Cox more than 25 years ago. They weren’t of great significance.”

Conrad turned toward her, an inquisitive expression on his face.

“I sense there’s a ‘But.’”

T’Prana nodded. “Affirmative. I can find no trace of an Eric Cox in any database. I’ve checked the faculty lists of all the major universities and science foundations throughout the Federation. There’s nothing. It’s as if Eric Cox doesn’t exist.”

Conrad resumed his seat at the desk. “I will put that on the list of questions for our guest, Doctor Grant.”

“Indeed. From my research into Grant, he is a former Starfleet science officer. Last assignment was the U.S.S. Yorktown, NCC-1704. He mustered out on or about stardate 5901.9. He went on to do doctoral and post-doctoral work at the University of the Federation on Alpha Centauri and was appointed to the Federation Science Council as an advisor to the special projects committee.”

“So, he’s a big wheel.” Jack nodded to himself. “Okay. Have Chief Mort detail him to one of the guest quarters. I’ve gotta get back to this engineering report. Ned’s going to want to spend my entire meal break going over this, so I need to at least be up to speed on the salient points. You’re dismissed.”

T’Prana nodded and turned toward the door, stopping just short of it. Conrad raised his eyebrows.

“Something more, commander?”

The Vulcan turned back around to face her captain.

“You address Commander Hennessy by his first name, sir?”

“Yeah, he and I go back to our academy days and we served on the Lexington together. What’s your point, T’Prana?”

“Ensign Jarvis seems to think he enjoys the same privilege with you. Just now on the bridge—”

Jack shook his head side to side. The expression on his face indicated that he knew where she was going.

“I’m relying on you to maintain good order and discipline among the bridge officers, commander. That’s your job,” he said. “I have honest to God problems to solve, T’Prana. I don’t have time for the cosmetic ones.”

T’Prana was perplexed. She was not certain she understood what Conrad was saying.

“Sir, I—”

“I don’t care if you keelhaul him. This is not a problem I want landing on my desk ever again. Understand?”

She nodded and replied quietly that she did.

“I’m sorry, commander, I didn’t hear you,” Conrad said sternly.

T’Prana swallowed hard. “Yes, captain.”

He cocked his head toward the door. “Once again, you’re dismissed.”

The Vulcan turned on her heel swiftly and was soon back in the corridor. She paused a moment at the bridge egress. She had felt so comfortable delivering her report as a science officer. Why was being first officer so daunting? And what had she done to deserve this assignment?

She stepped through the door and onto the bridge. Rains rose from the conn and announced T’Prana’s arrival.

“First officer on deck!” She was staring angrily at Jarvis as she said it.

At the helm, Jarvis barely made eye contact with her as T’Prana settled into the center seat. Next to him, Ensign Robinson, the navigator, shifted nervously at his station.

“ETA to rendezvous point, Mister Robinson?” T’Prana asked.

“Twelve hours, thirty-one minutes, commander,” he replied. “We’ve had to alter course around—”

“Just do it, ensign,” she said, cutting him off.

He returned his gaze to the navigation console and offered a sheepish “Yes, ma’am” in reply.

She shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable, unsure if that moment would ever come.

And if it did, would it come on this ship?

Ensigns Red Jarvis and Jimmy Robinson stood in line in the Phoenix mess behind a female Ktarian petty officer, who was at the food synthesizer ordering dinner. In most officer and enlisted integrated messes, officers did not wait behind enlisted for meals, but Captain Conrad had issued a standing “first come, first served” order for all meals, applying the rule even to himself and the first officer.

And just one glance at the small mess compartment would be enough to explain why. There were three tables, each with four chairs. Because the mess could only accommodate a dozen crew members at a time, each crew member was sorted into one of six groups of twelve that dined in 20-minute blocks for each meal. The mess technically only functioned as a dining hall six hours out of every shipboard day. The rest of the time it was open as a recreation room. In addition to the dining tables, there were two lounge areas that had seating for three people. Currently one of those areas was occupied by the Medusan Ensign Zee and Chief Fideran. The Zakdorn yeoman appeared to be deep in thought as she pondered her next move.

Of course, rank did have its privileges, and officers, who enjoyed the luxury of a food slot in their private staterooms, could choose to dine in their quarters. Jarvis, however, did not mind the sharing the mess. It gave him a chance to admire the attractive petty officer he and Jimmy were standing behind as they waited their turn for the food slot. The navigator was not as amused.

“I never had to stand in line at headquarters,” he said, shuffling his feet anxiously. “Except when they rolled out the buffet, but it was worth it.”

“Welcome to deep space, partner,” Red replied. He leaned back closer to Jimmy and, lowered his voice, gesturing toward the attractive blonde Ktarian. “Just enjoy the view, man.”

Robinson scoffed. “You have a half track mind, Red.”

“Thank you. It got me through the academy.” He smiled in a self-satisfied way. “Seriously though, you didn’t seem to be complaining about it the other night when I introduced you to that dentist at the officers club.”

“Ah, yes,” Jimmy answered, “we were having a marvelous time right up to the moment her husband, the station boxing champ, showed up.”

Red turned toward Jimmy pointing his finger at the navigator’s face. “Hey, that guy is a widely respected astrophysicist. I’d have figured you’d appreciate the chance to do some shop talk.”

“He also had fists I’m pretty sure were made of rodinium, so…” Jimmy rubbed a spot on his left bicep and winced, “no, thank you.”

In front of the Ktarian, the food slot hummed to life and her meal materialized in the small transporter chamber built into the unit. As she turned toward one of the mess’s tables, Red flashed her a smile and gave her a confident wave. She smiled back and paused.

“Petty Officer Li’vet,” she said to the helmsman. “And I’ll be around.” She turned again and resumed her path to a table where three other enlisted crew members were sitting.

“Li’vet,” Red repeated to himself softly.

“You know, if she had brown hair she’d be Li’vet the Brunette,” Jimmy offered.

“I wouldn’t care if she were a redhead,” Red replied, still transfixed on her retreating form.

Jimmy shook his head. “Half track mind.”

The helmsman and navigator took their turns at the synthesizer and were soon heading toward one of the tables. Red rolled his eyes at the human crewman who, upon seeing Red and Jimmy in the mess, remarked “Hey, who’s driving the ship?”

“Yeah, that’s funny. I’ve never heard that before,” he said under his breath as they sat down. They had arrived early enough that they got lucky and secured an empty table.

Red looked down at the open-faced pot roast and mashed potatoes. He speared a cooked carrot on his fork and tasted it.

“Not bad,” he said, proceeding to slice into the food slots approximation of shredded pot roast, gravy and bread. “I’m sure it’s not up to the standards of the mess at HQ.”

“Hardly.” Jimmy took a poke at his mixed greens salad. He dipped a tine of his fork in a bit of the raspberry vinaigrette dressing and tasted it. “Not great, but not bad either. I’ll get used to it.”

“OK, I’ve been dying to ask you this ever since we arrived here.” Red took a sip of his cranberry juice. “You were working for the Starfleet Navigator General. Why would you request an assignment on this cramped tub?”

Red saw Jimmy pause a moment before taking a bite of the green leaves on his fork. He shook his head as he chewed before saying. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Red replied emphatically. “But that doesn’t mean I’m still not curious.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Jimmy repeated. “What made you give up that gravy train taxi service you were flying from Earth to Mars?”

“OK. I’m a good sport. I’ll play along,” Red replied. “It’s not even complicated. I did it because Jack asked me to.”

At the sound of the captain’s first name, Jimmy’s head darted around the mess. Looking, Red assumed, for T’Prana.

“You’ve got a death wish, Red! If the exec-“

“Oh, belay the exec, Jimmy.”

“Just…please keep that kind of talk to yourself.” The navigator poked around at the lettuce. “How do you know the captain anyway?”

“My first assignment out of the academy was the test flight program at Utopia Planitia. Jack-“

Red saw Jimmy wince at his use of the captain’s first name again.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. OK…Captain Conrad was my commanding officer. In his day he was one of the best pilots in his academy class. And I was the best in mine. He took me under his wing. He said I was the son he never had.”

Jimmy’s expression turned somber for a moment, almost like he wanted to say something in reply, but whatever it was did not have hold of him for long.

“Why’d you leave the test flight program?” the navigator asked. “It seems like it suited your personality.”

“Didn’t leave. Got kicked out. An indiscretion with one of the wives of the Argelian ambassador,” he answered matter of factly. “In my own defense, I’ve been to Argelius II, and no one would have guessed they’d get that uptight about anything. But I was offered — no, I was forced into — the Earth to Mars transport route. Not exciting, but the hours were predictable. Then Jack — the captain — calls me out of the blue. Tells me about the Phoenix. I was ready for something real again.”

The hiss of the doors opening distracted Red for a moment. The communications officer, Lieutenant Rains, began moving to queue up for the food slot, saw Red and immediately made her way toward their table.

“Oh, here comes trouble,” Red said under his breath.

“Ensigns,” she said to both of them, but her icy stare was focused on Red. “Impressed with yourself today? Think you were being cute with the exec on the bridge earlier?”

“Nice to see you too, Sam. I guess we’re doing this out in the open.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m an impressive individual, and I’m never not cute. But you ought to know that.”

“Cut the crap, Red!” she hissed. “I should have known you hadn’t grown up. Still an ensign after four years, and with the maturity of a plebe.”

“I’m pacing myself, Sam. Now, did you stop here with a purpose, or are you just flirting?”

“It’s lieutenant,” she said, pointing to her insignia, “and you listen to me. This assignment may not mean anything to you, but this ship is doing important work, and a lot of us take it seriously.”

“What’s your point, lieutenant?” Red sounded exasperated.

She tightened her face and leaned in toward the helmsman. “If you want to scuttle your career, do it on your next ship. Not this one.”

Her gaze fell to Jimmy.

“And a little advice for you, ensign. If you want to get your name on a promotion list, the best thing you can do for yourself is to disassociate with him,” she cocked her head in Red’s direction.

Jimmy did not meet her gaze, but rather looked at his salad, pushing it nervously around with his fork.

“Gentlemen,” she said, giving them a curt nod before moving toward the food slot queue.

Red and Jimmy sat in awkward silence for several long moments. The helmsman looked over at the navigator, who was still poking at his salad.

“You can get up and leave if you want, Jimmy,” he finally said.

Jimmy paused for a moment, as if he were actually thinking about it. Red understood. He could count close friends on one hand. Most others had merely been hangers on at Starfleet Academy, and his relationships with women were only relationships in the academic sense. It was a revolving door, and he knew that. He never had any expectations of them, nor they of him. Red was about to say something when Jimmy spoke up.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He finally took a bite of his salad. “Just don’t set me up with any more married women.”

“I should probably follow that advice myself.” He finished off his cranberry juice. “So, what’s your story? How did you end up here?”

“I graduated Starfleet Academy last year and was hoping for a deep space assignment,” Jimmy began. “My father is the chief of staff for the Federation Diplomatic Corps. He arranged for my assignment to the Navigator General’s office. He felt that Starfleet was beneath me, and so he wanted to keep me close to other career opportunities in Paris and San Francisco.”

“And out of harm’s way,” Red said.

“Yes.” Jimmy nodded. “It was a very clumsy attempt at showing parental love. I guess I can’t fault him too much for that.”

“Yeah.” Red replied. “Sounds a lot like our captain.”

Jimmy let that statement hang between them for a few moments, then continued.

“It was good work there. I learned a lot about astrometeorology, contributed to some really outstanding research, collaborated some of the top names in astrophysics and navigations. It wasn’t what I wanted though.”

“Well, how did you manage to escape from under daddy’s thumb? Sounds like he could have killed this assignment for you with a few calls to his buddies.”

“I’m my father’s son.” And for the first time since Red met Jimmy a few days ago, the navigator actually cracked a smile. “As long as I was working at headquarters, I thought I’d make a few buddies of my own…in the Personnel Office.”

“Smooth operator.” Red raised his empty glass in salute.

“I’m also a bad poker player. It’s a lot easier to get what you want from someone who feels guilty for taking your credits.”

“And I thought I was the only one who had that idea!” Red chuckled. “I think that’s the only reason I didn’t get drummed out of the fleet after that whole ambassador thing.”

“I’ll make sure you get a royalty if I ever use the idea again.” Jimmy looked at his watch and looked around the mess. “Zee’s already gone. They were going to talk to me about the latest in Medusan navigation research.”

Red raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a party.”

“I’m young and eager for promotion,” Jimmy replied as he stood and gathered his tray. “What are you gonna do?”

Red glanced over at where Li’vet was seated. She caught his gaze and smiled. He winked.

“I’ll figure something out.”

Meanwhile on Mercia VII…

It had not taken long for Simon Rasmussen to exhaust his survival options in the woods. The wildlife had gotten wise to his snares, and the meager provisions he’d been able to gather from nature, while technically enough to keep him alive, were not substantial enough to fuel his morale. Despite his affinity for gathering nuts and berries to keep his colleague in the Duck Blind happy, wilderness survival was a hobby. He didn’t want to spend a week in the woods, and there was still the unanswered question of what happened in the Duck Blind? Why were his teammates dead?

The answers he sought might be in the capital city.

In his mind he had done the math. The team was supposed to check in with Starbase 21 two days ago. When 21 didn’t receive a report, they’d send a starship to investigate. Simon figured that could take another two days, give or take a few hours.

Simon had wandered the streets of the capital for a day before he’d secured a position as an assistant to a farrier. As a youth, he spent a few summers on his aunt and uncle’s horse farm in Kentucky and knew enough to get by. Adapting his knowledge to a medieval society had been somewhat of a challenge, but thankfully the tools hadn’t changed much in 900 years.

The forge, however, had. The portable fusion powered forge his aunt and uncle’s farrier used was far preferable to stoking the one belonging to the blacksmith who was not Simon’s employer. But the man had provided him with a room with a straw bed and three meals a day. Simon knew that such interaction with the Mercia VII natives would draw the ire of the Federation Science Council board of inquiry that would no doubt be convened once they learned of this, but he was trying to survive and conduct and investigation.

So far, he’d been more successful at survival than in learning anything about what happened to his friends.

In the three days he’d been working in the city, Simon had mainly been relegated to stoking the forge, helping Chance, his employer, with particularly unruly horses who wouldn’t stand still to be shod, and mucking the stalls of the horses Chance looked after who were sick. Today though, Chance had assigned Simon an errand.

“Hitch up the cart and take it to coal yard,” he said. “Ursel owes me for looking after his mare for a month. Make sure he gives us three kessels, no less. That was the deal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell him next time I’m gonna need gold rather than a trade for coal.”

Simon nodded and set off to complete the task.

Skilled as he was as an anthropologist, mass estimation was not among Simon’s talents, putting him at a disadvantage to even the most illiterate of Mercians. He would have to trust that this Ursel character was an honest merchant and would deliver three kessels — whatever that was — of coal. Chance had proven himself to be fairly even tempered, but Simon did not want to discover if the man had wrath in him to bring down upon a well-meaning, but ignorant stablehand.

Simon almost wished Chance had asked him to purchase the coal outright. In his frequent observations, he had deciphered the Mercian currency system within the capital, though most of the city dwellers engaged in business transactions through barter. Given another six months or so of going native, Simon might be able to divine the local economy enough to estimate the value of items at the open market or even a three kessels of coal, but for the moment, he was at the mercy of good fortune, and whatever Ursel’s sense of fair trade was going to be.

It took him a while to get the horses hitched to Chance’s cart, which was mostly made of some kind of metal. Simon assumed it was the local equivalent of iron, which made it heavy, and accounted for the four horses needed to pull it. Simon also assumed that it meant three kessels of coal was massive enough to require Chance’s iron wagon.

The directions Chance gave Simon to Ursel’s coal yard were surprisingly helpful and accurate. The local landmarks he used were easily recognizable, and even though Simon didn’t put stock in superstition, he hoped it was a good omen.

As he dismounted the cart, a man called out to him.

“Oi! You Chance’s man?”

“Yeah,” Simon answered.

“Lead ‘em around back,” Ursel said, motioning to the horses and cart.

A boy who looked like he was in his mid-teens rushed out from a shack that Simon assumed was Ursel’s office, making his way toward the horses to help Simon.

“Thank you,” Simon said as the boy took the lead.

“He’s eager, ‘at one,” Ursel said, pointing toward the boy. “Thinks he’s ready to apprentice. No idea what he wants to do, jes’ wants to be an apprentice. His mama though…” Ursel looked over at Simon and gave a chuckle, as if he was sharing a private joke. “Not ready to let ’im go. Women, right?”

“Right,” Simon answered, playing along.

“Yeah, but I’ve a hard time blamin’ her, really. With all these…” Ursel lowered his voice and leaned in toward Simon. “…disappearances.”

The way he said it piqued Simon’s interest.

“Disappearances?”

Ursel’s expression was incredulous, as if Simon’s hair had spontaneously turned purple.

“Have ye been stewin’ in Taggart’s brew fer four moons?”

Simon felt the blood rushing to his face. He hoped Ursel would move past his surprise and start talking. To Simon’s relief, he did.

“The disappearances,” he said again, low as though the word was cursed. “’Bout ten of our boys from the village outside the city.”

Under ordinary circumstances, the plight of the natives would be none of Simon’s concern. The Prime Directive was clear, but his friends and teammates were dead, and every scrap of information could help reveal why.

“I…hadn’t heard,” Simon said. It was the first time in days that he had sounded genuine, had not been putting on an act. “How?”

“One of the boys got away,” Ursel said. “Been squawkin’ about some bandit that came outta a wall o’ flame, showin’ a stick o’ fire. Said the bandit took those boys back through the flame and disappeared.  Lots o’ folks sayin’ the lad got into Taggart’s swill, but me…he’s not the kind. I think he’s touched in the head.”

“Wall of flame.” Simon’s mind rushed. “Stick of fire.” He tried to mask his reaction. That could be anything. Maybe the kid did get soused. Maybe Ursel’s right and he suffers mental illness. It was wishful thinking, but all his instincts pointed toward the natives of this primitive population being exposed to a 23rd century transporter and a phaser or even —

“Disruptor.”

“Huh?” Ursel had a confused expression as he regarded Simon.

“Nothing. Sorry. Um…these boys. All from your village.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s…too bad.” Simon struggled to maintain the role he was playing. If the worst case scenario was playing out, whoever killed his friends was smart enough to know the Duck Blind was here on Mercia VII, and if they knew that, they probably knew how many people were on the Duck Blind team. If they counted the bodies, they knew they had missed someone.

Suddenly, Simon felt vulnerable. Scared. His survival was now dependent on more than just gathering nuts and berries.

The boy, leading the team of horses who were pulling the now full cart of coal, handed the lead to Simon. He fished in his pocket for a small gold coin and handed it to him.

“Thank you, young master. Keep yourself out of trouble and do what your mama and papa tell you.”

The boy didn’t say a word, but his eyes gleamed at the sight of the shining coin. He ran with it back into the shack.

Simon gave Ursel an informal salute, climbed up onto the cart and shook the reins. The horses started at a leisurely gait, gradually speeding up.

He was halfway back to Chance’s shop before he realized he forgot to tell Ursel about only accepting gold the next time.

With any luck, he thought, I’ll be long gone from here before Chance can get mad about it.

Captain’s log supplemental. We have rendezvoused with Dr. Grant’s shuttle and, at his insistence, I have gathered the senior officers and Petty Officer Rodriguez for a briefing on the situation on Mercia VII.

“The Federation Science Council’s Project Duck Blind is a relatively new cultural observation initiative. It began on stardate 8477.1 with an observation of the tribes of Garrit IV and since then it has grown to six pre-warp civilizations including the one on Mercia VII.”

Dr. Aidan Grant slid a computer disc into the control panel slot and the viewscreen in the Phoneix briefing room snapped on to show the Mercian star system, seven planets orbiting a G-type star. At the table, Conrad, T’Prana, Hennessy, Rodriguez and Valaja each shifted in their chairs as the briefing proceeded.

Grant explained the standard operating procedures for each survey team: how often they’d report in, rotation schedules, resupply and other details pertinent to maintaining the cultural survey on each planet.

“As Commodore al-Rashid explained to you, the team on Mercia VII has not reported in. At the time he communicated with you it had been forty-eight hours,” Grant’s stoic face surveyed the crew gathered at the table. “Now it has been sixty-two and still no contact. The science staff at Starbase 21—”

“Doctor Grant,” Conrad spoke up. Grant’s implacable face betrayed a hint of annoyance at the interruption.

“Yes, captain?” Grant replied, a note of forced patience in his voice.

Conrad glanced at his officers and then back at Grant. “I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that the Federation is spying on primitive cultures.”

“Observing,” Grant corrected. “These cultures are not a threat.” He turned back toward the viewscreen and tapped a control, switching to a zoomed in view of the main continent. “To continue.”

“If they aren’t a threat, then what’s happened to the survey team?”

Grant slowly turned away from the viewscreen to stare at Conrad. A few long seconds of silence fell upon the briefing room. Rodriguez, the Phoenix’s one-man security department, looked down at the table, picked up his stylus and pretended to make notes on the electronic clipboard in front of him. T’Prana and Valaja looked back and forth between Conrad and Grant. Ned settled back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh.

Grant forced a smile. “That’s why we’re here, captain. To continue.”

On the viewscreen a white target reticule appeared over what the display indicated were a series of hills near the Mercian capital.

“On stardate 3941.7 the U.S.S. Yorktown was ordered to Mercia VII in search of Federation social scientist Dr. Eric Cox.”

As Grant spoke, Conrad and T’Prana exchanged a glance.

“Dr. Cox had been conducting his own study of the Mercian people, independent of the Federation Council, but with support of the University of the Federation,” Grant continued. “His research concluded, correctly, that the Mercians were evolutionary advanced.”

“Indeed,” T’Prana offered. “Our research into the planet indicate that it’s humanoid inhabitants, if they continue their technological and social progress, they will achieve representative democracy and create the steam engine one-hundred-fifty years before North American Earth humans did. However, Dr. Cox’s name was not attached to that research.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed at the Vulcan. “Yes,” he simply said.

T’Prana seemed oblivious to Grant’s iciness. “Why?”

Grant approached the table, placed his hands flat upon it and leaned forward.

“Dr. Cox was convinced he could advance the Mercians to the steam age faster than his projections indicated.” Grant’s voice was low and foreboding. “He infiltrated their culture and began deliberately introducing technology in an attempt to speed it along.”

He paused and resumed pacing in front of the viewer.

“I was a junior science officer on that mission, anthropology and archaeology. Our landing party, disguised as natives, tracked down Cox. We repaired the cultural contamination as best we could. Captain Moraine placed him under arrest and he was quietly convicted of violating the Prime Directive.”

This time the Phoenix’s physician, Dr. Valaja spoke up. “Dr. Grant, was there a conclusion about what’s contributing to the Mercians’ advanced evolution?”

“Yes, it’s quite literally something in the water,” Grant responded. “There’s a protein in the water from the aquifers. Dr. Cox’s research indicated that it was affecting overall intelligence and the ability to adapt.”

“Is there any indication that it’s something that was artificially induced?”

Grant shook his head. “No. And subsequent scans from orbit and tests of samples on the ground have confirmed that. It’s a naturally occurring phenomenon.”

“This is all very interesting,” Conrad interjected, “but what is our purpose on this mission?”

“Investigation,” Grant replied. He leaned back slightly on his heels and crossed his arms. “We’ll beam down to the duck blind, check the survey team’s computer logs, determine why they haven’t reported in. It could very well be a malfunction in their subspace communications equipment.”

Valaja looked at her colleagues around the table and finally back at Grant. “Your body language suggests you don’t think it’s that simple, Dr. Grant.”

“Because we may have to go into the field, we’ll dress as natives,” he continued, ignoring the medical officer’s remark. “I will be a noble, and you will be my attendants, my entourage. I will need to make use of your materials fabricator to produce the required clothing.”

“And I will select the landing party,” Conrad spoke up.

Grant paused a moment, thrown off his rhythm, but quickly recovered. “As captain, that choice is yours, of course.”

“Swell,” Conrad said with a forced smile.

“If there are no other questions,” Grant said, icily regarding the captain, “I turn this back over to you, Captain Conrad.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Conrad said. “The landing party will be myself, Dr. Valaja, and Petty Officer Rodriguez. Please cooperate with Dr. Grant. I’m sure he’ll have backstories for all of us.” He turned toward his first officer. “Commander T’Prana, you’ll be in command of the Phoenix.”

The crew nodded and intoned a chorus of “aye, sirs.” With a simple wave, Conrad indicated the briefing was over and they departed their seats, filing out into the corridor.