Chief Engineer “Lenny” Choi stared at the warp core of the USS Sentinel, his hands on his hips, lips pressed into a tight line. The glowing azure plasma within the reaction chamber twisted and churned slowly, its steady rotation punctuated by occasional surges of energy, like a pulse echoing through the ship.

The core is stable. Plasma is flowing to the warp coils—damn it, why won’t the warp drive engage?

Exhaling sharply, he leaned over the engineering “pool table,” eyes scanning the schematic of the Intrepid-class starship. Every system was green. No faults, no malfunctions. By all accounts, the Sentinel should be at full operational capacity.

The ship was in perfect working order for the first time since taking over from Commander Holt. Not that Holt had done a lousy job—sometimes, systems just broke in threes. It was one of those quirks of starship maintenance, a never-ending cycle that Choi both relished and cursed.

And yet, here they were. Dead in the water.

“The report on the Level 3 diagnostic of the subspace communications relay, sir.” Lieutenant Michael Prol stood before Choi, PADD in hand, his expression neutral but his black eyes betraying what the report would confirm.

Choi reached for the PADD, already knowing the answer. “Let me guess—everything’s functioning perfectly, but we still can’t send a subspace signal.”

The half-Cardassian engineer nodded, clasping his hands behind his back, posture ramrod straight, feet shoulder-width apart. Though Prol had been out of the Academy for several years, he still treated every official exchange with a superior officer like a cadet review.

Choi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “At ease, Lieutenant. This isn’t a parade ground.”

Prol’s shoulders slumped—just barely. Some officers took to the Academy’s rigid structure like a Breen to ice, which stayed with them for their entire careers. The problem was that the Fleet wasn’t that rigid in protocol. Starfleet wasn’t a military organization… at least not in peacetime.

Sighing, Choi sat on the edge of the diagnostic table, his left knee aching from too many years of crawling through Jefferies tubes. He absently rubbed the joint as he scanned the report. The data confirmed what they already knew: every system was online, every diagnostic check had come back green, and yet, the Sentinel might as well have been screaming into the void as it sank into quicksand like something out of a 1980s action-adventure movie.

“If there’s nothing wrong with the ship—” he started.

“Then there’s something wrong with subspace,” Prol finished, dipping his head in acknowledgment.

Choi let the PADD rest on his thigh, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah. And that means any scans of subspace will be inconclusive. We already know our sensors that rely on subspace telemetry are giving us garbage data because of… whatever this is.”

“It’s a start,” Prol said.

“Yeah, it is.” Choi stared at the warp core, which thrummed softly in idle configuration. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself off the pool table and leaned over the control panel. His aging body protested the movement, and a familiar ache settled in his joints. Choi’s calloused and lubricant-stained fingers danced across the touchscreen, and the computer trilled in response.

“So, we agree it isn’t us that’s the problem. Lieutenant, have you ever heard of the Hekaras Corridor? The rifts?”

Prol cocked his head, tapping the muted ridges on his chin. “Sounds familiar. Something about subspace damage from warp travel, right?”

“That’s the one,” Choi confirmed without looking up from his displays. “Back in the 2370s, they discovered that high-speed warp travel was slowly destroying subspace. The solution was to implement a galaxy-wide speed limit of warp 5.”

Prol frowned. “You think that’s what’s happening here? But we fixed that with improved warp drives — variable geometry and all.” Skepticism settled on his face like a red alert.

“The point is: the damage created rifts that prevented the formation of a stable warp field. Sound familiar?” Choi looked up, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, eyebrow raised.

Prol sighed, shrugging. “Yeah, it does, and this theory is better than nothing. How far do you think this rift extends?”

Choi stared at the ceiling for a moment, making mental calculations. “A few light years… hell, this could be a sector-wide or even quadrant-wide event. I don’t know. Without any subspace communications out—out to the outside, there’s no way to tell.”

Another exasperated sigh escaped him, but this time, he ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his temples as he refocused on the readouts. Sensors were painfully limited in this… What should they call it? The Void? The Collapse?

Prol’s eyes gleamed with the spark of inspiration. He strode across the engineering bay, his boots making muted thumps on the carpet, before sliding into one of the empty seats by the consoles along the far bulkhead. The screen’s glow cast his sharp features in a blue light as his fingers danced over the controls with such speed that the input beeps blended into a single, continuous sound.

“I’m modifying the main deflector to emit a subspace resonance pulse,” he said.

There was a pause as the computer worked through the problem. Choi had followed him, peering over his shoulder. He clapped Prol on the back and beamed, “Now you’re thinking like an engineer.”

The screen shifted to a series of line graphs displaying the subspace harmonics of the region. Choi leaned in, squinting. “No wonder we don’t have communications. These fluctuations are scattering the signal in all directions. It’s like shouting into a hurricane.”

“Which is also causing the warp field to collapse,” Prol added.

Choi groaned. “What’s the limit on the scan?”

“Four light-years.”

Choi stared at the console, exhaling sharply. That meant they were over four years from normal space and with no known boundary in sight… He shuddered at the thought. Neither ship in the Division was equipped for that prolonged period. The dilithium would be the first to go.

“Let’s overlay these readings with the data the Hekaras scientists gave us.”

Prol entered the commands, and seconds later, the data from the 2370s overlaid the current scans. Both engineers stared at the data, trying to make sense of it. Finally, Choi straightened his back and exhaled through his nose.

“It’s similar, but not the same. So here’s the million-dollar question: Is this natural or artificial? Alien space bats trying to take our toys away?”

Prol narrowed his eyes. “Alien space bats?”

“Nevermind… literary reference. I’ll explain it later.”

Prol shrugged, his shoulders tense as he leaned forward, his fingers hovering over the controls but not quite touching them. He turned his attention back to the flickering scans, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a long moment of contemplation, he exhaled sharply, the sound of his breath mixing with the soft whirr of the console. “I don’t know,” he muttered, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “There’s just not enough data to tell if this is natural or not. Hell, it could be Q messing with us.”

Choi frowned, his jaw tightening. He ran a hand through his hair, the sharp scent of his body odor reminding him that he needed a shower. “That’s an uncomfortable thought,” he said, his voice low and strained. He stared at the scans, considering them before adding, “Let’s hope not.”