Star Trek: Buck To The Future

[treschaschott]

Star Trek

Buck To The Future


By
Trescha Schott

3128 Words - 21 Chapters
Estimated Reading Time: 91 minutes
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Copyright Notice​

This literary work is a form of fan fiction. It is intended for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. Star Trek, its characters, settings, and related elements are the property of Paramount Pictures and CBS Studios.

This work is not endorsed by, affiliated with, or sponsored by CBS Studios, Paramount Pictures, or any related entities.

All characters and references related to Buck Rogers are based on the original version created by Philip Francis Nowlan, first appearing in the novella Armageddon 2419 A.D., which entered the public domain as of January 1, 2020.
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Introduction​

First Lieutenant Anthony “Buck” Rogers is what you would expect from a 21st-century test pilot. Grounded, cocky, and fearless in the face of high-speed physics. Buck is also the guy you call when no one else can do what needs to be done.

The trajectory of his life veers off course when a mysterious woman from the future crosses his path inside a secure facility. Her disappearance leaves more than a prototype device behind. She brings a warning about an alien invasion from a race no one should remember and a weapon powerful enough to rewrite the course of future history.

Thrown forward in time, Buck finds himself on Antheia, a forgotten Earth colony caught in the power struggle between an expanding Romulan Empire and a cautious Federation.

Drawn into a covert mission that skirts the Prime Directive, Buck joins forces with Captain Pike and the crew of the Enterprise to find a missing president, unravel a regime backed by Romulan loyalists, and stop a catastrophic weapon from destroying Antheia.

Set in a shared universe that bridges Buck Rogers and Star Trek: Strange New Worlds, this story honors both legacies with thrilling action, rich character drama, and a timely look at resistance, trust, and sacrifice. Driven by Buck’s old-school instincts but grounded in Starfleet principles, it explores what happens when a man out of time becomes the hero history doesn’t know it needs.

Faced with secrets he never meant to uncover, a past he can never return to, and a future that depends on his every move, Buck must choose whether to play it safe or do the right thing for the right reasons.

 

[treschaschott]

The Disintegrator
The air in the debriefing room was thick with the sharp scent of jet fuel, overcooked wiring, and stale coffee. A low hum of conversation hovered beneath the fluorescent lights, punctuated by the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and the dry rustle of paper. The sterile, government-issue decor white walls, faded posters of atmospheric schematics, and outdated clocks offered little comfort after the adrenaline of a test flight of the X-20 HUER (High-altitude Ultra-Endurance Reconnaissance) vehicle.

First Lieutenant Anthony “Buck” Rogers sat at the head of the long, polished table. His charcoal gray flight suit still clung to his lean, muscular frame, marked with faint creases from the G-forces he’d just endured. He leaned back slightly, the leather chair creaking under his weight, and surveyed the room with calm, blue eyes that flicked from engineer to engineer like a combat pilot scanning radar.

Most of them nodded along, or their heads were bent over open binders or laptop screens, scribbling notes or typing as though the flight data might vanish if they didn’t record it fast enough.

“Any more questions, guys?” Buck asked, his voice breaking through the murmur with ease. A disarming smile curved his lips. “If not… well… it’s been a long meeting, and I need to use the little boy’s room.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, but one hand, young, tentative, rose near the far end of the table. The engineer, barely out of college by the look of him, adjusted his glasses.

“The thermal readings on reentry were a little higher than expected,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and apprehension.

Buck leaned forward, his boots thudding softly against the linoleum floor. “They were, but they were well within spec,” he replied, his tone edged with fatigue and just a trace of impatience. “And I didn’t feel any performance degradation or increased drag… even when I pushed the envelope a little more than I should have…”

He grinned again, this time with the swagger of a man who knew he’d survived something thrilling. “You’ve built a great bird… she handles like the best I’ve ever flown… oh, did I mention the little boy’s room?”

A louder wave of laughter followed, along with scattered congratulations and enthusiastic handshakes. The engineers began packing up, their once-quiet focus dissolving into the clatter of closing laptops and murmured exchanges. Buck rose from his seat, stretching his arms overhead until his joints cracked, then leaned side to side to loosen his back.

His stomach growled audibly, a deep, hollow reminder of how long it had been since he’d eaten. And the more urgent reminder comfort-related was now impossible to ignore.

He lingered long enough to accept a few final handshakes and respectful nods, then asked for directions to the nearest restroom. The hallway outside buzzed with the hum of industrial ventilation and distant footsteps on the tile. As he rounded a blind corner near the elevator lobby, a blur of motion cut across his path. He collided with someone solid and fast-moving.

“Whoa !”

They both stumbled. Buck’s reflexes kicked in, and he steadied himself just in time to avoid a fall. He looked up into a pair of dark, intelligent eyes.

The woman was slightly shorter than he was, fit and composed, with a presence that screamed authority. Her dark hair was pulled back in twin-rowed ponytails, neat and military. Her jawline was strong, her bearing even stronger.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice low, calm, and touched by an exotic accent Buck couldn’t place.

She extended a hand to help him regain balance. He took it, feeling a jolt, not just a physical pass between them. Her eyes flicked, just for an instant, as though registering something she hadn’t expected.

“No problem,” Buck replied, masking the sudden stir of interest in his chest.

The woman’s hand was gone in the next moment, and so was she already striding away down the hall, heels echoing sharply against the floor.

As she disappeared around the corner, something dropped from her coat and clattered softly onto the tile floor, so soft that it was almost lost in the ambient hallway hum. Buck blinked and looked down. A small, sleek device lay near the wall.

“Hey !” he called after her, but she was already gone. No pause. No turn. Just vanished into the stream of distant footfalls and elevator chimes.

Buck bent down and picked it up. The thing was cool and smooth to the touch, rectangular, palm-sized, and unlike any phone he’d seen before. He turned it over, squinting for any markings. Maybe it was a high-end prototype, judging by its minimalist design.

He slipped it into the thigh pocket of his flight suit with a mental note to drop it off at Lost and Found after he took care of more pressing matters.

Shaking off the moment, Buck pushed through the men’s room door. The fluorescent lights inside hummed overhead as he finally answered nature’s call.

Once relieved, he washed his hands and paused at the sink. That object still weighed down his pocket, hard to ignore now that the adrenaline had worn off.

Curious, he pulled it out again.

It looked like a phone, but it wasn’t.

The device was rectangular, palm-sized, and eerily sleek no seams, no screws, no familiar markings. Just a smooth, glass-like surface. As Buck turned the device in his hand, a soft blue glow lit up beneath his fingers. The screen displayed a white symbol: a circle crossed by a pair of stylized leaves with a stretched triangle in the center. It reminded him of a modernized NASA logo, but… not quite.

Two lines of text appeared:

UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS

TEMPORAL INVESTIGATIONS

Buck blinked.

His thumb hovered over the glowing interface. With a gentle press, the screen flickered. An image resolved into view of the woman from the hallway.

She was walking as she spoke, glancing from side to side with a wary edge, her mouth moving, but the words didn’t match her lips. The audio was in English but clearly dubbed over something else. Her voice played through the device’s internal speakers, clear and clinical.

“Star Date Unknown. Four thirty, June 9, 2025, local Earth time. Commander La’an Noonien-Singh, Personal Log.”

“I’ve followed the Husnock to early 21st century Earth… Chicago. They appear to be building the receiving end of what they call a Disintegrator. They have already begun altering Earth’s biosphere, introducing chemicals like lead, synthetic nitrates, and coal-borne sulfur. The atmosphere is being terraformed to suit their environmental needs, just as they have done on the other worlds they invaded. I have no choice at this point but to find and destroy this end of the Disintegrator before they begin an invasion of pre-Federation Earth.”

Buck stared, transfixed. The message ended as abruptly as it had started.

“That’s not yours,” came a familiar voice, this time real and very close.

Buck spun around. She stood in the doorway, her expression harder now, eyes flashing with controlled urgency. In a swift motion, she yanked the device from his hand.

“You’re from the future,” Buck stammered, putting the pieces together quickly. “Who are the Husnock and the Federation… why are they invading Earth?”

Her jaw clenched. “A race that’s not supposed to exist,” she said with a huff. “But they don’t know that… and that’s more than you need to know.”

She turned to leave, her boots tapping briskly across the tiled floor. At the threshold, she paused, hand on the door, and then glanced over her shoulder with a final message.

“Buck, please make sure you do the right thing for the right reasons and, seriously, don’t tell anyone what you just saw… ever.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Buck stood frozen, eyes wide, as both the woman and the device faded into nothingness before his eyes. The door she had opened swung slowly shut on its own as if she had never been there at all.

 

[treschaschott]

Recurring Dream
The stand-alone diner on the corner of Route 52 and Laraway Road in Joliet, Illinois, looked like something from another time. Red vinyl booths, checkered tablecloths, a jukebox that hadn’t worked since the Reagan administration, and servers who called you hon without insult. The scent of frying bacon, syrup, and over-brewed coffee hung thick in the air.

Buck Rogers sat in a corner booth, nursing a lukewarm cup of black coffee. A month had passed since his final X-20 HUER test flight, just over five weeks since he’d bumped into the woman with the strange accent and even stranger device. Her image and that message still echoed in his head like a skipping record. The memory had lodged itself deep, becoming a recurring dream, a vivid and unsettling tableau that haunted his sleep and sometimes interrupted his waking hours.

But today, he wasn’t dreaming.

Across from him sat Wilhelmina “Mina” D’Aire, an Information Technology Project Manager who had been a critical part of the X-20’s software development team. She was whip-smart and quick-witted, with an infectious laugh, an endearing smile, and a streak of dark humor that Buck found endlessly charming. Their relationship had developed slowly over the past two years, light on commitment and strong on comfort, and, as he often mused, made even better by the way she could make him forget the world in a heartbeat.

“So,” Mina said with a smirk, leaning in and lowering her voice to a whisper, “I interviewed for that Project Management position I told you about this morning and got the deets… it sounds like an advanced energy weapon. I think it might be part of the National Missile Defense system. The Director referred to it as The Disintegrator Project.”

Buck froze. The word hit him like a punch to the chest.

“Disintegrator?” he asked, the word almost catching in his throat.

Mina nodded, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Supposed to be revolutionary. The Director implied it could destroy or overcome anything in its path. If they choose me for the job, I’ll have to move my office into the old hangar at the far end of the field… that’s where they’re assembling and testing it.”

The rest of the conversation became a blur.

It’s real, Buck thought. The Disintegrator she mentioned… it’s here.

After that, dinner with Mina was a blur, something that never happened as she always seemed to know how to capture and keep his attention.

After unnaturally declining her invitation to spend the night at her place, and long after the lights in the diner dimmed and the roads cleared of their late-shift traffic, Buck prepared for something that felt part spy op, part suicide mission.

He wore black jeans, a dark shirt, and military-issue boots, the kind that whispered instead of clomped. A flashlight rested in his pocket, its casing matte and silent. His assigned NASA vehicle made it easier to get past the overnight guards. At the gate, he gave the guard the classic line, ‘I left my phone in the conference room,’ and was waved through with only a half-hearted glance at his ID.

He turned off the car’s headlights after the guarded entrance disappeared from the rear-facing video on the dashboard. The moon was full, casting an eerie, silver glow over the quiet airfield. Long shadows stretched across the tarmac like skeletal fingers. He parked well short of the target hangar and continued on foot, hugging the building line. The structure ahead was massive, its high walls bathed in sodium-yellow light. From the shadows, the odd purplish glow from within made it look like a hangar was housing something not quite of this world.

Buck moved with the silent efficiency of a man trained in survival. As part of his Air Force test pilot program, his command had paired him with Navy SEALs, Force Recon Marines, and CIA field instructors experts not just in staying alive but in doing so undetected in hostile territory. That training kicked in now. His breath slowed. His bootfalls were silent. He crept along a moon-shadowed wall, the hum of unseen machinery growing louder with each step.

That doesn’t sound like any engine I’ve ever heard, he thought. The sound had a wrongness to it, out of sync, oscillating pitches as if the machine was breathing.

He reached a weathered side window and peered through. Inside, the hangar was a cavern of strange light and impossible shapes.

The Disintegrator was real.

It loomed at the center of the space, a sprawling lattice of tubes, conduits, and blinking lights that surrounded a pulsing, luminous core. The framework was octagonal, nearly the size of a train car, and the materials were unfamiliar and gleaming, like wet plastic or fiberglass. The glow it emitted wasn’t white or yellow but something otherworldly: a deep purple that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Buck began to back away, mind racing.

That’s when he saw movement.

A figure emerged from the shadows beyond a stack of wooden pallets near a side door. Tall. Dressed in black. The man stopped at the door and keyed in a code beep, beep, beep before the lock disengaged with a soft click.

Buck crept closer, heart pounding in his ears, staying just outside the splash of light from a security fixture. The figure passed through the door and into the hangar.

Buck circled to another window, pressing his face against the cold glass, breath fogging the pane. The cavernous space inside glowed brighter now, a violet light spilling across the walls in waves. It wasn’t just machinery; it almost seemed alive.

Then, from the core of that glow, the figure stepped forward.

Buck’s heart hammered harder.

The figure was tall and slender, dressed in a sleek black uniform that seemed to drink in the light around it. The figure moved with an alien grace, and as he approached one of the consoles, the overhead lights caught his face.

Buck recoiled slightly.

He wasn’t human, at least not anymore.

The skin of his face was tight and dark, not brown or black, almost a charcoal gray or perhaps something else entirely. The man’s ears were elongated and furred, reminiscent of a horse’s, yet tapered to sharp, angular points. Ridges ran across his broad forehead in place of wrinkles, distorting the symmetry of his face.

There was something feral in his features, not artificial, but ancient, like a wingless bat that had evolved into the apex predator of some harsh, unwelcoming world. Every contour of him spoke of brutal survival, not sophistication.

His eyes caught the light deep, black, reflective. Intelligent.

Predatory.

“He’s definitely not human,” the thought crystallized in Buck’s brain like ice.

Buck slowly pulled back from the window, his breath shallow. The woman’s warning from a month ago echoed through his mind:

“The atmosphere is being terraformed to suit their environmental needs, just as they have done on the other worlds they invaded.”

 

[treschaschott]

Too Late
Buck knew hangars. The way they breathed at night. The way sound traveled in echoes. The way the cold crept in through steel and concrete like a second skin.

He slipped through the same side door the creature had used, moving like a shadow across the vast interior. The low thrum of alien power swallowed the soft click of the latch behind him. The Disintegrator still pulsed at the center of the hangar, glowing with that same purplish light, alive and watching.

Buck kept low, hugging the perimeter as he moved. The machine was massive up close, far larger than he’d realized from the window. Tubes ran across the walls and ceiling like roots. The air smelled faintly of ozone and scorched plastic.

He passed a bank of control terminals, their interfaces flickering symbols he couldn’t begin to decipher. The hum deepened into a mechanical rhythm slow, almost like breathing.

Then, he saw an open access panel near the base. Loose cables, diagnostic tools, and faint heat radiated from the core. It’s not finished, he thought. Maybe testing it?

A hiss of hydraulics snapped his attention right.

He turned too late.

The creature stepped from the shadows, impossibly silent for something so large. It moved like a predator, fast and deliberate. Buck tried to duck, but a powerful arm swung wide, slamming him into the steel wall.

He hit hard, ribs screaming as he dropped to one knee.

A second strike came fast. Buck barely rolled aside, coming up low and driving an elbow into the creature’s midsection. It staggered just a step but recovered with a snarl. Clawed fingers slashed out, tearing through the fabric of Buck’s shirt as he dove backward.

He scrambled behind a row of crates, panting.

The creature didn’t follow immediately. It stalked forward with a slow, deliberate cadence, boots clicking against the metal floor.

“You don’t belong here,” it said, voice deep and guttural but disturbingly articulate.

Buck wiped the blood from his temple, bracing himself. “Neither do you.”

The thing stepped into view again, face half-lit by the mauve glow of the Disintegrator. Its long ears twitched slightly, and its black eyes glinted with contempt.

“This planet is diseased. Overrun. We will purge it and strip away the infestation of your kind.”

Buck stood tall, pain shooting through his ribs. “Yeah? Maybe start with traffic on I-90 Expressway.”

The creature lunged.

Buck ducked, grabbed a nearby cable, and yanked. Sparks flew. The creature recoiled, hissing, but didn’t stop. Buck bolted left, deeper into the hangar. The machine was humming louder now, panels opening and closing across its surface.

From the corner of his eye, Buck saw the figure slam its hand onto a console.

The Disintegrator surged lights flaring red. Energy pulsed through its core like lightning.

The creature released a hissing sound that reminded Buck of a laughing hyena.

A jagged beam of light arced from the machine and zippered open a glowing rift along the hangar floor. It shimmered in front of the Disintegrator like a tear in the fabric of space.

Buck could feel a deep pull, like gravity turned sideways. The hair on his arms stood up.

He turned and ran not toward the door but deeper into the maze of support scaffolding.

Buck wanted the creature to think he was fleeing.

He took two sharp turns, ducked behind a storage tank, and slid down a utility ladder to a lower maintenance platform. The air down here was cooler. Damp.

He grinned.

Mounted beside a ventilation unit, a red emergency panel waited, its label faded but legible beneath chipped yellow paint:

EMERGENCY FOAM SUPPRESSION

MANUAL OVERRIDE

He didn’t hesitate.

Buck slammed the lever down.

Sirens wailed. A deep CLUNK echoed through the hangar.

And then

Chaos.

Foam jetted from high-mounted nozzles like geysers, hammering the Disintegrator’s exposed circuitry. The violet glow sputtered. Sparks burst from every seam. The rift wavered, shivering like a bad TV signal caught between frames.

Buck climbed fast, boots slipping on wet rungs as alarms shrieked overhead.

From the control deck, he heard the creature scream long, alien, furious, its words lost beneath static and collapsing systems.

Then came the flash, violent and electric, from the Disintegrator’s core.

A rising screech tore through the air, the pitch climbing higher and higher.

Buck’s brain registered what was about to happen

Too late.

With a deep, crushing whump, the rift imploded, collapsing inward, dragging the Disintegrator into itself in a final, silent scream of engulfing purple light.

 

[treschaschott]

Out Of Time
Buck’s first sensation was pain. A stabbing jolt in the back of his skull, followed by a weightless pressure in his chest that suggested gravity itself was undecided which way was up.

Then impact.

He hit the floor hard, skidding across a smooth dust and dirt-covered metal surface slick with condensation. The air smelled sharp and acrid ozone-burned plastic and something like hot iron. Lights flashed above him, blinking in pulses too fast for his eyes to adjust. His vision swam with afterimages.

Alarms. Voices. Shouting.

He pushed himself upright, arms trembling, boots scrambling for traction. Around him, towering machines hummed, and crackled slender pylons ringed the room in an octagon pattern, each one crowned with spinning gyroscopic heads. A pattern he had recently seen. At the center stood a tall control pillar surrounded by three tiers of scaffolding. Strange symbols scrolled across glassy panels. None of them were in English.

Buck turned, instinctively reaching for the flashlight he no longer carried. His black jeans were scorched, and his shirt was torn near the collar, but it was mostly intact. So was he. Somehow.

Behind the pillar, several figures in long coats froze mid-step, stunned by his sudden appearance.

A man barked something in a language Buck didn’t understand syllables hard and clipped, filled with consonants. Another pointed at Buck with a glowing rod, its tip sparked by blue light. A weapon? A scanner?

Buck raised his hands, palms out.

“Easy! Easy now, I don’t know how I got here, but I’m not your enemy!”

The lead figure shouted again, more urgently this time. Others rushed in from side passages, guards in matching black body armor, faces hidden behind visored helmets that reflected the red strobing lights of the lab. They carried long, rifle-like weapons that buzzed with energy.

One gestured sharply toward Buck.

He didn’t need a translation.

Buck backed up two steps, then pivoted left, eyes scanning for an exit.

None.

The lab was enclosed by stone ceilings, reinforced metal doors, or glass observation rooms with catwalks above, leading to nowhere he could reach in time.

One of the guards moved too close, reaching to grab him.

Buck acted on instinct.

He ducked under the hand, grabbed the guard’s wrist, twisted it, and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest. The armored figure went down with a grunt. Another charged Buck turned, pivoted low, and swept the legs out from under him.

A third fired.

A beam of light flashed past Buck’s head, hitting a wall and leaving a smoking black scar across a panel.

Buck dove behind a console, yanking a loose cable from its connector and swinging it at the next guard. It snapped like a whip, cracking across the man’s helmet. The guard stumbled, but it wasn’t enough.

There were too many.

They surged forward in formation, disciplined, and coordinated. Buck fought as long as he could, but the tide overwhelmed him. Arms grabbed him from behind. A boot hit his thigh. A baton struck his shoulder. He dropped to one knee, gasping, as someone slammed the butt of a rifle into his side.

He collapsed, half-conscious, head spinning.

When the shouting stopped, only the low hum of machinery and concerned alien voices remained.

Strong hands yanked him to his feet. He was shackled with sleek magnetic cuffs, no keys, no chains, just two glowing bands that locked tight around his wrists with a hiss of energy. One of the guards adjusted something on a forearm device, and the cuffs snapped together, forcing his arms close to his chest.

Buck groaned. “Great. This just keeps getting better.”

The lead figure barked another order. Two guards grabbed his arms.

As they hauled him toward the far end of the lab, he tried to take it all in. A large console still hummed with life, its display flickering with diagnostic readings. Nearby, an octagonal structure leaked wisps of purple, plasma-like light. It was the same glow that had swallowed him back in the hangar.

Wherever this place was, it wasn’t Earth.

Or if it was, it wasn’t the Earth he remembered.

What little his arrival confirmed was this: no one knew who he was, no one understood him, and he couldn’t understand a damn thing they were saying.

The last thing he saw before the lab doors slammed shut behind them was a black emblem emblazoned on the back of one of the guards’ armors, a jagged, triangular insignia inside a crimson circle. Stark. Militaristic.

They marched Buck through dimly lit corridors, each one narrower, older, and colder than the last. The sleek, humming lab gave way to something rougher. Stone walls adorned with long runs of conduits were framed with unrefined support beams. The air reeked of damp Earth, oxidized metal, and something sour and chemical, like old jet fuel and mold.

The guards said nothing. Only their boots spoke sharp, uniform strikes echoing off the curved ceiling in an unnervingly synchronized rhythm.

At the end of the tunnel, before entering the light beyond the end, he was shoved into a metal box, and the door slammed shut. When it opened again, something felt different. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew he was in another place. Still old but not as ancient as where he had just been.

This space was low-tech, almost primitively so. Metal framing structures like before held back rough cavern walls, but the floor was different, packed earth that crunched beneath his boots instead of stone or concrete. Dim lights were mounted along the ceiling, faintly humming as they lit the path ahead.

They turned abruptly and descended a long sloping ramp encased by tunneled rock. Lights gave way to torches flickering in wall sconces. Real ones, as far as Buck could tell. The dancing firelight made traversing the shadowed uneven floor challenging.

Beyond a metal door with a massive crossbar and a single slot at eye level, they dragged more than led Buck down a flight of stairs. After passing several enclosed cave-like barred cells, they stopped at his future residence. A blackened steel-rodded gate stood within a frame of even thicker vertical rods that penetrated the stone ceiling. The walls were rough-hewn rock, reinforced in places with metal plating. The floor was uneven and gritty with dust.

The guards opened the door with a shriek of ancient hinges and shoved Buck inside.

For a moment, he almost expected to hear the clink of spurs behind him.

He stumbled, caught himself on the far wall, and turned just in time to see the gate slam shut behind him with a final clang. The guards walked off in silence; the stillness quickly swallowed their footsteps.

Buck stood motionless, listening.

The walls didn’t hum here.

They breathed like a dungeon holding its breath.

He exhaled slowly, then scanned the cell: a small cot bolted to the wall, a basin, a floor drain in the corner. No lights, no fixtures. Only the distant, flickering torchlight bleeding through the bars from the hallway.

“Nothing says ‘welcome to the future’ like a medieval jail cell,” he muttered.

With nothing to do but wait, Buck sat still, staring at the dull stone wall across from him. No clocks. No light changes other than the flickering of the torch outside. He didn’t even know what he was waiting for. His head still throbbed from his apprehension.

Buck’s ears perked up when he heard the sounds of another prisoner being added to the collection. A woman, based on her high-pitched screams, clearly begged for mercy in a language he did not understand or recognize.

Buck stood, walked toward the metal gate, and tried to look down the hall to see what was happening, but all he could see were the two empty cells across from his. The mental anguish, which seemed a worse torture than his incarceration, grew sharper upon hearing her pleas cease after a lumpy thud echoed off the tunnel walls.

Buck tried to focus on something else. In his recent memories, the Disintegrator surged, its core pulsing as purple light cracked across the floor like a lightning strike. A glowing rift shimmered open in front of the machine, flickering like a wound in the air itself. Then came the flash and the implosion, a silent crush of light and force that swallowed everything, including the machine and Buck.

Every time he tried to retrace the steps in his mind, the reality he once knew bent or vanished altogether. It was as if the rules of time and space had been rewritten without warning. What he did know was that the world outside had changed, and no one seemed interested in explaining why.

 

[treschaschott]

Lost In Translation
Time passed. How much, he wasn’t sure.

Whispers drifted from somewhere deeper in the dungeon, quiet and broken. Prisoners he couldn’t see. Fragments of words and names. Then, the woman screamed again. Her voice tore through the silence, pleading not in words he knew but in tones for which no translation was needed.

Desperation. Compassion. Mercy.

Once again, her cries were answered with a sudden and chilling silence. A moment later, the heavy clang of a cell door echoed down the corridor, followed by the slow, deliberate footsteps of someone leaving.

Time passed again.

Then again, more footsteps.

Deliberate. More than two sets. Deeper in the cavern. Drawing closer.

Then, voices around the corner. One confident, clipped. Another calm, precise. A third, quieter but firm. And two more, harsh and sinister.

The door creaked open.

When three figures entered, Buck naturally assumed it was his turn to beg for mercy that clearly did not exist.

The first was a man clad in dark leather trimmed with silver, part military, part performance. Mid-forties. Lean. Stern. His expression was sharp, and his eyes colder than his tone. He stepped forward with calculated authority and spoke in hard-edged syllables Buck didn’t recognize.

“Saei-lok tr’nari Kankakee Voda kheh-khaev.”

The second figure was a tall woman in black slacks and a gold top, an emblem over her left breast. Her arms were crossed. Her stance was unreadable. She said nothing.

The third, standing slightly behind, had distinct slanted brows, calm features, and eyes that studied Buck with clinical detachment. His tunic bore the same insignia but in muted blue.

The man in black turned slightly and called something beyond the door; his voice was lower now, more deliberate.

“Tal’keth Kankakee Voda. Rhiannsu ei’than.”

Buck heard a one-word reply echo from the corridor.

Then silence.

He looked up, brow furrowed.

“I don’t know what you’re saying or what you want. If you want me to talk, one of you had better speak English.”

The man in leather barked a short, irritated reply.

The woman remained still, watching.

Then, the third man spoke. His voice was calm and measured.

“I do.”

Buck blinked. “Well, thank God, someone around here does.”

“I am Spock,” he stated as if it were an obvious fact. “I will translate.”

Kane turned to Spock and fired off another burst of alien phrasing.

Spock didn’t flinch. “He is asking for your name. And your allegiance.”

Buck folded his arms. “Tell him my name is Rogers, Lieutenant Anthony Rogers. AF 2265-0317. United States Air Force.”

Spock’s eyebrow raised before he translated.

Kane scowled, then snapped a curt reply.

“He does not believe you,” Spock said. “He says you are a saboteur. Or a terrorist. A witness claims to have seen you in the southern quadrant before a recent attack on a communications facility.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “Nope. Just got here. Found myself in a lab of some kind. The welcome wagon had weapons and really poor hospitality. They insisted I stay here for a while.”

One of Spock’s sloped eyebrows raised again.

Kane stepped closer to the bars, voice low and pressing.

Spock translated again. “He wants to know who sent you. He is… very insistent.”

Buck leaned slightly forward. “No one sent me. I was on Earth, like, a few hours ago. Some aliens tried to invade. I destroyed the receiving end of what they called a Disintegrator. Then, I woke up in a lab of some kind and was dragged here. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

Spock hesitated before relaying the answer. Kane narrowed his eyes, then scoffed quietly. He turned to the woman and said something under his breath.

She said nothing.

Kane gave Buck one last glare and exited, flanked by his guards.

Spock lingered.

He looked at Buck, expression unreadable. “I believe you are telling the truth.”

Buck shrugged. “Glad someone does.”

“Unfortunately,” Spock said, his tone even as ever, “I am not authorized to act on your behalf at this time. Please remain patient. We are continuing to monitor the situation.”

Then he turned and left.

“Who are we,” Buck muttered as the cell door closed with the weight of something ancient and final.

Once again, he was alone.

Once again, time passed.

And once again, the stillness returned.

Buck sat on the edge of the rough cot, elbows on his knees, listening to the steady drip of water echoing through the cell. The torchlight in the hall beyond cast shifting shadows across the stone floor.

He’d lost track of time. Hours? A day? No way to know.

Then, sounds from above and outside.

Soft. Careful.

He turned his head.

Someone was just beyond the high narrow horizontal opening that allowed a little fresh air to circulate, a slit in the stone barely wider than a handspan. Beyond, a silhouette, half-lit by flame. Feminine. Watchful. Familiar.

Buck turned, stepping closer, his heart lurching.

“I know you,” he said, voice low, cracking with disbelief.

The woman tilted her head.

No answer.

He stepped closer. “You were there… Chicago. You dropped something, then took it back… La’an, right?”

Her brow furrowed.”

Then her eyes searched his face but without recognition. Whatever memory he carried of her, she didn’t share it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

For a long second, she just looked at him.

Then, without a word, a small, rectangular object passed through the slot. It impacted the cot, then skidded across the floor, softly clinking to a stop at Buck’s feet.

He bent down to pick it up.

It reminded Buck of Mina’s compact but smaller, covered in meshed metal. Like her makeup case, it had a folding hinge. The casing was cool. It felt real. Solid. The kind of technology that belonged a thousand years beyond the cavern cell Buck currently occupied.

He looked back to the opening.

Empty.

La’an was gone.

Buck stared at the device in his hand. It quietly beeped twice. A hum began to build within the stone-lined cell. As the pulsing grew stronger, Buck turned slowly, scanning for the source.

He felt the vibration in his chest an instant before a chill hit deep and hollow, like a London fog seeping through his bones.

His vision sparkled.

The iron bars of the door began to dissolve.

Stone walls softened to light. The torch shadows faded away like smoke in the wind. For a moment, he felt stretched, scattered across a thousand points of pressure.

Then, the reverse. Buck’s insides were warmed but not hot, and a different kind of air caressed his exposed skin.

It was suddenly bright.

Too bright for his darkness-adjusted eyes.

He blinked.

Again.

And again.

Buck’s eyes adjusted, and he found himself standing on a circular platform beneath sterile white panels.

His teeth itched.

The air was clean. There were no stone walls. No bars. Just polished metal and the steady hum of technology.

He looked down. Gridwork glowed faintly beneath his boots.

His breath hitched.

The mesh metal compact still sat heavy in his palm, its shiny honeycomb lid reflecting a warped image of his stunned face.

 

[treschaschott]

Welcome Aboard
Buck stood motionless, staring at the device in his hands, every breath strangely clean like hospital air filtered through a machine that had never touched dust or smog.

Then voices. From everywhere.

He spun around as they echoed, layered and slightly off, like a dream remembered out of order. Behind him stood people. People dressed like the man who had translated for him earlier.

One was wearing a gold shirt. Another in blue. A woman in all white. A fourth man, wearing red, stood behind a wide console, seemingly uninterested in Buck, focused on the glowing controls before him.

Buck wasn’t sure who to look at, so he picked the tallest one with the best hair.

“Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Lieutenant Rogers,” said the man in gold, though the words echoed out of sync with his lips as if Buck were trapped inside a ventriloquist’s dream, disembodied and displaced.

The obvious leader stepped forward. Human. Mid-forties. Square jaw. Clean lines and confident posture.

“You know who I am?” Buck muttered.

“We do. I’m Captain Christopher Pike,” he said. “This is Dr. M’Benga. And Nurse Chapel.”

Buck’s eyes flicked to the blue-shirted Doctor’s dark, serious eyes, already scanning with a black handheld device. Then to the woman beside him: blonde hair pinned back, bright eyes, calm under pressure.

Dr. M’Benga raised the tricorder toward Buck.

Buck stepped back instinctively.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a weapon,” Pike said, raising his hand in a calming gesture. “Dr. M’Benga is scanning you to confirm you are who you say you are and for any pathogens that might affect my crew.”

Buck nodded as Pike collected the rectangular compact in his hand. Buck then reluctantly turned to watch the device in the Doctor’s hand as it emitted a gentle whir.

“Interesting,” M’Benga murmured.

“What?” Buck asked, subtly shifting his stance as he tested how accurately the voice-over translations were centering on the person speaking.

“You’re human,” M’Benga sounded surprised.

“I could’ve told you that,” Buck muttered.

“From Earth. Early 21st century… based on tissue density, trace radiation exposure, and…” He tapped the tricorder again. “Microplastic content in your organs.”

Buck blinked. “Micro what?”

“Microscopic polymers. Industrial pollutants. Every human from your era had them. We’ve tried to replicate it for research and analysis, but we never achieved this level of saturation. You’re either from the 21st century, as Mr. Spock reported, or you’re very good at infusing materials into your biology we haven’t used in over a hundred years.”

Nurse Chapel stepped forward and began her scan. Buck didn’t flinch; this time, he noticed her hands and her eyes. Calm. Competent.

“Confirmed,” she stated. “He’s got antibody markers for diseases that haven’t existed in over a century.”

“Such as?” Pike asked, leaning to glance at her display.

Chapel raised an eyebrow. “Polio. Measles. Chickenpox. Adenovirus. I’m also seeing fifth-generation multivalent mRNA COVID antibodies and a few influenza strains I’ve only ever seen mentioned in Doctor Korby’s earliest papers.”

Buck stared at her. “I’m not sure if I should feel proud or radioactive.”

Pike gave a small smile. “That makes two of us.”

Then Pike turned to M’Benga and Chapel. “Anything that’ll require our guest or my ship to go through a decontamination cycle?”

“I’m seeing an elevated baseline testosterone,” M’Benga said, scanning. “Remarkably high. Even by 21st-century standards.”

“And,” Chapel added, smirking, “his pituitary and hypothalamic signaling are overactive, too. One could say his reproductive axis is… enthusiastic.”

Pike chuckled. “Sounds a little like a certain Lieutenant Commander we all know.”

“Is he a test pilot, too?” Buck asked with a grin.

“He does like testing limits,” Chapel said, smiling knowingly.

“This man appears to be who he says he is,” M’Benga finally confirmed, “His DNA matches the records we retrieved from Earth’s archives… Lieutenant Anthony Rogers. United States Air Force. Serial number AF 2265-0317. Born in Chicago in 1993. And, there’s nothing I can see that the transporter’s biofilters missed,” M’Benga nodded, closing his tricorder.

Buck turned toward Pike, brow furrowing. “So… where exactly am I?”

Pike met his gaze. “You’re on the United Federation of Planets starship Enterprise. We are currently orbiting the planet Antheia, the third planet within the seven-planet Aitherion System. And, depending on how you measure it… about 260 years from the last time you checked a calendar.”

Buck opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

“That… explains a lot, actually.”

From the control station, the technician called out, “Captain, the landing party is standing by. Ready for transport.”

Pike nodded. “Thank you. Chief.”

Then to Buck: “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind what?” Buck asked, uncertain.

“It’s less messy if you clear the transporter before someone materializes on the pad you’re standing on,” Pike said, smirking.

Buck stepped down from the platform, closing the space between himself and Pike just as the deck began to hum that same harmonic vibration he’d felt back in the prison cell.

He turned instinctively.

Three columns of shimmering gold particles began to swirl, tightening and coalescing in sync with the rising whine of the transporter.

Slowly, three forms emerged from the light: one man and two women.

Buck recognized all of them.

But his focus locked on just one.

La’an Noonien-Singh materialized in a sparkling column of photons and energy, her figure resolving like a memory coming back into focus.

Buck’s breath caught in his throat.

It was her, he thought. The woman from the future… who I met in the past.

 

[treschaschott]

Prime Directive
Buck took a slow step forward, eyes locked on La’an as the last glimmer of transporter shimmer faded from her uniform.

“You,” he said, his voice tight. “It was you.”

La’an glanced at him, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“We met,” Buck insisted, his voice steady but filled with urgency. “June ninth. 2025. Outside Chicago… Glenview. The old Naval Air Station… it was a Monday.”

He paused, his eyes drifting for a beat as something softer cracked through his focus.

“I know because Mina and I…”

His voice caught. “Mina.”

She blinked.

“I’ve never seen this man before, Captain,” she said flatly, glancing at Pike. Then, dryly, “Except when Commander Chin-Riley ordered me to set my communicator to emit an emergency beam-out signal and slide it into his cell.”

Buck shook his head. “No. You were from the future. You had a phone or something with a logo on the screen. Like that one.”

He pointed at the wall behind her, where the United Federation of Planets emblem was subtly etched into a panel.

“And you said something about a Federation… and… Temporal Investigations.”

La’an’s posture changed just slightly, but enough for everyone in the room to feel it.

“Don’t say any more,” she warned, her voice lower now. Controlled.

She turned to Pike.

“If he’s met a future version of me in the past,” she said carefully, “This man may possess information about future events.”

Pike gave a faint nod. “Which means…?”

“Temporal protocols apply,” Una said, stepping forward seriously but with the calm confidence of someone who was perfectly at ease enforcing rules that made everyone else nervous.

“The risk may be minimal,” Spock added, looking at Buck. “But for now, Lieutenant Rogers, you should avoid telling us anything more about Lieutenant Commander Noonien-Singh’s future.”

“Okay, hold on a second. I’m the one who woke up in a prison cell two hundred and sixty years from home. Do I even want to know what’s going on?”

Pike offered a wry smile. “Yeah. Been there, done that.”

He clapped a hand lightly on Buck’s shoulder.

“Wouldn’t recommend doing it again.”

“Status,” Pike directed at Una.

Una took a step forward, her posture sharp but composed. “Star Fleet’s initial suspicions have been confirmed. Chancellor Kane apparently attempted to assassinate President Dering during or shortly after the election. There is a widely held belief President Dering went into hiding afterward to protect his family.”

Pike’s jaw tightened slightly. “Is he alive?”

“We’re unable to confirm,” Una replied.

“The Antheian media continues to refer to President Dering and his wife in the past tense,” Spock added.

“Media controlled by the Chancellor,” Una interjected.

Spock gave a nod. “The official reports regarding the deaths of President Dering and his wife are highly inconsistent. Speculation among Chancellor Kane’s staff includes theories that the former president fled to the Antheian moon, Chronos, or left the planet to seek treatment for a terminal illness.”

“He’s alive,” La’an cut in, her voice calm and unwavering. “He and his wife and most of his staff are on an island on a lake located south of New Chicago.”

Una turned toward her, skeptical. “And how do you know that?”

La’an didn’t blink. “Exhanging MREs to mothers with children for information is both effective and compassionate. The same applies to starving prisoners.”

She stepped forward slightly, her voice low but certain. “The people, even those in Kane’s prisons, keep better track of their own than he realizes. They are also far more organized than he wants to believe. What they saw as abandonment by Earth and invasion by the Romulans left them with a deep-rooted distrust of outside political influence.”

Una raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

La’an hesitated. “While you were with the Chancellor, I was speaking with the Antheians. It was painfully clear their elders remember what happened to their world, and they see the same patterns now. As a result, they have become very good at quietly sharing information, especially the kind Kane cannot control.”

Pike nodded once, accepting it without pushing further.

“Do we have proof of Kane’s actions?” he asked.

Both women answered together.

“No,” Una said.

“No,” La’an echoed.

Buck let out a breath and dropped his shoulders. “Can’t you do something about this Kane fellow? I mean, you zapped me out of a prison cell. Can’t you do the same to him?”

It was Spock who answered. “Not without violating the Prime Directive. Federation policy strictly prohibits interference in the internal affairs of non-member worlds.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Pike added. “To review Antheia’s application for Federation membership.”

“An application Kane formally withdrew moments before we returned to the ship,” Una clarified.

Buck looked around the room, frustration flickering in his eyes. “I’ve seen men like Kane before. Con artists who turn lies and fear into weapons. Who twist silence into permission. I’ve seen what a little power can become in the wrong hands… and what happens when men like that get addicted to more.”

He looked at Pike.

“I’ve got nowhere to go back to. So how can I help… here and now?”

Pike gave him a long look, assessing but not judging.

“Well?” Pike said, his tone casual but measured. “You look like you could use a shower and some clean clothes. And I have no doubt Mr. Spock is very interested in how you ended up on 2260 Antheia from 2025 Earth.”

Buck smirked. “You buying?”

“Food synthesizers are generous,” Pike replied with a dry smile. “Better yet. Join us for dinner, and I’ll make you the best spaghetti carbonara you’ve ever had. We can swap stories. Until then, I’m sure Doctor M’Benga will want to get you on one of his exam tables. I saw the way his eyes lit up when he found those microplastics.”

“Mine too,” Buck nodded. “Though, the only people I used to know who were interested in studying my body were women.”

“A living 21st-century human compared to modern physiology?” M’Benga mused. “Might make for an interesting paper.”

“I wouldn’t mind studying the Lieutenant, too,” Chapel said, aiming her unblushing smirk squarely at Spock. “Strictly for science, of course.”

Pike smirked, gave his head a small shake, then turned to his officers. “Lieutenant Rogers, I’m looking forward to you joining us for dinner this evening.”

“Buck,” Buck nodded, “And thank you.”

Pike looked at La’an. “Lieutenant, I want you…”

“No, sir,” La’an cut in quickly, a quiet firmness in her tone. “He’s already interacted with a future version of me. Assigning me as his security escort could breach temporal containment protocols.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Pike frowned. “I want you to be ready to share everything you’ve learned about the people of Antheia and what you’ve discovered about the resistance.”

“Aye, Captain,” La’an nodded, already shifting into mission mode.

Pike turned to Spock. “Mister Spock, Number One told me you are fluent in Lieutenant Rogers’ preferred language. I’d like you to serve as his… handler.”

Spock inclined his head. “Understood.”

Buck squinted. “‘Handler’ sounds a little kennel-adjacent.”

“Maybe ‘liaison with a long list of rules’ is more accurate,” Pike smiled. “And Spock’s the best we’ve got.”

 

[treschaschott]

When In Rome
The transporter room doors hissed open with a soft sigh as Spock gestured for Buck to accompany him. The two walked side by side through the Enterprise’s corridors, the ambient hum of the ship a steady undercurrent beneath their footsteps. Crew members passed with nods or polite glances, but no one stopped.

Buck glanced at Spock, studying him for a long moment.

“You know, I’ve met some interesting people in my time,” he said, “but never someone with ears as sharp as yours. And your skin tone doesn’t exactly scream sun worshiper.”

“People of your time believe the star Earth orbits is a deity?” Spock asked, brow slightly raised.

“No,” Buck laughed. “But they do enjoy its company more than they should.”

“What do your people believe in?” Buck asked.

“Logic,” Spock replied. “I am from the planet Vulcan. Although our biology is highly compatible, our ancestry and physiology are distinct from humans.”

“Another planet,” Buck said thoughtfully. “So… you’re an alien?”

“As you were on Antheia,” Spock observed plainly.

Buck nodded, conceding the point.

They walked a few more paces before Spock spoke again.

“The captain was correct,” he said. “I am most interested in your arrival. May I ask how exactly you came to be on Antheia?”

Buck exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Long story, but the short version? Earth. Year 2025. I’d just finished debriefing a test flight when La’an showed up. She dropped something that looked like an advanced phone, and it told me she was from the future. Her log mentioned an alien species, Husnock, trying to set up a Disintegrator. Next thing I know, I’m knee-deep in ancient machinery, and a bat-faced alien is trying to blow up Earth.”

Spock’s brow arched slightly. “Husnock?”

“Yeah,” Buck nodded. “Big guy. Looked like a bat with a superiority complex.”

“That species is not cataloged in current Federation records,” Spock said. “To avoid temporal contamination, I will exclude the name and your description from my official log.”

“Do what you need to,” Buck muttered. “I just don’t want them showing up at my door again.”

Buck continued to walk beside Spock, his eyes drifting to the walls, displays, and unfamiliar tech lining the passage. His boots echoed softly against the deck, the only sound between them until he finally gave voice to the question that had been gnawing at him.

“So,” he said, tone casual but weighted, “what happened after… You know. Did they invade Earth?”

Spock glanced at him, hands folded neatly behind his back as he walked.

“There is no record of an invasion in the year 2025,” Spock answered. “The official reports state that Lieutenant Anthony Rogers died attempting to extinguish a hangar fire. However, as I am sure you are aware, your body was never recovered.”

They walked in silence a few more steps before Buck added, “At least I died a hero. I guess.”

Spock inclined his head. “That is the consensus.”

Buck looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. “Was that a joke?”

“Not that I am aware,” Spock replied evenly. “I chose to respond with agreement.”

Buck chuckled under his breath. “Still not sure if you’re messing with me or just built that way.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Spock said.

They reached a set of doors that parted smoothly. Inside was a modest guest suite that was clean, quiet, and efficient in design. Soft lighting spilled from recessed panels. A tidy bed sat flush against the far wall, opposite a compact workstation with a built-in display.

In one corner stood a wall-mounted unit that hummed softly. Beside it, several neatly stacked boxes of cartridges were arranged in a shallow alcove, each labeled in block text: Drinks. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Snacks. Desserts.

Spock stepped inside and gestured toward the unit.

“This is a food synthesizer. It uses encoded tape cartridges containing pre-formulated nutrient patterns. Select a category, insert the cartridge, then make your choice from the menu.”

“Tape cartridges?” Buck raised an eyebrow. “Two hundred years later, and we’re back to magnetic tape? What happened to compact discs and DVDs?”

“TAPE is an acronym,” Spock explained. “Tri-Axial Polymeric Encoding. A highly compressed, secure data storage medium.”

Buck studied the device and then the cartridge slots. “Looks like a vending machine mated with a cassette deck.”

Spock blinked slowly. “A somewhat accurate analogy.”

Buck tapped the drinks slot. “So, there’s a drink in here somewhere?”

“Yes. I recommend Cartridge D3,” Spock replied. “It includes over seventy flavored beverages. Captain Pike has an affinity for Italian cuisine and home-cooked meals, usually accompanied by a glass of wine or bourbon.”

Buck gave a dry laugh. “When in Rome…”

Spock nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Do as the Romans do.”

He loaded the cartridge, and Buck watched as the synthesizer blinked and hummed softly. A moment later, the panel slid open to reveal an elegant glass of red wine.

Buck hesitated, glancing at Spock’s unreadable expression as he lifted the glass and took a sip.

He nodded. “That’s actually pretty good… a little sweet, but strong earthy notes, maybe a hint of honey. I was expecting more of an afterburn, considering the kind of day I’ve had.”

“The flavor profile can be adjusted to suit your preferences,” Spock said evenly.

“Through there,” Spock pointed, “you’ll find a bathing facility similar to those of your era. Please leave your current attire on the counter. I want to preserve the textiles for study and historical reference. Ship’s stores have fabricated clothing appropriate for your use during your time aboard.”

Buck looked at the pristine interior and the freshly folded garments, then back at Spock. “You people think of everything.”

“We attempt to,” Spock said. “Captain Pike has requested your presence for dinner in his quarters. I will return to escort you.”

 

[treschaschott]

Recycled Spy Novel
The door to Captain Pike’s quarters slid open with a soft chime. Spock entered first, then motioned for Buck to follow.

The scent hit him first: garlic, something creamy, and black pepper. It was warm, real food, not processed, not packaged. The room was wide and welcoming, with soft lighting and an oval dining table surrounded by relaxed officers in uniform. A large dish of pasta rested at the center, surrounded by plates of bread, salad, and what looked suspiciously like roasted mushrooms.

Captain Pike stood near the kitchen area, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Lieutenant Rogers,” he said with a warm nod. “I trust Mr. Spock didn’t talk you into a logic spiral on the way here?”

“He’s thorough,” Buck said, giving a faint smile. “But polite about it.”

“Come in. Join us. As promised, the best carbonara you’ve had in two hundred years awaits.”

“Two hundred and sixty years, apparently,” Buck smirked as he took the offered seat between Dr. M’Benga and Lieutenant Ortegas. His eyes scanned the room, taking in faces, details, and the easy camaraderie around the table.

Una gave him a courteous nod.

Chapel passed him a basket of bread without saying a word, but her smile spoke volumes.

Pike set a tablet on the table beside Buck, tapping it to bring up a planetary map.

“You said you were interested in helping Antheia,” he said, “Before you commit, I thought you might want some context and to understand what you’ll be getting yourself into if you do.”

“Starfleet personnel are prohibited from interfering in non-member worlds’ affairs,” La’an stated.

“But,” Buck nodded, studying the tablet, “I’m not part of your crew or your Starfleet.”

“Our logs may not even show you were here,” Ortegas muttered.

The map rotated slowly on the screen. Buck tilted his head at the contours, noting a wide central valley with color-coded markers spread throughout.

“Antheia was one of Earth’s earliest warp-capable colonies,” Una explained. “The colonists departed Earth sometime after the development of Warp technology, and it took them ten years to reach the Aitherion System.”

“Ten?” Buck asked, incredulous. “What were they using, sails?”

“Three warp 2.5 deep-space hybrid sleeper ships,” Spock answered calmly. “Pre-Federation. The colony was presumed lost until the NX-05 Atlantis made contact during a deep space mapping expedition near Romulan territory.”

“Turns out they did more than survive,” Una continued. “The colonists thrived. They built a way of life and their own culture. Completely independent of outside help or influence until the Earth-Romulan War.”

“A lot of the people I spoke with still blame Earth, and by extension the Federation, for not coming to their aid when the Romulans invaded,” La’an advised. “They hold us responsible for what happened to their world during a war they didn’t start, weren’t part of, and had no power to end.”

“La’an’s right. That trauma is woven into modern Antheian culture,” M’Benga added, his voice quiet and reflective. “Isolation and subjugation shape a people. So does abandonment, real or perceived.”

“Some time ago,” Pike said, “under leadership like that of President Elias Dering, discussions about reconnecting Antheia with Earth and the Federation led to formal diplomatic relations.”

Spock offered his commentary, “It should be noted that not all parties on Antheia regarded renewed contact with the Federation as a favorable development.”

Ortegas rolled her eyes. “No surprise there.”

“Number One,” Pike said, inviting her opinion.

Una lowered her utensils and spoke directly to Buck. “We were confident Dering would win the election. But before the results were fully tabulated, he vanished. His wife disappeared as well. The military leader at the time, Colonel Kilor Kane, declared a state of emergency and installed himself as Chancellor.”

“Killer Kane,” Buck chuckled. “Sounds like a comic book character.”

“I assure you,” Spock replied in a perfectly even tone, “Chancellor Kane takes both public perception and his policies quite seriously.”

“After the media, already under Kane’s control and influence, reported President Dering’s death,” Una continued, “they announced that Kane had won the election, not Dering.”

“Let me guess,” Buck said, voice dry. “No investigation. No trial.”

“No opposition either,” Una confirmed. “At least not openly. Kane controlled, and still controls, all media, network traffic, subspace communication, and the Antheian Ministry of Defense.”

“During my investigation, I confirmed a resistance movement exists,” La’an said. “One of their leaders, a man named Barrett, is being held in the same facility we transported you out of.”

Buck furrowed his brow. “You saved me over him?”

“You are a man out of time,” Pike smirked, “You are also definitely not native to Antheia.”

“So,” Buck nodded, “You can take me without breaking your rules, but not the guy you really want to or need to talk to.”

“Yes,” La’an replied. “And, yes, we do want to talk to him, alone if possible. From what I heard planetside, he may be one of the few, if not the only, person in Kane’s custody who knows what happened to Dering and where he is.”

“So you want me to go back,” Buck said. “Find Barrett. Get him to tell me what you’re not allowed to ask him… then tell you?”

“Pretty much,” Pike nodded. “And, if Dering is alive, finding him might be the only way to convince the Federation to remove Kane from power.”

“Let’s be clear,” Una added. “We’re not sending you anywhere. If you happen to return to Antheia, and you happen to find Barrett, and you happen to talk him into revealing the President’s location, and you happen to find a way to pass that information along to us…”

Buck leaned back, giving her a dry stare. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it… this is starting to feel like a recycled spy novel.”

“Maybe one Kane hasn’t read,” Pike added, lifting a forkful of pasta with a smirk.

“Or maybe,” Chapel added, “you’re the plot twist he never saw coming.”

Buck looked around the table, then nodded once. “Okay, I’m in… but not until I finish this meal…Captain, this is good, very good. The sauce… the pasta, everything. It’s like I’m at Sapori Trattoria.”

Pike nodded his appreciation, then directed. “Mr. Spock. La’an. See to our guests’ travel needs and departure… after dinner.”

“Watch your back, Buck,” Ortegas chortled. “Spy novels always have a double-cross in act three.”

 

[treschaschott]

Hi Honey, I’m Home
Two security officers were waiting outside the Captain’s quarters after dinner. They escorted Buck to the transporter room and then stood at ease by the door, watching Buck as if there was nothing else for them to do or look at. At the console, the transporter chief made quiet adjustments, his expression neutral and professional.

Not very long later, Spock entered with a small equipment case in hand. La’an followed closely, carrying a neatly folded set of clothing.

“Aww, gifts for me?” Buck smirked. “You shouldn’t have. I didn’t get you anything.”

La’an didn’t blink. “You gave us the threat of interplanetary war by volunteering to get involved in diplomatic affairs you barely understand.”

Buck’s smirk faded slightly. He glanced at Spock, then straightened his shoulders and replied with mock seriousness, “Your concerns have been noted.”

La’an wasn’t amused. “You’re outfitted to pass as a commercial trader from Rigel V. Civilian, off-world, low profile. Being human helps. Just don’t quote old movies or share 21st-century parables, and you might actually blend in.”

She handed him the clothing. Buck unfolded the bundle: a gold tunic with long sleeves, a black vest, rugged matching trousers with a brass buckle, and a pair of knee-high boots that looked ready to sprint or fight.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “Looks like something Han Solo would wear if he had a tailor.”

La’an blinked. “Who?”

Buck waved it off. “Never mind,” he sighed, unembarrassed, as he began to change into the offered outfit.

La’an didn’t flinch. She also didn’t turn away, hands clasped behind her back, watching without comment.

Spock, for his part, remained impassive and focused on organizing the items within the equipment case.

Buck slipped out of the standard-issue shipwear, folding them with surprising neatness before tugging on the rugged trader’s gear. The fabric was lighter than he expected but layered for utility, comfort, mobility, and well-fitting.

“Wow,” Buck said as he wiggled his toes inside the comfortable boots. “These might be the best-fitting pair I’ve ever worn. Feels like they were molded to my feet.”

“They were,” La’an replied with a nod.

Spock attached a slightly dented brass brooch to Buck’s vest. “This is a universal translator,” he explained.

“Acquired from a non-Federation trader,” La’an added. “Untraceable by Starfleet or Romulan Systems.”

Spock handed him a slim, matte black earpiece. “It will render local dialects into English and your speech into theirs using a built-in modulator.”

“It’s old,” La’an said, “but sturdy. Traders this close to the Neutral Zone prefer tech that won’t trip sensors.”

Buck looked at the broach pinned to his vest and then caressed it before slipping the earpiece into place.

“How do I sound?”

“Like someone who’s about to get us into trouble,” La’an said dryly.

Spock produced a final item, a short, dark cylinder with twin prongs at one end.

“A neural disruptor,” he said. “Close contact, silent, non-lethal. Effective on most humanoids. It will not trigger Kane’s perimeter alarms and registers completely inert on most scanners when inactive.”

“So basically, a taser,” Buck said, giving it a quick flip in his hand.

“With fewer lawsuits,” La’an added.

“Are you sure you haven’t been to my time before?” Buck asked, brow raised.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” La’an replied, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But I can confirm I’m not the version of me you met before today.”

“Time travel does get confusing, doesn’t it?” Buck nodded.

“More than you can imagine,” La’an said quietly.

Spock held out a small metallic disc, no larger than a coin.

“Emergency transport beacon,” he explained. “Activate it when you’re clear for extraction. You’ll have approximately seven seconds before beaming out.”

Buck studied it. “Seven seconds. Guess that’s just enough time to run, dive, or die.”

“Try for the former,” La’an suggested.

Buck slid the device into his pocket and rolled his shoulders in the new outfit.

“You sure I’ll pass for a local?”

“A local? No,” La’an replied with a smirk. “But compared to some of the off-worlders Kane’s hired? You’re practically invisible.”

Buck stepped onto the transporter pad.

Spock stepped beside the transporter chief, who glanced up from the console and said, “Coordinates locked. It will be as if you never left.”

Buck exhaled slowly, stealing one last look at the room.

“Hi-ho,” he muttered. “It’s off I go.”

The transporter shimmered to life, and the room dissolved in a swirl of light.

Buck materialized in his cell with the now-familiar pull in his gut, accompanied by the silent tearing and stitching of molecules snapping him back together, atom by atom.

One blink, he was on the Enterprise, and the next, he was where he was several hours before.

Same damp stone.

Same flickering torchlight.

And the same musky scent of rust and mold baking into still, stagnant air.

Buck licked his itching teeth as he turned slowly, half-expecting klaxons or boots pounding the stone. But the silence held. No alarms. No shouting. Just the slow drip of water and the weight of a place that had forgotten how to change.

“Hi, honey,” he muttered. “I’m home.”

He approached the door and tested the bars. They were solid, which was no surprise considering that nothing in this prison seemed built for second chances.

His eyes swept the cell: same metal basin in the corner, same wall-mounted spigot with a corroded handle, same narrow cot bolted to the wall. But this time, something new caught his eye.

A jagged sliver of metal, barely visible, bent awkwardly from beneath the cot frame.

He crouched and tugged at it. It resisted. He tugged again. And again.

“Come on…”

Twenty wiggles later, the fatigued weld finally gave. The piece snapped free with a soft metallic crack.

“Good to know physics hasn’t changed,” he muttered, turning the shard over in his hands.

He crossed to the spigot, wedged one end of the sliver into its mouth, and bent it into the shape of a crude, angular ‘7’.

“This worked in high school.”

Back at the door, he worked the bent shard into the space between the faceplate and strike plate. Twisted. The metal caught. He jiggled the bolt tight, stiff.

Then click.

The door creaked open.

Buck grinned.

“Still got it.”

He slipped into the hallway, hugging the shadows. Stone gave way to old steel. Heavy doorways. La’an’s voice echoed in his head.

Two cells down.

He found it. Another reinforced door. He peered inside.

A man sat on his cot in the dark.

Mid-thirties. Gaunt but not frail. Uneven beard. Eyes sharp and wary. He watched Buck like a cornered animal, not ready to trust but very ready to fight.

“Who are you?” the man rasped.

“Name’s Rogers. I’m here to get you out.”

The man’s shoulders tightened. “No, you’re not. You work for Kane. You people have already tried this trick once. I’m not falling for it again.”

Buck exhaled. “La’an sent me.”

That earned him a pause. Not belief, but not rejection either.

“I don’t have an MRE,” Buck added, “but I’ve got a key and a way out.”

“Good for you.”

Buck sighed. “We don’t have time for this.”

He opened the door, stepped inside, raised the disruptor, and pressed it against the man’s defensively raised hand.

Click. Flash. Slump.

Barrett collapsed back onto the cot.

“They say never look a gift horse in the mouth,” Buck grumbled, hoisting Barrett over his shoulder, “but no one warns you the horse might not have time for your paranoia.”

He moved quickly now, retracing his path. The corridor angled toward a heavy service door, thick and reinforced, sitting at the top of the same short flight of stairs he descended when he arrived. Through the narrow slit, Buck spotted two guards beyond.

He set Barrett down just in front of the door’s path and then angled his body as a deliberate obstruction.

Buck then leaned close and called out:

“Hey! Get the door. It’s Domino’s.”

He waited in silence, crouched to one side. The soundlessness was interrupted by hissing hydraulics struggling against Barrett’s weight.

Perfect.

The first guard stepped forward, frowning.

Buck lunged, grabbed the man’s collar, yanked hard, and drove his bent fingers into his throat. The man wheezed. Buck swept his legs, slamming him down the stairs.

The second guard stepped in over Barrett’s body just in time to catch a boot to the gut.

Buck twisted, rolled him over his shoulder, and sent him flying after his partner.

Both guards landed in a tangled, groaning heap.

“Guess I still have a few moves left,” Buck muttered, dragging Barrett through the metal door. He dropped the crossbar over the door, securing it before rolling Barrett over his shoulder.

Barrett’s lightweight frame wasn’t much of a challenge for Buck as he retraced his steps through the prison. He followed the torchlit corridor up the sloping ramp, where the flickering flames gradually gave way to yellow, electric lights. From there, he moved quickly toward the entrance. Outside, the enclosed prison yard lay in shadow, mostly silent except for the wind rustling a lone torch just beyond the entrance. Rounding the corner, Buck spotted a vehicle sitting unattended. It was squat, armored, and ugly, like a jeep that had been pumped full of steroids and bad decisions.

Big wheels. Exposed framework. Slatted armor. No guards in sight.

“You’ll do,” Buck muttered.

He rolled Barrett into the back with a grunt, then worked his way into the driver’s seat. No key slot. Just a start button. He pressed it.

The dash lit up.

“Electric,” Buck nodded. “Nice.”

After a tentative press on the pedal, he found there was no shifting to worry about. The controls responded just as he expected. He floored it, tearing across the yard, bouncing over gravel and broken concrete. The front gate loomed ahead. A wall of rusted steel, laced with heavy chains and at least one visible lock.

“Hope you’re built like you look,” Buck growled.

The gate crumpled on impact, metal shrieking as the vehicle barreled through. Sirens erupted behind him, and floodlights snapped to life, sweeping the walls and perimeter. Buck didn’t look back.

 

[treschaschott]

Emergencies Only
Buck’s stolen jeep rumbled across the outskirts of the city, headlights off, engine whining with an unholy electric whir. Soon enough, the prison was a memory in the rearview.

Recalling the details La’an’s provided after he agreed to help both the Antheians and the Federation, Buck steered south, away from New Chicago, toward a location she had marked as the best place to begin his search for President Dering.

He soon found what he was looking for. A dimly lit transit station. Sparse. Quiet. The kind of place where someone could ditch a stolen vehicle and disappear without leaving a ripple.

A long silver maglev train sat idle on the main platform, prepping for departure.

Buck rolled the jeep behind a warehouse, killed the lights, and powered down.

“Time to switch rides,” he muttered.

He hauled Barrett out of the seat and dragged him toward the platform like a man escorting a belligerent buddy home from the bar.

A security officer intercepted them, squinting as he blocked their path. “He okay?”

“Too much to drink,” Buck replied without missing a beat. “His girl just dumped him.”

Before the officer could respond, a woman in plain clothes stepped in beside them.

“No, I didn’t,” she said smoothly, sliding under Barrett’s other arm. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be… are you?”

Buck blinked.

She wasn’t part of the plan.

The guard studied her for a beat, eyes narrowing.

“There’s an APB out. Two fugitives matching the description of these two men.”

“There are not two men,” she said calmly, “there are two men and a woman.”

She extended her hand with something small in her palm.

The guard hesitated, looked around, then accepted what was offered.

He gave a tired grunt and waved them through.

Then turned and walked away.

Together, they got Barrett into an empty freight compartment. The woman sealed the door from the inside. Moments later, the train hummed and rumbled forward, pulling away from the station.

Buck leaned against a crate, catching his breath. He turned to speak, but the woman held up a finger to her lips, silencing him.

Ten minutes later, Barrett groaned and stirred.

His eyes snapped open and fixed on Buck. “Where the hell am I?”

“Relax,” Buck said, steady but firm. “Name’s Rogers. I pulled you out of that dungeon Kane was keeping you in. You’re safe now.”

Barrett pushed himself upright, still groggy but suspicious. “He’s tried this trick before. You’re working for Kane.”

“Seriously?”

“He wants to use me to find the President. That’s what this is.”

The woman finally broke her silence. “I don’t think so. Half of New Chicago is under martial law. Kane’s creeps are going door to door looking for you two.”

Barrett scoffed. “You believe media reports now?”

“No,” she shot back. “I trust our people. And this breakout doesn’t feel staged. Kane’s response feels off. It’s not calculated. It’s reactive. Desperate.”

Barrett frowned. “Kane has a plan for everything.”

Buck exhaled. “And you’re getting kind of annoying for a guy I risked my neck to break out of jail.”

Barrett stepped back, defensive. “Nice story. But that doesn’t make it true. Kane’s pulled off fake rescues before, even fake home invasions.”

“Not on this scale,” the woman said. “And our people on the inside always gave us a warning before he acted. This time, there was nothing.”

As Barrett processed her words, Buck reached into his vest and slowly withdrew the emergency transport token.

“You want proof? Fine.”

He tapped the side. It blinked softly, steadily, pulsing with quiet energy.

Then, without ceremony, Buck flipped it toward him like a coin.

Barrett caught it instinctively. “What the hell is… “

A golden shimmer swallowed Barrett whole. In an instant, he vanished, leaving echoing silence and a faint charge in the air.

Buck leaned back against a crate, arms folded, letting the moment breathe. The woman stood still beside him, eyes on the space where Barrett had vanished.

“How’d you know where to find us?” Buck asked, glancing over at her.

“Only stop on the road our people said you’d be on,” she replied evenly. “And the only one headed in the opposite direction, Kane’s creeps were told you two were headed.”

Buck gave a quiet nod. Smart. Efficient.

Ten more minutes passed.

With barely a shimmer, Barrett reappeared, this time standing. His boots hit the deck with a soft thunk. He stared down at Buck, eyes wide.

Buck raised an eyebrow.

“So… believe me now?”

Barrett’s gaze shifted from Buck to the woman, then back again. A long beat.

Then, a slow, measured nod.

He reached into his coat, pulled out the token, and held it out.

“I’ll take you to President Dering,” he said quietly. “And… La’an said to give this back. Told me to remind you…”

“Emergencies only,” Buck finished with a smirk, taking the token.

“Yeah. Well… it kinda was.”

 

[treschaschott]

Near The Lake
The train never really stopped.

Somewhere during its journey, it began to slow down, not to a halt, but just enough to shift the inertia. The subtle slide of deceleration blurred the windowed landscape into a dim, industrial wasteland.

Barrett stood first, steadying himself against a side rail.

“This is where we get off.”

The woman cracked open the side hatch.

Buck peered out.

The wind howled past like a beast. Outside, the “platform” was barely more than a half-assembled landing: rusted scaffolding, a few abandoned crates, and a dozen shadowed figures waiting, most of them armed.

“That’s not a station. That’s a concrete slab and a busted light post.”

“Move fast and run when you hit,” Barrett said. “If you can’t, roll with it.”

They jumped one by one: Barrett, the woman, then Buck, hitting the slab with a controlled tumble, boots scraping on gritty concrete as he rolled into a standing position.

Behind them, the train whooshed past into the dark, vanishing like a phantom.

Buck turned to find himself surrounded.

Weapons leveled. Then lowered.

A man in a tattered utility vest stepped forward. Late-twenties. Trim beard. Condescending tone. Slow delivery

“We’ve been monitoring the Defense Ministry’s transmissions since you escaped New Chicago. Glad you made it out.”

Barrett nodded once. “Thanks, Mon, where are the boats?”

The bearded man gestured with his hand.

“This way.”

They moved quickly through tall grass and under unfinished industrial frameworks. The air thickened with the scent of algae and damp Earth. Down a slope, dark water lapped against a cracked seawall. Three low-profile boats waited. Black hulls, quiet engines.

Buck hesitated at the dock’s edge.

Cold. Damp. The breeze off the water carried something familiar: the rich smell of the soil warming up, mixed with the fresh, green scent of growing reeds and grasses.

He inhaled slowly.

“Smells like Lake Michigan in late April or early May,” he muttered. “After the thaw.”

“You can smell the thaw?” the woman asked.

“There’s something about spring back home… near the lake,” he said quietly. “You’d step outside early in the morning, and the air just felt different. Like it does here, now. Not cold, exactly, but cool in a way that felt alive. It came off the water, you know? Clean. Crisp. Like the lake itself was waking up after a long sleep and exhaling that first breath.”

Buck smiled faintly, eyes distant.

“There was this… subtle edge to it. A kind of minerality you couldn’t put your finger on, but you felt it in your lungs. In the late spring, when the water had just started warming up, waking all the grasses around it, it almost felt like the lake was taking a breath.”

“Lake Michigan?” Barrett blinked. “Like… on Earth?”

Buck nodded, and then he let the silence hang for a beat before adding, “I never realized how much I missed that until now.”

“You speak with reverence of lake on Earth… so you are Federation.” The young man in the vest squinted.

“No,” Buck replied, his mind lightyears away. “Guess you could say I’m freelance.”

No one asked further.

The boats crossed the water in silence. The motors hummed low, barely louder than the splash of waves. Heads stayed low. Buck pulled his collar up. His breath fogged in the air.

Ahead, the shoreline rose. Jagged rocks and crooked trees.

From above, it looked like nothing. Just leaves and stone.

Then, the lead boat turned.

A break in the foliage. Not natural. Deliberate.

A seam in the cliff opened as mechanical vines drew apart, revealing a narrow black mouth. One by one, the boats slipped inside.

The cave swallowed them whole.

The tunnel curved upward. The boats drifted to a low, flooded platform. Concrete steps emerged from the water. Moss clung to walls. Water dripped from the ceiling.

Barrett led the way up rough-cut stairs, past dim lamps bolted to stone, through narrow shafts lined with exposed conduit and tangled roots. The deeper they went, the more the cave shifted. Natural rock gave way to plated flooring. Grated metal beneath wet soil. Vines draped over camouflaged bulkheads.

And then a wide, scorched doorway.

Not stone.

Refined and processed metal.

A hull. Curved and blackened by time. Half-buried, half-reclaimed. Ancient.

They passed into its corridor, dimly lit with salvaged panels and jury-rigged fixtures. The air shifted less damp, more filtered. Warmer. Cleaner.

Voices echoed ahead. Footsteps. Movement.

They entered a long, tall room shaped to the curvature of the ship. The space was a clash of ages-old metal, new terminals, and power routed through decades of patches. Holotables hummed beside analog levers. A command post built from scraps and memory.

At the far end, a woman rose from a console. Early thirties. Tall. Tired but sharp-eyed. Pregnant. Her hand moved instinctively to her belly as she stepped forward.

Behind her, a man emerged. Worn. Sharp around the eyes, grey at the temples. He walked like someone used to authority, someone who used to lead and never quite stopped.

Barrett slowed.

“Mr. President…”

The man looked to Buck.

“So. You’re the great escape artist that doesn’t exist?”

Buck shrugged.

“More like International Man of Mystery… or maybe Interplanetary. But sure, I’ll take it.”

The woman studied him a moment, then nodded once.

“You’re not from around here. I can tell. Not many of us still speak Old English. My parents taught me. Their parents taught them.”

“Does it matter where I’m from?” Buck asked. “I’m here to help. I think I’ve proved that.”

“That remains to be seen,” muttered the twenty-something bearded man from the train station.

“Lieutenant Rogers doesn’t work for Kane,” Barrett said, stepping forward. “Can’t explain how I know, but I know.”

President Dering gave Barrett a long look. Then nodded.

“If Barrett vouches for Lieutenant Rogers, that’s good enough for me.”

“Buck,” Buck offered. “Just Buck.”

“I’m Leera,” said the woman, touching his arm gently. “When you speak, it’s like hearing my father again. We should talk later. I’d like that.”

“Later,” Barrett cut in. “I have some information to share, and trust me when I say Buck needs to know everything… and I mean everything.”

“A fresh perspective wouldn’t hurt,” Dering agreed.

They moved toward an adjacent room, one that felt like part of the ship’s original layout.

As they walked, Leera took possession of Buck’s arm with hers.

“They told me you just… appeared. Right in the middle of the alien excavation site.”

“Yep,” Buck nodded. “Still don’t know exactly how. But it wasn’t what I’d call a soft landing. And the welcome wagon? Not so welcoming.”

Leera’s smile turned serious. “He became obsessed with the dig site. Kane. Our scientists told him it was a power core. He thought it was a weapon, something he could use to control Antheia. Or defend it from another invasion.”

“Like the Romulans?” Buck questioned

“Yes,” she said quietly. “The occupation was brief, but the damage lingers. We’re still living in the shadow of what they did to our world and our ancestors.”

They passed through the bulkhead doorway into the next chamber.

Leera brushed his arm one last time.

“Thank you for letting me practice my English with you.”

Then, more softly:

“I hope you’ll stay. After we take our world back.”

Buck gave her a half-smile.

“Only if New Chicago’s got pizza as good as the pizza I remember.”

 

[treschaschott]

Kankakee Voda
Buck followed Leera into what looked like a converted mess hall, half briefing room, and half jury-rigged command center. Salvaged consoles hummed beneath mismatched wall displays. Power cords snaked across the floor like roots. Screens flickered between videos and schematics, pulling power from sources best left unquestioned. Every surface bore the scars of repurposed tech and desperate invention.

At the center table, President Elias Dering gestured toward a glowing schematic of New Chicago. Six red towers pulsed across the city grid like infected wounds.

“These media centers are Kane’s weakness,” Dering said, his voice gravel-deep but firm. “He uses them to control all news, planetary comms, even the basic net. Since declaring himself Chancellor, he’s weaponized silence.”

“New Chicago’s the hub,” Barrett added, stepping in beside Buck. “Take at least three of the six broadcast relays, and we can hijack the signal and get the truth out before he shuts us down.”

Leera rose from her console, one hand resting instinctively on her belly. Her voice was calm but edged with steel.

“We have the data. Logs. Directives. Intercepted transmissions from Kane’s Ministry of Internal Security. He rigged the election. Tried to assassinate Elias. He failed. But if we can’t share what we have with the people or the Federation, it won’t matter.”

Buck nodded slowly, eyes scanning the layout.

“So… what’s the holdup?”

From the shadows, the younger man with the beard stepped forward. His condescending tone was slow and direct.

“Because the towers are impenetrable. Even if we could get beyond the outer perimeters, we couldn’t get inside facilities like the Kankakee relay without command-level access.”

“We don’t know that, Mon,” Barrett’s girlfriend challenged.

Buck tilted his head, tapping his translator.

“Sorry, what did you call it?”

“The Kankakee relay,” Mon repeated crisply.

A chill slid down Buck’s spine.

He pulled the earpiece free, intentionally removing the translator.

The man called Mon kept talking, this time in his native dialect.

“Kankakee Voda.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed.

There it was. Not Kankakee.

Kankakee Voda, in a strange, harsh accent.

He’d heard that phrase before.

Buck casually turned as if adjusting his translator.

“Hey, Barrett, say that relay name again?”

“Kankakee.”

Buck nodded slowly. Turned to the man in the vest.

“Funny,” pointing as he said. “You said, Kankakee Voda. Always with a suffix and a different dialect… a harshness to the K sounds.”

Mon blinked slowly. “I what?”

Buck stepped closer, tone still friendly on the surface.

“I pulled my earpiece. When I did, I heard you say, Kankakee Voda. I knew I had heard it spoken the same way before. The only other time I’ve heard that name in that same accent with the hard K sounds was when Kane accused me of being a terrorist. He said a witness saw me trying to break into Kankakee Voda.”

Buck turned back to Dering and Leera.

“Did any of you stage an attack on this Kankakee tower recently?”

The room tensed as the engulfing silence drew tight around them.

The bearded man tried to recover. “You’re mistaken.”

“Am I?”

Buck turned to Leera.

“That suffix. Voda. What is it?”

Leera’s eyes sharpened. “Romulan.”

“We’ve spent generations trying to erase what the Romulans did to our world. And one of our most trusted people use their words against us?”

Buck turned back to Mon.

“Who led the raid on Kankakee? How much resistance did they encounter?”

Barrett answered without hesitation, nodding at the young man with the attitude. “Mon Grol did.”

Buck looked at the woman beside Barrett, nodding over his shoulder as he suggested, “Let me guess… Mon Grol was the only survivor.”

“Every time we tried,” she confirmed. Her voice didn’t waver.

“If you’re the only survivor,” Buck turned to ask the young man in the vest, “Are you the witness Kane claims to have seen me terrorizing this tower?”

“We lost good people,” Barrett directed at the stunned younger man, low and bitter. “Because of you.”

President Dering stood, every line of his body still but dangerous.

“I asked you to serve on my personal security detail.”

Mon’s hand drifted toward his belt.

Buck was closest. He didn’t wait.

In one smooth motion, Buck closed the distance, caught the weapon before it cleared the holster, and drove the man into the wall.

Buck’s neural disruptor hissed blue, silent.

The traitor collapsed.

Buck let out a slow breath through his nose.

“Sometimes,” he said, “it’s not what you say. It’s how you say it.”

Leera cradled her stomach, her face pale but steady. “Mon knew everything about this place. And if he knows, that means… Kane knows… known everything since Mon Grol joined us.”

Barrett stepped forward, voice tight. “Then why hasn’t Kane attacked? If he knows where we are… why are we still here?”

“He was waiting,” Buck said, his gaze distant. “Waiting for the right moment. Maybe until he was sure, there wouldn’t be anyone left to stand in his way. Waiting until his mole confirmed everyone was in the same place at the same time so he could finish off the last sparks of hope.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy; it was hollow, as everyone in the room filled in the blanks.

Buck glanced toward Dering. “We just did to Kane what he tried to do to you. We cut him off from his people, his spy. From his eyes. His ears. His influence.”

Buck let that land, then added, quieter:

“If I were him…”

Barrett’s girlfriend recognized the implications and finished the thought. “You’d strike. Now, hard and fast.”

Dering’s jaw flexed, voice dropping. “It is Kane’s nature to destroy. And he will. No hesitation. No warning.”

Dering exhaled through his nose. “Kane will try to burn everything to the ground. He’d rather be king of ashes than a footnote in someone else’s history.”

 

[treschaschott]

Hail Mary
Buck watched as several bystanders dragged the unconscious form of Mon Grol out of the room. The doors sealed behind his limp form with a heavy, echoing clang. For a long moment, no one spoke. The old ship creaked faintly in the wind outside. The lights buzzed. A console somewhere let out a slow, steady beep.

Buck turned to face the room.

Dering embraced his wife, despair flickering beneath the surface of his resolve. Barrett and his girlfriend stood close, forehead to forehead, hands clasped between them in silent solidarity. The others stared downward, still reeling, suspended in that liminal moment between exposure and response.

Buck stepped toward the center table like a quarterback approaching the huddle.

“Alright,” he motioned. “Everyone, huddle up.”

Eyes began to rise. Conversations stopped.

“I don’t know most of you. You don’t know me. But I’ve played enough games to know when the defense is rattled… and when the momentum’s ours to lose.”

He pointed to the red blips on the holo-map. New Chicago’s media towers blinked like silent targets.

“Kane thinks he’s calling the plays,” Buck continued. “Thinks he’s got you pinned at the one-yard line. He’s lining up a blitz, coming full-force before you get a chance to snap the ball.”

A few heads nodded. The room leaned in.

“Good,” Buck grinned. “Let him. While he’s storming the line trying to shut down the run, we throw deep. A Hail Mary straight into his backfield. We take the fight to him. Hard and fast.”

Barrett leaned in. “You mean hit the towers?”

“All of them. At the same time. We take over every broadcast, every network, every TV. We show the truth to your people and the Federation before Kane has time to spin a lie.”

“What’s a TV?” someone muttered.

Buck sighed. “Old Earth thing. Doesn’t matter. What matters is he won’t see it coming.”

“He’s got guards at every tower,” someone pointed out. “And they’re scattered across the city.”

“Which is why we hit them while he’s on his way here,” Buck said. “He thinks you’re hunkered down. His spy’s last message probably told him the President is here… that Barrett and I are here… that you’re all here. If Mon Grol did get that message to Kane, that’s all Kane knows.”

“Let’s make sure it stays that way.”

Dering stepped forward, confidence returning as he clung to the flicker of hope Buck had reignited.

“Buck’s right. We move now. Alert every cell. Send them everything we have. Logs. Orders. Intercepted transmissions. Let them take it to the towers and speak the truth before Kane understands what we’re doing.”

“We should synchronize the infiltrations for daybreak,” Barrett’s girlfriend suggested, “That’s when Kane’s people change shifts. They’ll be out of position and expecting unfamiliar faces.”

Dering nodded. “Let’s give the people of Antheia some good news to wake up to.”

“What about here?” Leera asked, hand resting on her belly. “What happens when Kane comes here?”

“Let him,” Buck replied. “Wipe your data. Burn your records. Get everyone out. When he shows up, let him find an empty relic.”

“What’s the fastest way to the towers?” Barrett asked his girlfriend.

“Boats to the closest two,” someone outside the circle offered. “Maglev to the others.”

“We should just beat sunrise to the farthest ones if we leave now,” Barrett’s girlfriend advised, “But there’s still the hub. At the center of New Chicago.”

“We’ll have to hope the local cells can handle it,” Dering replied, doing his best to instill hope where there was none.

“All we need is three to connect with the outer regions,” Barrett added. “After that, the truth will spread faster than Kane can shut it down.”

“The alien dig site,” Leera whispered, turning to stare at Buck. “If Kane…”

“We don’t know if they got it working,” Dering verbalized, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“They did a test run yesterday,” Barrett confirmed. “That was what I wanted to tell you. One of the scientists was arrested for refusing to keep working on it after something went wrong. She was in the cell across from me until they took her away just before Kane showed off his prisoners to the Federation representatives.”

“I went wrong,” Buck realized. “Their test run is what brought me to your world.”

“You know what the machine does?” Leera asked.

“Yeah,” Buck nodded. “It’s called a Disintegrator. It was created to transform, then invade other worlds.”

“We have to stop him,” Leera pleaded.

“There may be a way to get there before he realizes what we’re planning,” Dering said.

Motioning around himself as he detailed. “This was one of the original colony ships. If what my grandparents told me is true… there’s one cargo shuttle left in the hold.”

All heads turned.

“Why haven’t you used it?” Buck asked.

“The cargo bay doors are blocked,” Barrett’s girlfriend said. “A tree’s grown over them. Keeps the entrance hidden from satellites.”

“He doesn’t need satellites to find this place anymore,” someone muttered. “Not since his Mon told him where we are.”

“Even if we could open the doors,” Barrett said, “No one knows how to fly something that old.”

Buck’s grin returned.

“Lucky for you,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I can fly anything.”

 

[treschaschott]

Museum Piece
President Dering, Leera, and Barrett guided Buck through a maze of long-forgotten passageways, their footsteps echoing softly against grated metal. The path sloped downward, boxed in by exposed struts, sagging conduit, and insulation that peeled like old bark.

From somewhere ahead, Buck heard the distant whine of tools. A team outside was clearing the thick tree growth that blocked the shuttle bay doors.

At the end of the passage stood a sealed bulkhead. Dust clung to its surface. Age had scarred the metal. It had been welded shut in two places, cold and stubborn.

Dering brushed his fingers along the seam, then gave a nod. Barrett stepped forward with a plasma cutter and activated the beam, slicing through the first weld in a flare of light and molten metal.

“We always hoped we wouldn’t need it,” he said softly. “My grandfather sealed the cargo bay when the Romulans came.”

Buck watched the arc flash and hum.

“Funny thing about relics,” he murmured. “They always come back into style when you need them most.”

The second weld released with an almost silent whimper, followed by a hollow flexing snap as the door relaxed.

Together, the three men pushed the bulkhead open. It groaned against its hinges, then gave way.

Light spilled into the cargo bay, revealing a single vessel at rest on the angled deck. It was boxy, segmented, and framed for utility. Time had dulled its surfaces, but nothing had rusted through. Dust clung to the exterior, and some drifted into the air on the breeze from the bulkhead door swinging open.

It was whole.

Buck entered the cargo bay like he was approaching a sleeping child.

The shuttle was unlike anything he had flown. Cubular, with smooth leading edges and minimal control surfaces, but overall, it seemed balanced. A cargo container filled the space beneath the fore and aft compartments, cradled under a nest of tubular latticework. Stubby wings jutted from the aft engine section, compact but muscular. The thruster outlets were rectangular, sharp-edged, and silent.

Cross-braced landing pads rested on the deck beneath the engine compartment and the forward sections, flat almost like the talons of a grounded bird. Above the engines, Buck recognized reaction control clusters similar to those on the Space Shuttle, along with twin vertical rudders that appeared shorter than Buck was tall.

He made a full loop around the shuttle, one hand trailing along the hull’s cool, dust-layered surface. By the time he circled to the nose, a set of steps had automatically deployed. They folded down from a blocky section between the cockpit and the cargo framework, almost like the ship was inviting him aboard.

He stepped up and ducked through the hatch, entering a narrow mid-deck behind the cockpit. A sealed door to his right suggested a link to the cargo container beyond. He tapped a panel, and the door hissed open. The closed doors of the container filled the passage, sealing off whatever lay inside. He let the portal close again, then turned toward the flight deck.

The cockpit was pristine.

No dust. No corrosion. Just sleek panels, active displays, and a faint glow from displayed diagnostics already running.

Touchscreens wrapped the console in a wide arc. They pulsed with soft light, waiting for input. Data flickered across the glass. Engine readouts. Life support. Environmental stats. Navigation details.

Buck stepped forward and lowered himself into the pilot’s seat.

It fit like it was made for him.

Directly in front of him, the controls shifted from advanced to familiar. A single flight stick sat at the center, tactile and balanced, nearly identical to the X-20 HUER he had flown the past two years. The pedals beneath his boots gave just the right amount of tension, reacting with a precision that brought muscle memory rushing back.

The canopy stretched wide overhead. Transparent and seamless, with a heads-up overlay that displayed flight data across the glass. Altitude. Velocity. Pitch. Yaw. Artificial horizon. Power output. All in sharp, clean English words and symbols.

“This thing’s over a hundred years old,” Buck muttered, eyes tracing the readouts. “Still newer than anything I’ve flown.”

“Almost a hundred and seventy,” Barrett added, settling into the co-pilot seat and scanning one of the side panels.

Buck let his hand rest on the stick.

“But this… this feels like where I’m supposed to be.”

Barrett tapped through the startup sequence and muttered, “Looks like a museum piece to me.”

“Careful,” Buck replied. “I resemble that remark.”

The engine plant behind the suspended cargo container rumbled to life. A low, building hum filled the cockpit as systems came online.

Beyond the cockpit, the previously blocked doors began to inch open.

A dark sky spilled through into the bright cargo bay. In the distance, stars glittered against velvet black. Wind hissed across the threshold. And on the horizon, a massive moon hung low, filling nearly a quarter of the skyline.

Buck studied it for a beat. It was either enormous, or it orbited so close to Antheia that it practically kissed its orbital lover.

Leera and Dering stepped into the mid-deck behind them. They were speaking quietly, hands clasped.

“We need to leave soon,” Leera said, her voice calm but heavy. “I don’t want to leave you, but I think it would be best if we take different routes. Just in case.”

“Take one of the boats,” Dering told her. “Second fastest way off the island.”

She hesitated. “And you?”

“I’m taking the fastest,” he said, giving her a warm but firm smile. “With Buck.”

He rested his hand gently on her stomach.

“If I reach the central hub, they’ll know I’m alive. No rumor. No spin. Just truth.”

“And if you don’t make it?” she whispered.

“We can’t both fail,” he said. “Not tonight.”

They embraced. No words. Just the silence of two people holding everything they couldn’t say.

Then they separated. Leera kissed her husband before he turned to Barrett, directing him to escort Leera off the island.

As they swapped places, Leera paused at the hatch.

“Please,” she said to Buck, “take care of my husband. I don’t want our child to grow up not knowing their father.”

Buck nodded.

“I’ll do my best.”

He turned back to the controls.

“So,” he said, glancing at Dering as the stairs raised and sealed closed. “Not big on delegation, are you?”

Dering strapped in beside him. “I won’t inspire anyone from inside a two-hundred-year-old relic.”

“I know why I’m doing this,” Dering added, turning to look at Buck. “I have to… but I don’t understand why you are. Why risk your life for us?”

“Someone recently reminded me to do the right thing for the right reasons,” Buck said, easing the flight stick forward and tapping the pedals beneath his boots. Numbers shifted on the HUD in front of him, steady and responsive.

“And I understand why you feel you need to do what you’re doing,” Buck added, eyes scanning the center console. “But how do you know you can trust me?”

Dering turned back to the displays before him, and without hesitation, he responded.

“After you said you were the reason Kane’s test of the alien machine failed, and after you caught the spy we all missed, Leera told me she somehow knew you weren’t here, now, with us, by accident. She said you were sent to save us. To save our world.”

Buck remained silent, expressing a small, knowing smirk.

“And besides… Barrett told me who you’re working with. I trust the Federation to do what you said. The right thing, for the right reasons.”

Buck didn’t answer. He just flexed his fingers around the stick and triggered the power.

The shuttle trembled. The deck fell away. Buck could feel her floating, holding back, eager to do what she had been denied for so long.

To fly.

The shuttle shook slightly as Buck eased the power throttles open. She didn’t race forward so much as stumble like a child learning to walk. The controls were sluggish at first. The pitch resisted as they slipped past the open bay doors into the open sky.

Then, something shifted.

Out past the windshield, unfamiliar stars shimmered like a ballroom, inviting new partners to dance as one. Beneath his hands, Buck felt the ship respond. Hesitant at first, then smoother. More certain. Their rhythm began to sync.

He pulled back on the stick, and she rose with him.

Buck smiled.

“Like riding a bike,” he murmured. “Only more intimate.”

 

[treschaschott]

Bombing Run
The oversized moon rolled behind them, falling beneath the curve of the horizon like a closing eye. Ahead, the first glow of sunrise crept upward, painting the edge of the world in molten gold. Far below, maglev tracks carved concrete lines through vast agricultural fields, stretching for miles across the low valley. Circular irrigation dials dotted the patchwork terrain while morning mist rolled against the hillsides in slow, drifting waves.

Buck climbed, then dove, savoring the rhythm he and his partner moved to. She broke through the cloud cover at quarter speed, her nose dipping just enough to slice the upper thermals. Condensed vapor fanned across the leading edge of her winglets in long, curling streaks. High-speed air whispered over the canopy while slower turbulence tugged at the cargo container like a cautious hand trying to hold her back.

On the distant horizon, the morning sun backlit the waking silhouette of New Chicago in soothing light. The calm before the chaos its residents had no reason to expect.

A soft tone pulsed across the console. Then another. A cluster of red icons bloomed across the forward display like a wound spreading through clean skin.

Dering leaned forward. His voice dropped.

“Scanners just lit up like a meteor at night.”

He tapped the screen, stunned by what he saw.

“Fighters. Romulan signatures. And a command ship. Confirmed, a war-era Bird of Prey.”

Buck’s jaw tightened. “Romulans are the bad guys, right?”

“Yes,” Dering confirmed, then hesitated, just for a second.

“When I was younger, I trained for this,” he said quietly. “Every scenario. Every silhouette. I never thought I’d actually see them.”

He looked up, his expression cracked with something between disbelief and dread.

“We suspected Kane was working with them,” Dering muttered. “Maybe even for them. And now… now they’re here.”

Buck didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the controls.

“You said the people needed to see the truth.”

Dering nodded once, then grunted as the ship banked hard.

“They do.”

“Can you record what we’re seeing?” Buck asked, diving into a cloud bank, “And send it to the others?”

“Yes,” Dering replied, tapping rapidly across the screen. “The formation… their spacing, the fighter escorts. That’s not a patrol pattern. That’s a bombing run. They’re not here to defend Kane. They’re heading straight for our base… to wipe it out.”

Buck’s eyes flicked to the sky ahead, where black darts clawed forward across the sunrise.

“Good,” he said, smirking as he angled the shuttle downward. “Let ‘em.”

He leveled off just above the treetops, skimming the canopy. Then, went lower, tracking a magtrain line that snaked through the valley below.

“What are you doing?” Dering asked, bracing himself against the arms of his seat as the ship swayed and banked with every movement.

“I’m betting they’re not looking down for a single cargo shuttle,” Buck replied, threading the course with precise movements. “Besides, we’ll never punch through that blockade… and we don’t have to.”

He dipped lower still, almost on top of the track, as trees blurred past them.

“The more resources he throws at where we’re not, the fewer he’ll have waiting for us where we are going.”

 

[treschaschott]

Ghost Ship
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Buck growled as they cleared the maglev’s trench at the end of a snaking valley and found another wave of ships waiting, more than before, spread wide and hungry. A floating wall between them and New Chicago at the edge of the horizon.

He gripped the yoke, rolled hard left, and threw the shuttle into a corkscrewing climb. Energy blasts lit the air, streaking past in white-hot trails that stitched the sky inches from the hull.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered to the controls. “Don’t be like that F-35 I swore I’d never fly again…”

He darted between two Romulan gunships. They banked in sync, trying to catch him in a pincer until one overcorrected and clipped the other’s wing. A flash of fire and steel blossomed in the rear-facing screen.

“One down.”

Buck yanked into a loop, baiting another pair to follow. He feathered the throttle, then dropped just enough to slide into their blind spot. A second later, both spun their guns at the other while tracking the shuttle. Both then tumbled from the sky in flames.

“Two and three.”

“There,” Dering said, straining to keep steady. “That big round one… to the starboard side. If we can knock out its subspace transceiver, the fighters will lose coordination. They won’t be able to sync attacks or respond in real-time.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed as he rolled over a Romulan interceptor and skimmed around a gunship, executing the tightest and fastest S turn of his piloting career.

“Where’s the transceiver?” he asked, twisting into an upward arc, dead-set on a collision course with the aircraft carrier-sized command vessel.

“See that big bulge on the top,” Dering huffed, recalling his high-G fighter combat training, “That’s the bridge. The transceiver array is right behind it.”

“What are you going to do? Ram it?” Dering grunted as his body rocked in the opposite direction.

Nodding over his shoulder, Buck asked, “Can you release that cargo container while in flight?”

“I think so,” Dering nodded, then grinned. “Circle back and line us up on a bombing run. Right down the spine.”

He squinted at the sensor overlay. “I’ll drop it right on top of the subspace array. That’s the weakest point in the hull on ships of that class.”

Buck banked the shuttle into another S-turn, this one wide and slow, threading through a cluster of confused fighters before turning upward, the hull skimming the upper edge of the cloud canopy. Diving, then rolling the shuttle, Buck pulled up to find the Romulan command ship exactly where he expected it to be. It loomed ahead, massive and menacing, wider than an aircraft carrier was long. Disk-shaped. Sleek, dark green, and enormous. Wings spread out and above from the edges, connected to long cylinders that looked like talons poised to strike. The hull shimmered faintly, feather patterns etched across its surface, not for beauty but for intimidation.

Around the ship, fighters peeled off in every direction. They scrambled to reposition, reacting to a threat they clearly didn’t understand.

Buck moved and thought differently. His hands didn’t follow flight manuals or combat protocols. He flew like a creature of the air. The sky answered him. He knew how the atmosphere bit at control surfaces, how drag pushed back, and how turbulence tested the nerves. These pilots were used to space, to the clean inertia of the void. Out here, they were sluggish. Reactive. Out of sync.

Buck was born for this. Flying under pressure. In resistance. With weather clawing at every edge.

They flew like machines trying to guess his next move.

Buck flew like a man who already knew theirs.

Dering hunched over the console, working fast.

“Disengaging cargo safeties,” he said while his fingers flew over the display before him until he called out. “Container’s live. Ready when you are.”

“Hold tight,” Buck muttered, voice low as he leveled them out. “Lining up now.”

The shuttle porpoised, then rolled a little to port, then drifted to starboard, lining up with the ship’s spine. Buck approached from the rear, skimming low across the aft section of the Romulan command ship. Its green hull curved ahead like a massive Frisbee, sleek, symmetrical, and deceptively graceful. Just behind the bridge, a bubble-like dome swelled from the curved plating, subtle but unmistakable. The wind howled over the canopy as they crossed the ship’s back, a weapons-free zone and a perfect blind spot.

“You may fire when you are ready, Gridley,” Buck repeated an old Earth saying, gripping the stick tighter and dropping the cargo shuttle even closer to the ship’s hull.

“Three… Two… One… Go!” Dering shouted, tapping the release.

The shuttle lurched as the cargo container detached. The instant change in the center of the shuttle’s mass and the massive release in weight launched it straight up into the clouds above.

“Easy… easy…” Buck growled through clenched teeth, wrestling the stick, feet dancing on the pedals to compensate for the sudden imbalance and twisting roll before embracing the unexpected rapid vertical ascent.

“You could’ve warned me that thing was loaded like a brick warehouse.”

“It was a weapons cache,” Dering snapped, eyes locked on the aft viewer. “Leftovers from the Romulan invasion. Weapons and munitions, everything our grandparents couldn’t hide somewhere else.”

Buck focused on racing the shuttle through the cloud cover as Dering leaned forward, glued to the screen.

The container slammed into the ship’s raised spine, tumbled three times across the Romulan hull, then skipped once before punching straight through the backside of the domed bridge.

A bright white burst flared across the screen.

Dering held his breath. Smoke leaked from the wound, thick and curling.

“I missed,” he said flatly. “The transceiver…”

Then, the aft cam lit up from a ball of fire.

“But I took out the bridge.”

The command ship pitched forward violently. Explosions erupted deep within the hull, spreading from the impact site and tearing through layers of armored plating. The blast sheared the pylons connecting the wings to the elongated pods, sending the saucer section tumbling. It dropped away almost instantly, just seconds before the impulse engines flared.

The severed nacelles spun free and collided with the two escorting gunships. One vanished in the resulting fireball. The other took a glancing blow from the tumbling nacelle, igniting the gunship’s engine pods. It trailed smoke and flames as the craft spiraled out of control. It tumbled end over end, plummeting through the clouds, racing the shattered Bird of Prey toward the ground.

“Hmm,” Dering muttered, watching the burning hulk drop from the sky. “I don’t think my grandparents were entirely honest about what they had hidden away in that container.”

The sudden loss of the command ship sent a ripple of confusion through Kane’s forces. Without centralized coordination, their formation broke. Fighters once held in tight discipline drifted, their patterns unraveling into chaos. Some banked away sharply. Others climbed in expanding spirals, waiting for orders that would never come.

A two-hundred-year-old cargo shuttle, unarmed and obsolete, had just taken out a Romulan Bird of Prey, three gunships, and several fighters without firing a single shot. That kind of kill ratio made even veteran pilots hesitate. No one wanted to be the first to engage a ghost ship that had no right to exist, let alone one that destroyed a light cruiser with a cargo container.

And in every cockpit, one unspoken thought echoed louder than any command: Not me.

To those inside Central Command, the loss of the Bird of Prey was catastrophic. To those on the ground, the fireball that consumed it lit the sky like a false dawn. Its falling wreckage blazed through the morning light, and the shockwave that followed rolled across the valley like thunder from another world.

The rising smoke ascended through the cloud layer and beyond, a defiant banner of rebellion Kane would despise with every breath.

Amid the chaos, no one noticed the shuttle.

It had vanished into the eruption, swallowed by flame and debris. On every scanner, it was gone. Destroyed. Assumed lost, along with the insane pilot who had dared the impossible.

No one saw it knife upward, racing the edge of the blast.

Not even Kane’s watchers in the hallowed halls of the Defense Ministry saw it breach the cloud layer, arcing like a shard of shrapnel toward the heart of the city.

They believed the ghost ship was gone.

That belief held until it reappeared on their scanners, locked on course for the center of New Chicago.

 

[treschaschott]

People Of Antheia
“Leera just confirmed she received a copy of everything we saw,” Dering said with a nod. “She and Barrett’s team are about to take the tower closest to the island. The Romulan ships prove Kane’s been working with them in secret. That was not another bombing configuration. That was an invasion force. The images of the Romulans blockading New Chicago, combined with all the other evidence we’ve gathered… this will be his end.”

The sun had fully risen, casting the city in a harsh, unforgiving light. Below them, the streets were empty. Sirens echoed. Smoke drifted across the skyline from the wreckage of the downed Bird of Prey.

One of the displays blinked to life. Kane’s face appeared.

“People of Antheia,” he began, his expression too calm, too carefully measured. “The Federation has chosen to support terrorists rebelling against your lawfully elected government. The Romulan Empire has offered its assistance in maintaining planetary order, and I have agreed to ensure your safety during these uncertain times.”

Dering said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, jaw clenched.

Buck’s attention was elsewhere.

No fighters rose to meet them. Not a single interceptor moved to challenge their approach. Perhaps word had spread. Maybe it came from the shattered formation or quiet warnings shared between mercenaries. Something had taken the fight out of Kane’s remaining forces. No one wanted to engage the shuttle that had taken down a Romulan Bird of Prey with nothing more than a cargo container. Or maybe there were simply no ships left near the city capable of intercepting.

From beyond New Chicago’s city center, cannons opened fire on the descending shuttle. The first shot missed. The second scored a glancing blow along the port side, gouging a black streak across the cockpit hull.

On screen, Kane continued. “These terrorists are being dealt with. Do not be alarmed as we test our defense systems in response to—”

The feed stuttered. Then ended.

Static hissed. A test pattern filled the screen.

Buck dodged two more cannon blasts, the shuttle rattling with each near miss.

Then, a new face replaced the still image.

Leera.

“This is Leera Dering. The truth has been silenced for too long, but not anymore. President Elias Dering is alive. Kane stole the election. He conspired with Romulan agents to assassinate my husband. And we have just received images of a Romulan invasion force outside of New Chicago. We also believe Kane intends to activate an alien weapon buried beneath the ruins outside New Chicago. If he does, the resulting energy release could destroy half the planet.”

“If the Federation can hear us… we need your help. Please.”

Leera paused, then began to repeat her message using different words that carried the same intent and purpose.

Dering’s eyes widened. “She did it. We captured the towers. Even the central hub… it’s over.”

“No, it’s not,” Buck said, swinging the shuttle hard and rolling away from another blast before aiming the ship toward the edge of the city. “He doesn’t sound like the type to give up that easily.”

“You’re right,” Dering nodded, “If Kane can’t have what he wants, he won’t let anyone else have it either.”

“There,” Dering pointed, “That open space over there. That’s where we found the ancient outpost and technology that is even more advanced than the Federation’s.”

A blast slammed into the shuttle from the opposite side, which was more than a glancing blow, taking out at least one of the engines. Buck struggled to keep the shuttle from rolling over or falling from the sky.

Klaxons screamed.

He fought the stick, feet dancing across the rudder pedals as he turned the wounded shuttle away from downtown, angling it toward the open space Dering had indicated.

Reaching into his vest with one hand and piloting with the other, Buck pulled the emergency transport token.

Without hesitation, he slapped it against Dering’s chest.

Before the president could react or respond, he vanished in a shimmer of gold.

Buck resumed dancing with his lady, sweeping through tight rolls and evasive banks that kept the batteries from locking on again. Once he felt they were safely out of range, he climbed for altitude, then pointed the shuttle directly at the dig site.

He locked the autopilot on its suicide course, unbuckled, and pulled himself from the pilot’s seat, gripping every handhold he could to reach the mid-deck. At the cargo door, he didn’t tap the button so much as punch it.

The wind slammed through the opening.

Clouds tore past the falling shuttle, and the ground was distant and blurry.

Rather than leap first and regret it later, he scanned the posted signs and symbols. Fortunately, all the words were in English, and Buck didn’t have to interpret oversized icons and images to find what he was looking for.

A parachute.

He strapped it on.

Beyond the cargo bay, the wind clawed at his face. The jump was clean. The chute deployed faster than expected, snapping open with a jolt and filling instantly with air. His fall slowed to a floating glide.

Buck turned the bright orange rectangular canopy toward the excavation site, eyes locked on the shuttle as it completed its final maneuver.

She did as she was asked, striking the target dead center.

Almost instantly, an explosion bloomed upward in a mushroom of red, orange, yellow, and violet. The shockwave hit Buck before the fireball, shoving him sideways across the sky and spinning him around.

Then, just as he mentally braced for incineration, everything reversed.

The rolling ball of fire didn’t continue to expand.

It contracted.

And it took Buck with it.

 

[treschaschott]

Tourist Attraction
Buck’s eyes snapped open moments before impact.

Instinct kicked in.

He yanked back on the chute controls. The canopy flared wide, caught the air, and slowed his descent just enough. His boots touched down hard but not painfully. Controlled. Upright.

He stood still for a moment, adjusting.

The ground beneath his feet was not dirt, grass, or stone. It was smooth. Impossibly smooth. Dark like obsidian and almost completely featureless. The onyx-like surface absorbed every color yet possessed a reflectivity like diamonds, with frozen waves embedded below the surface.

He looked around.

He found himself at the bottom of a bowl-shaped crater. It was easily three stories deep and three times as wide. Perfectly symmetrical. The walls curved up and out in a seamless ring, untouched by tool or weather. No cracks. No seams. Just a continuous, wavy black reflectivity.

Two stairways interrupted the surface. One on each side. Identical. Angular. Metal. Black on Black.

Clearly, they were not part of the original formation. Their sharp, purposeful steps broke the otherwise flawless geometry of the crater.

From the top of both, figures began to appear.

Uniformed. Armed. A half dozen, at least. Each moved in practiced formation, descending the stairs like ants.

Buck’s translator clicked softly in his ear.

“Drop to your knees. Interlace your fingers behind your head.”

He raised his hands slowly. Then, he let them see he was carefully removing his parachute, surprised to find it had retracted into the pack without him having to do anything.

Then knelt on the strange surface.

Fingers laced behind his head and waited.

“You know this is a restricted area,” one of them growled, “What’s your name.”

“Rogers, Lieutenant Anthony. AF 2265-0317. United States Air Force.”

“Great,” one of the people surrounding Buck muttered, “Like the rest, another wannabe.”

“Come on,” another said, grabbing Buck’s arm, “Let’s go. The Captain will want to have a word with you.”

Two guards flanked Buck as he stood. A third retrieved the parachute pack, now fully collapsed and sealed as if it had never been deployed.

The four men and two women escorted him up the nearest stairway, its metal steps clanging softly beneath their boots. The long climb gave Buck time to study the crater from above. It looked even stranger from this angle. Too refined to be natural, too organic to be artificial.

At the rim, the world opened wide.

A sprawling open-air plaza unfolded before him, built just beyond the upper edge of the crater as if the bowl below were the centerpiece of a round table. It wasn’t military. It didn’t even look governmental. It was civic. Alive. A grand marketplace. Tiered levels overlooked a circular polished pathway lined with shops, food stalls, and storefronts. Voices rose and fell in conversation and laughter. Interesting aromas drifted through the air, mingling with the unexpected vista: flamed meats, sharp spices, sweet baked fruits, and steamed herbs. Light displays hovered above or in front of each vendor, forming a collage of unfamiliar letters and symbols.

Humanoids of every imaginable kind moved through the plaza, their features ranging from pale and smooth to scaled, ridged, or furred. Some had antennae, others had slitted eyes, elongated ears, or unusual posture, walking with feline grace or stocky defiance. Most wore simple, casual clothes: robes, coats, and tunics suited for civilian life. Only a handful stood out in structured uniforms marked with symbols and clean lines. Buck caught the unmistakable shape of the Starfleet delta on one of their unfamiliar uniforms and stared, a half-forgotten memory tugging at the edge of recognition.

Above, Buck noticed it was raining beyond a domed force field that shielded the entire crater and the storefronts surrounding it from the elements outside.

There was something else overlooking the crater.

A statue.

Buck stopped walking.

His accompanying dark-clothed escorts didn’t force him to keep moving, not immediately.

The stone figure fronting the crater was tall and heroic in scale. It stood on a high marble base, facing the crater. His feet were set apart, his elbows out, and his hands on his hips. His jaw was square. His hair was slightly tousled. A confident gaze aimed toward the future.

The face was too familiar to ignore.

But it was what the figure was wearing that hit hardest.

A gold-flecked shirt with long sleeves, a black vest, rugged matching trousers with a brass buckle, and a pair of knee-high boots. And, above the man’s heart, a slightly dented circular brass broach.

Buck stared at it for a full beat.

One of the guards snorted with amusement. “Look at that. This one actually nailed the outfit… dent and everything.”

Another joined in. “Yeah. If this guy’s not the real deal, he’s the best-dressed jumper we’ve had for a long time.”

Buck noticed his escorts were down to two when they nudged him along before he could ask about his towering likeness.

The police station was hidden down one of the mall’s tunnels. Generic signage and barred windows. Transparent door.

It was hushed inside. Clinical. Serious.

Buck was scanned. The broach was taken and scanned separately. Then, they returned it when they realized the translator wasn’t just a prop; their prisoner needed it to understand and obey their directions.

After processing, Buck was escorted to the back of the station, passing three occupied cells.

Each one held a man.

Each of them looked like him.

Not just similar. Not just familiar.

Almost identical.

One met his eyes and gave a lazy salute with a bandaged arm. Another offered a wink.

The third, taller than Buck, nodded a brotherly smirk.

Buck was led past them all and to an empty cell.

He sat on the padded cot. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. Eyes still full of the statue.

His brain heard but did not process the door closing. Instead, he was struggling to understand what had happened to turn his likeness into a tourist attraction.

It was the second time in as many days that he found himself alone in a prison cell. The silence of this imprisonment was different. It wasn’t confusion that gnawed at Buck’s thoughts now. It was clarity. He knew what had happened. He’d been thrown through time again. At least another hundred years, maybe more. The room around him was clean, precise, and far more advanced than the stone-walled cell with metal bars and an easily picked lock. But it wasn’t the tech that weighed on him. It was his memories.

He closed his eyes and drifted back to Chicago. His neighborhood. His parents. The aromas above the crater brought back the flavor of street tacos and the best pizza he ever had. Then, across the red and white checkered table in his mind, Mina’s laugh returned to him, soft and quick and inviting.

He tried to fight it, but the truth settled in. They were gone. All of them. Dissolved into history like dust in the wind. Buck had always lived like the next test flight might be his last, but he never imagined surviving would hurt more than dying in a crash. Now he sat, a man out of time, lost and alone, waiting again and unsure of what was going to happen next.