First Contact
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 5150.1, the Enterprise is cruising at warp speed, bound for Earth—not to answer a distress call or face an unknown threat, but for something far rarer: a moment of peace. Starfleet Command has requested our presence at the annual First Contact Day celebration, commemorating humanity’s first meeting with the Vulcans.
Seems fitting that as we approach the end of our five-year mission, today is the first time I can remember when we’re not racing against time or bracing for the unknown. I think the crew feels it, too. The tension that so often hums beneath the surface has faded since I announced our orders to the ship’s complement. Throughout the ship, there’s an uncharacteristic calm. Even Doctor McCoy—who rarely lets an opportunity for sarcasm pass—seems almost relaxed. Almost.”
“End log.”
Captain James T. Kirk flipped the controls below the viewscreen on his desk, saving and filing his log entry. He stood, pulled down his tunic, then marched out the door of his cabin. A few minutes later, he was where he felt most comfortable, in the ship’s command chair, overseeing everything.
“You realize, Jim, this might be the first time we’ve headed for Earth without being ordered to save it?” McCoy said, his Southern drawl laced with amusement as he leaned against the railing behind the Captain’s chair.
Kirk allowed himself a grin. “A historic moment, Bones. It’s a rare honor for any starship to be invited to do a flyby of the First Contact Museum in Bozeman. Hope you’re ready for some atmospheric maneuvering, Mr. Sulu.”
“Can’t wait to show off what the Enterprise can do,” Sulu’s pride oozed before he added, “I hear the Vulcans are donating the original T’Plana-Hath to the museum,” Sulu added from the helm, glancing over his shoulder, “Going to land it in the exact spot where it touched down after the Phoenix launch.”
McCoy scoffed at Spock, teasing, “I’m surprised the Vulcan High Command celebrates First Contact with a species as backward as us humans.”
Spock, seated at his science station, barely glanced up from his monitors. “The Vulcan High Command does not celebrate First Contact with any species. They, as I do, acknowledge such events as historical facts. However, I do consider the preservation of the T’Plana-Hath after its decommissioning a fortuitous circumstance.”
McCoy shook his head. “Fortuitous… right. Fortuitous for some politician somewhere.”
Kirk chuckled as he teased, “Enjoy the peace while it lasts, gentlemen. The galaxy has a way of—”
Before he could finish, the ship shuddered violently. The viewscreen of passing stars wavered, then warped, rolling and cascading forward, then backward. For a brief instant, the Bridge was filled with a bright light, an intense illumination that vanished as fast as it appeared.
“What was that?!” Sulu questioned aloud as his hands flew over his console, quickly compensating as the Enterprise momentarily rolled to the left, then leveled, “Whatever it was knocked us off course, a little, but not much.”
“A cloaked ship?” Kirk challenged, “And that light? A new form of the Romulan plasma weapon?”
“Neither,” Spock announced from his station, his voice calm but laced with intrigue, “It appears to have been a coherent warp bubble.”
“Captain,” Sulu called out.
“We’re slowing. Engine output is normal, but we’re slowing.”
“Scotty,” Kirk called out after smashing the priority button that established instant communication with his Chief Engineer, “What’s going on?”
“We had a wee bit of a power surge in the warp core,” Scotty’s thick accent answered, “Just a flicker, and she dipped a little like she had a bit too much to drink. I had the lads adjust the plasma flow an’ rebalance the intermix, and now she’s hummin’ like a bairn again.”
“Sulu says we’re slowing down,” Kirk insisted.
“That can’na be possible,” Scotty denied, “My engines are humming beautifully, but we’ll run a full diagnostic.”
“Let me know if you find something,” Kirk commanded, pushing down on the button on the arm of his chair before exiting and moving toward the railing just below Spock’s science station. McCoy moved to fill the space behind Spock, near Kirk, where both men and the bridge crew waited until Spock nodded, “Fascinating… structured, mass-less bubble of isolated spacetime, traversing normal space at superluminal velocities… and,” turning to face Kirk as he confirmed, “We appear to be caught in its wake.”
“The controls feel… sluggish, almost like a ship in choppy waters,” Sulu confirmed, “Nothing I can’t handle. The drag is fading.”
“Captain,” Uhura interrupted, her delicate finger caressing her earpiece as she announced a tense, “Security has surrounded an intruder in the shuttle bay.”
Kirk was already racing toward the turbo-lift as he ordered, “Spock, McCoy—you’re with me.”
McCoy followed Kirk, with Spock entering the turbolift last, reaching back to clasp his hands behind his back just as the doors swooshed closed.
“Always something,” the Doctor muttered as the lights on the walls flashed by and the magnetic rails transporting the people carrier to its destination thrummed.
The shuttle bay was fully lit, the bright overhead lights casting no shadows across the polished deck. Security officers stood in a loose perimeter, phasers at the ready, all aimed at the woman standing in the center of the room.
A brightly glowing woman.
She was tall, though not imposing—perhaps 5’8” or 5’9”—with a lean, athletic build that suggested both discipline and adaptability. Her dark brown hair cut short into a precise, layered bob, framed a face of sharp, well-defined features—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a straight, slightly aquiline nose that hinted at her Germanic ancestry. Her eyes, a piercing shade of steel-gray, were coolly assessing her situation, their depth suggesting a mind that could calculate risk and reward in an instant.
The glow about her was fading, allowing Kirk to see her makeup, which was understated yet deliberate and included a touch of eyeliner to accentuate her gaze. Her neutral-shaded lipstick did not soften the sharp confidence in her expression. With the glow almost completely gone, her skin was fair but not delicate, carrying the faintest trace of sun exposure as if she had spent just enough time outdoors to avoid looking artificial.
Colorfully out of place, encircled by a squad of red-shirted security, she wore a form-fitting navy-blue blazer tailored to perfection over a crisp white blouse that sat open at the collar. The faint red blush below her neck expressed confusion but not fear. Her dark slacks, pressed with military precision, tapered into navy blue high heels—sleek, polished, and perfectly coordinated with her pantsuit. Shoes were clearly chosen for fashion, not function. Yet her stance was defensive, leaning toward assertive but unforced—one foot slightly ahead of the other, weight evenly distributed, hands at her sides. Poised, yet ready to leap, as if mentally bracing to defend herself against impossible odds. A rounded wrist device, its sleek design unmistakably technologically advanced, gleamed subtly beneath the cuff of her blazer.
When her eyes shifted from scanning the encircling security team, their phasers raised, meeting Kirk’s gaze, there was no deference, no awe—just the direct, assessing look of a woman who had long since learned to hold her own in rooms full of powerful men. And at that moment, Kirk knew this was someone worth paying attention to.
However, Kirk’s primary concern was not the woman; it was the pulsing golden glow emanating from her body. Bright at first, when Kirk, Spock, and McCoy entered the hangar deck, later fading as they approached, quickly disappearing like the last glowing embers of a dying fire.
As multiple shadows from the overhead lights stretched outward from their unexpected guest’s no longer glowing form, the woman’s eyes continued to dart around the shuttle bay, taking in every detail with wary intelligence, perhaps seeking a route of escape. Her brow furrowed as she panned her attention from one security officer to the next, muttering, “Guns… at least I assume those things they are pointing at me are weapons, which mean military or police… definitely not very welcoming in any case.”
Her gaze flicked over the crew’s uniforms; then her expression tightened with uncertainty when her eyes locked on the antennae of a blue-skinned, white-haired alien. After a moment’s pause, her attention shifted to the straight-shouldered and green-tinted, pointed ear Spock, muttering, “I hope whichever one of you is in charge is smart enough to ask questions first and shoot later… and "I really hope at least one of you speaks English… or maybe Guten Tag, Bonjour, Konnichiwa?”
McCoy moved closer, tapping the shoulder of one of the guards before taking the tricorder the security officer held in his non-weapon-bearing hand.
Distracting their unexpected guest’s attention away from McCoy, Kirk confirmed aloud, “We have technology that will allow us to understand you and allow you to understand us.”
“A real-time universal translator,” the woman nodded, shifting her attention from Kirk to Spock’s stiff form, sharp features, and angeled eyebrows, “Audible or telepathic?”
“A little of both,” Kirk smirked, motioning for security to lower their weapons, snapping his fingers twice while silently directing all but two of the guards to move to the other end of the shuttle bay.
“Where… am I?” the out-of-place woman asked, turning her attention to McCoy aiming the tricorder at her, “And what is that thing? Is that what’s allowing you to understand me and me you?”
“No,” Kirk replied, “Our Universal Translators are a lot smaller.”
“I’m scanning you to make sure you are as human as you look,” McCoy groused as his tricorder whirred, “We’ve been fooled before… Talosians, Trelane, Melkotians—take your pick. For all we know, you could be a shapeshifter, a projection, or maybe even some omnipotent busybody with a twisted sense of humor.”
McCoy’s impatience growled as he raised his eyes to look at their unexpected visitor, “And until I see proof, you’re just another shadow pretending to be human or humanoid.”
Kirk took a step forward, once again, pulling the woman’s attention away from McCoy to himself, introducing, “I’m Captain Kirk,” motioning toward Spock as he stated, “This is Mr. Spock, my First Officer, and Science Officer, and grumpy over there is my Chief Medical Officer, Dr. McCoy.”
“I’ve got every right to be grumpy,” McCoy muttered, continuing his scans, “We were supposed to be done with this kind of stuff…”
McCoy’s frown deepened as the readout scrolled across the display. “Well, I’ll be damned… Cortisol and adrenaline levels are elevated—not surprising, considering. Oxygen and nitrogen ratios in her lungs are a little off, but pretty close to the air we’re breathing. But…”
McCoy shifted his attention to Kirk as he declared, “Jim… this woman is carrying antibodies for viruses that haven’t existed for two hundred years.”
“Fascinating,” Spock mumbled as Kirk questioned, “Can you confirm that?”
McCoy’s expression was grim but certain as he replied, “These are uniquely Earth-based antibodies. Antibodies for diseases that were wiped out a long time ago: Polio, Measles, Mumps, and Papilloma. If she is from the past, based on the Corona markers in her bloodstream and the trace amounts of Plutonium and Uranium… I’d say this woman is from sometime after 2028 but before the end of 2033.”
“2033,” She commented, “Closed out the books for the third quarter last week,” releasing a nervous chuckle as she taunted, “I take it time travel isn’t a common occurrence for you? At least not as common as the movies and TV shows of my day suggested,” her voice edged with dry amusement, and an understandable level of disbelief.
“We are not unfamiliar with temporal displacement,” Spock’s monotone voice commented below his raised eyebrow.
“So,” the stranger from the past aimed her response at Spock’s green skin, sharp facial features, and pointy ears, inquiring, “Grumpy just verified I’m from Earth, and I’m going to assume these two are, or are very close to being human, but… you’re not, are you? And neither is the blue one with the thingies dancing above his white hair.”
“I am Vulcan,” Spock replied with a subtle but detectable tone of pride.
“And,” Kirk motioned, “Zhoryn Trel is from Andor.”
Turning back to the shaken but not stirred woman from the past, Kirk detailed, “There are currently ten different worlds and two dozen cultures represented on this ship, and there are over a thousand planets in the Federation.”
“This is a ship?” she questioned, her eyes once again scanning the interior of the shuttle bay.
“Yes,” Kirk nodded, pride sparkling behind his eyes as he spoke the name “The Starship Enterprise” with reverence and affection.
“A starship… a ship to the stars,” she stated as her eyes stared beyond Kirk, searching for, and not finding deceit, mumbling, “Then… then I’m not on Earth anymore… some kind of spacial shift… that was what we were trying to do… but with a time-shift too…?”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” her eyes snapping back to Kirk as she complained, “And I’m not supposed to be here… you should be talking to an AI drone… it was only supposed to be a dog and pony show… and now… Ha,” she laughed, her face displaying a manic grin as she barked at Kirk, “I don’t even know when now is.”
Spock responded before Kirk could, “Stardate 5150.1.”
Spock paused, processing the confused expression on their guest’s face before detailing, “Julian calendar: April 1, 2269,” pausing again before adding, “Thursday.”
“No fooling?” she directed at Kirk, then twisted to look at McCoy, “This isn’t an April Fools joke… is it? I used to date a CHiP when I lived in California, and when he broke up with me, he called me a 5150… which I found out later meant he thought I was mental… mostly because I wasn’t interested in committing to him or becoming part of a throuple.”
“Do I look or sound crazy to you,” she directed at McCoy.
“I can’t assess your mental state without more tests?” McCoy grumbled, passing the tricorder to Kirk, “Besides, if anyone is playing a prank on anyone, it’s you playing one on us, according to these readings.”
“Maybe I am crazy,” she muttered, her attention shifting to the lines on the floor of the shuttle bay, “This has to be a dream or a delusion… maybe I’m in a coma…”
As Kirk reviewed the display on the tricorder, the woman exhaled a long sigh, pinching herself in several places, then studying the details of her hand, followed by scanning each of the people around her in detail before muttering toward Kirk, studying the tiny display of the box in his hand, “Okay, Captain… let’s assume this isn’t a prank of some kind…April 2269…” her gaze shifting upward.
“Let’s see if I remember my high school algebra and trig and the speed that guy from Cern said we could obtain…” the woman muttered before her mind seemed elsewhere, her eyes focused beyond the storage area above the shuttle bay as her hands and fingers danced in the space above her raised arms, muttering numbers, before ending with, “and carry the three… I think,” then exhaling a long slow, “No way… that can’t be right… thirty-seven point five lightyears in what seemed like seconds.”
Shifting her attention back toward Kirk, accusing, “That’s assuming you’re not all part of some stupid hoax the marketing department dreamed up… or maybe that box you’re holding is hiding a phone that’s live-streaming my mental breakdown to some dark net social media platform the “Superior race” of Krisper-Kids funds so they can make themselves feel better than they really are.”
“We call it a tricorder,” Kirk commented, passing the black box to Spock, confirming, “And, yes, it does record everything around it, but not in the way you might expect.”
Spock’s brow arched as he studied the tricorder passed to him by Kirk, questioning, “If Earth was indeed your point of origin, then the distance you traveled is 375.738 lightyears,” pausing, clearing expressing a subtle tone of condescension, “You neglected to shift a decimal at some point during your calculations.”
“Every time,” she muttered, “I do that every F’ng time.”
“Wait… What?” the stunned woman stammered at Spock, “We’re three hundred and seventy-five lightyears from Earth?!”
Spock nodded as Kirk smirked, “And two hundred thirty to forty years from where you were. And, based on your use of an obscure but still incredibly flexible word choice and by the look of your clothing and that device on your wrist, I’d say that’s a pretty good guess.”
She raised her left arm, tapping the display of her smartwatch, muttering, “Battery’s almost dead… and, of course, no service… wait… that means… it worked…” she glowed excitedly, then sighed, watching Kirk nod before she frowned, “If it worked, and I’m here, and you’re here… hold on… I shouldn’t be here… there was an AI drone on the stand in the launch tunnel… if I’m here and it’s not, how do I get back?”
“I might be able to provide a more in-depth analysis of our shared situation if I knew what ‘it’ was and more details as to what you expected to happen,” Mr. Spock proposed, “From our perspective, we encountered a coherent Warp bubble and its after-effects immediately prior to your arrival. I assume that is not a coincidence.”
“I don’t know what a Warp bubble is,” the sunken-shouldered woman muttered, “Is that anything like a Superspace pandimensional fold?”
“Yes,” Spock nodded, raising one eyebrow before detailing, “Superspace is the inverse counterpart to Subspace, as Matter is to Anti-matter. It is a highly unstable and unpredictable spacetime lamella or transdimensional spacetime surfactant. No known race that the Federation has encountered has successfully folded Superspace with any more than temporary or transitory success. In fact, all known attempts have resulted in disastrous outcomes.”
Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances as McCoy muttered, “Well, that didn’t help me understand what’s happening.”
“Our guest’s response was indeed quite enlighting,” Spock disagreed, slinging the tricorder over his shoulder, as he continued, “It implies Earth was on the cusp of Warp travel thirty years prior to Zefram Cochrane launching the Phoenix.”
“Before World War III,” McCoy questioned Spock.
“That is what I said,” Spock emotionlessly replied without further comment.
“There was a World War?” Trescha asked, not fully expecting a response as she nodded, muttering, “Of course there was… that’s what the Krisper Kids wanted all along, to turn everyone against everyone else, then wait to dominate what’s left over the world destroys itself.”
“Can you tell us exactly what you remember before arriving on my ship?” Kirk asked, “And perhaps your name?”
“Trescha,” the now less determined and slightly unsteady woman whispered, “Trescha Schott.”
Spock twisted the tricorder from his hip before flipping open the lid as Trescha summarized what she remembered before the room around her appeared out of nowhere.
“I am, or was, a project manager for a startup in Texas,” she detailed with remorseful detachment, “About a half hour Southeast of Austin.”
Looking up at the Captain’s sympathetic eyes, she detailed, “We were developing some pretty advanced tech to get AI Drones to the Moon, Mars, and the outer planets without the high cost of rockets and, of course, the days, months or years it took to get from Earth to just about anyplace else.”
“What was your departure date,” Spock asked, rapidly pushing buttons and twisting knobs on the inside of the lid of the box in his hand.
“November 11, 2033.” Trescha paused, “Friday,” shaking her head. “My birthday… Some of the project team and my manager took me out for my birthday to one of the Bar-B-Que places in Lockhart. We got back just in time to observe our first live demonstration of the launch tunnel at full power.”
