Star Trek: The Enterprise Initiative

[treschaschott]

From the corner of the shuttle bay, a soft blorp announced a new arrival.

Murf wobbled into view, his gelatinous body jiggling with enthusiasm. He let out an affectionate burble and, with theatrical flair, produced something shiny from… somewhere. Then, with a satisfied plop, he settled beside Trescha in a squelchy, companionable lump.

Trescha blinked at the object now resting in her hand—a smoothed piece of metal polished to an uneven gleam.

“Well,” she whispered, smiling. “Thank you for such a… shiny gift.”

Murf cooed in response, a soft trill of delight vibrating through his gooey form.

She chuckled gently. “You remind me of my cat. Isis. She used to bring me gifts too—usually dead mice or birds, but still. It’s the thought that counts, right?”

Murf tilted… something that might be a head, then let out a warble so pleased it made her laugh again.

“Isis had sleek black fur,” Trescha went on. “sharp green eyes and an attitude that could shame a Krisper-Kid.”

She caught herself smiling at the memory. “She used to sleep next to me at night or on my computer when I was trying to work. Always had to be near… always had to remind me I wasn’t alone.”

Murf slid closer, his side nudging gently against her hip, soft and warm, like a sleepy kitten curling up to rest.

Trescha’s smile faded into something quieter. She ran her hand along the curve of his translucent body—warm, not quite solid, but undeniably alive.

“I don’t know what you are,” she murmured. “But you’re good company.”

Murf let out a low, contented gurgle and leaned fully into her touch.

“Yeah,” she said softly, “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

She glanced at the small object he’d given her again, turning it slowly between her fingers.

“Thanks for the company, little guy. You say more without words than most people I’ve met in a boardroom.”

Murf let out one last satisfied blorp, his glow dimming slightly as he settled in beside her, still and steady.

Then came the sound of footsteps—many this time—right after the shuttle bay doors hissed open.

Gwyn led the way, her expression unreadable. Zero hovered beside her, flanked by Rok, Pog, and Janeway. Jankom grumbled under his breath, but even he didn’t try to hide the tension thickening the air.

The remaining crew moved in around Trescha, Dal, and Murf—surrounding them in a slow wave of concern.

Dal didn’t move. He remained seated beside Trescha, posture quiet but alert, one hand resting loosely against his knee.

Janeway stood behind the group, arms folded behind her back. Her posture was crisp, but her voice carried a softer gravity than usual.

“Gwyn has a question for you, Trescha.”

“Okay,” Trescha said, rising slightly from her seat, leaving Murf’s gift behind. “I’ll do my best to answer it.”

Gwyn stepped forward, eyes narrowed.

“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

Trescha blinked. “Known what?”

“How to stop the secondary warp core from going boom,” Pog barked.

“Oh, that.” Trescha nodded calmly. “Yeah. Just like back when I worked on IT projects - power it off and then back on again. Works ninety percent of the time.”

“The Protostar Drive?” Dal asked, brows furrowed.

“Yes, of course,” Zero interjected. “The Superspace Fold is tethered to our active Protostar Drive. Shut down the engine, and we break the connection.”

Dal stood. “Then let’s do it. Shut it down. Drift for a while if we have to.”

Janeway said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her gaze was locked on Trescha, and the silence that followed spread through the shuttle bay like a pressure wave.

Rok’s voice cracked. “She’ll disappear… won’t she?”

Zero’s reply was gentle. “Her presence is anchored to the Fold. When we break the connection… she will no longer be able to remain in our universe. Her past is woven into ours now, but her future may not be.”

Pog slammed a hand on the crate beside him. “So what? It’s us or her? We go on, and she gets stuck where she was? That’s garbage.”

“It’s not garbage,” Gwyn said quietly. “It’s reality. And we don’t get to rewrite physics.”

Dal’s voice rose with raw emotion. “No. No way. We don’t leave people behind. Alone. Not again. Not ever.”

Janeway’s expression didn’t change, but her tone was firm. “Sometimes, the choice isn’t between winning and losing, Dal. Sometimes it’s between doing the right thing for one… or the right thing for everyone else.”

Dal opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Trescha stood and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t your burden to carry.”

“Yes,” Dal said, voice rough, eyes shining, “it is. I’m the Captain.”

“Being Captain,” Trescha said softly, “means there will be situations where there is no good outcome for everyone. Only consequences. And leadership… means choosing which consequences you can live with.”

He searched her eyes for a long moment, uncertain but standing tall.

Then he nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t really have much of a choice, do I? It’s eight of us dying, and you going back to where you were… or all of us dying together.”

“As you said,” Trescha replied, “there really isn’t much of a choice. In fact, it’s not about the decision. It’s about how you live with it—and what you learn from the impact it leaves on the rest of your lives.”

“You’re starting to sound a lot like Janeway,” Rok whimpered, tears spilling freely down her cheeks.

Dal didn’t break eye contact with Trescha. His voice was steady.

“Pog,” he said, “power down the Protostar Drive.”

Pog opened his mouth—

“Not until I get another hug!” Rok blurted, stepping forward with arms open and hopeful.

 

[treschaschott]

I've merged the existing threads into this one as they all belong together. This way, the posts won't drown out other topics and stories and will also be easier to find for readers. Please post future chapters in this thread.

Thank you.
I will (and have) continue(d) to append to this thread.

 

[treschaschott]

Sweet Tea
“Captain’s log: Stardate 61772.35,

Captain Worf, USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-E

We have departed Starbase 247 after a standard resupply and minor system recalibration. The crew performed admirably during our most recent supply and crew-transfer assignment, though I sense that many find our current missions lacking in… significance. A warrior does not seek battle needlessly, but there is an unmistakable restlessness among them, as there is within me. Duty is its own reward. And yet—”

Worf paused briefly, exhaling through his nose. The bridge around him remained quiet except for the beeps from the consoles and the rhythmic pulse of the warp core vibrating through the deck. Like his bridge crew, accustomed to Worf dictating his log aloud, the Enterprise-E glided effortlessly through the void—a testament to Starfleet’s engineering and discipline.

“A warrior’s path is not measured by battle alone. I once believed victory was found only on the battlefield. But I have come to understand—there is honor in preservation, diplomacy, and peace. To wield the blade is one path. To know when to sheathe it is another. Together, my crew and I walk both.”

Worf continued, his tone more annoyed than appreciative.

“Special note: The commander of Starbase 247 asked me to pass on their compliments to my crew for their exceptional speed and professionalism in offloading supplies and decontaminating the station’s damaged reactor cooling system.”

A slight, almost imperceptible shift in the ship’s inertial dampeners made him glance toward the viewscreen.

“End log.”

The moment he spoke the words, a quiet oscillation rolled through the bridge—so subtle that only those trained for battle would have noticed.

A chime sounded from the science station.

“Massless anomaly detected,” came the even-toned voice of Lieutenant Commander Elias West.

The bridge fell into instant focus.

Worf straightened in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing. His hand gripped the armrest, fingers curling into the reinforced fabric as something primal stirred inside him—a whisper of recognition.

“Clarify,” he ordered.

Elias’s fingers danced across his console, adjusting the sensor resolution. His expression remained neutral, but his fingers moved slightly faster.

“It’s an anomaly with zero detectable mass, but it’s distorting subspace. Its gravimetric signature is—” Elias hesitated, mentally locked, searching for the right word. He often struggled with phrasing, but withholding scientific data was unlike him.

Struggling to find the right words was not unusual for Elias; hesitating to share scientific facts and details was.

Worf exhaled sharply, his voice low, firm.

“Does the computer classify it as a Coherent Warp Bubble?”

“It does.” Elias’s brow furrowed, confused on many levels.

At her station to Worf’s right, Commander Thirash sh’Zarath twisted in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as her antennae angled forward in scrutiny. The Andorian’s piercing gaze locked onto her Captain, her instincts honed for moments like this—when a superior officer was withholding something important.

“What are you not telling us, Captain?”

Worf remained silent. His gaze stayed fixed on the distant stars, but his body betrayed him. His fingers flexed against the armrest, curling into a slow, deliberate fist before releasing. His jaw tightened, the flicker of an old memory surfacing—Enterprise-D, the anomaly, the woman… and perhaps, another chance.

A chance to honor her the way a warrior should be honored.

He exhaled, steadying himself, but for a fraction of a second, his grip tightened again. A battle fought within—a war of duty, past and present, of what was lost and what remained.

His voice, when it finally came, was a low, measured rumble.

“Since the Enterprise-D’s encounter, it has not followed Spock’s algorithm. Starfleet’s repeated attempts to locate her failed. Commander Data speculated something changed—but what?”

Thirash’s antennae twitched, her tone sharpening as she leaned forward. “Your first officer would like to know what, too.”

Worf’s eyes flicked toward her, his glare as sharp as a drawn blade. The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken authority, before he turned away, rolling his shoulders as if shifting unseen weight.

His dark gaze settled on his Science Officer.

“How fast is it moving?”

Elias flicked his gaze toward the sensors, his voice precise.

“Warp seven-point-five.”

Worf nodded, then straightened. His next words came with the weight of a battlefield command.

“Match course and speed.”

The order rang through the bridge like the unsheathing of a blade.

Worf spoke toward the Binars stationed at Conn and OPS, his voice steady, unwavering. “Keep us ahead of it at all times. Adjust course if the trailing wake affects the ship.”

Beneath them, the ship’s hum shifted—a low, pulsing thrum reverberating through the deck plates. The Binars exchanged a glance, their whisper-fast binary chatter rising in intensity as they processed the command.

Thirash’s gaze remained locked onto Worf, her antennae angling forward, her posture coiled with restrained force. “Sir, what exactly are we dealing with?”

Worf exhaled slowly through his nose, his fingers flexing once against the armrest before he finally turned to meet her stare. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone.

“Something that should not exist.”

Worf settled back into the Captain’s chair, the weight of his shoulders pressing into the armrest. His posture was measured and deliberate—a warrior at rest but not at ease.

Then, in a tone that left no room for argument—

“Computer,” he declared, his deep voice carrying the weight of command.

“Retrieve and decrypt all materials related to The Enterprise Initiative. Emergency authorization Worf-2-8-0-8 Alpha Lima Enterprise X-Ray. Limit access to senior staff only.”

The ship’s computer acknowledged his command with an artificial calmness that contrasted sharply with the unease spreading through the bridge.

“Data retrieval and decryption in progress,” it replied.

Worf’s jaw tightened. He had spent his entire career preparing for war. He never expected to be standing on the edge of something far stranger.

He drew in a slow breath, exhaling through his nostrils.

“Yellow alert.”

His next words came with quiet, unshakable authority.

“Senior staff briefing in thirty minutes. Be prepared… to go where only a warrior has gone before.”

He exhaled, his gaze heavy with meaning as he added,

“A warrior of time and Superspace.”

Thirash settled back into her seat, the tension easing from her shoulders as she rolled her neck. Her antennae twitched, sweeping the bridge as if scanning for unseen currents of energy. Then, with a smirk aimed directly at Worf, she tapped her comm badge.

“Doctor Keirnan… you have mail.”

Her voice carried a knowing edge, her amusement barely concealed beneath her professional tone. The bridge crew exchanged glances, some hiding smirks of their own, but Worf merely exhaled through his nose—a deep, measured breath that could have been irritation… or reluctant amusement.

Worf rose from his chair with deliberate purpose, the weight of command settling over him like an armored mantle. As he moved, the bridge crew instinctively straightened in their seats, anticipation humming through the air like a low-energy field.

At her station, Commander Thirash sh’Zarath turned slightly, her antennae twitching as she brought up the classified briefing materials. She studied the incoming data stream with a sharp gaze, muttering under her breath, “There is a lot here. More than I expected. Decryption is taking longer than usual.”

The observation carried no suspicion—only pragmatic surprise, the kind of remark made by someone accustomed to peeling back layers of Starfleet’s mission directives to find the real objective beneath.

Worf said nothing, but he agreed. The Enterprise Initiative was not standard Starfleet exploration—it was a calculated attempt to track something that defied conventional understanding.

“I will need Dax too,” Worf admitted aloud, his tone carrying the weight of necessity rather than preference.

Without another word, he rose from the Captain’s chair, his heavy footfalls measured as he moved toward the Binars at OPS and Conn. The two compact figures remained focused on their displays, their smooth, pale lavender skin reflecting the cool glow of the console interfaces. Their heads tilted in perfect unison, hands moving with synchronized precision as their quick, high-pitched binary chatter pulsed back and forth between them.

The hum of the ship subtly shifted as they adjusted navigational tolerances, preemptively compensating for unseen distortions in the wake of the anomaly. Worf paused behind them, his dark gaze scanning the information flowing across their screens before speaking again, his voice a low rumble of command.

“You must maintain position ahead of the anomaly at all times. Under no circumstances are you to allow the ship to enter the trailing wake.”

The Binars responded instantly, their synchronized tones harmonizing as they acknowledged the order.

“Captain Worf! Monitoring! Position maintained! No deviations! Processing!”

Worf gave a satisfied grunt in response. The Binars were unusual but efficient—they would execute his orders flawlessly.

Without another word, he strode toward his Ready Room, the doors hissing open before sealing behind him.

Twenty minutes later, the hiss of the ready room doors were sharp, cutting through the quiet hum of the bridge as Worf stepped back onto the command deck. His sharp, dark gaze swept the room, taking in the subtle shifts in posture, the murmurs of the crew, and the pulsing lights of the displays.

He wasted no time.

“Update.”

At the Science Station, Lieutenant Commander Elias West barely glanced up, his fingers moving swiftly across his panel. “No changes to course or speed.”

Worf gave a curt nod, then turned his attention to his First Officer.

Thirash, still studying her station, responded smoothly:

“The Doctor and Counselor are in the briefing room, reviewing the mission materials.”

She briefly paused as if weighing her next words carefully. Then, with measured diplomacy, she commented:

“I see why this was classified. The tactical implications are… staggering and… a diplomatic nightmare if Superspace ever becomes more than an obscure scientific anomaly.”

Her antennae shifted slightly forward—a gesture of mild unease mixed with tactical awareness.

Worf absorbed her words in silence. He didn’t need to vocalize his agreement—his brooding expression was enough. His mind was elsewhere, caught in the shadow of past failures, calculating how to prevent this mission from ending the same way as the Enterprise-D’s encounter.

He exhaled slowly, a deep rumble of thought passing through him. “Agreed.”

Without another word, Worf moved to the upper level, walking past the Science Station toward the Tactical Console where Lieutenant Commander Krolok stood, arms crossed, watching the distorted image on the viewscreen.

The Nausicaan officer was as still as a statue, his sharp bone-plated jaw slightly twitching as he analyzed the rippling, wave-like shimmer in space.

Worf stopped beside him, keeping his voice low but firm:

“There is a difference between a threat and a danger to the ship.”

Krolok’s dark, predatory eyes flicked toward him, then back to the viewscreen. He said nothing, waiting for Worf to continue.

Worf gestured toward the anomaly, where the surrounding starfield wavered unnaturally, bending around an unseen point like light distorting through liquid glass.

“That is not a cloaked ship. It is not a threat.” He let the words settle before adding, “It is a danger.”

He waited for Krolok to grasp the distinction.

Then, invoking the wisdom of his people, Worf intoned a Klingon proverb:

“The warrior who strikes without purpose wastes his blade. The warrior who defends without reason weakens his shield.”

Krolok’s broad shoulders shifted slightly, the only indication that he understood the lesson.

Worf turned his gaze back to him. “When Commander sh’Zarath joins me in the briefing room, you will assume command of the bridge. You are to defend this ship. Keep it out of danger. There is no need to attack that which cannot defend itself.”

A beat of silence.

Then Krolok gave a single, measured grunt of understanding—the closest thing to respect a Nausicaan offered freely.

Satisfied, Worf turned away, his steps measured, controlled.

The doors to the briefing room hissed open, and without hesitation, he stepped inside.

At the far side of the long, curved conference table, Ezri Dax and Dr. Keirnan sat, focused on separate PADDs, deep in discussion.

The room’s ambient lighting was dimmer than usual, with the holographic display above the center of the table casting faint blue-white flickers across their faces. A pungent aroma of Tarkalean tea mixed with the sharper, almost citrusy scent of sterilization compounds—no doubt brought in by Keirnan, whose unconventional medical methods often clashed with Starfleet’s structured protocols.

Neither of them looked up as the doors hissed open.

Ezri, still focused on her PADD, tapped her fingers against the armrest of her chair. “The Federation’s official stance was that she was displaced,” she mused. “But that doesn’t explain why she keeps appearing in the same state—untouched by time, by entropy, by even basic biological degradation. It’s as if she’s… outside of causality.”

Keirnan nodded, his gaze distant. “Or perhaps,” he countered, “causality is simply a concept that doesn’t apply to her anymore. If Superspace is a higher-dimensional construct, she might be operating entirely under different physical laws. What she experiences could be utterly disconnected from our understanding of linear existence.”

Ezri’s eyebrows lifted. “And you got all that from her medical records?”

Keirnan smirked slightly, shifting in his chair. “No, I got that from staring into the void and listening to my feelings.”

Ezri sighed, shaking her head. “Of course you did.”

Keirnan’s smirk widened. “I was joking.”

“Right,” Ezri hissed, unimpressed.

Worf stepped forward, his presence cutting through their discussion like a blade. His deep voice broke through their conversation. “You have both reviewed the mission materials?”

Keirnan finally looked up, setting aside his PADD. “More or less. There’s too much to process in thirty minutes, but I think I’ve got the gist of it.”

Ezri turned in her chair, crossing her legs. “The tactical data won’t matter if she’s in no condition to process what’s happening to her.”

Worf inclined his head, arms folding across his chest. “Tell me what you think you know about Trescha.”

Ezri leaned back, tapping on her PADD, replacing the tactical display above the table with a rotating three-dimensional image of Trescha Schott—her steel-gray eyes staring back at them from an image generated from Enterprise-D’s logs.

“Physically, she hasn’t changed since the first recorded encounter. Medically speaking, she’s human… mostly.”

Dr. Keirnan leaned forward, tapping the biological scan readouts displayed before him. His brow furrowed slightly, his professional curiosity tinged with something approaching disbelief.

“She’s a Lanthanite,” he clarified. “A long-lived, parallel human species—genetically distinct, but close enough to pass as human. Based on what we know, she likely descends from Homo denisovans, Homo antecessor… maybe both.” He glanced at Ezri before continuing. “That alone is fascinating—but as Ezri and I were discussing, her genetics don’t explain what’s happening to her.”

He gestured toward the molecular-level breakdown on the display, his voice shifting into something more measured and controlled.

“If she’s spent centuries inside the anomaly, we’d expect signs of biological stasis damage—cellular degradation, metabolic slowdown, something. But according to Dr. Crusher’s deep scans, there’s nothing unexpected. Not a thing that has changed since Dr. McCoy’s initial scans over one hundred years ago.”

Keirnan leaned back, crossing his arms, his expression hardening with professional skepticism.

“Which means either the laws of biology don’t apply to her the way they should, or something else—something beyond our understanding—has been keeping her intact.”

Ezri glanced at Worf. “Psychologically, I can’t say for certain. There are no detailed records of her emotional state across encounters—except for Counselor Troi’s note that she appears at least partially resistant to Betazoid telepathy. She can sense it and, in some cases, deflect it.”

She shifted in her seat as she continued. “Beyond that, what little evidence we have suggests she’s stable. Detached, maybe—but not fractured. She adapts quickly and doesn’t seem to suffer from temporal disorientation… you know, time lag, like most people do.”

She hesitated for a moment, then smirked. “Audrid hated shifting from time zone to time zone, but she powered through it. Emony, on the other hand? Absolute nightmare. If her sleep schedule got thrown off, the entire day was ruined.”

Her smirk softened into something thoughtful. “Trescha should be experiencing some version of that—chronometric displacement, sensory misalignment, even psychological lag. But she’s not. Whatever’s anchoring her, it’s keeping her synced with the present, no matter how much time she’s lost.”

Keirnan leaned forward, fingers steepled. “That might be her greatest asset—and her greatest vulnerability. A person can survive by adapting, but adaptation can also become detachment. If she’s been caught in this state for as long as these records imply, the real question isn’t whether we can rescue her.”

Ezri met his gaze. “But that’s not the question we should be asking.” She looked at Keirnan, then turned to Worf. “The real question is—does she even want to be rescued?”

The room fell silent.

Worf considered their words.

In battle, he had faced many enemies and studied many warriors—but Trescha Schott was neither. She had risked herself to save the Enterprise-D, but for what?

Did she still see herself as a warrior, fighting to survive… or merely a ghost waiting to fade?

His hands flexed briefly before tightening into fists.

No.

A warrior does not forsake those who have fought by their side or sacrificed themselves to save the lives of others.

His deep voice rumbled through the briefing room, breaking the silence.

“She is an honorable warrior. She risked herself to rescue the Enterprise-D—and I will not abandon her to the void.”

Ezri studied him for a long moment but said nothing.

Keirnan exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw. “Then I’ll need more than thirty minutes to prepare a medical analysis. Whatever’s kept her intact all these years—it could be the key to understanding the Fold itself.”

“And, if we do rescue her somehow, we’re going to need to update her immune system.”

Worf gave a slight nod but did not respond. He remained standing, arms folded, his presence imposing in the dimly lit room. The rotating holographic display of Trescha Schott held his attention, its flickering glow casting deep shadows beneath his ridged brow.

The doors hissed open again, and Thirash entered, moving with the deliberate precision of someone who knew what she was going to say before stepping into the room.

She didn’t take a seat. Instead, she closed the distance between them, stopping a half step away from Worf.

Her antennae tilted forward slightly as she studied the image hovering over the table—an Andorian gesture of measured scrutiny. She turned her attention to Worf; her voice was level but firm.

“I read your log entries.” She let the words settle, and then one antenna twisted toward the hologram. “You honored her.”

Worf turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment in his dark eyes.

 

[treschaschott]

Thirash studied him for a moment longer, then lowered her voice just enough so that only he could hear.

“Are you sure the debt you feel you owe her isn’t clouding your judgment?”

A beat of silence passed between them.

Worf’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. “I will not allow sentiment to dictate my command decisions.”

He tapped the holographic interface on the table, removing Trescha’s image from his view.

Thirash’s lips curved slightly—not quite a smirk, not quite approval. “I will see that it doesn’t.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she pivoted sharply, moving toward her seat at the table.

The doors hissed open again before Worf could fully process the exchange.

Elias West and Vorrik tr’Lahvien entered together, their voices carrying the weight of an ongoing technical debate.

“I am telling you,” Vorrik was saying, his tone carefully measured yet insistent, “keeping the harmonics slightly misaligned is the only way to ensure we do not become synchronized with the anomaly.”

Elias, who rarely showed frustration, now ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. “I agree, but it is a calculated risk. We also need to consider the modifications you’ve made to the warp core as part of your Romulan Singularity integration experiments.”

Vorrik pressed on. “My work will not affect the ship’s warp signature or harmonic resonance.”

Elias cut in, shaking his head. “That is still an unknown factor.”

“I am not saying I disagree,” Elias continued, “but introducing such a large collection of variables to a situation that includes something as notoriously unpredictable as Superspace…” He gestured toward the holographic display, frustration barely concealed. “Can’t you shut down your experiments?”

“Ah.” Vorrik’s smirk carried a dangerous amusement as he invaded Elias’s space, his fingers grazing just enough of his cheek to make the moment linger.

“For someone as intelligent— and attractive— as you are… you should know one does not simply turn off a singularity.”

Elias leaned back slightly, keeping his tone measured, though there was a flicker of hesitation. “That thing should not have been brought aboard, let alone interfaced with the ship’s systems. It has no purpose.”

Vorrik huffed. “Exploring the unknown,” he said smoothly, “is that not the goal of the Federation’s Starfleet?”

The argumentative exchange continued as they moved toward the table. Vorrik’s sharp Romulan features set in carefully controlled determination, tainted by obvious arousal as Elias’s unwavering, assertive, data-driven skepticism entranced him.

Their debate ended the moment Worf stepped toward the table.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

He placed his hands on the chair at the head of the table, then lowered himself into the seat.

The murmur of conversation ceased instantly.

Movements stilled.

All eyes turned toward their Captain, seated in his chair, broad shoulders squared, hands resting on the armrests. He sat as if he had long been wrestling with the burdens of command, a battle with no clear enemy and no retreat.

The moment of anticipation lingered for only a breath before his dark eyes scanned his senior staff. His presence alone commanded focus, and when he finally gave a small nod toward Elias West, it was all the signal needed.

“Begin.”

Elias hesitated just a fraction of a second, his fingers hovering over his PADD as though his mind had briefly stepped elsewhere. Then, in a sudden decisive movement, he tapped the controls.

The holographic display flickered back to life.

A rotating wireframe of the anomaly unfolded above the table, superimposed with sensor data and comparative readings from past encounters. The shifting information reflected in Elias’s eyes, though his gaze seemed somewhat unfocused as he tried to process multiple streams of information at once.

He exhaled sharply. “We… We have limited but detailed records of the anomaly’s—its—its previous interactions with Starfleet vessels.” His fingers moved too quickly over his PADD as if scrolling through fragmented thoughts rather than raw data.

His brow furrowed. “The… The most comprehensive data set comes from the—” He paused suddenly, eyes narrowing as if sorting through overlapping recollections of the same event. “—Enterprise-D’s mission under Captain Picard.”

The graph expanded, highlighting a deviation in the anomaly’s predicted trajectory.

“Notably,” Elias continued, his tone now clipped and precise, “we have detected a slight decrease in energy output since its last recorded appearance. Radiation levels—ah…also diminished… though whether this indicates a natural cycle, energy decay, or some form of reactive adaptation—” He faltered, then blinked twice, shaking his head slightly. “…remains unknown.”

A faint crease appeared between his brows as he moved to the next data point.

“Additionally… the anomaly no longer—” His jaw tensed, his gaze distant for half a heartbeat too long before snapping back into focus. “—follows the predictive models laid out by Spock’s original algorithm.”

His fingers froze briefly before tracing a jagged arc on the projection.

“Commander Data speculated… that intense gravitational fields—could affect its path. An encounter with a black hole or even a dwarf star might explain why—why its course is no longer following projected predictions. But—” A sharp inhale. “Without further information or evidence, we can’t determine why it had become unpredictable.”

Thirash shifted in her seat, arms crossed, her antennae tilting forward slightly—an Andorian gesture of skepticism.

“If not an external interference, could what you’re seeing be a symptom of some form of internal instability?”

Elias blinked rapidly, processing the question, the phrasing, and the possible contexts in parallel.

“I… I—do not know.” His words came slower now, as though choosing the correct memory out of a thousand possibilities. “The anomaly’s behavior does not—align with predictable—subspace distortions or known spatial phenomena.” A brief flicker of unease crossed his face before he forced himself forward. “While it has shown some consistent tendencies, we have yet to establish—ah—a pattern.”

She nodded once, as if filing the concern away for later, but said nothing more.

Vorrik tapped the control panel embedded in the table, replacing Elias’s data with the ship’s schematics overlaid with the Superspace Fold.

“Our approach will be similar to past missions,” he began, his voice smooth and untroubled by hesitation. “We will enter Superspace through a controlled phase transition using a precisely calibrated warp field.”

The display shifted to a three-dimensional projection of the Enterprise-E maneuvering backward into the anomaly’s leading edge.

“To maximize control, we will initiate a ‘measured backing-in’ maneuver, a method previously used to transition the Superspace Fold’s event horizon.”

He pointed to a pulsing distortion within the field.

“Ms. Schott’s appearance has historically centered within an artificially created subspace harmonic or warp field resonance overlap. As with previous encounters, we plan for this overlap to manifest in the main shuttle bay due to its alignment between the ship’s nacelles.”

Dax, who had been quietly watching the data unfold, leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped.

“Can we center this overlap within one of the holodecks?”

The room paused for half a beat, several officers turning to glance at her. Vorrik blinked, clearly not expecting the suggestion.

“Explain,” Worf prompted.

Dax gestured toward the holographic projection.

“Every time Ms. Schott appears, it’s in one of the uninviting and somewhat impossibly large open shuttle bays.” She shook her head slightly. “That can’t be easy on her state of mind. I was hoping we could offer her a space that is less rigid and functional, more familiar and homey. If we can, it might make her feel less… like a science experiment or a museum display. That’s the way she said she felt in the mission records. It might give her more time to adjust to her new surroundings.”

Dr. Keirnan, who had been silent until now, glanced up from his PADD and exhaled through his nose.

“Assuming she even perceives time the way we do,” he mused, more to himself than the room.

Dax turned toward him, brow raised.

Keirnan rolled a hand as he spoke. “We keep thinking of her in terms of our linear reality. But if she’s been trapped in a non-temporal state for an unknown period, her concept of ‘past’ and ‘present’ may be irrelevant.”

Elias resumed the briefing, his voice calm and measured. “Ms. Schott’s most recent confirmed appearance was aboard the Protostar… approximately eleven months before it was destroyed.”

A low, unmistakable growl rumbled from Worf’s throat at the mention of the ship.

Thirash’s antennae angled toward him as she glanced in his direction. “What’s the growl for?”

Dax, seated near the center of the table, responded quietly. “It was before you joined the crew. The reason for your transfer, actually. The Enterprise-E was heavily damaged during the Protostar incident. Mostly weapons systems and shield emitters—nothing that compromised structural integrity—but it took months to repair.”

A brief pause followed, heavy with unspoken weight.

Dax smirked faintly. “The Captain took it personally.”

“I’m finding that to be the rule rather than the exception,” Thirash muttered under her breath.

“Continue,” Worf ordered, his voice sharp but steady.

“All data from the Protostar’s internal systems and its Emergency Command Hologram was lost,” Elias continued. “What we know of Ms. Schott’s visit comes from post-event debriefings with the surviving crew.”

“However, there is one item of note in the debriefing transcripts.”

He paused, his eyes slightly narrowing as he sifted through overlapping fragments his brain perceived simultaneously.

“Their Chief Science Officer,” Elias stammered slightly before catching himself, then resumed in a steadier tone. “Challenged the quantum signature recorded in Dr. Crusher’s deep scans. According to their analysis, Ms. Schott’s quantum state wasn’t fixed—it fluctuated across a measurable range. They referred to it as a transient quantum manifestation and suggested she is—or was—not native to our universe. Perhaps not to any universe.” He hesitated, his voice dropping just enough to carry the weight of the thought. “Or to all universes at once.”

“Impossible,” Vorrik stated flatly.

“I think I’m going to have to agree with our Chief Engineer on this one,” Dr. Keirnan commented.

Elias didn’t flinch. “Superspace was thought to be impossible,” he countered, “and yet here we are—making plans to interface with a Superspace Fold.”

Worf’s expression remained unreadable, but his focus sharpened. He turned to Vorrik.

“Can it be done?”

A new debate ensued, with Elias and Vorrik clashing over positional stability, course corrections, and the ship’s trim.

Thirash leaned forward, her voice slicing through the tangled web of technobabble like the edge of a blade. Her antennae twitched as she fixed Vorrik with an unrelenting stare, her tactical instincts narrowing in on the heart of the matter.

“Commander Vorrik,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of authority, “we have spent the last fifteen minutes debating theoretical variances, but let me be clear—we need absolutes. Are you saying, with certainty, that no gravitational effect from your singularity experiments, no matter how small, will impact this mission or place this ship at risk?”

Vorrik, who had been calmly delivering his analysis with the practiced ease of a Romulan scientist, hesitated for the first time. His dark eyes flicked between Thirash and Worf before exhaling through his nose.

“Given the data at hand,” he said carefully, “there is no measurable indication that the singularity’s gravitational influence will interfere with our course or destabilize the anomaly.”

Thirash’s fingers drummed once against the table. “I asked for certainty, not measured indications, Vorrik.”

The Romulan’s jaw tightened slightly, his confidence unshaken but his posture shifting. “Then I will say it plainly: The ship is safe. The experiment does not pose a risk to the mission.”

Thirash held his gaze for a moment longer, searching for any sign of doubt. Then, satisfied, she leaned back in her chair, nodding once. “Then let’s stop chasing shadows and move forward.”

Worf absorbed the exchange in silence, his dark gaze shifting from Thirash to Vorrik, measuring both the words spoken and the unspoken tension between them. Finally, he leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table, his dark gaze sweeping across the senior staff.

“Today is a good day to prevent a warrior from dying without honor.”

He rose to his feet, the tension shifting immediately.

A single word followed.

“Success.”

Without another glance, he turned and strode toward the exit. The doors hissed open, then shut behind him.

The bridge of the Enterprise-E hummed with focused energy as the crew executed the maneuver with precision. The massive Sovereign-class vessel adjusted its warp field harmonics, reversing into the anomaly with calculated micro-thrust corrections.

On the main viewscreen, the undulating distortion of the Superspace Fold trailed behind the ship’s nacelles, its edges shifting and bending like the event horizon of a collapsing star. The anomaly seemed hungry, waiting.

“Aft shields holding,” Thirash reported from her station, her antennae slightly tilting as she monitored the ship’s structural integrity.

“Warp field harmonics stable,” Elias West confirmed, eyes flicking between data streams. His voice had steadied, though an occasional pause hinted at his mind sorting through overlapping memories of similar confirmations. “Compensating for minor subspace variances.”

Worf sat in his center seat, motionless but coiled with readiness, watching. The experience of this maneuver was not new to him—but this crew was. He trusted them, but trust was not a certainty.

“Phase variance… Adjusting,” the Binar at OPS announced in their signature compressed, bubbly tones, their voices overlapping in a flurry of synchronized speech.

Elias glanced at his PADD, sifting through their translated binary language before interpreting it into a single sentence.

“They say they’ve got it.”

A soft vibration rolled through the ship, a faint tug as if reality itself had stretched.

The hum of the warp field harmonics stabilizing within the anomaly barely registered in Worf’s mind. The maneuver was complete—the Enterprise had successfully entered the Superspace Fold.

But the real mission was about to begin.

Worf pushed up from his chair, his voice carrying the full weight of command.

“Thirash, Elias—with me.”

Thirash rose immediately, her antennae angling slightly forward in anticipation. Elias hesitated just long enough for Worf to glance at him before the scientist quickly gathered his PADD and followed.

As they moved toward the turbo lift, Worf turned to the Chief of Security.

“Krolok, you have the bridge.”

The Nausicaan straightened, his thick arms folded across his broad chest. He grunted, a sound of understanding rather than defiance.

Worf stepped into the turbolift, flanked by Thirash and Elias.

The doors hissed shut.

After a brief transition, they arrived at a junction near the targeted holodeck.

Worf entered first, finding a very-Earth-like vista overlooking low rolling hills from within a lakeside home. The simulated air carried the scent of cedar and lake water, blending with the faint hum of the holodeck’s hidden emitters.

Trescha Schott stood in the center of a tiled floor living space, arms crossed, gaze skeptical, but lips curled in amusement.

Dr. Keirnan continued his scans, his tricorder chirping softly, while Ezri Dax perched on the armrest of a nearby couch.

“…I don’t know who or what that is,” Dax said gently, “but I can assure you—the holodeck isn’t a trick. It’s not some illusion meant to deceive you.” She hesitated, her expression softening as a flicker of regret crossed her features. “Though… I understand why you might think that.”

“You do have a very interesting quantum signature,” Dr. Keirnan said, glancing up from his tricorder. “Not what I expected at all.”

“I bet you say that to all the new girls you meet,” Trescha teased, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Ezri stepped in smoothly, redirecting the conversation. “Aligning the overlap with a holodeck was my idea,” she said. “I figured it might feel more familiar… more welcoming than being deposited into another shuttle bay.”

Trescha exhaled, her steel-gray eyes scanning the interior of a home that felt just a little too perfect—like it belonged to someone else’s life.

She was a wanderer by nature, never staying in one place for more than a few years, never needing the permanence of walls and furniture that didn’t move.

“Oh.” She nodded, her disbelief laced with reluctant appreciation. “It’s not familiar… but it’s definitely better than staring at a bunch of cargo containers waiting for me to stare back.”

Dax gestured around them. “I looked at homes for sale in the Austin, Texas area during the early 2030s and picked a nice one by a lake to make you feel at home.”

Trescha considered this, tilting her head slightly.

“My home? Hardly,” she mused, her gaze sweeping the space with quiet scrutiny. “This is more than I ever needed—or wanted—to take care of.”

Then, with a knowing smirk, she added, “And from what I’ve sensed of Q—his ego wouldn’t settle for anything less than a palace. But still… this beats sitting on a fold-down seat with a crate for a table, munching strawberry-flavored nutrition blocks while everyone else has somewhere better to be.”

She exhaled, taking in the details—the warm lighting, the subtle scent of cedar and fresh linen, the way everything felt just a little too perfect, too deliberately curated. Then, an unfamiliar voice cut through the stillness.

Trescha’s head snapped toward the patio.

Thirash’s antennae twitched, her gaze flicking between Trescha and the others. “What’s a Q?”

Elias shrugged, his voice flat. “Maybe she’s referring to a future Enterprise.”

Worf stood just inside the open sliding glass doors, flanked by Thirash and Elias, his expression unreadable.

“Q is a being without honor.”

Trescha’s concern gave way to a slow, amused smirk.

“Oh, you’ve met.”

Worf’s scowl deepened. “More than once.”

Trescha’s gaze flickered between the newcomers, recognition dawning as she zeroed in on Worf.

“Hey…” she pointed at him, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “I know you… I recognize those ridges.”

She stepped forward, scrutinizing him as if testing a memory.

“You were on the other Enterprise. The one with Riker and Troi… playing poker…”

Her grin widened, “Q showed me.”

“Q showed you what?” he asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

“The past, the present, maybe the future; I don’t know,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Maybe he wanted to know if I understood that life is a gamble.”

Thirash stared at her, expression caught between confusion and concern. “Q showed you… All of that? To see if you understood some philosophical concept?”

Worf grunted, his voice edged with irritation. “Q has done more… for less.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Trescha’s steel-gray eyes. She shook her head slightly. “It was like he was testing me…”

Worf growled low in his throat. “That he does. All the time.”

Elias tilted his head, his analytical mind latching onto the phrasing. “What kind of test?”

Trescha hesitated, her gaze drifting—unfocused—as if trying to grasp something just beyond reach.

“Self-preservation versus sacrifice,” she murmured, voice quieter now. “A test of right versus wrong… good versus evil… followed by—”

She faltered. Not because she had lost the thought but because she wasn’t yet ready to share it. Or say it aloud.

The silence stretched.

 

[treschaschott]

Then, just as the mood threatened to settle too heavily over the room, Trescha pivoted—sharp, deliberate.

She turned back to Worf with a teasing grin, her tone effortlessly playful.

“Hey,” she mused, her eyes flicking over him with mock curiosity. “Do those bumps on your head mean you’re excited to meet me?”

Silence.

Elias blinked, clearly thrown off course, while Thirash smirked, her antennae twitching in amusement.

Worf, to his credit, did not react outwardly. But his eyes flicked toward Dax.

Dax stood, moved closer to Trescha, and leaned in, whispering something long and deliberate into her ear.

Trescha’s grin turned downright wicked.

She ran her tongue slowly between her teeth and lips, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she sought confirmation.

“Two, huh…”

Her steel-gray eyes flicked back to Worf’s unamused glare. She sighed, dropping her shoulders dramatically as she turned back to Dax.

“Well, I’ve done that before—more than once. It was new, exciting, different… for a while.”

Without thinking, Dax quipped—

“Oh, that takes me back.”

She barely finished the sentence before her eyes widened slightly, realizing how that might sound. A faint flush crept up her neck, and she glanced at Worf, who remained as stoic as ever.

Trescha’s grin widened, sharp as ever. She turned to Dax with a teasing lilt. “Twice the work for the same result?”

Dax sighed dramatically, then muttered, “Don’t I know it.”

Then she blushed brighter than before.

Worf stepped forward, the weight of his presence shifting the conversation.

“I am Worf, son of Mogh, House Martok.”

He then gestured toward his companions. “This is my First Officer, Commander Thirash sh’Zarath, and my Chief Science Officer, Lieutenant Commander Elias West.”

He nodded toward Dax and Keirnan. “You have already met our doctor and counselor.”

Trescha studied them one by one, her gaze sharp yet playful.

“Other than the tattoos on her neck, these two look human,” she noted, nodding toward Dax and Keirnan, “and so does he.”

She gestured to Elias before turning to Thirash with a curious glance. “I’ve seen one of your antenna people before—”

Thirash’s eyes narrowed. “I am Andorian.” The clipped tone carried a note of offense.

Dax stepped in, offering a slightly sheepish smile. “And I’m Trill.”

Trescha arched a brow. “A what?”

Dax hesitated for just a second, caressing her neck before attempting an explanation. “I have a symbiont inside me—we are a joined lifeform. It carries several lifetimes of experience, and I am its current host, Ezri. Before me, there was Jadzia, then Curzon, Torias, Audrid, and Emony…”

Trescha’s eyes lit up, a slow, amused smirk curling at the corners of her lips.

“I’ve lived a lot of different lives, too… we should get along great.”

Worf, unimpressed by the exchange, crossed his arms over his chest, his posture unyielding.

“I am Klingon.” His voice was firm, final. “And I am Captain of the Enterprise.”

Trescha’s smirk returned, sharp and teasing.

“Which one?”

Worf’s tone did not waver. “Enterprise-E.”

Trescha let out a low, amused chuckle.

“Just zooming through the alphabet, aren’t I?”

Trescha crossed her arms, her steel-gray eyes flicking between Worf and his officers, the teasing glint still in place but something sharper beneath it.

“So… what’s your plan? How are you going to rescue me?”

Worf stood firm, his expression unreadable. “We are not prepared to do so at this time.”

Trescha’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something else—something worn, something tired. “Why not?”

Elias hesitated, then adjusted his PADD. “The Superspace Fold has changed course. It no longer follows its original predictive models. We happened upon you by chance.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “So this is what… a welfare check?”

Thirash exhaled sharply through her nose, arms folded. “More like reconnaissance. You were presumed lost—irretrievable.”

Trescha rolled her eyes, arms still crossed. “Well, nice to know I rank just above lost luggage.”

Dax offered a wry smile, her voice softer. “Not to us, and definitely not to our Captain.”

That made Trescha pause.

She exhaled slowly, the teasing edge in her voice fading—just for a moment. Then, her expression hardened, steel-gray eyes narrowing.

“It was Q,” she hissed. “I bruised his ego—beat him at his own game—so of course, he had to make me pay for it. Hell, for all I know, he’s the reason I’ll never know if this is my universe… or a splinter timeline born because someone picked butter over cream cheese on their bagel.”

Thirash’s antennae twitched, her voice edged with curiosity. “I would agree… if I knew what a Q was.”

Elias flicked through his PADD, his fingers moving rapidly over the display. “Found it.” His voice shifted into a reading cadence.

“Q: A member of an advanced extra-dimensional species known as the Q Continuum. Capable of manipulating time, space, and matter at will. The first documented encounter occurred with the USS Enterprise-D under Captain Jean-Luc Picard, during which Q placed the crew on trial for the supposed crimes of humanity. Subsequent interactions included—”

Worf grunted, his tone final. “Enough.”

Elias blinked, momentarily caught between his eidetic recall and the present moment. “Oh. Right… you were there.”

Worf’s gaze returned to Trescha.

Then, with a deep, approving nod, he rumbled—

“You defeated Q?” Worf’s eyes narrowed, his tone flat but clearly intrigued. “Most impressive. How many times have you interacted with him?”

Trescha shrugged, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “Just the one time… that I know of.”

Worf’s expression darkened slightly, his voice a steady rumble.

“Your assessment is correct. Q does not like… losing.”

“Neither do I,” Trescha exhaled, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the weight of past conversations. She glanced between Worf and the others before smirking.

“So… what’s next?”

Worf’s gaze flicked toward Elias. “How long can we maintain a connection with the Superspace Fold?”

Elias tapped his PADD, his brows knitting together as he sifted through overlapping memory recalls. “Indefinitely. Or—” He hesitated, his voice catching for just a fraction of a second before realigning. “Or until the Fold decides to leave normal space again… or tries to swallow a star.”

Thirash’s antennae angled forward as she leaned slightly against the table. “And if it does?”

Elias didn’t look up, his eyes still following the data streaming across his PADD. “We’ll have plenty of warning if it starts heading for a star. And if it skips out on us, our warp field will preserve our space-time—” he paused, then added with quiet finality, “and Ms. Schott will return to hers.”

Trescha let out a low chuckle. “The Fold already ate. It suckled on the Protostar’s engine for a while, and before that, another ship named Enterprise tried to overfeed it.”

Her tone stayed light, but there was an edge of realism to her words. “At this point, I’ve made peace with the fact that my fate rests in the hands of a pandimensional bubble with abandonment issues.”

Thirash quietly chuckled, her antennae twitching, but offered no comment.

A moment passed before Trescha smirked and added, “Do I have time for a shower? I feel dirty after my encounter with Q.”

Worf nodded once, his expression as impassive as ever. “Understandable.”

He turned toward Dax. “Ezri, see to our guest’s needs.”

“There was a shower in the pictures I saw upstairs,” Dax’s childlike tone expressed, accompanied by a sense of excited discovery, “This way.”

Dax led Trescha through the holodeck-rendered home, her steps confident but unhurried.

“So… holodecks,” Trescha began, glancing around. “I met a hologram on the Protostar—an Emergency Command Hologram. She felt real… except for her handshake. It was like room-temperature pliable steel.”

She turned slowly, taking in the space. “How much of this is real, and how much is just… smoke and mirrors?”

Dax grinned. “A little of both.” She gestured around them. “The holodeck creates fully interactive environments. Some things are replicated—like our teas. Others are just projections held together by force fields.”

She started up the stairs, motioning gently with her hand. “The difference comes down to what the program needs to do to maintain the illusion—like lowering the floor and shifting the walls as we climb… so it still feels natural. Real enough.”

Trescha narrowed her eyes slightly, scanning the space with a skepticism that bordered on distrust.

“And water?” she asked casually.

Dax shook her head. “Replicated on demand, just like everything else. We keep an emergency supply for drills, but outside of that, every molecule in here is being generated in real-time.”

Dax’s tone shifted, dropping to a quiet, slightly embarrassed mutter.

“Holodeck waste used to be a huge hassle,” Dax muttered under her breath. “Thankfully, the latest upgrades handle it a lot more gracefully… less cleanup, more immersion.”

Trescha paused, running a hand along the smooth kitchen counter. She glanced at Dax, tilting her head.

“So… all I have to do is ask for what I want?”

Dax nodded. “That’s right. Give it a try.”

Trescha turned toward the open space of the kitchen, her voice measured.

“Computer, sweet tea. Brewed.”

A soft chime answered her request, and suddenly, on the island counter, a tall glass materialized—deep amber liquid swirling with ice cubes, condensation forming instantly on the sides.

She didn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, she watched the condensation trickling down the glass, the ice shifting as it melted. Like with Barclay on Enterprise-D, it looked and behaved real.

Still unsure of the technology, she paused before picking up the glass, swirling the ice, before taking a slow, deliberate sip.

She exhaled in appreciation. “Okay. That’s good.”

Dax watched, intrigued. “Sweet tea?”

Trescha grinned, taking another sip. “The nectar of the gods.”

Dax tilted her head. “Alright, now I have to try it.”

She stepped forward and ordered her own, watching as an identical glass materialized. She took a cautious sip—and then her eyebrows shot up.

“Oh.”

Trescha smirked, taking another sip. “Told you.”

Dax took another sip, shaking her head. “Okay, this might be my new favorite thing.”

They both emptied their glasses before continuing toward the primary suite.

The upstairs bathroom was spacious and well-appointed, with a rainfall shower, a deep soaking tub, and a full-length mirror framed by warm LED lights.

Dax gestured toward the door. “Here you go. The program rendered it exactly as it would be in the real house. Water’s real, soap’s real—everything functions normally.”

Trescha arched an eyebrow. “And this doesn’t mess with the ship’s water supply?”

Dax shook her head. “Nope. Sovereign-class ships were built for war—a war that, fortunately, never happened. Since the Romulan evacuation began, she’s been reconfigured for more than just combat.” She gestured broadly. “These days, she’s optimized for science and exploration. We’ve adapted her systems to support technology-sharing initiatives—like the experiments we’re running with a Romulan Singularity in our engine room. We also handle long-range supply missions, aid remote colonies, and support deep-space stations way off the charts.”

Dax smirked, tilting her head slightly. “So, don’t worry—we’ve got more than enough power to make as much water as you want for your shower.”

Trescha exhaled and ran a hand through her hair. “Good. Because I need this.”

Dax grinned. “I’ll be out here.”

Trescha gave a mock salute before disappearing into the bathroom.

Dax leaned against the bedroom’s wall, requesting, then sipping another tea, her mind drifting through old memories—lifetimes of them.

By the time Trescha returned, she was dressed in newly replicated clothes—jeans, comfortable athletic shoes, and a loose-fitting top that draped effortlessly over her frame.

Dax was mid-sip when she looked up and immediately scowled.

“That is entirely unfair.”

Trescha blinked, tilting her head. “What is?”

Dax waved a hand vaguely at her. “That outfit. How does something so casual and comfortable look that stylish… that good on anyone?”

Trescha smirked, spinning once in place. “It’s a gift.”

Dax grumbled, shaking her head. “I hate you a little.”

Trescha grinned as she called for another sweet tea, still savoring the compliment as she sipped.

Dax, studying Trescha’s natural grace, tilted her head and eyed the woman’s bare wrist. “Did you lose your bracelet?”

Trescha chuckled. “My watch. It was synced to my phone, which I left in my purse—back in my office—before the test. I noticed the battery was dead when I was with Dr. Crusher. So… pointless tech now. But I will miss counting my steps.”

Dax smiled, intrigued. “We could replicate something like it for you.”

“What’s the point?” Trescha replied with a shrug. “When I’m not a stowaway on a starship, I exist in a timeless void. A watch would only remind me I’m three hundred years late for… the rest of my life.”

She took another sip of her tea. “And besides, my internal clock’s so out of whack, I can’t tell if I’m hungry for dinner or breakfast.”

As their conversation continued, it drifted naturally into their many lives—the strange, looping threads of fate that had led them both here.

At some point, Dax leaned back in her chair, slightly frowning as she processed recent events.

“You know,” she started, “I read something about the QE2 in your logs.”

Trescha laughed, shaking her head. “That’s a long story… and it wasn’t my fault.”

Dax leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Do tell.”

Trescha grinned. “Let’s just say, if you ever get arrested on a cruise ship for cheating at poker when you didn’t, don’t insult the captain’s wife… or his mistress.”

Dax laughed. “Noted.”

Trescha sighed, setting her glass down.

“I was invited to dine at the captain’s table on that cruise… until, you know… people happened.”

Dax tilted her head. “On the QE2… in 1969, her maiden voyage?”

Trescha nodded.

A slow, mischievous smile spread across Dax’s face.

“Well… we are inside a holodeck.”

Trescha narrowed her eyes, her lips twitching upward. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Dax grinned. “Dinner. The Captain’s Table. Our Captain. The senior officers of the Enterprise. A proper dinner party. Maybe a way to change the past for the better.”

Trescha sat back, considering. Then, with a slow, knowing smirk, she raised her glass in silent agreement.

Dax clinked her glass against Trescha’s.

Dax grinned, setting her glass down with deliberate intent. Then, without warning, she grabbed Trescha’s wrist and pulled her close.

“Computer,” she commanded smoothly, “Change program. The cruise ship Queen Elizabeth 2, her maiden voyage.”

The air shifted instantly, the warm Texas breeze vanishing. The scent of cedar and lake water faded, replaced by the unmistakable tang of salt air, the distant thrum of engines, and the low murmur of excited passengers.

Austin blinked out of existence, and in its place, the grand decks of the QE2 took shape.

Trescha took a half-step back, her steel-gray eyes slightly widening as she took in the transformation.

They stood on the main deck, an expanse of polished wood stretching before them. The railing was a gleaming brass, the ship’s pristine white exterior reflecting the afternoon sun. Beyond it, the port was falling away, the buildings shrinking as the great ocean liner began its historic journey.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of seawater and fresh paint. Somewhere nearby, a bell rang, signaling departure. The hum of voices filled the space—passengers laughing, stewards moving efficiently among them.

Trescha let out a slow, measured breath before flashing a sideways smirk at Dax.

“It’s just like I remember… down to the smell of the fresh paint mixing with the ocean air and the seagulls overhead.”

Dax crossed her arms, watching the port slip further into the horizon. “And this time, no arrests.”

Trescha snorted. “We’ll see.”

As the holographic cruise ship moved steadily forward, cutting through the waves and the sun reflecting off the endless expanse of the ocean, Dax communicated with each of the senior officers, inviting them to dinner. Having started with their Captain, insisting that, in Earth history, hosting an elaborate meal for a special guest bestows great honor on that guest, he approved. With Worf’s support, the others all fell in line without issue.

With dinner plans set, Dax and Trescha filled the time wandering through the onboard shops, indulging in the thrill of selecting, trying on, and purchasing accessories for the evening—completely unconcerned about cost. Their final stop was The Boutique, a high-fashion retailer offering designer clothing and accessories from the finest names of the 1960s.

Trescha, modeling an era-appropriate dinner dress, adjusted the fabric with a playful spin in front of Dax. Just as she caught her reflection in the mirror, a soft chime sounded at the suite’s entrance. Expecting a sales attendant, she turned—only to watch as the store’s main entrance shimmered and blinked away, replaced by a tall, wide, futuristic, closed-door arch.

Before she could react, the doors parted, revealing Dr. Keirnan. He had already dressed for the evening in a crisp, period-appropriate three-piece suit. However, the unruly state of his hair and the amused glint in his eyes suggested that formal occasions weren’t exactly his comfort zone.

The arch shimmered and vanished, restoring the illusion of the store entrance. Keirnan strode in, setting down a small medical case and a vintage-style doctor’s bag—both perfectly matched to the era.

“I figured I’d get this out of the way before dinner,” he said, flipping the case open. “Trust me, you don’t want to go another century without updating your immune system. The last thing you need is a run-in with Regulan blood worms—or worse, Andorian shingles. Oh, and I’ve got a subcutaneous translator set for you, too.”

Trescha arched a brow at the hypospray in his hand. “And just where do you plan on sticking that thing?”

Gesturing with the hypospray, he replied, “This goes in your arm… unless you’d prefer somewhere else?” His voice carried just the hint of a challenge, a devilish gleam in his eyes daring her to test him.

Trescha glanced at Dax, who gave a knowing nod. “The hypospray you won’t even feel. The translators—not so much,” she smirked. “And he’s right. Owen and I don’t always agree on how to treat a patient, but we both know centuries of mandatory vaccines have saved a lot of lives. Trust me—Curzon Dax hosted a few nasty bugs I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies.”

Keirnan prepped the hypospray while issuing a warning. “I’d rather not deal with you catching something your immune system isn’t prepared for. My scans show you had all the standard 21st-century vaccinations, but… well, I’m curious how your body will respond to some of the live vaccines in here. You didn’t get the regiment the Federation requires as a child as we did, and getting them all at once, as an adult, might result in a little discomfort for a few days.”

“A few days my time,” she muttered, rubbing her arm absently after he injected her with little warning.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Your subjective time.”

Holding up one of the tiny translator devices, Keirnan said,

“This goes subdermal, just behind your ear—both ears, actually.”

He tapped a finger behind his own to demonstrate.

“Both?” Trescha frowned.

“Starfleet-issued communicators are tied into the ship’s Universal Translator,” Keirnan explained, his fingers brushing the delta emblem below his shoulder—right where a woman of the 1960s might wear a broach or a man might pin a boutonnière. “It’s one of the most redundant systems on a starship—for obvious reasons. But if it goes offline… well, everyone’s still talking, but no one’s understanding each other.”

“Sounds like a normal day at the office to me,” Trescha chortled.

 

[treschaschott]

Her eyes narrowed as she added, more to herself than anyone else, “If there is a next time… and if I do, like last time, I might not end up on a ship named Enterprise.”

“Exactly why I’m giving you something else,” Keirnan nodded.

Watching him slot the devices into the hypospray, she tilted her head, voice cautious. “Meaning?”

“DiploComms?” Dax guessed, her tone brightening with interest. “The kind with adaptive linguistics, real-time nuance mapping, and local language caching?”

“Even better,” Keirnan grinned. “A bonded pair of top-tier, first contact–grade adaptive learning translators. Picked them up before the first Romulan evacuation planning conference on Babel.”

“Are they used?” Trescha leaned back slightly.

“No,” he smirked. “Didn’t end up needing them. After interning in the Sol System, I didn’t want to lose what mine had picked up there. And being the Federation headquarters, there were always new species coming and going.”

He looked up at Dax, asking, “I grew up on Alpha Centauri and never realized Earth had more native languages than any other Federation world.”

“I knew—well, my mom did,” Dax replied, watching as Keirnan calibrated the devices. “And thanks to her, I had TradeComms before I started at the Academy. They interface with almost any known translation system and store six to ten complete language models for when you’re out of range.”

“These do the same,” Keirnan added. “Plus probabilistic syntax prediction, behavioral tone mapping, and biological vocalization modeling.”

“Even better,” Dax nodded. “Mine can’t do that. And if you keep bouncing through time and space, adaptive translators could be very useful.”

Trescha nodded her agreement as Keirnan injected the first one. “These integrate directly with the auditory processing centers of your brain. They learn fast—you’ll notice improvement within a few hours, and they’ll keep adapting to your speech and hearing patterns.”

The first one hurt more than the shot in her arm.

“No more lag,” he said, prepping the second. “No more distortion. You’ll be able to understand languages in real-time—even ones you’ve never heard before—no matter the dialect. And while these can interface with a ship’s central translation matrix, you won’t be tethered to it.”

“Will they make me sound more sophisticated?” Trescha teased as the second hypospray clicked softly behind her ear—noticeably less painful than the first.

Keirnan smirked. “I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.”

“Oh,” Trescha flinched slightly. “Did you hear that? Hello… hello—there’s an echo—no, wait, it’s gone.”

“That’s them initializing,” Dax explained with a disarming smile. “Some of us may sound a little different now.”

“You do,” Trescha nodded. “Clearer… what you’re saying feels more precise… less generalized.”

“Wait,” Trescha paused, raising her hand. “How do I know they’ll stay with me when I… you know, move on?”

“I thought about that too,” Keirnan nodded. “Another reason I gave you these—because they’re bio-sympathetic. Like the bio-gel in our med bays and core processors, evolved from regenerative cell-matrix studies. Not machines, really—more like cultivated responses. Living systems built to learn from and adapt to the biology they’re paired with.”

“He means they’re part of you now,” Dax said with a smile. “Or will be soon—like a couple of microscopic translation brains wired into your own.”

“Eww,” Trescha recoiled, making a face at Keirnan. “Thanks for the gift of universal understanding… but still—eww.”

“That’s it,” Keirnan said, taking a step back. “You’re all set. The vaccines might make you a little feverish, maybe nauseous over the next couple of days, but after that, your immune system will be ready for just about anything. As you noticed, the translators are already mapping your language centers, adapting to your synaptic patterns, and downloading the languages they think you’ll need from the ship’s matrix. The more you listen—and the more you speak—the faster they’ll learn.”

“And, given you’re from the 21st century, there may be some words that don’t translate immediately. It’s okay to ask someone to repeat or clarify if something doesn’t make sense.”

“It happens all the time,” Dax noted innocently, “especially on a ship as species-diverse as the Enterprise—this Enterprise. Enterprise-E.”

Before Trescha could respond, a loud whoosh of an archway opening and closing interrupted them.

“This does not look like a restaurant,” Thirash sh’Zarath commented, stepping into the room.

Trescha turned, taking in the Andorian woman’s striking presence.

“Oh,” Thirash tilted her head, examining the dress Trescha was wearing. “Your attire is… elegant. Is that the correct Earth word? El-e-gant?”

“It is,” Trescha nodded, visibly pleased. “Thank you. And you look quite stunning yourself.”

“Like a phaser?” Thirash asked, brows raised in earnest curiosity, her antennae giving a quick, twitching tilt as if trying to gauge the metaphor.

“She means you look good—really good,” Dax interjected with a grin, tapping behind her ear. “New translators.”

Thirash gave a small nod of understanding toward Trescha, then turned back to Dax. “You look very stunning yourself… is that what you’ve chosen to wear?”

“I haven’t decided,” Dax said, rising to her feet. She tilted her head from side to side, studying her reflection in one of the mirrors with mild scrutiny.

After Dax and Trescha settled on their final attire—earning nods of approval from Thirash and Dr. Keirnan—Dax gave the command. The holodeck shimmered, dissolving the boutique around them as it reconfigured, seamlessly transforming into their elegantly arranged dinner setting.

The grandeur of the Queen Elizabeth 2’s grand dining hall, awash in warm candlelight, gleamed with polished brass railings and elegant wood-paneled walls. The murmur of passengers—simulated guests in period attire—blended with the soft melodies of a live string quartet, the entire scene draped in the refined luxury of a bygone era.

As the others arrived, the senior crew of the Enterprise-E began to gather around the long, elegantly set table near the center of the room, each of them dressed in carefully selected attire to match the era. The transformation was striking—officers known for duty and discipline now moved with a touch of grace, draped in vintage fabrics and classic silhouettes. They mingled easily beneath the warm candlelight, their Starfleet precision softened by the ambiance of a bygone age.

Thirash, resplendent in a midnight-blue gown that shimmered subtly under the chandelier’s glow, claimed the seat closest to the head of the table, her white hair pinned up with understated elegance.

Elias, looking unsettlingly comfortable in an immaculately tailored black dinner jacket, adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white shirt, scanning the ornate menus before him with his usual analytical focus.

Across from them, Vorrik, the ship’s Romulan Chief Engineer, lounged in his seat, the deep green vest of his ensemble a stark contrast to the others’ attire. His smirk was ever-present, particularly whenever his gaze flicked toward Elias.

The Nausicaan Chief of Security was the last to take his seat. His massive frame made the high-backed chair appear almost comically undersized, but his expression remained impassive. Though he had dressed to match the program’s requirements, there was no pretense of enjoyment—only compliance.

Doctor Keirnan, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, sipped his wine, watching the table’s dynamics unfold with quiet amusement.

Ezri Dax, already at ease, lounged comfortably, swirling her wine glass between her fingers as she glanced toward the entrance.

“He’s taking his time,” she mused aloud.

Across from Dax, Trescha absentmindedly traced the subtle bump behind her ear, her fingers brushing over the barely perceptible outline of the new implant. She nodded to herself, realization dawning as she listened to the conversation around her. Everyone’s speech flowed seamlessly into her thoughts—as if they were all speaking perfect English but shaded with hints of German, French, and Japanese when a single language fell short of conveying a concept.

The effect was instantaneous and startlingly fluid. Gone were the faint delays and jarring shifts of the ship-based external translation system that made everyone sound like they were speaking through a speakerphone. It felt natural—intuitive—almost intimate as if the words were forming inside Trescha’s mind just before they were spoken.

She smirked at Dax, swirling the wine in her long-stemmed crystal glass. “Captain Worf doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who makes grand entrances.”

Dax grinned. “Unless he’s about to cut someone’s head off.”

As if on cue, the arch shimmered into view and vanished just as quickly, leaving behind the grand double doors of the dining room. Worf stepped through with purpose, his stride measured and commanding as he entered the holodeck.

The murmurs within the dining hall faltered—just briefly—as the Klingon warrior approached the Captain’s table, clad in an impeccably tailored black tuxedo. The contrast between human elegance and his imposing Klingon presence was striking—and unmistakably uncomfortable.

His expression was locked in a practiced neutrality, but his movements betrayed his discomfort. His fingers twitched slightly against his side before he subtly tugged at his collar, adjusting the tux in a futile attempt to make it less restrictive.

Doctor Keirnan leaned toward Dax. “Okay. You win.”

Dax turned to Trescha with a satisfied smirk. “It’s always the small battles that win the war.”

Worf approached the table, his gait as commanding as ever, but his irritation radiated beneath the formalwear. Without a word, he pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat.

“You clean up very nicely, Captain,” Trescha teased, leaning slightly toward Worf, sniffing the air.

She smirked. “Do I smell… lilac?”

Dax nearly choked on her wine.

Worf’s expression darkened. “It is a Klingon cologne, derived from zemekh root.”

Dax wiped her mouth, shaking her head with a knowing smirk. “No, no, no—it’s lilac. You smell like lilacs, Worf. And the Jadzia in me appreciates the effort you’ve made to honor our guest tonight.”

Thirash smirked. Vorrik outright grinned.

Worf’s gaze shifted to Trescha, his voice lowering with respectful gravity. “It is I who am honored to share a meal with you, Ms. Schott. Is this setting not appropriate?”

Trescha raised her hands in mock surrender. “No, it’s perfect… everything is so… wonderful. And, well, unexpected.”

She nodded at Worf, her expression softening. “Thank you, Captain. For not rushing me. For giving me time to adjust… to make new friends,” she glanced warmly at Dax, “and to replace some difficult memories with better ones.”

Then, smirking across the table, she added playfully, “Dax told me how uncomfortable you are on ocean-going ships—holographic ones included. Something about a fear of bathing?”

“I do not fear bathing,” Worf barked, then steadied his tone. “I simply prefer to let my skin breathe.”

“Right,” Trescha said, nodding with a grin she didn’t bother to hide.

“To friends and to honor,” Keirnan cut in diplomatically, lifting his glass with a sly grin. “And to letting our skin breathe—of course.”

Worf shook his head ever so slightly, then exhaled through his nose. With deliberate calm, he adjusted the cuffs of his tuxedo and gave Dax a brief, approving nod.

“Let our meal begin,” Worf commanded.

Dax turned to the head waiter and gave a subtle motion. The waiter nodded, and the staff began distributing the first course.

As the servers gracefully placed dishes before each guest, Worf stared down at his plate, his brow furrowing. Thinly sliced steak tartare sat in a carefully arranged presentation, garnished with herbs and a drizzle of sauce—a dish meant to embody refinement and sophistication.

Worf, however, was unimpressed.

“This is replicated gagh,” he stated flatly, prodding the delicate slices with the tip of his fork.

Across the table, Ezri Dax grinned, folding her hands under her chin. “Think of it as the 1960s Earth version of gagh.”

Worf grumbled a sigh, eyeing the dish with mild resignation. He lifted a piece with his fork, examined it, then took a bite.

“The flavor is acceptable,” he admitted after a moment, chewing thoughtfully. Then, with a heavier sigh: “But the appearance… will take some getting used to.”

Ezri beamed, entirely too pleased with herself. “That’s the spirit.”

The Nausicaan Chief of Security lowered his utensils, staring at the cut of beef on his plate with a perplexed but grudgingly appreciative expression. “This tastes just like krag’thol flank.” Ezri Dax, ever the considerate host, leaned forward with a pleased smile, clearly fishing for a compliment. “That’s because I told the computer to prepare your favorite meals—but to make them look like food from Earth in the 1960s. Hope that’s okay?”

Krolok quietly grunted before resuming his meal.

The low hum of conversation began, blending with the gentle clinking of silverware against fine china. The lighting was warm, casting soft shadows across the elegantly adorned dining table. The simulated ambiance felt almost surreal—timeless, refined, and wholly out of place for a crew accustomed to the hum of a warp core beneath their feet.

Dax, lounging comfortably and savoring her successful efforts to improve crew bonding, reached for her new favorite drink—brewed sweet tea waiting beside her dinner wine. She took a slow sip and let out a satisfied sigh.

“I have to say, Trescha, this is a solid addition to my list of ‘things worth keeping across lifetimes.’”

Trescha smirked, swirling her wine glass.

“You could have just had that instead.”

Dax shrugged, lifting the tea again.

“Different drinks for different moments. Wine for the meal, tea for everything else.”

Trescha raised her wine, smirking.

“It’s the little things that keep you sane. Sweet tea, a hot meal, and the ability to order people around when necessary.”

She shot a glance toward Worf, who had yet to look entirely at ease in his formalwear.

“And speaking of keeping sane—Captain, do you always look like you’re fighting an internal battle, or is this tuxedo a unique form of Klingon torture?”

Worf scowled.

“A warrior does not concern himself with comfort.”

“That’s a yes,” Dax teased, winking at Worf.

Trescha grinned before leaning forward, resting her arm on the table.

“Speaking of warriors… I get the honor part. Makes sense. Strength, discipline, and loyalty—those are things I respect. But what I don’t get is the constant need to fight. Not every battle needs to be physical.”

Worf exhaled through his nose, setting down his glass with a deliberate motion.

“A warrior’s battle is not always waged with weapons.” His deep voice carried the weight of experience, his dark gaze locked onto hers. “As they teach at the Boreth Monastery, a true warrior fights within. To be better than they were yesterday. To temper rage with wisdom… to seek honor not in conquest, but in restraint.”

Trescha shifted her attention to Elias, who had been quietly absorbing the conversation, his expression neutral. His eyes, however, were distant—constantly flickering between past and present, as if he were watching two timelines unfold at once.

She drummed her fingers on the table in front of him, trying to capture his attention.

“So… what’s with the twitches?”

Elias blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“Excuse me?”

She gestured toward him.

“The pauses. The weird little hesitations. I’ve seen people process data before, but you look like you’re stuck between two different realities.”

A long pause. Elias exhaled, setting his utensils aside as if preparing for an impromptu presentation.

“I have an eidetic memory,” he admitted, tone clinical, detached. “But not just recall—overlapping recall. Every memory I’ve ever had exists in real time. The past doesn’t stay in the past. It layers over the present, all the time.”

Trescha narrowed her eyes.

“That sounds… exhausting.”

Elias’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement.

“That’s an understatement.”

She studied him for a moment, then asked,

“How do you deal with it?”

“Intense study,” Elias replied, voice measured. “Focusing on technical work—deep, analytical engagement—is the only thing I’ve found that helps me filter what’s relevant and what isn’t. If I don’t stay busy, my mind… replays things I don’t need to see.”

Trescha’s smirk softened.

“Huh. So, your battle is all internal, too.”

Elias hesitated, then gave a slow nod.

“You could say that.”

Thirash, who had been quietly consuming her Andorian Redbat, appearing like southern fried chicken with white gravy—leaned forward.

“That is the difference between us, then.”

All eyes turned to her.

She smirked, antennae twitching slightly.

“My battles are meant to be remembered.”

Trescha arched a brow.

“Oh?”

Thirash sat up straighter, her voice carrying the unmistakable pride of an Andorian warrior.

“I am of the House of Sh’Zarath. My great-great-grandfather was Shran, a hero of Andor, the first to fight for our place in the Federation.”

She let that sink in, her blue skin practically glowing under the warm lighting.

“My ancestors carved their names into history. Their stories are told, and their battles are studied. That is my path. To be remembered—not as a name in a database, but as a warrior who made a difference.”

Trescha exhaled, shaking her head with a chuckle.

“Damn. No pressure, huh?”

Thirash grinned.

“None at all.”

Across the table, the Nausicaan Security Chief—who had remained utterly silent since dinner started—continued to observe. His predatory eyes flicked between each speaker, but he said nothing as if the conversation did not concern him.

Meanwhile, Vorrik had turned his attention to Elias. The Romulan Chief Engineer smirked, clearly enjoying himself.

“You know,” Vorrik mused, “for someone with such a vast memory, I would have expected you to be more… adaptable.”

Elias tensed slightly.

“I prefer precision.”

Vorrik leaned in just enough to invade Elias’s space, his voice dropping into something dangerously smooth.

“I find precision… overrated.”

Elias’s jaw tightened.

“Noted.”

Vorrik chuckled and leaned back, thoroughly entertained.

Ezri Dax, sensing the rising tension, smoothly raised her glass.

“To warriors of all kinds.”

Thirash raised her glass, glancing at Dax as she whispered,

“Like this?”

“Exactly,” Dax affirmed.

“To Trescha Schott,” Thirash said aloud, her voice strong.

“Warrior of Time and Space… Superspace. The Royal Guard would be honored to have one of your nobility and grace in their ranks.”

After a round of cautious—and slightly confused—glass clinking, Elias blinked. His mind skipped backward, replaying Thirash’s toast several times before he finally announced, almost absently,

“Starfleet beat you to it.”

The table quieted.

All eyes turned to Elias.

“It’s in the briefing materials,” Elias stated matter-of-factly.

Upon seeing Dax’s confused expression aimed at him, Elias rested his hands neatly on the tablecloth, straightened his posture, and—without hesitation—began to recite, his eyes flickering side to side as if reading.

“In all my years of service, I have rarely encountered an individual whose actions speak so loudly of duty, resilience, and the indomitable spirit of the Federation—especially one who is not, officially, a member of Starfleet. Her sacrificial act to save my ship, the Enterprise-D, and the people aboard demonstrated decisiveness under pressure, unwavering courage in the face of a known outcome, and a remarkable ability to endure an ongoing challenge that would break even the most seasoned officers.

For these reasons, I wholeheartedly recommend that Ms. Schott be granted the honorary rank of Lieutenant Commander, with all associated privileges, effective immediately upon her return. Though she may not wear the uniform, she has already earned the respect and trust of those who do.

Signed, Jean-Luc Picard, Captain, USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-D”

 

[treschaschott]

The weight of the words settled over the table as Elias delivered them verbatim, his eidetic memory preserving every syllable with a precision that made it feel as if Picard himself were in the room.

Trescha listened in silence, lifting her glass slightly before setting it back down.

Then, Elias continued.

“Stardate 61198.50. From Admiral Kathryn Janeway to the Starfleet Honors and Review Board.”

I have spent a significant portion of my career navigating the unknown. I know what it means to be stranded, to face the impossible, to stand on the edge of the map and take that step forward anyway. It’s a lonely thing, and not many people survive it intact.

Ms. Trescha Schott has not only survived—it appears she’s made a habit of it. To read the reports from Captain Picard and his senior officers, as well as personally debriefing the crew of provisional trainee candidates who recovered the Protostar, is to realize that Starfleet has, perhaps, failed to fully acknowledge one of its own simply because she has never taken the oath. I intend to correct that oversight.

I second Captain Picard’s recommendation that Ms. Schott be granted the honorary rank of Lieutenant Commander. Furthermore, given her unique skill set and experience, I propose she be considered for detached service, free to operate as necessity dictates but with full authority when engaging with Starfleet personnel.

Some officers are born into Starfleet. Some, like the crew of the Protostar, fight to be part of it. And then there are those rare few who live its values without ever needing the title. Ms. Schott is one of them.”

When Elias paused to inhale, Trescha narrowed her eyes, her mind snagging on a name he’d just said.

Janeway.

The Emergency Command Hologram from the Protostar had taken that form—but Elais was not reciting her words; he was verbalizing words conveyed by the original Admiral Janeway.

A name that seemed to float in the room like a lit match over dry tinder. Worf’s senior staff shifted in their seats. No one spoke, but something changed in their expressions—respect, awe… weight.

Trescha said nothing—just waited, listening, pondering.

Elias reached for his fork, then added matter-of-factly, “Three months later, the Review Board unanimously awarded Trescha the honorary rank of Lieutenant Commander in absentia—and confirmed her status as being on detached duty.”

Trescha blinked. Once. Twice, then again.

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass, but she didn’t lift it.

“Well… damn. Wasn’t expecting anything like that.”

“Indeed,” Vorrik murmured, the amusement gone from his tone—replaced by something closer to genuine intrigue.

“That’s the kind of respect your actions have earned,” Thirash said firmly, stamping her fist on the holographic table hard enough to make a few glasses clink.

The room sat in expectation—a moment where something should be said and some formal response should be given.

But before Trescha could deflect with another joke, Worf’s voice cut through the pause.

“Computer.”

The 1960s-era dinner setting echoed with a futuristic chirp

“Assign Lieutenant Commander Trescha Schott to temporary duty aboard this vessel. All rights and privileges for the duration of her stay.”

“Confirmed,” came a woman’s voice from above the table, calm and precise.

“Lieutenant Commander Trescha Schott is assigned to the senior staff of the USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-E, with full access and command privileges. Effective immediately.”

The crew’s reaction was instant.

Trescha felt warmth rise to her cheeks—an unfamiliar heat she wasn’t quite sure how to process. A joke perched on her tongue, her usual shield in moments like this—but before she could speak, the intercom chirped sharply. The repeated trill cut through the moment like a serrated blade, each note carving away what had almost been said.

“Engineering to Vorrik.”

The voice was tight. Something was wrong.

Vorrik stood immediately. “Go ahead.”

The response came through slightly distorted.

“Captain—we have a problem. The singularity… it’s fragmenting.”

All side conversations stopped.

Trescha, still staring at Worf, exhaled.

She pointed a finger at him.

“This is your fault, you know. You shouldn’t have—”

Worf’s head snapped side to side, his breath caught in his throat, body stiff against the unfamiliar contours of the Cousteau’s command chair.

The tuxedo felt wrong. Its weight against Worf’s skin, the tightness of the collar, the smooth fabric—it didn’t belong. And in this moment, Worf felt like he didn’t belong either.

Outside the panoramic viewport of the Captain’s Yacht, the Enterprise floated in ruin—torn apart, bleeding debris into the void like the corpse of a once-mighty beast.

Emergency beacons blinked from hundreds of escape pods—tiny flickers of life scattered across the abyss. But the ship itself—his ship—was unrecognizable.

The nacelles had been severed, floating like lifeless husks, faintly glowing where power had not fully drained.

The secondary hull tumbled slowly, broken and twisted, debris trailing in its wake like the last remnants of a sinking vessel.

The primary hull—what was left of it—was fractured into three massive sections, wrenched apart at unnatural angles.

At its heart, where the warp core should have been, there was only absence.

A void.

Not wreckage. Not fire. Just nothing.

Three massive wedge-like distortions collapsed and reformed in an endless cycle, consuming reality itself in fractured, gnashing jaws.

Worf watched in silence as a third of the saucer section folded inward, drawn into the anomaly before vanishing completely. No explosion. No radiation. Just… gone.

His mind struggled to catch up.

A blink ago, they had been at dinner—honoring their guest, raising glasses. Then came the call from Engineering… and the finger of blame that followed.

A voice broke the silence.

“We are receiving emergency hails,” Thirash announced from her station, her voice steady despite the chaos. “Three Starfleet vessels—the Marietta, Uhura, and Yorktown.”

She glanced at Worf, awaiting orders, antennae angled forward with intense focus.

“The Yorktown is the closest. They are ten hours away and requesting a full status report and a count of survivors.”

Worf exhaled sharply, forcing his mind to realign. His ship. His crew. His duty.

His voice came out rough. “Escape pods… how many escape pods?”

The Chief of Security responded, his deep voice firm. “All accounted for, sir. I am directing them to rendezvous with us.”

“I’m requesting headcounts now,” Thirash stated, already shifting into rescue and recovery mode.

Elias, still staring at the wreckage, spoke without looking away. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its familiar academic detachment.

“The singularity… it must have shattered, then imploded.”

Ezri Dax, her usual humor absent, turned toward Worf. “How did we get here?”

Thirash confirmed the numbers. “All eight hundred crew members are accounted for… plus 48 of the 50 synths assigned to Engineering and Maintenance.”

Elias frowned, his mind sifting through overlapping facts. “The Binar escape pod reports a full backup of the ship’s memory banks—logs, records, and events right up to… whatever happened. And over seven years of data that, according to the Binars, shouldn’t exist at all.”

Before anyone could process the impossible, the room shifted again.

A flicker of blue light shimmered across the screen—then, against the devastation beyond, Trescha Schott appeared. Her steel-gray eyes held a spark of renewed hope, softened by the somber weight etched into her expression. Her hair, once cropped short, was now a long double-braided bundle that flowed over one shoulder, nearly reaching her stomach.

Older now. Wiser. Unimaginably alone.

And yet, she smiled.

“If you’re seeing me, then you’re safe. If not… well, never mind.”

The crew stilled.

Her eyes held the weight of someone who had seen too much. But there was no panic—only the exhaustion of a long-fought battle.

She spoke, voice steady.

“The Superspace Fold and the Romulan Singularity… they didn’t play well together. I tried—I really did—but I couldn’t stop what had already happened from happening.”

She exhaled through her nose, looking directly at Worf.

“Captain, I was wrong. This wasn’t your fault. It was just… an intense disagreement between two angry neighbors. And we were living the house in between.”

She swallowed. Then, a flicker of something in her expression—regret, maybe.

“Thank you for dinner. I’ve returned to that night more times than I can count. I’ll treasure it—always.”

She paused, glancing down at something unseen, muttering, “In a moment, Isis,” before looking back up.

“Anyway, Captain, my logs are in the PADD I left with you. All the details—what happened, what I tried to do to fix it… and… well… you’ll see.”

A small, tired smile.

“And to the crew of the Enterprise… thank you. Being accepted as one of you is an honor I will never forget.”

With a final flicker, she was gone.

The silence stretched.

Worf inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His body wanted action. Wanted revenge.

But there was nothing to fight.

No enemy. No battle. Only loss.

“Status report,” he ordered, voice sharp.

Thirash glanced over the shipboard readouts. “Vorrik confirms the Cousteau is fully operational. Long-range sensors show no threats, and communications confirm multiple Starfleet vessels en route. No injuries reported from the life pods—just a few… unexpectedly intimate embraces upon waking.”

Ezri Dax exhaled, brushing away the tears streaking down her cheeks. “Your crew count was wrong, Commander.”

Thirash twisted to glare at Dax, not verbally asking, yet demanding clarification.

“The crew manifest was eight hundred and fifty-one.”

Worf released a silent scream to Sto-vo-kor, his throat and neck tightening with the effort. Within the depths of his mind and body, he cried out—a wordless warning of a warrior’s imminent arrival.

He then lifted the PADD beside him, fingers brushing over its surface before gripping it tighter.

For the next ten hours, as the Yorktown raced toward them, Worf sat alone in the center seat of the active bridge, scanning through Lieutenant Commander Trescha Schott’s log entries.

 

[treschaschott]

Day 3

The computer won’t shut up about this. Starfleet officers are expected to record personal and technical logs. Duty. Regulations. Order. Thanks Worf. I was never Starfleet, and I don’t plan on starting now.

So. Here’s my log.

“I’m alive. The crew is frozen. The ship is mostly intact—trapped inside the Fold, just like the Enterprise-D was or would have been if I didn’t jump ship.”

Can I go now?

Day 5

Fine. Another log.

I’ve walked the entire ship. It helps to move… it keeps me from thinking too much. I spent some time playing around with the Holodeck—because if you’re going to be trapped on a ghost ship in a pocket of warped space-time, you may as well get in some tennis with Billie Jean King.

I also skied at Lake Tahoe in the 1980’s and saw a live show with Rita Moreno opening for George Burns.

Day 7

Someone should give Dr. Keirnan a dose of his own medicine… ‘a little feverish and nausea,’ my ass. I’ve been burning up and spewing from both ends for two days. If you ask me, the cure is worse than the disease.

Thankfully, the ship’s computer automatically activated and transferred an Emergency Medical Hologram to the Holodeck I’m living in. Scared the crap out of me—literally—when he appeared without warning. Guess I should be grateful he makes house calls.

Day 11

The Holodeck gave me a crash course on the Enterprise’s systems. It turns out that recognizing me as an acting captain unlocks a whole lot more than I expected.

“Okay, this time, I mean it—thanks, Worf, for making me a member of your crew. If you hadn’t, I doubt I’d have been able to access the main computer, ship’s systems, or the Chief Engineer’s data on the whole ‘Romulan tech meets Starfleet tech’ experiment.”

Here’s what I know: about 75 to 90% of the ship’s systems are functioning—anything relying on, based on, or using isolinear tech, tachyons, subspace, or mechanical engineering, including Newton’s laws of motion still works.

But biological stuff, including the bio-gel systems, are dead. Like they’ve been frozen in time along with the crew.

So why me? Why is my biology unaffected?

If I ever get out of here, someone’s going to have to explain that one to me.

Day 35

Internal sensors are operational. Took some work, but I’ve got a complete inventory of where everyone is.

Now, I need to figure out how to save them.

Day 80

I have a plan. More accurately, I have the beginning of a plan.

There’s no stopping the singularity from causing a warp core breach. It’s going to happen. Nothing I do changes that.

But the Holodeck gave me access to a projection of Geordi La Forge, and he reminded me of something—how he polarized the hull to pop the Enterprise-D out of the Superspace Fold… apparently, it worked.

That’s this Enterprise’s crew’s way out.

Maybe.

Day 155

I’ve modified the shield systems, rewired half the ship, and tested every variation of the hull polarization sequence I could think of. Both La Forge and Professor O’Brien agree—the theory is sound. It’s been proven.

But theory doesn’t save lives.

The real question is whether my modifications will actually work.

On the good side, La Forge is pretty sure my link to the Subspace Fold is why I’m not affected by the freeze, so I’ve got that going for me.

Day 275

Half the crew is in escape pods.

I want to take a moment to acknowledge two engineers who… I don’t know what species they were, but they looked a lot like Data. Pale skin, gold eyes.

They died trying to stop the singularity from fragmenting. It was violent. Messy. And they’re just… frozen like that.

I think it’s the one time I’m glad they’re stuck. They don’t have to know what happened to them.

Day 366

It’s been a year for me.

Everyone is safe. I’ve loaded the last of the crew into the escape pods and put the Senior crew into the Cousteau. The ship’s computer is programmed to polarize the hull when the Superspace Fold starts to destabilize, then jettison all the escape pods and launch the Cousteau into normal space the moment the rift opens.

Timing is everything. Too early, and they stay frozen with me. If the pods launch too late, they won’t clear the warp core breach or the gravity well of the singularity imploding.

No pressure.

Day 587

After I was sure everyone was safe, I took a break from problem-solving to educate myself. The Holodeck has access to every class, seminar, and academic program Star Fleet offers.

Naturally, I started with history.

The pre-1960s records are sanitized bullshit. Whitewashed, tunned, and tidied up to fit the narrative the leading powers at the time wanted the masses to believe. I was there. I lived it. And it wasn’t nearly as neat and noble as they like to pretend.

I’ve made a few notes, but I doubt anyone will ever read them. Still, it helps to set the record straight and correct revisionist history.

Day 600

It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper workout. Running around the decks every day to keep in shape and working out in a holographic gym has gotten so boring.

Sometimes, I feel trapped… yes I know I am, but still… I need something or someone to vent my frustrations on. The computer suggested I consider exploring self-restraint with Sarek of Vulcan or finding a way to release my anger by training with Kahless on Qo’noS. I haven’t sparred with anyone since the seventies… the nineteen seventies.

I started with Kahless, and it wasn’t sparring; it was a melee… I felt like I was fighting Genghis Khan’s foot soldiers again. No elegance. No retreat. Just the pure, glorious violence of someone who grew up with war as a way of life.

I landed one blow, and he didn’t flinch. I did.

It was cathartic… I want a rematch.

Day 720

Kahless doesn’t fight with anger. He fights with purpose. Every strike lands like it’s fulfilling prophecy. I’ve fought zealots before—men who thought war made them divine. Kahless doesn’t think he’s a god. He thinks the fight itself is sacred.

I struck him in the jaw. He smiled. I laughed. Then he broke my collarbone.

Worth it.

On a lighter note, the Holodeck just issued me two Ph. D.s—one in Warp Propulsion Systems and another in Subspace Engineering. Apparently, I’m a fast learner when time is irrelevant.

Who knew being stuck outside of time was so academically productive?

As a reward, I’ve decided to take a break from my studies. Tomorrow, Isis and I plan to visit places I always wanted to see but never had the chance to. The computer suggested we consider exploring beyond Earth, starting with the ice caves of Andor.

And, if the EMH is right, I plan on spending more time on Risa than I should.

Day 910

Sparring with Sarek feels like standing in a still pond and watching ripples form before you touch the water. He reads intention as if it were a scent in the air.

I hate how little he moves. How much I move in comparison. One raised brow, one sidestep, and I am a thousand years behind him.

He’s trying to teach me control is a battlefield.

I’ve lived entire centuries without learning this much.

During one of our weekly sessions, he suggested I go to the font of knowledge. It may not be what he intended, but I finally sat down with Spock to go over his predictive models for the Superspace Fold. His formula was elegant, but it didn’t account for gravitational influences from naturally occurring subspace eddies. Something that was not detectable when he worked with Penny to create it.

And yet… there’s nothing. No gravity wells, no distortions—nothing that should’ve altered its path since my encounter with the Enterprise-D. And no explanation for how or why it manifested in the Delta Quadrant chasing the Protostar.

Spock agrees with me—Q must have altered the Fold’s trajectory, possibly introducing a temporal fluctuation in the process.

There’s no other explanation I can think of.

Oh, and apparently, I now have doctorates in Computer Science, Advanced Theoretical Physics, and Quantum Field Manipulation.

Day 1100

Kahless returned with blades. Real ones. Not polished ceremony—steel forged in memory. I hadn’t held one in centuries. I shouldn’t have. The weight of my blade pulled old ghosts from places I thought forgotten, wanted to forget. Blood in the dirt. Screams in twilight. And names I swore I’d never say again.

I beheaded him. Twice.

The first time, he told me that I was still fighting the war inside me.

The second time, his decapitated head laughed.

After he vanished, I realized my fight wasn’t with him.

It never was.

I don’t think he’ll bring blades again.

Day 1425

I asked the computer for a training partner with a body structure and mass nearly identical to mine.

Her name was Jadzia Dax—Worf’s wife, Ezri’s predecessor. There’s a lot to unpack there. But I am and was more interested in how she fought. She gracefully flows between disciplines—Klingon, Bajoran, and human—seamlessly. She’s not the strongest. Not the fastest. But she adapts faster than I can anticipate.

For a moment, I forgot she was younger than me, even with all of her symbiont experiences. For a moment, I felt old.

Jadzia doesn’t dominate the fight. She navigates it. I throw heaviness—she answers with momentum. I strike with purpose—she deflects with personality.

She fights like a river, and I’ve spent millennia trying to fight fire with fire.

Speaking of fire, since I parked everyone in rescue pods, I’ve studied everything from temporal mechanics to warp core systems. Yet, I still don’t understand why biological systems are frozen while mechanical ones aren’t.

But the computer says I’ve met the requirements for a doctorate in Temporal Mechanics, so I’ll take the win.

I also recreated my pet cat, Isis, as a hologram. I don’t feel so alone anymore. It’s almost like I’m living the life I used to—coming home from work or the Gym to find her waiting for me. Curling up on my lap while I binge-watch a hundred years’ worth of shows and movies I never got to see before I left Earth.

Day 1630

If you’re looking for my research on Superspace, don’t bother. It’s gone.

I deleted everything. Purged the memory banks and overwrote the backup files with junk data—it’s all beyond recovery.

I reviewed the Starfleet Intelligence reports embedded in the Enterprise Initiative briefing… and I get it now. I understand why it was classified.

They were right.

That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Day 1701

My workout sessions aren’t serving the same purpose they used to.

I don’t fight like Dax. I moved into her form, then left it behind.

I don’t fight like Sarek, though I’ve borrowed his stillness.

And I don’t roar like Kahless, though his rhythm pulses in me.

I fight like a memory—of all of them and of who I once was.

Refined in repetition. Sharpened by failure.

And finally… I think I’ve found what I was looking for.

Who I want to be.

Day 2360

In about an hour (subjective time), the Fold will exit normal space.

I’ve triple-checked everything. The ship’s systems are programmed to polarize the hull, jettison the pods, and launch the Captain’s yacht the moment the rift opens.

Too late, and—fortunately—they won’t exist long enough to wonder what happened.

Too soon… and they’ll be trapped.

Forever.

Timeless.

Frozen as they are, as they were.

Neither dead nor alive.

A perfect, untouched moment—endlessly preserved.

A reality that never moves forward, never shifts, never breaks.

I don’t know which is worse.

But I do know this: I only get one shot.

There’s nothing left to do now but wait.

So, at this moment? Isis and I are on a beach in Hawaii, eating Katsu chicken and sipping a perfect glass of Southern-style sweet tea. The sun’s just beginning to dip, casting everything in that golden-pink glow you never quite forget. There’s a warm breeze coming off the water, soft sand beneath my feet, and the sound of waves folding gently into the shore. It all feels so real—so heartbreakingly real—I could almost forget it isn’t.

I synced the sunset with the Fold’s transition.

I want that to be the last thing I see.

A moment of perfection, frozen in time.

 

[treschaschott]

Let The Great River Flow
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 65000.0

We have been at station-keeping in the Gamma Quadrant for over fourteen hours under direct orders from Colonel Kira Nerys. No explanation. No mission briefing. Just two words— Hold position.’

The crew is restless, and frankly, so am I. We are five light-years from the Bajoran Wormhole, in territory that—technically—no longer belongs to anyone. The Dominion War is long over. The non-hostility pact has never been broken. And yet, the vacuum left by the Founders has created something just as dangerous: lawlessness. Raiders, scavengers, and opportunists now roam these sectors. But we have detected no ships, no distress calls, and no sign of trouble.

So we wait.

If the Colonel has a reason for this, I hope we learn it soon.

End log.”

Nog replayed his log entry in his mind as he entered the bridge, unable to suppress the sharp-toothed grin spreading across his face. He slid into the center seat, fully feeling the weight of his first command of the Defiant.

Fourteen hours in, and the thrill hadn’t faded. Not completely. Nog had assumed the novelty of commanding this ship would wear off after eight or ten hours. Still, occasionally, that surge of pride returned, accompanied by the satisfaction his uncle never seemed to understand.

The bridge crew’s banter hummed in the background, their voices blending into the quiet rhythm of routine. Nog’s focus sharpened when he heard Ensign Rin Dala mention the Colonel’s name.

Nog shifted his attention, seeing her fingers resting lightly on the console between him and the viewing screen, her head raised, eyes fixed on the unchanging starfield on the main viewscreen. Her voice carried excitement, something rare during long patrols.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on her—really. She was so understanding after she closed the panels, and her eyes were almost glowing. Her face too, like… like she was lit from the inside.”

“Sounds like an Orb experience,” Nog commented, settling into the Captain’s chair.

Ensign Rin turned toward him; the chain looped to her Bajoran earring, symbolizing her Pagh swaying as she confirmed, “The Orb of the Emissary.”

“I was just saying,” she continued, “a few weeks ago, the Vedek Assembly officially relocated it to the temple on Deep Space Nine. It’s now housed in the shrine, at least temporarily. People have been coming from all over Bajor—and beyond—to experience it. I accidentally walked in on Colonel Kira, hoping to see it before everyone else.”

Gil Sera Yal, a recent addition to Deep Space Nine’s crew and exchange officer from the Cardassian Protectorate, twisted to face Rin, arching an eyebrow. “What’s an Orb experience? Aren’t Orbs some Bajoran artifact or something?”

Rin twisted in her chair, fully facing Sera. “They’re more than artifacts. They’re… life-changing. Or life-affirming. The Orb of the Emissary doesn’t just give visions—it shows people where they’re meant to be. Or maybe… who they’re supposed to be.”

From Science, Tellarite Lieutenant Jastok Bral snorted. “Emissary to what?”

Nog smirked. “It’s a long story.” He shared a knowing glance with Rin. “The Colonel has had more than her fair share of Orb experiences.”

He turned back to Rin. “Have you ever had one?”

Rin hesitated. Her face shifted between awe and uncertainty. “After I walked in on her in the temple, Colonel Kira blessed me with the honor of standing before the Orb of the Emissary.”

Her gaze drifted to the viewscreen as she spoke.

“I wasn’t on Bajor anymore, but… Bajor was still there. I could see the entire planet, the Celestial Temple watching over it. It wasn’t like the view from Deep Space Nine. I could see everything—every side, all at once. And I was waiting for something, for someone. It felt just like waiting for the school transport to pick me up when I was a child. That same feeling of anticipation. And I wasn’t alone. Someone was waiting with me… but I can’t remember who.”

Her voice softened, her hand raising to caress the jewelry attached to her ear.

“But I knew—deep inside—I was exactly where I was supposed to be.”

Sera arrogantly scoffed as she took a slow sip of her fish juice. “Sounds more like a dream than an experience.”

Rin frowned. “It was more than a dream… it was real.”

Bral exhaled loudly. “You do realize those Orbs just make people hallucinate, right?”

Before Rin could retort, Nog’s voice cut through the conversation.

“You don’t have to believe it, Bral,” he said evenly. “But you can respect that it means something to her.”

Bral shrugged but didn’t push further.

Nog scanned the bridge, looking for anything interesting. He found Bral slouched over his console, scrolling through stellar cartography reports like a man waiting for something to happen. The musky Tellarite scent of damp earth and burnt metal filled the air, reminding Nog uncomfortably of Worf after a holosuite workout—minus the lilac.

To Nog’s left, Sera continued watching over the ship’s unchanging status, sipping from her steaming mug. The briny aroma filled the bridge.

Nog wrinkled his nose. Bral outright recoiled.

Bral frowned, waving a hand near his snout. “How can you drink that rancid fish juice?”

Sera didn’t react. She lifted the cup, studying its contents.

“Actually, I’m surprised by how well the Federation’s replicators approximate Cardassian beverages. Even the synthetic Kanar at Quark’s is better than I expected—not as good as the real thing, but very close.”

Nog smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Sera raised an eyebrow. “And why are you taking credit?”

“I reprogrammed the station’s replicators myself—with Garak’s help.”

Sera’s eyes widened slightly. “Legate Garak?”

Nog leaned back, arms crossed, teeth flashing in a sharp Ferengi grin.

“And I knew him when he was nothing but a tailor.”

Bral snorted. “Ha, sure you did…”

A soft laugh came from behind them.

“Colonel Kira has shared some interesting stories about Garak,” Rin said, smirking at the viewscreen. “He was much more than just a tailor.”

Nog nodded, suppressing a chuckle. “True. But he was actually a very good tailor, too.”

A sharp chirp interrupted the conversation.

Bral’s fingers twitched at his console. “The deflector system is reporting an error.”

Nog’s engineering instincts kicked in. “An error?”

Bral’s snout twitched as he checked the readings. His usual sarcasm disappeared, replaced by clipped focus.

“No—wait. It’s not an error.” His voice dropped. “It’s detecting an anomaly… a massless object of some kind.”

Nog’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean, massless?”

Bral’s broad fingers danced over the console. His eyes narrowed at the readings.

“It looks like…” He paused. “The computer says it’s a coherent warp field or a bubble.”

Rin’s voice pitched up, a note of panic creeping in. “Whatever it is, it is on a direct course for the Celestial Temple.”

The tension snapped into place like a charged wire.

Nog’s fingers curled over the armrests. “Options?”

Sera’s voice was flat, cold, certain. “Destroy it.”

Nog shook his head. “We don’t even know what it is.”

“Tractor beam,” Bral muttered, rubbing his temple. “We could try and push it out of the way?”

Nog’s eyes narrowed slightly as a realization clicked into place.

“That’s why…” he muttered aloud.

Sera’s head snapped up. “Why what?”

Nog smirked. “Why the Colonel loaded our hold with gravimetric mines before we departed.” He leaned forward. “Mines she confiscated from my Uncle Quark. War surplus, junk we were planning on dropping into a dark star next week.”

Then—

Without a sound, flutter of air, or flash of light, a figure appeared—suddenly and without warning—between the main viewscreen and the Conn.

Nog snapped to his feet, heart pounding.

His breath caught.

“Captain S-Sisko?”

Benjamin Sisko nodded, smiling—the same broad grin of approval he wore when expressing pride or success. But his eyes seemed confused, as if part of him wasn’t entirely sure whether he belonged where he found himself.

Before anyone else could react, Rin gasped aloud.

She slid out of her chair, dropping to one knee, bowing her head in reverence.

“Emissary,” she whispered, her voice trembling with both awe and uncertainty.

Without transition or movement, Sisko blinked from the front of the bridge to a position between Nog and Rin.

“You do not need to kneel,” Sisko said gently, his voice warm but firm. “You are exactly where you need to be. Here. Now.”

Rin slowly looked up, eyes wide. She barely dared to breathe.

Her vision from the Orb flashed in her mind—a Bajoran field under an unfamiliar sky—a moment of waiting for something… someone.

And now, standing beside her, the Emissary of the Prophets had spoken those same words.

Sisko’s attention shifted abruptly. Staring at Nog, his gaze calm, knowing, “Congratulations on your promotion, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nog replied without thinking.

“All she needs is a little nudge in the right direction,” Sisko said, turning to face the view screen, his raised hand rotating slightly, then sweeping horizontally.

Every display flickered.

A detailed plan of mine deployments and their coordinates appeared on the Conn’s display—almost as if they had always been there.

Rin blinked, then stammered. “I—I didn’t do that.”

Nog turned his head to look at Sisko—

But Sisko’s expression had softened.

For a brief moment, his intense eyes met Nog’s. He flashed a broad, knowing grin—and then,

He was gone.

No sound. No transition. Gone.

The weight of the moment settled within Nog and over the entire bridge.

Nog took a breath. Trusted his instincts. Trusted his Captain.

“Let the Great River flow,” he ordered.

The weight of the moment lingered on the bridge, a quiet tension settling over the crew before the soft beeps of consoles resumed, each officer following their commanding officer’s orders.

Nog exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the surreal presence of Sisko, the impossible way he had appeared and vanished as though he had never left.

He moved to stand behind Sera, eyes flicking over the Engineering display before offering, “Gil Yall, why don’t we see if we can help get those mines loaded and launched.”

The Cardassian engineer hesitated, her fingers still hovering over her console. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, with a curt nod, she rose and fell into step beside him.

The doors hissed open, and together, they stepped into the corridor.

They walked in silence for a few meters, the Defiant’s low thrum pulsing beneath their feet.

Finally, Sera spoke.

“That happened, didn’t it,” she said, her voice tight.

Nog nodded. “It has happened before, and it will happen again… not to me, until now.”

Sera’s expression darkened. “The Prophets are just… myths. Superstitions.” She muttered the words as if trying to convince herself.

Nog smirked slightly. “You sound like you’re trying really hard to believe what we all saw.”

Sera let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “You don’t understand, Nog. Cardassians don’t… see things like this. We believe in order. In logic. In power. Not… whatever that was.”

Nog glanced at her. “And yet, it happened.”

Sera’s fists clenched. “We don’t even know what happened!” she snapped, more frustrated at herself than at him.

Nog stopped walking, turning to face her.

“Benjamin Sisko happened,” he said, his tone firm but not terse.

Sera stared at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. She found none.

“And you just… accept that?”

Nog shrugged. “I was there when he left. And I was honored to be here when he came back. That’s enough for me.”

Sera’s jaw tightened. “For you, maybe.”

Nog held her gaze for a long moment, then continued walking. After a moment, she fell into step beside him once more.

Engineering’s air smelled of coolant and overheated metal, the low thrum of machinery underscoring the urgency.

It felt very familiar to Nog.

Working alongside the engineering crew reminded Nog of days past, working closely with Chief O’Brian, cobbling together impossible solutions for improbable situations.

Halfway through the supply of mines, a young Bolian ensign called out, “This one’s almost ready,” straining as he adjusted the mine’s stabilizer. Then, after pulling a sharp breath through his respirator, he added with a wheeze, “Uh… is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“It’s the torpedo tubes,” Sera growled, glaring at the thermal readout. “The firing sequence is running too hot.”

“We’re pushing them out too fast. The launch cycle’s overheating both tubes,” Sera added, her voice tight.

Nog stepped in beside her, scowling at the numbers on her display. He moved instinctively, his fingers dancing across the secondary console. Data streamed in cascading waves.

“Think we can vent the launch tubes in sequence,” he said. “While one cools, the other fires.”

Sera blinked. “It’s a paired system. If we alternate launches without cooling the opposite tube, we’ll overstress the containment fields—and probably burn out the internal dampeners.”

Nog didn’t hesitate. “Not on this ship.”

He said it with such absolute confidence that Sera’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Something sparked beneath her skin—something she hadn’t expected, didn’t understand and didn’t want to examine too closely.

She forced herself to speak, deflecting. “And how do you propose we cool the launch tubes while they’re not firing?”

“We reroute environmental flow through the torpedo bays,” Nog replied, still working the controls. “Cool them using the Defiant’s life support system.”

“You want to freeze this section of Engineering?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Nog looked at her and grinned. “Only a little.”

She made a small, involuntary sound in her throat—then grumbled and shoved him aside. “Fine,” she muttered, far more focused on getting back to the console than the strange flutter rising in her chest. “Rerouting environmental coolant flow now.”

A whoosh of chilled air rushed through the compartment. The temperature dropped. The heat warnings vanished from the display.

Sera fixed her eyes on the numbers. Not on Nog. Especially not on Nog.

“System stabilized,” she confirmed.

Nog gave a satisfied nod. “Resume deployment!”

With ten minutes to spare, Sera followed Nog onto the bridge, the hum of the ship’s systems steady beneath their feet.

Sera continuing a conversation started during their return from Engineering, “…no idea what it’s like to live in the Cardassian Protectorate. We were once the most feared power in the quadrant. Now, we have to ask permission before we repair our defense satellites.”

“You should ask my Uncle about Hum’mon root beer sometime.” Nog snickered.

Smirking at Sera’s confused expression, Rin’s voice carried across the bridge.

“That’s the last one.”

Nog nodded, satisfied. “Back us off to a safe distance,” he ordered. “And keep the minefield on the main viewer; I don’t want to miss this…”

The Defiant slowed to a stop, the anomaly looming in the distance.

As it reached the far end of the minefield, the first detonation blossomed—a flash of light folding in on itself before vanishing. Then another. And another.

Each graviton burst bent space, subtle ripple effects distorting the anomaly’s path.

By the time the fifth mine exploded, confirmation was clear—

The warping bubble of space was turning, its trajectory shifting away from the wormhole’s entrance.

A breath of relief filled the bridge.

Rin’s voice cut through the silence. “The anomaly is changing course! Away from the Celestial Temple.”

Nog exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting toward the spot where Sisko had stood, the space between Rin and the main viewer now empty.

“Thanks for the assist,” he murmured.

Then, quieter—just for himself—

“It was good working with you again, Captain.”

 

[treschaschott]

Legacy
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 80248.63

USS Enterprise, NCC-1701-G

Captain Seven of Nine Recording

The state of the Federation remains fragile. Following the catastrophic events of Frontier Day, much of Starfleet lies in recovery—physically, politically, and philosophically. The scars left by the Borg assimilation crisis have not yet faded, and the consequences of our own interconnectedness are still being tallied.

The newly christened Enterprise-G is no exception. She is a ship of legacy but not yet of legend. Though proudly bearing the name Enterprise, we are not fully crewed. Ensign Crusher would say we’re “just putting on a show”—and in some ways, he’s not wrong. Our patrol routes often feel like political theater rather than strategic necessity. We skirt the edges of Federation space, maintaining visibility in the darker corners of the galaxy—where the light of the Federation burns dimmest.

Morale across the fleet remains uneven. Many of our younger officers are untested; those with experience are too few—and too weary. The impact of recent events—the collapse of the Romulan Empire, the Synth uprising, the Protostar incident, and Frontier Day—lingers still. The Federation is looking inward, no longer seeking to explore strange new worlds, as was once Starfleet’s defining purpose.

Still, this ship was not designed to rest easy in port. Our mission is one of symbolic resilience: we move forward.

Commander Raffi Musiker and Ensign Jack Crusher have taken point on an investigation into contraband activity on Rigel Ten. Early reports suggest Dominion-era black-market technology is changing hands—into hands that do not share the Federation’s ideals.

End log.”

The scent of ionized ozone clung to every surface. Beneath the rusting skeleton of a scavenged Orion freighter and the stuttering glow of merchant stalls, the underbelly of Rigel Ten pulsed with illicit life. Somewhere between a fried meat stand and a vendor hawking brain-warping entertainment, Commander Raffi Musiker adjusted the collar of her coat. The fabric felt stiff from heat, dust, and tension.

She exhaled through her nose—controlled, practiced.

Beside her, Ensign Jack Crusher leaned into his role like he was born for it. His jacket, a worn-out Nyberrite Alliance officer’s ulster with one sleeve artfully torn, hung loosely across his frame. His belt was cluttered with half-functioning tools and meaningless trinkets meant to sell the illusion. His grin was charming.

His pulse was just a little too fast.

“If this goes sideways,” Raffi muttered, voice low, “you’re on your own.”

“That’s not how partnerships work,” Jack grumbled.

“I was joking,” Raffi exhaled. “A little… I’m still getting used to… not working alone.”

“You and me both,” Jack agreed.

Across the narrow walk-up table stood a Romulan woman, elegant in posture and precise in demeanor. To her right, a Reman loomed in silence—his cloak stiff with dust and lined with something that hummed faintly beneath the folds.

The Romulan ran her fingers over the oversized containment case before her. When the lid lifted, pale blue light washed over the metallic curve of a gravimetric mine—Dominion-era by its size and shape; a beachball-sized orb of gold, gleaming like a relic from a forgotten war, meant to be worshipped… or feared.

“Recovered from an abandoned moon after the fall of Cardassia,” the Romulan purred. “War-born. War-ready.”

She held up a green Romulan control tablet, her fingers brushing its surface with something between reverence and amusement.

“And remote-controlled.”

Raffi didn’t need a tricorder. The faint hum in the back of her sensor puck confirmed the signature even before she glanced down.

Jack casually arched an eyebrow toward the stern Romulan.

“Collectors must be thrilled.”

“Only those looking to implode a ship,” Raffi commented. “Or a fleet—with enough of those.”

The sensor in her hand issued a quiet whine. Beneath its shell, the mine pulsed with a reworked antimatter core, integrated cloaking hardware, and a modern remote sensor array. The mine wasn’t old war salvage.

The Romulan tilted her head. Her voice dropped half an octave.

“Interested?”

Raffi’s boots shifted half a pace back.

“Yeah. How many, and how fast?”

Another Reman appeared behind the Romulan, whispering something into her pointed ear.

Jack blinked, startled to find a third Reman emerging from the shadows like a phantom. All three held their disruptors aloft—firm, steady.

“Federation,” the Romulan woman hissed.

Jack sighed, then flashed a sly smirk.

“I used to be insulted by that kind of accusation.”

He lunged—fast. His hand snapped across the table, snatching the control tablet from the Romulan’s fingers.

Raffi’s phaser burst a microsecond later. A sharp flash—red-orange—blew the table apart, sending the golden mine spinning across the floor.

The Romulan dove for it.

The Remans dove for them.

Jack’s feet slammed into a tall barrel of synthetic fruit. The impact exploded in a burst of acid-sweet aroma that burned the air. He instantly rolled into a crouch, then rose into a full sprint.

Raffi used the chaos as cover, vaulting over a nearby impulse sled. She landed in a half-crouch behind the shell, weapon raised.

“This is going well,” Jack muttered, ducking beside her.

“Save the commentary,” Raffi snapped. “Move!”

They ran.

Graffiti pulsed along ancient metal walls—indecipherable script glowing violet and red like a malfunctioning display. The alleys narrowed, and the flickering light from their pursuers’ weapons cast jagged, shifting shadows in every direction. Overhead, a small surveillance drone flickered past, scanning for Federation signatures.

The alley forked.

Jack took the right path.

Wrong turn.

Ten meters ahead, the walkway ended in jagged stone and open air. The sea below crashed against the metallic reef created by a downed, barely recognizable shuttlecraft—green foam churned like acid, reeking of sulfur and old wounds.

“Jump,” Raffi barked, catching up.

“You’re insane.”

“Not the first time.”

She pushed.

And then they flew—downward.

The transporter beam caught them mid-drop just before gravity made its final argument.

Jack materialized—sprawled across the transporter pad. Raffi landed on top of him in a controlled, rolling crouch.

Beside them, the Romulan control tablet clattered to the deck, trailing a strand of smoke and the faint scent of scorched circuitry.

Jack groaned, one arm flopping sideways.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“What?” Raffi replied with a crooked smile.

“Pushing me over a cliff.”

“I’m just trying to motivate you… push you to your limits as a Starfleet officer.”

She rose smoothly, adjusting her coat as though nothing had happened.

Captain Seven of Nine stood near the transporter controls, posture flawless, hands folded behind her back. Her expression was unreadable—calm, calculating. Not surprised.

“Commander. Ensign.”

She stepped forward.

“Is there a reason you were engaged in… a rapid vertical descent?”

Jack blinked once.

“A leap of faith?” he offered, half-smirking.

“Discretional retrieval,” Raffi added, brushing dust from her sleeve.

Seven tilted her head just slightly.

“Did your discretion include alerting three Reman operatives, a Romulan arms dealer, and the Rigel Commerce Authority?”

“They were selling Dominion-era gravimetric mines,” Raffi answered. “Retrofitted. Modernized.”

“And,” Jack added, lifting the scorched tablet, “remote-controlled.”

Seven’s jaw tightened—but her voice remained level.

“Confirmation?”

“Right here,” Raffi said, holding up her sensor puck.

Before Seven could respond, her com badge chirped.

“Captain, eyes-only incoming transmission for you,” Ensign Kova Esmar’s voice said. “Omega Classification. Legacy Command Channel. Routing to the transporter room.”

Seven turned to the wall console, fingers sweeping across the controls. The screen shifted to blue, then black.

MULTI-LAYER QUANTUM ENTANGLEMENT SEAL – QES-9

EYES ONLY – LEGACY COMMAND CHANNEL

OMEGA CLASSIFICATION – AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED

After confirming her identity, she read the message.

The words triggered some distant but not forgotten memories.

To confirm her doubts, she read it again.

The screen dimmed after she cleared the display.

Seven tapped her com badge.

“Lieutenant La Forge. Set course for Sector 001. Maximum warp.”

She then turned to look at Raffi and Jack, directing,

“Ensign Esmar, notify senior staff that I expect them to attend a mission briefing in one hour.”

After Seven commanded the Doctor to meet her in her ready room, she departed the transporter room.

Jack frowned as he brushed the dust from his Nyberrite Alliance ulster.

“Earth? We’ve only been showing the colors and patrolling the dark alleys of the Federation for a month. What’s so important that we have to go back already?”

Raffi extended a hand, pulling him upright.

“Omega classifications are never good. And the Legacy Channel? That’s old school. Like… founding-of-the-Federation old.”

Jack grimaced.

“What’s been around for a hundred years that could still be a threat?”

“Pick your poison,” Raffi replied. “The Sheliak. The Kzinti. Some alternate-universe nightmare.”

She gave him a quick grin.

“Or all of the above.”

Jack sighed, lifting the damaged tablet.

“I’ll ask Alandra to pull this apart. Maybe it knows more than we do.”

An hour later, the crew of the Enterprise-G gathered around the conference table in the ship’s modest, utilitarian briefing room. The atmosphere crackled with tension as they awaited the arrival of the final senior officer.

Captain Seven of Nine stood at the head of the table, her sharp, focused gaze sweeping across her senior staff. Her First Officer—and acting Chief of Security—Commander Raffi Musiker, paced near a curved wall of decorative models of previous Enterprises, her stride tight and controlled, a pacing rhythm born more from reflex than restlessness.

To Seven’s left, Lieutenant Sidney La Forge, Chief Operations Officer, sat quietly, her attention locked on a holographic duplicate of the bridge’s OPS console, displaying real-time data on shipwide systems, course, and status. Beside her, her sister, Lieutenant Commander Alandra La Forge, monitored a corresponding engineering interface, tracking the warp engines, power grids, and environmental controls.

The only sound in the room was the ambient hum of the ship’s systems—and the soft squish of Raffi’s boots against the carpet as she turned again.

Then: hiss—thunk. The doors parted and shut behind Ensign Jack Crusher.

“Sorry,” he said with an easy smile, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Took longer to change into my uniform than I anticipated.”

“I took a long shower, too,” Raffi muttered, “and I can still smell that barbecued muskrat—or whatever it was in my hair.”

Jack chuckled. “I got splattered by that synthetic fruit juice. If the stain on my leg ends up in the shape of a heart, it could be a challenge to explain.”

“Or make your efforts easier,” Alandra suggested, “If you try that broken heart routine on your next victim the same way you did with the counselor Starfleet tried to assign to the Enterprise.”

“I was the victim,” Jack pointed at Alandra, then smirked, charmingly winking at her as he nodded, “I hadn’t thought of that angle.”

“Enough. It is time,” Seven said, steady as ever.

“Initiate secure holographic interface,” she directed to no one.

As she spoke, the overhead lights dimmed to a strategic red, the LCARS panels around the table shifting to soft blue and gold. The doors’ magnetic seals hummed. The air itself changed—ionized, crisp with a static charge. A subtle cue: nothing leaves this room without authorization.

At the center of the table, a glowing holographic red-texted seal blinked to life:



RED DIRECTIVE:

ENTERPRISE INITIATIVE

UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS

STARFLEET COMMAND

SPECIAL OPERATIONS DIVISION

OMEGA CLEARANCE – EYES ONLY

ACCESS LEVEL: TIER ONE

LEGACY COMMAND CHANNEL

ENCRYPTION:

MULTI-LAYER QES-9



Raffi read the warnings, then took her seat, her arms folded and her jaw set.

Externally, she remained composed. Internally, Seven was replaying the conversation she shared with the Doctor in her ready room regarding a similar classified briefing once delivered by a hologram of Lieutenant Commander Reginald Barclay. A hologram that had breached security protocols to give Voyager a chance to shave two thousand light-years off its journey home.

The silence broke again.

One by one, six figures flickered to life in ghostly blue light, resolving into a solid presence.

At the center stood Retired Admiral Jean-Luc Picard in dignified civilian attire. His gaze was distant, thoughtful, and ever-calculating.

To his left: Commodore Geordi La Forge, in gold-shouldered duty uniform, his insignia crisp at his collar. On Picard’s other side: Admiral Beverly Crusher, composed and maternal, eyes flicking first to Jack, then to Seven.

Commodore William T. Riker, recently promoted, stood behind Picard with arms clasped. At his side, Ambassador Deanna Troi, her posture both calm and watchful.

Behind La Forge, Data placed a hand gently on his friend’s shoulder, leaning forward with the expression of someone who’d waited years to share something important.

Seven broke the silence first. “I wasn’t expecting you to lead this briefing, Admiral.”

Picard smiled. “I’m not. I’m here… for sentimental reasons.”

Beverly nodded. “And to check up on Jack. How are you, sweetheart?”

Jack smiled—then grimaced. “Do you remember the Arkarian Toads?”

Beverly laughed softly. “The ones with the hallucinogenic mucus?”

“Raffi and I kind of smell like them, thanks to a Romulan and three Remans,” Jack said. “Long story.”

“Later,” Picard said, his hand gently resting on Beverly’s. “He can give us the details later.”

Riker stepped forward. “Captain Seven, you and your crew will be reporting to me for the duration of this mission. However—” he paused, nodding to the others, “—you’ll need to give yourself a great deal of latitude. And trust your mission specialist’s ingenuity.”

“Mission Specialist?” Sydney echoed. “Are we picking someone up? Do I need to plan for a rendezvous?”

“Yes… and no,” Data replied, almost giggling.

A new projection shimmered above the table—a glowing, fluid filament, twisting and rippling through space. Stars bent and refracted behind it.

“This is a Superspace Fold,” Geordi explained. “Once thought impossible. The information in the briefing material currently being transmitted to you on sub-channel proves it’s real.”

“Ambassador Spock,” Data added, “created the original formula predicting its reappearance. For over a century, it worked… inexplicably well.”

“Then,” Riker said grimly, “after Enterprise-D’s encounter thirty years ago, Spock’s formula stopped working.”

“Until the loss of the Enterprise-E,” Geordi added. “Since then, it’s become predictable again.”

Riker turned, eyebrow raised. “Speaking of which—where’s Worf?”

Deanna smiled. “He said he’d join.”

A voice rumbled: “That was not my fault.” A hologram of Captain Worf materialized, arms folded.

“Admiral,” he nodded.

“Let me guess,” Riker said. “Back on Boreth? Napping with a bat’leth?”

“Battle is relaxation,” Worf growled. “No. I departed Deep Space Nine later than I anticipated after attending the change of command for the U.S.S. Chimera.”

“Ah.” Riker nodded. “Captain Nog. First Ferengi to command a Starfleet vessel. Your letter of recommendation helped get that approved.”

Worf nodded. “Nog has proven himself a worthy warrior.”

“And my other recommendation?” Worf growled.

“Approved last week,” Riker confirmed.

Picard spoke up. “Can we proceed? I have a wine tasting to attend.”

“And I have a staff meeting,” Beverly smiled.

Geordi nodded, then resumed where he left off. “Based on the math, the Fold will emerge about 600 light-days from the heliopause of Earth’s system—within 36 hours.”

“Hence our highspeed race to Sector 001,” Jack said, nodding.

“We’ll be there with plenty of time to spare,” Sidney affirmed.

“The Warp engines are purring like kittens,” Alandra proudly commented. “Well… more like sleeping tigers.”

Raffi asked, “Why us? There must be closer ships.”

“Tradition,” Picard said, smiling.

Deanna added, “It’s always been an Enterprise. Kirk. Harriman, Picard, Worf. Now you.”

“Almost always,” Data corrected.

Picard turned to Seven. “It’s your turn. Your turn to try. Your turn to assume this legacy… and maybe save what we left behind.”

“Who we left behind,” Worf mumbled.

Seven studied the Fold. “What makes this attempt different?”

Geordi answered. “This was originally Enterprise-F’s mission. It had adaptive warp modifications. Barclay’s idea. The Enterprise-F was to be assigned this mission after the Frontier Day celebration.”

Riker added, “Since the Enterprise-F was lost, this mission now falls in your capable hands.”

Geordi looked to Sidney. “The briefing materials include some modifications you’ll want to consider. A few tweaks that should allow the Enterprise-G the smoothest and most stable transition of any of our previous attempts.”

“I’ve started looking at what’s been decrypted so far,” Sidney replied. “It’s all pretty straightforward… and the inertial dampers and structural integrity fields won’t have a problem with the predicted stresses. And aligning this overlapping area on top of Holodeck two should be simple enough.”

Raffi leaned forward. “What happens if we fail?”

Silence.

Then Beverly quietly said: “You’ll be in good company.”

Picard looked at Seven. “Every mission before this one failed in one way or another. It’s your turn to try to reach her. Maybe even save her.”

Deanna added softly, “And please… make sure she knows she’s not forgotten. That we—and thousands of others—truly appreciate her sacrifice.”

“She is a most honorable warrior,” Worf growled. “Worthy of Sto’vo’kor.”

Seven nodded. “We’ll do our best. And I’ll make sure to pass on your respects.”

Beverly smiled. “Take care of yourself, Jack.”

Picard added, pointing at him, “And call your mother more often.”

The holograms faded—La Forge, Data, Riker, Deanna.

Worf’s image did not fade or vanish.

“What did you find?” his Warrior’s voice demanded.

“Gravimetric mines,” Raffi replied. “Upgraded, modernized Dominion War-era relics that have been restored and are ready for immediate deployment.”

“Remote-controlled mines,” Jack interjected. “Plus a Romulan and three Remans.”

“A female Romulan?” Worf sought to confirm. “Did she have a scar on her left arm, from her shoulder to her elbow?”

“She was wearing sleeves,” Raffi replied. “Couldn’t tell.”

“If she did,” Worf nodded a grin, “then she will remember me. I gave her that scar as a parting gift the last time our paths crossed.”

“You’re on your way to Rigel Ten?” Seven inquired.

“I arrive shortly,” Worf snarled, slowly and lowly growling. “If what I suspect is true, then I expect we shall speak again soon.”

Worf barked, “Qapla’!” before his image dissolved.

Jack exhaled. “Somebody’s getting a talking to.”

Then, with a raised brow toward Seven, “So… who exactly is this ‘she’ everyone’s dancing around?”

Raffi frowned. “I was about to ask the same thing.”

Seven stared at the undulating Superspace Fold projected above the table. “A ghost in the machine,” she said softly.

Then, without missing a beat, she turned a dry smirk toward Jack. “And too old for you.”

Raffi crossed her arms. “You know what this is all about?”

Seven nodded. “We’re on a rescue mission. That’s all the crew needs to know.”

She gestured to the LCARS panels. “Details are in the mission briefing. You’ll need to review it here—Omega protocol automatically isolates this room and the mission data from the ship’s systems.”

Jack looked concerned. “Why the secrecy?”

Raffi smiled. “I assume the answer to that question is also in the briefing materials.”

Seven nodded, then softly directed, “Alandra, when you begin our approach, do not cross its wake. Stay in front of the Fold at all times.”

“Understood, Captain,” Alandra replied, fingers already dancing over her interface.

 

[treschaschott]

A few hours later, the rendezvous with the Superspace Fold went off like clockwork. As did the now-familiar “backing-in” maneuver, which transpired with barely more than a gentle shift beneath their feet. As predicted, it was the smoothest overlap integration of all planned attempts, and the overlap aligned with Holodeck 2 perfectly.

The EMH was waiting when Seven and Raffi arrived outside the doorway.

He confirmed that the last hologram left running—pulled from the Enterprise-E’s encrypted backups—was running before the overlap formed.

Inside, the light was orange and gray—not from overhead, but from the horizon. The sun had already dipped below the waterline, painting the sky in an earthy palette of burnt orange, dusty pink, lavender, and steel-gray.

Sunlight from beyond the horizon danced beneath the ocean’s surface in long, shimmering ripples of copper and bronze. The breeze carried warmth, salt, and the faint aroma of Katsu chicken—someone had clearly fine-tuned the sensory parameters.

Captain Seven of Nine, Commander Raffi Musiker, and the Doctor found Trescha Schott reclining in a low-woven lounge chair. One leg stretched out, the other bent slightly at the knee. One of her bare feet sank just enough into the sand to feel anchored. Her navy blue cotton shirt—slightly oversized—fluttered gently as the ocean breeze caressed the beach.

A pair of dark sunglasses rested low on the bridge of her nose, shielding her eyes, though not quite hiding the subtle way they occasionally tracked the horizon—as if waiting for something only time could deliver.

Her hair no longer matched the short bob seen in the mission briefing materials. During her seven and a half years alone aboard the Enterprise-E, she had let it grow long. The long double-braided bundle of hair lay over one shoulder, nearly reaching her stomach.

In her lap lay Isis, a sleek black cat curled like a crescent of midnight. The observant cat wore an ornate gold collar with an attached glowing pendant, and her fur shimmered faintly in the fading light. Her sharp ears were alert despite her half-lidded gaze of total feline contentment. Her tail flicked once. Then again. She didn’t move.

The ambient sounds of the beach were soft but deeply convincing—distant gulls, rolling waves, and the faint crackle of a simulated fire pit cooling behind them. It was peaceful. Still, and for a rare moment, Seven allowed herself to be entirely in someone else’s space—processing, then embracing an unfamiliar form of detached relaxation.

Isis looked up as the trio crossed the sand.

Meow.

“Shoes off,” Trescha ordered without turning to face them. “The sand here is judgmental… and it puts us on common ground.”

There was a smirk, then a pause.

Followed by the quiet scuff of boots giving way to compliance.

After observing and absorbing the feeling of sand squeezing between her toes, Captain Seven of Nine stepped forward, posture impeccable—shoulders squared, gaze steady. Her standard duty uniform seemed slightly softer in the post-sunset glow. The EMH followed behind her, expression faintly analytical, scanning the environment as though cataloging its authenticity for later study.

“This is… a remarkably detailed program,” the Doctor remarked. “Atmospheric simulation is accurate to within .003 kelvin. Impressive.”

“Thank you,” Trescha said, exhaling gently. “I tweaked the original over the years—based on the best parts of my favorite visits to the islands… and what felt… comfortable.”

She ran a slow hand down Isis’s back. The cat didn’t stir—just purred louder. The vibration seeped into Trescha’s palm like a shared heartbeat.

“Computer,” Trescha called softly, “sunset event minus one hour, and hold.”

The sky responded immediately, brightening as the sun rose backward to a position above the horizon. Lighter, brighter pastel tones spilled across the sand. Shadows shortened. The mood shifted.

“What letter am I up to now?” she asked, gently lowering Isis to the sand.

Seven stepped beside her, looking down, not at Trescha, as the sand embraced her bare feet, warm and fine.

“Welcome aboard the Enterprise,” she said evenly. “NCC-1701-G.”

“Hmm,” Trescha smirked, twisting to rest both feet in the sand near Seven’s. Looking up at her host as she chortled. “Seems I skipped one.”

A soft gold shimmer appeared on her forearm as she brushed her fingertips along a previously invisible armband. With a quick swipe, a small transparent display flickered into the air.

“Fifteen years—your time,” she noted. “Fifteen and a quarter, to be precise… and zero seconds for me. That should bring me up to something close to three hundred and seventy years late with my rent.”

She stood, nodded politely at Seven, and studied her uniform. It was familiar—yet not. The four silver pips matched Worf’s. Trescha raised a hand in a playful salute.

“Request permission to come aboard, Captain.”

“Permission granted,” Seven replied with the faintest smirk.

“Would you prefer to be addressed as Commander or Doctor Schott?” Seven asked.

“He’s the doctor,” Trescha said, gesturing toward the EMH. “I can tell by the sour expression and the tricorder he’s been quietly scanning me with.”

She turned back to Seven. “Sorry, did you say Doctor or Commander?”

“Star Fleet Academy has accredited you with eight doctorates,” Raffi offered from behind Seven, her lips smiling as she watched her toes wiggling in the sand. “And, last week, Starfleet formalized your commission and promoted you to full Commander.”

Trescha arched one brow above her sunglasses. “Eight?”

She removed the glasses and looked at each of them in turn. “Last time I counted, I only had six.”

The Doctor, tucking away his tricorder, stated matter-of-factly, “Your analysis of pre-industrial Earth sociopolitical development was deemed worthy of publication. And, after an in-depth review, the Federation Archives Directorate retroactively bestowed you full doctoral honors for your enlightening—and unfiltered—perspective on Earth’s Pre-World War III history. A history you lived.”

“My notes were angry rants about the crap I found in the archives,” Trescha said. “Not exactly peer-review-worthy material.”

The sky deepened again—orange to purple to near-indigo—as the simulation caught up with the emotional tone of the conversation. The sun dipped behind a bank of clouds, giving the illusion that time had slowed and the mood had darkened.

“And the other honorary degree?” Trescha directed toward the Doctor.

“A PhD in nanotech,” Raffi confirmed. “And it’s not honorary; it was earned. Your hypotheses were described as ‘pioneering.’ Several breakthroughs in nanotech came directly from the prototypes stored in the Enterprise-E’s replication logs.”

Trescha nodded. “I won’t argue that one.”

She raised her arm again, activating her invisible gold armband before invoking a subtle holographic display. “This came from seven years of tinkering, experimentation, strained eyes, and frustratingly slow replicators.”

She gestured toward the black cat swirling around her feet and legs. “She’s my greatest success. Isis’s collar is a micro-holo-emitter. Nanotech-based, custom-built… fully independent. I tinkered with making a full-sized friend, but scale, practicality, and power consumption limited me to a functional recreation of my cat. Pretty good, if I say so myself. It’s amazing what one can accomplish without a clock to frame your life. And, having access to a starship full of unlimited resources like the Enterprise-E…”

“Worf,” Trescha said suddenly, turning to Seven. “Did they make it?”

“All eight hundred crew members and forty-eight of the synths,” Raffi answered, her tone warm.

“Your efforts to save the entire crew of the Enterprise-E were most impressive,” The Doctor complimented rather formally.

“In fact,” Seven said, “it was Captain Worf, Commodore Riker, Admiral Picard, and Admiral Janeway who pushed for your formal commission based on your previous activities.”

“I never asked for that,” Trescha said quietly. “Never expected it. I just… I didn’t want them stuck. Trapped in time.”

“And you succeeded,” the Doctor confirmed.

Seven entered Trescha’s personal space, slowly resting her hand on her shoulder, her voice soft but precise. “I’ve been asked to pass on a message.”

Trescha’s hand raised, accepting Seven’s on her shoulder, listening.

“The crews of the Enterprise-D and E asked me to convey their deepest thanks,” Seven said. “And their heartfelt appreciation for the sacrifices you made—so they could live full lives.”

“It’s important to them that you know,” Raffi added. “You have not been—and will not be—forgotten.”

Trescha turned away. She then moved away from Seven before kneeling to gently scoop Isis into her arms, cradling the purring cat as if seeking both the comfort and counsel of her companion.

“Thank you,” she said toward the horizon, voice catching. “But… somehow, it never felt real.”

Turning back, “And now, you’re standing here, after the sun should have set, after the Fold took me away, telling me they’re alive…”

She shook her head, holding Isis a little tighter. “It’s a bit too much to take in.”

“You’ve earned the right to be acknowledged,” Seven said gently. “Commander.”

“Trescha,” she requested, shaking her head in denial. “Please. I don’t see myself as a Doctor, and let’s not do the rank thing. I don’t play well when other people’s rules try to… define boundaries.”

“You’re in good company,” Raffi grinned.

Trescha exhaled a single amused puff. “You know who I am, and, as you just proved, you know more about me than I do myself. I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask who you are.”

“I am Seven of Nine,” she said. “Captain of the Enterprise. This is my first officer, Commander Raffi Musiker. And he is the ship’s holographic Doctor.”

“You’re all formal and uniformed,” Trescha noted. “And here I am—barefoot on a beach, hiding behind a cat.”

“Statistically speaking,” the EMH observed, “this is an above-average coping mechanism.”

Seven looked to the horizon. The wind caught her hair, lifting a few strands across her cheek. She didn’t move to brush them away.

“The Doctor is correct,” Seven stated. “This is an excellent environment to… lose one’s self.”

“I thought so,” Trescha whispered, watching the simulated sun hover low. “I really thought that sunset… this beach… would be the last thing I’d ever see.”

Seven turned to her. “I read your logs. Your learning speed, your retention, your ability to synthesize complex abstract systems—surpasses anything I’ve encountered. Human or Lanthanite.”

“Survival’s a good motivator,” Trescha said softly. “Still is. So is boredom.”

Seven’s tone became more direct. “I respect what you’ve done. Not just the knowledge you’ve gathered—but the way you’ve used it. With purpose. In service of others. At risk to yourself.”

Trescha looked down at Isis, her fingers brushing gently over the cat’s fur.

“It’s new to me, too,” she said. “Didn’t think I had it in me.”

Seven of Nine turned slightly, facing Trescha fully now. The warm breeze still played at the edges of her uniform, and the sounds of the simulated ocean faded into the background like a dream slipping into memory.

“There’s one more thing,” she said.

Trescha looked up from Isis, who rested her face between Trescha’s bosoms. Her expression was calm, curious—but alert beneath the surface.

“Following the… assertive recommendation of Captain Worf,” Seven continued, “I formally assigned you to the Enterprise-G as a mission specialist—before coming down to meet you in person. You’ll report directly to me… through Raffi.”

Trescha tilted her head, one brow lifting behind her sunglasses. “Back on the payroll, huh?”

“It’s not about pay,” Seven replied.

“I know. Just feels… weird.”

“And more helpful than you might realize.”

Seven’s voice was steady, her posture unchanged. “Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”

Trescha considered the question for a moment. When she answered, it wasn’t flippant—there was precision in the way she spoke.

“Yes, actually. If you don’t mind… I have a fabrication program I’d like to run through your industrial replicator… and I’d like to borrow a programable dermal regenerator, or better yet, an organic replicator if such a thing exists; if not, then a medical replicator with the highest resolution possible.”

She raised her arm and tapped the now-visible gold armband, which bloomed into a rotating three-dimensional projection. The schematic was complex—dense layers of transparent matrices and shifting latticework.

Seven’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued.

“The one on the Enterprise-E didn’t have the precision I needed—subatomic finesse… Planck-length resolution. Quantum foam-level manipulation and hopefully complex organics,” Trescha explained, her tone casual but the weight of her meaning unmistakable. “I’m hoping, fifteen years later, your systems can do it—or at least come close.”

Seven turned toward Raffi.

“Whatever she needs,” Seven directed. “Full access.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Raffi replied.

Trescha looked between them, then added with a slight smirk, “You don’t want to know what I want to make?”

Seven met her eyes without hesitation. “No,” she said. “I trust you. A trust you’ve more than earned.”

The words landed softly—gently—but with unmistakable weight. Trescha didn’t smile, not fully. But the lines around her eyes eased, and the set of her shoulders relaxed by a degree or two.

Seven took a breath, allowing herself one final moment to commit Trescha’s calm, unguarded presence to memory—before duty returned like the tide.

Unexpectedly, Ensign Esmar’s voice pierced the serenity of the holographic beach.

“Captain, Priority One holographic transmission from Captain Worf.”

“Route it here,” Seven commanded, “And have Ensign Crusher report to Holodeck Two.”

The breeze off the simulated ocean didn’t change, nor did the sun hovering above the ocean’s edge, but something shifted. The illusion remained, but tension crept in like the incoming tide.

Trescha didn’t flinch as a familiar voice echoed low and clear through the salt-laced air.

“Commander Schott.”

She twisted around, Isis still nestled securely in her arms. Standing near the simulated fire pit was Captain Worf, his arms folded, spine straight as a pike.

He was a striking presence—draped in layered robes of charcoal-gray and obsidian black, the cloth textured like aged leather, and reinforced battle-worn armor. His outer garment resembled a long tabard crossed with ceremonial Klingon robes. A wide belt with a silver Klingon emblem clasp anchored the ensemble. His white hair was drawn into a tight braid, hanging down over one shoulder—a mirror to Trescha’s own.

“You know,” Trescha said, stroking Isis’s head, “It’s very rude to barge in on a woman’s beach uninvited.”

“It was not my choice,” Worf replied without missing a beat.

Trescha smirked. “Well then, welcome to what was meant to be my final resting place.”

“Your final resting place is in the honored halls of Sto-vo-kor,” he intoned. “You are a warrior. You stood alone at the edge of oblivion for over seven years—without recognition, without glory.”

“I didn’t do it for either of those things,” she said softly. “I just didn’t want you or your crew to die.”

“Which makes your actions more honorable.”

She glanced down at Isis, her gaze lingering on the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of the cat’s sides. The purring was steady, familiar—something real to hold onto while her mind wrestled with the unexpected weight of Worf’s praise.

But her ingrained mental walls held firm, refusing to let a dignified response surface.

Instead, she looked up, a glint of mischief breaking through the emotion rising in her chest.

“I hope that was an invitation to Klingon Heaven… and not a challenge to send me there.”

Worf let out a thunderous laugh—rich, booming, and utterly unrestrained. It rumbled across the beach like distant thunder, shaking the peace without disturbing it.

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that,” Raffi admitted with a soft smile.

Worf’s expression softened just slightly as he addressed Trescha. “As a Starfleet officer, I have come to value those who embrace sacrifice. You gave without expecting.”

She didn’t move but continued to stroke Isis’s fur—slow, steady, quiet. She wanted to say more, to close the distance between them. But she knew she couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.

He wasn’t really on her illusionary beach. And she didn’t know how long her ticket on the Enterprise-G was good for.

Still, the ache surprised her.

“You didn’t call to flatter me,” she said at last, her voice calm but weighted—less deflection, more truth.

“No,” Worf said, the gravity returning to his voice. “I have learned something troubling.”

Seven stepped forward. “We’re listening.”

Worf inclined his head in formal acknowledgment before continuing.

“Captain Nog shared something with me. It occurred during his first command aboard the Defiant. He told me how he and his crew encountered an anomaly. I knew by the description what it was…and after your report and my conversation with a source… I understand now what he meant when he told me that Captain Sisko’s presence appeared to him, guiding the crew to deploy sixty gravimetric mines in a precise formation. A timed sequence so exact, it deflected the Fold’s trajectory—just enough to steer it away from the Bajoran Wormhole.”

“Didn’t Captain Sisko die… or disappear?” Raffi asked, brow furrowing. “And what did Nog mean by ‘his presence’? Sisko’s?”

“If you trust me,” Worf said, his voice unshaken, “then trust that what Captain Nog saw—what he experienced—was real.”

Raffi hesitated, then gave a small nod.

“Okay… I believe you.”

“Whatever happened,” Trescha interjected, “it must’ve worked. Otherwise, everything would’ve turned inside out. Or, at the very least, that wormhole would’ve.”

“I believe someone now seeks to replicate—or exploit—that strategy,” Worf said. “Using gravimetric mines to change the fold’s trajectory. To direct at it something specific.”

“The Transwarp Conduit,” Seven said, her voice calm but cold. Purposeful.

“You think someone intends to redirect the Fold into it to make it the problem of whoever is on the other side?” Raffi questioned.

“Or destroy it,” Jack added, stepping forward. “The Romulan tablet we recovered… it lists coordinates and activation codes. But they’re short—twenty mines shy of what they’d need to stay inside the predicted margin of error.”

“Unless,” Trescha said quietly, her voice low and even, “their backup plan is to destabilize the matrix near the edge. Miss the bullseye but still hit the target.”

She looked toward the distant horizon. “That’s enough to rupture subspace for light-years. Mars, Titan, Earth… gone. And warp drive?” She glanced back at them. “Might not even function inside the dead zone that would create.”

Trescha’s warning settled over the Holodeck like a second sunset—low, heavy, and edged in darkness.

Those present fell into a weighted silence, each pondering the far-reaching consequences. The breeze continued to stir the air with sea salt and warmth, but no one felt its comfort anymore.

Then Raffi spoke, her voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel.

“We know who the seller is. Maybe we can get them to tell us who the buyer is.”

“The seller is out of business,” Worf declared with a low growl of satisfaction. “Permanently. How do you think I know what I know.”

“Then,” Jack offered, eyes narrowing in thought, “we offer them a new supply.”

Raffi’s head snapped toward him. “What—by offering something we don’t have? Or worse… the real thing?”

 

[treschaschott]

Worf stepped forward, arms folding with solemn precision.

“I know someone who can help us bait them into the open,” Worf said, his tone grim and deliberate. “Someone who feeds on the edge of respectability.”

Seven arched a brow, recognition dawning.

“I think I know who you mean,” she replied, a trace of wry amusement curling into her voice. “Quark was a surprisingly reliable source of supplies when I was with the Fenris Rangers.”

Worf gave a slow, measured nod.

“He still owes me… many favors. And he continues to operate a network capable of sniffing out the worst intentions, anywhere.”

He stepped back, raising his voice one last time.

“Qapla’!”

And vanished.

“Captain,” Ensign Esmar’s voice filled the beach again as soon as Worf’s holographic transmission ended.

“The Intrepid is hailing us. They’re requesting permission to approach and beam our mission specialist aboard.”

“We already have one,” Jack snarked.

“Verify,” Seven commanded, “And invoke General Order 46A.”

“Transponder codes verified,” Sidney’s voice confirmed, joining the conversation, “Registry checks out. Their Warp signature matches the database. I also confirmed they are assigned to patrol this sector as well as do the transfers between Earth and the Stargazer task force.”

“Very well,” Seven replied. “Tell them we’re studying an unidentified anomaly. Advise them to keep their distance and approach from an obtuse trajectory relative to our bow—well clear of the wake.”

“Keep them where we can see them,” Jack smirked.

“Will do,” Ensign Esmar’s confident yet calming voice affirmed.

“I’m on my way to the bridge,” Seven confirmed before breaking the connection.

“Trescha, it has been a pleasure to meet you,” Seven stated formally, offering her hand, “I hope you’ll be willing to share your sanctuary with us a little longer after we resolve these… issues.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Trescha replied, “If there is anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

Seven nodded, then directed, “Jack, you’re with me, and Raffi… please make sure our guest has access to anything she wants.”

Raffi nodded, turning her best welcoming smile toward her guest.

Seven looked down at her feet, taking a moment to process the comforting feeling of the warm sand between her toes.

As she walked toward the archway beside Jack, carrying her boots, Seven’s enhanced hearing heard Trescha say, “I’d love another sweet tea,” before calling out, “Computer, close program.”

“And transfer us to my workshop, then run Joan of Arc simulation, version forty-seven. Also, tie into and check the status of the ship’s medical and industrial replicators.”

The sand on Seven’s feet evaporated as the beach scene dissolved behind them, and the Holodeck doors slid open. She stayed barefoot until they reached the turbo lift, using the quiet ascent to the bridge to slide her feet back into her boots with practiced ease.

A few minutes later, on the other side of the Enterprise’s bridge, Captain Elias Vaughn stood tall in the center of the Intrepid’s bridge, salt-and-pepper hair clipped neatly, his bearing straight.

“Captain Seven,” he greeted warmly. “Thank you for receiving us and for the warning about the wake of the anomaly you’re studying. We’re here to facilitate the transfer of your mission specialist to you. They are in our transporter room, ready to beam aboard whenever you’re ready to receive them.”

“Understood,” Seven replied evenly. “I will notify our transporter room.”

The screen winked out. The moment it did, Seven stepped down to stand behind Sidney.

“Verify the Intrepid’s internal bio-sign readings.”

Sidney was already ahead of her, and the information was already displayed. She confirmed, “The crew manifest perfectly matches what I’m seeing on the scanners, other than the addition of one human female, but there is something.. weird.”

“Weird, how?” Jack asked, stepping forward to observe over Sidney’s other shoulder.

“There’s something off about their last stopover with the Stargazer task force,” Sidney said, fingers flying across her console. “The delay was unusually long—several days instead of a few hours. Then, instead of heading to their patrol route, they were redirected to Luna and, from there, routed to rendezvous with us. It doesn’t track with standard ops.”

“A few extra days on a supply run isn’t unheard of,” Jack admitted. “But Luna? Then, chasing us across the sector? That smells off.”

“We’re close enough for a shuttle,” Seven said with a nod. “There’s no reason for a starship to go out of its way to pick someone up and bring them to us—not when we’re this close to the Sol system.”

“Unless someone wants to give a fake Mission Specialist extra credibility,” Jack muttered, “At least that’s what I would do.”

“That’s what’s happening,” Jack said, leveling his voice. “You know that, right? Our mission specialist is in Holodeck Two. This one… came out of nowhere. Unexpectedly.”

“Keep an eye on long-range sensors,” Seven instructed Sidney. “Once the Intrepid departs, go to yellow alert. Have Esmar challenge every vessel that comes near. Inform them we’re monitoring a volatile anomaly and advise full avoidance.”

She paused, glancing at Sidney. “And keep everything Ensign Crusher just said to yourself.”

“Yellow alert?” Sidney asked, frowning.

“I suspect whoever our guest is… may be expecting a ride back to wherever they came from,” Seven replied.

Jack exhaled slowly. “Whoever’s coming over isn’t here for tea.”

Seven nodded. “But they might be expecting cake.”

“So we play along?” Jack asked.

“For now,” Seven confirmed—her tone cold, steady, precise. “This might be our only chance to find out who’s behind the plan to target the transwarp conduit.”

“Should we warn the Stargazer?” Esmar asked carefully.

Seven considered that, her gaze distant for a beat.

“No,” she said at last. “We don’t know who’s involved.”

Without another word, Seven turned and headed for her ready room to report to Commodore Riker—pausing only to nod toward Jack.

“Welcome our guest aboard. Have the doctor run a deep scan to verify their identity and then… keep them there until after I speak with the Commodore. I’ll join you when I can.”

Jack arrived at the transporter room moments before the EMH materialized.

“Whenever you’re ready, friend,” Jack directed at the transporter chief.

The air shimmered with latent static as the transporter pad powered up. The familiar purring warble of an incoming transport echoed within the room’s confines. Jack stood at casual ease near the console, arms folded loosely. The ship’s Emergency Medical Hologram stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, expression impassive—but his eyes flicked rapidly through diagnostic overlays only he could see.

“The Captain wants you to run a deep scan on our guest,” Jack whispered.

The Doctor harrumphed as the beam began to solidify. “I was going to anyway. We are operating under Omega protocols, after all.”

The blue-white column of energy coalesced into a woman.

When the shimmer faded, Commander Trescha Schott stood before them—at least, she appeared to.

Short brown hair in a precise bob. A navy-blue pantsuit, tailored and sharp—identical to what was recorded in earlier logs. Her bearing was calm. Confident. A touch amused.

Exactly as those logs had described her—logs that didn’t include the years she spent aboard the Enterprise-E, but that did include three pips pinned to her collar.

Jack raised one brow, his smile curious yet unreadable. “Commander Schott,” he greeted. “Welcome aboard the Enterprise.”

She glanced at him, expression pleasant but distant. “Ensign. I’ll require access to the latest Enterprise Initiative briefing materials. And I would prefer to review the material privately before the mission briefing.”

The EMH moved in, tricorder already unfolding with its familiar whir and chirp.

“Of course,” Jack said. “The Captain has arranged for you to review the materials in one of our secure facilities. I’ll escort you personally.”

The woman nodded. “Very good.”

The EMH held up his scanner. “Standard Omega Security Protocol,” he said coolly. “Your biometrics, please.”

She stood still, observing without resistance, as a faint smile flicked across her lips. “Of course.”

The EMH frowned.

Jack tilted his head. “Something wrong, Doc?”

The hologram blinked. “No; This is Trescha Schott. But….”

“I apologize, Commander,” the EMH said as he looked up, “There’s nothing wrong with you; it must be this tricorder.”

“This is what happens when medical departments suffer from a rotating staff,” the EMH grumbled at Jack. “The tricorder’s probably overdue for recalibration. No matter. I’ll handle it.”

The EMH blinked out.

Jack covered quickly. “Sorry. We’ve been stuck with a Mark One EMH ever since the Captain had the latest version removed. No bedside manner—just a whole lot of attitude.”

The doors hissed open. Captain Seven of Nine entered, boots crisp against the deck.

Her gaze locked immediately on the woman standing on the pad. Silently stunned by how much she looked like the real Trescha Schott.

“Commander Schott,” she said without inflection.

“Captain,” the impostor replied smoothly, “I’m sure you have a lot of questions—and I’ll be happy to answer them once I’ve had a chance to review the mission materials. If someone could escort me to the briefing room—”

“Of course,” Seven cut in. “Ensign Crusher will escort you to our most secure facility.”

Jack stepped forward, gesturing politely. “This way, Commander.”

“By the way,” Seven stated, a smirk barely noticeable, “Commodore Riker sends his regards.”

“Thank you,” the fake Trescha replied smoothly. “He wants us to keep him informed.”

“Yes,” Seven confirmed, “He does,”

“Ensign,” Seven motioned toward the exit.

Jack and the fake Trescha moved into the corridor, walking in silence. The lights overhead cast faint reflections in the polished deck plates.

“I assume I’ll have full clearance,” the woman asked, voice calm.

Jack smiled, all charm, none of it warm. “Absolutely. All the access you require.”

As they turned a corner, her step faltered. Just slightly. Jack didn’t miss it.

She stopped. “This isn’t the way to the briefing room.”

“Turbolift’s offline,” Jack said, still casual. “Just a minor detour. We’ll get there.”

Behind them, the EMH materialized again, arms folded.

“I knew those readings were a little too perfect,” he said, a little too smugly. “It wasn’t a faulty tricorder: This woman is a synth. Dermal cloaking matrix with internal thoron emitters to mimic any human perfectly. And the real Commander Schott isn’t human. This impostor is entirely synthetic. Highly advanced—possibly next-gen beyond anything in Federation records.”

Jack’s smile finally vanished. “Well. That explains the haircut… and the attitude.”

Jack’s smirk flickered—but not from humor but from instinct. A prickle of wrongness danced up his spine when the woman who looked like Commander Trescha Schott didn’t move.

Not at first.

Then her eyes narrowed—fractionally. Her body relaxed in the wrong way. Not in surprise or fear, but like a pressure valve being opened—muscles coiling instead of tensing.

“You should have just taken me to the briefing room,” she said quietly.

The calm in her voice made it worse.

Jack’s hand darted toward his hip—too late.

She struck.

A blur of motion—her palm slammed into his chest with the force of a small shuttle. He flew backward, spine-first into the bulkhead, crumpling to the deck with a sharp exhale and a grunt.

The EMH stepped between them, arms raised.

“This aggression is illogical and counterproductive. Stand down or—”

She walked straight through him. The EMH flickered and re-stabilized as her fist passed through his intangible matrix.

“How rude,” he muttered.

Jack pushed himself up on one elbow, gasping.

“Yeah,” he coughed, then groaned, “Very rude.”

She turned sharply—not for a finishing blow, but toward the nearest LCARS panel. Her fingers moved like music—fast, deliberate, horrifyingly fluent in Starfleet systems. Commands bloomed across the screen faster than the system’s failsafe could compensate.

“Stop…” Jack groaned, dragging himself upright, blood already smearing from the corner of his mouth.

He lunged—more stubborn than strategic.

She turned just in time to catch his fist slamming into her face.

Her expression wavered—not emotionally, but visually, like a ripple across her cheek, nose, and eyes. The illusion of Trescha Schott’s face shimmered and glitched—then reset.

Jack froze for half a second.

Then she reached out.

Faster than reflex, she seized his shoulder. Her grip was like duranium—unyielding. With a flick, she flung him effortlessly across the corridor like a broken toy. He hit the deck hard enough to make the lights flicker in his vision.

The EMH knelt beside him.

“You’re concussed. At least two fractured ribs. You need sickbay—and maybe a better strategy.”

Jack blinked through the haze.

“Don’t suppose you can reprogram yourself into a Nausicaan or a Klingon?”

“Only if you want your attacker overwhelmed by my operatic talents—which, I’ve been told, are quite moving.”

Back at the LCARS panel, the synth’s head tilted.

Her fingers slowed… then stopped.

She studied the open directory trace she’d cracked into. Her eyes narrowed.

“Holodeck Two,” she murmured.

Then she turned—unhurried. Calculating.

The human mask she wore was flawless again—but something in her motion betrayed the truth beneath. She moved too smoothly. Her boots landed with almost no sound, her knees absorbing their impact like a feline predator.

Jack tried to sit up.

“She knows… where the real Trescha is.”

The EMH pressed a hypospray to Jack’s neck.

“Then let’s make sure she doesn’t get there first.”

Red alert klaxons blared as the lighting shifted to deep crimson.

The Doctor rose to his feet, slapping his comm badge.

“Medical emergency,” he called, voice rising. “Outside the brig. I need a med team and a stretcher—immediately.”

He tapped his badge again.

“Captain, this is the Doctor. You have a security breach. The ‘mission specialist’ you received is a synth—and not the good kind. I recommend sealing this deck and locking out all LCARS access in the affected sectors—now.”

A pause.

Then Seven’s voice crackled over the comm—clipped, calm, but edged with urgency.

“Little busy at the moment, Doctor.”

The EMH’s eyes narrowed.

“I suspect you’ll be busier when this imposter reaches Holodeck Two. Because that’s where it’s headed.”

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—

“Security to Holodeck Two,” Seven snapped. “Now. Level-One lockdown. Do not engage without backup. No one goes in or out without my authorization.”

The comm cut.

The EMH applied a cortical stimulator to Jack with a flick of his wrist.

“You’re lucky that thing didn’t snap your spine.”

“Yeah?” Jack grunted, blinking at the ceiling. “Then today’s already gone better than expected.”

Jack groaned again as the EMH helped him to his feet, one arm slung over the Doctor’s shoulder. His lip was split. A purpling bruise was blooming across his cheekbone, and his breathing was shallow—but he wasn’t done.

“Sickbay’s the other way,” the Doctor said sharply, trying and failing to steer him.

Jack shook his head, stumbling sideways. “We need to get to Holodeck Two.”

“You’ve suffered a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and at least two cracked ribs,” the EMH argued, recalibrating the stimulator. “You are in no condition—”

“She’s going after Trescha,” Jack cut him off. “And I’m not letting that synth lay a finger on her.”

He shoved off the wall, limping forward.

“Fine,” the EMH snapped, catching up beside him. “But if you die, I refuse to take responsibility for the damage to your overinflated ego. That’s on you.”

Jack smirked—then nearly collapsed around the next corner.

When they reached the final stretch, Jack dragged himself forward with nothing but willpower. Outside the sealed holodeck doors, six security officers were sprawled along the corridor—on their backs, facedown, groaning and writhing in pain.

Seven of Nine arrived from the opposite end, her stride sharp and purposeful, face locked in that unreadable expression she wore when she was already three moves ahead.

She halted at the scene, her voice low, clipped, commanding.

“Status.”

“Holodeck is sealed,” one of the officers reported, teeth gritted through the pain. “Omega protocol. We can’t open it or get a read on who’s still inside.”

Jack staggered into view, clutching his side, blood still dripping from the edge of his jaw.

“What took you so long?” he snarked, then groaned.

Seven turned. “Ensign Crusher, you should be in sickbay.”

Jack braced himself against the wall, breathing hard. “No way. They’re both in there—the fake and the real Trescha. And if we don’t do something, that synth’s gonna get what it came here for.”

“It will have no place to go,” Seven said flatly. “While you were dancing with our unexpected guest, we were dealing with a high-speed cloaked ship.”

“You were right,” Jack exhaled. “They need a ride back to wherever they came from.”

The EMH caught up to Jack, muttering under his breath,

“Do humans come with off-switches or just an overclocked sense of heroism?”

Seven stepped forward, her gaze narrowing as she studied the sealed holodeck doors.

“All right,” she said, turning to the security officers who were awaiting her directions. “Phasers to heavy stun. No one fires unless I give the order. And whatever happens… the real Commander Schott is not to be harmed.”

Then—something slammed against the other side of the holodeck doors with a hollow boom that rattled the hinges.

A tense silence settled over the corridor.

Jack, still gripping the bulkhead with bloodied fingers, growled through his teeth.

“Just remember, the fake has short hair. That’s how you’ll know. Blue pantsuit. It’s not wearing a Starfleet uniform.”

He inhaled slowly, wincing, then added, “The real one’s got a long braid. Bare feet or white shoes, white shorts, blue top, and a damn attractive attitude.”

Seven shot him a sidelong glance.

Then—without warning—she grabbed his dislocated arm and pushed.

Jack’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

SNAP.

A sickening crack echoed through the corridor as she popped his shoulder back into place.

Jack let out a strangled howl, sagging against the wall.

“Better?” she asked calmly.

“Why do you and Raffi keep doing that kind of stuff to me?” he gasped, sweat beading on his forehead.

Seven gave him a dry look, her smirk widening just enough to be dangerous. “We’re just trying to mold you into the best Starfleet officer you can be…”

Jack groaned, dragging himself upright. “You and Raffi have a very strange idea of mentorship.”

“Starfleet builds character.” Seven eyes gleamed, “Some assembly required… in your case, reassembly.”

Jack chuffed as Seven turned back to the sealed holodeck doors, commanding, “Stand by for breach. Hostage procedures.”

After entering her command-level overrides, the doors snapped open with a hydraulic hiss.

Smoke and sparks greeted them—orange embers drifting like fireflies in the wake of a ground assault. The soothing soundscape of crashing waves was gone, replaced by a cold, high-tech facility. A space once defined by intellect was now consumed by the aftermath of violence.

Polished obsidian floors were strewn with broken parts and shattered equipment. Cracked LCARS interfaces flickered along the walls like dying stars. It no longer resembled the idyllic retreat Seven remembered—it had become a battlefield dressed in conflict and catastrophe. Cabinets hung open, sparking where the synth imposter had torn through the holodeck emitters. It moved through the lab like a weapon given form—calculated, unrelenting. Its once-precise bob-cut hair now hung wild and blood-flecked. The navy blue pantsuit, still tailored and sharp, was stained along one sleeve where Raffi had landed a desperate strike.

Amid the chaos, Raffi Musiker stood her ground—bleeding and bruised. Her uniform was torn at the shoulder; her left arm hung useless at her side. One eye was swelling shut, her lip split—but her stance remained defiant.

 

[treschaschott]

The synth imposter moved like a blur—joints flexing beyond human limits, every motion clinical and predatory. It flung Raffi aside like a rag doll, then lunged for Trescha.

But Trescha moved with supernatural grace. She rolled over a table, then vaulted atop another, evading each strike with fluid, effortless precision. Her breath never faltered as she tapped rapid commands into the cuff around her arm and wrist.

Seven quickly assessed that the intruder wasn’t trying to kill Trescha—but to capture her.

“You are now my mission objective,” the fake growled, voice firm and steady, emotionless.

“Don’t make this more painful than it needs to be,” she snarled, reaching for Trescha and missing. “My orders were to download the Enterprise Initiative briefing materials and logs. That is no longer an option. You are.”

“You talk too much,” Trescha muttered, backing up as she avoided another lunging swipe that shattered the table between them into pixelated fragments.

“You are the architect,” the fake insisted. “The origin point. You’re the Rosetta Stone of Superspace.”

The synth’s open hand nearly captured its prey, but Trescha’s raised gauntlet deflected it with a shield that surprised—but did not deter—her attacker.

“Computer!” Trescha barked, scanning the nearby display for a progress indicator. “Is it ready yet? Where is it? Damnit!”

The computer’s voice rang out through the chaos:

“Ten seconds to completion.”

The synth stalked forward, unbothered by a near miss from one of the security officers’ weapons.

“Stop avoiding the inevitable?” it sneered. “I will subdue you. I am faster, stronger… I was built for battle, you… you are nothing but a scientist.”

“Five seconds to completion,” the computer intoned.

The synth surged forward—fast.

Seven tackled her from behind, taking them both to the floor in a vicious tangle of fists and elbows.

“Your mission is a failure,” Seven argued as she struggled to defend herself from the synth’s unexpected strength, “The ship sent to retrieve you is gone… destroyed.”

Jack, barely upright, staggered into the Holodeck with the EMH close behind. Two security officers flanked them, weapons drawn. Two more rushed past to assist their Captain.

“Short hair,” Jack shouted hoarsely, leaning against the doorway. “The real Trescha has the long braid.”

Seven, thrown by the synth, grunted as her body crashed into the two security officers trying and failing to assist their Captain.

Then, the synth turned and hurled a console with terrifying strength toward Trescha, who effortlessly deflected it with her gauntlet’s transparent shield.

The synth lunged, taking advantage of the distraction, grabbing Trescha’s long braided hair, yanking her back as if snapping a lasso tight around an escaping heifer.

“I told you you could never escape me,” the fake Trescha taunted, pulling her prey toward her, “I am your superior in every way.”

“Transport sequence engaged,” the computer announced.

Lunging backward, thrusting her back against the synth’s chest, knocking it off balance momentarily, Trescha gripped the captured braid with one hand while her non-banded arm rose toward the flickering ceiling.

The air around her bare arm rippled with flashes, and her flesh began to shimmer as a series of delicate threads manifested from her wrist, spiraling down nearly to her shoulder.

Unprepared—or not programmed—for what was happening, the synth hesitated, internally assessing what her prey’s next actions might be.

“Security—drop her. Now!” Seven barked.

All phasers fired.

Other than a brief wabble, the beams had no effect.

Seemingly ignoring the stun blasts, it, like Trescha, watched as a delicate filigree of circuitry shimmered to life across Trescha’s raised arm. Another layer of skin appeared to be unfolding from her upper arm to her wrist, manifesting as blooming petals of gold and black. Under her skin, it moved in smooth Fibonacci patterns—intricate, artistic, almost ancient in its elegance. Threads of black-streaked golden light looped around her arm, locking into a lattice of orbiting fragments, each spinning independently.

The growing sleeve of light and dark veins wrapped around her forearm like ceremonial armor—then kept going, flowing past her wrist and engulfing her hand in fluid motion, as if the alloy itself had a purpose and no intention of stopping. A straight, double-edged sword extended from her closing fist, seemingly forged from light, darkness, and sheer intent. Its grip formed seamlessly from the same golden energy streaked with black lines, flowing into a wide, angular crossguard. The blade gleamed with a subtle shimmer, catching the light like liquid metal frozen in motion.

Deep within the positronic brain of the synth, it recognized the new threat—a weapon that had manifested with terrifying certainty, its mass wielded with impossible weightlessness by its former prey.

The hunter, now the hunted, had no time to react before Trescha spun, the blade slicing clean through her captured hair and severing the synth’s grip. On the return arc—both hands driving the motion—the weapon carved through the synth’s abdomen and artificial bone with horrifying ease.

The synth choked on the moment—shoulders twitching, arms dropping slack at its sides.

With unexpected speed and accuracy, Trescha’s gauntleted hand caught the synth by the ear, then fisted its hair, holding the faltering form upright.

Their eyes locked—one pair frantic and confused, the other ageless and calm… yet burning with anger just beneath the surface.

“You have no idea what you’re making me relive by attacking me,” Trescha hissed. “I thought I had found peace until you showed up. Wearing my face and reminding me of the things I’ve done, The blood I’ve spilled, the carnage I’ve created. The crimes against humanity I’ve committed.”

The synth twitched, its expression contorting— chaotic, uncertain—as Trescha’s blade slowly rose through the gash in its abdomen, parting muscle, cartilage, and synthetic vertebrae until the tip emerged through its back.

“I was born into a world of war,” Trescha hissed. “I learned to defend myself long before projectile weapons existed. I started with rocks. Then, I used the bones of the dead as clubs. Eventually, I learned to forge blades of death. Back then, survival meant doing anything. Anything—or die. Life and death were… intimate. Personal. And beyond brutal.”

She leaned in, nose to nose with her doppelgänger, eyes unblinking.

“I learned the ways of war in a time when heads were kept as trophies,” she whispered, voice steady and low.

“If you laugh like Kahless, I might keep yours—as a warning to myself that I am still that monster… and I always will be.”

Trescha’s blade appeared before the synth’s fear-filled eyes just moments before it sliced across the fake Trescha’s neck—clean, quiet, and final.

The head separated.

But the body didn’t fall—not right away.

Trescha stood there, unmoving, still holding the severed head by its hair, her gauntleted arm firm, her face unreadable.

“Go ahead,” Trescha snarled, “Laugh, I dare you.”

The synth’s body lingered as if still registering the loss. Then it collapsed backward in a folded heap, viscera splattering and oozing from the clean-cut neck and the cross-shaped gashes draining synthetic fluids onto the holodeck floor.

Silence returned. The air smelled of ozone, sweat, and scorched flesh. The lights in the computer-generated lab flickered once—then steadied.

Trescha remained still. The blade in one hand, the severed head in the other, gripped tightly by its hair.

The synth’s eyes, though detached from its body, remained open—still blinking. The artificial neurons inside its skull shimmered faintly, twitching with dying signals.

The false face flickered, then dissolved—replaced by a generic countenance that could have belonged to anyone… or no one.

It was still aware.

Still alive.

Trescha raised it to eye level, her expression unreadable—not cold. Not angry.

Oozing ancient regret.

Trescha locked eyes with the flickering gaze and tilted her head ever so slightly.

“I’ve had a lot of counseling on what triggers I should look for,” he murmured, wincing as he shifted his shoulder. “That’s textbook stuff.”

He glanced toward the lifeless synth.

“Hey Raffi—next time you suggest I talk through my guilt, maybe let me try her method first. Who knows… decapitating the Borg Queen might actually do me some good.”

Raffi groaned a chuckle, still catching her breath as she braced against the wall and pushed herself upright—one arm dangling, lip split, and one eye already swelling shut. Her uniform hung in tatters, streaked with grime.

She stared at the decapitated synth, then at Trescha.

Her gaze lingered—a moment too long.

Then she gave a slow nod. Painful. But full of reluctant admiration.

“I get it,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t until now… but now I do.”

“Get what?” Jack asked. “Role-playing? Aggression Replacement Training? Cathartic simulation? Something else?”

“Why Worf respects her,” Raffi said quietly. “Why he honors her. He sees in her the same warrior he sees in himself—a warrior who fights against their nature to become something better.”

Jack groaned, wincing as he shifted. “Welcome to the club.”

Seven said nothing at first.

She took in the scene—the ooze leaking from the synth’s lifeless form, the flickering emitters of the exposed holodeck walls, the severed head swaying in Trescha’s grip.

Trescha’s jaw was tight, her eyes sharp—focused, yet distant.

Firm. Resolute. Her gaze locked beyond the eyes of the bodiless head.

There was respect in Seven’s silence. And regret in Trescha’s.

“Six trained officers,” Seven said flatly. “Raffi. Jack. Disabled in seconds. And you…”

She paused. Her voice softened, more observation than accusation.

“You weren’t improvising or reacting. What we just witnessed… was muscle memory—an entire lifetime of experience, unleashed in a single instant of instinctive self-preservation.”

Seven folded her arms—not in judgment, but in thought.

“I’m impressed,” she admitted. “And… understandably concerned.”

The EMH flickered beside Jack, scanning everyone with a look of exasperated concern before stepping gingerly into the former field of combat.

“Well,” he huffed, scanning the decapitated body on the ground. “Normally, I disapprove of my patients severing the heads of their attackers—but,”

he gestured at the synth’s leaking body,

“However, at the risk of agreeing with Ensign. Crusher, given the circumstances, I’ll call it therapeutic.”

He glanced up at Trescha. “Do you usually go straight to vivisection, or was this a special occasion?”

Trescha didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

The blade extending from her dominant hand retracted, shrinking, fading as it slithered back up her arm. It reformed into an intricate latticework of swirling patterns—artistic, interwoven—nestled between her wrist and shoulder, sinking into her skin like a living tattoo.

Her other hand still held the synth’s head before her.

Her cold steel eyes stared beyond its now-lifeless face.

Then, without warning, she threw it—flinging it across the faux lab. It thumped against an undamaged part of the wall and spun to a stop, eyes open and empty.

Her voice cracked.

“I’m so sorry…”

“Please.”

Her knees almost buckled. She turned away from them all, hands pressed to her face.

“I don’t want to live like that… be who I was.”

Her voice was breaking now—not from exhaustion, but from something older.

“I’ve been trying to put that part of me behind me. I don’t want to be what I had to be then… not anymore. I don’t want to have to fight every day, all day, only to live longer than anyone else… to outlive so many only to feel dead inside.”

She lowered her hands—eyes red, but her jaw clenched against sobbing.

“I’m trying,” she said again, barely above a whisper.

“I’m trying to be better. I really am trying to be the best me I can be…”

Raffi moved first. She didn’t speak. Just came to stand beside Trescha—near, but not too near.

Jack leaned his head back against the wall, wincing.

“Hey… logs get corrupted all the time. Data goes missing without explanation. I think we owe you that much for stopping that thing.”

Seven approached slowly. Quietly. And then—gently—spoke.

“We’ve all done things we regret.”

She paused.

“I, too, have memories of who I was… who I had no choice in being. And like you, I have to fight that part of me to… to be a better version of myself… every day.”

She reached out—just enough to rest her fingertips on Trescha’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry you had to sacrifice so much of yourself to protect my crew from something I could not.”

She looked into Trescha’s eyes.

“You did what we could not. You did what was necessary in order to save others from further harm by a superior opponent.”

“And no,” Seven commanded more than advised, “What happened here today will not be spoken of… this Holodeck was secured under Omega protocols, so nothing was recorded. And, we will honor your request to keep what we just witnessed to ourselves.”

Seven’s eyes locked with Trescha’s one last time before turning toward the EMH.

“Doctor, see to the injured.”

The hologram nodded crisply, already moving to Raffi’s side.

“Finally. Something I’m actually programmed for.”

Raffi groaned as the Doctor began to work on her.

“I think it dislocated everything I’ve ever used.”

“I believe that’s called humility,” the EMH replied, running his tricorder over Raffi’s chest.

“Fortunately, it’s not fatal.”

Raffi wiped blood from her lip and twisted to face Seven, waving off the EMH’s attempt to assist.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Her breath caught as she grasped an undamaged table to steady herself.

“You need me on the bridge.”

Seven reached for her, steadying her with a glance.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Raffi gritted out.

“We were listening to what’s going on out there before that B… thing showed up. You’re going to need me on the bridge.”

Seven gave her a single nod of respect, then turned to Trescha.

But Trescha didn’t speak.

She was staring down at the synth’s headless body, her jaw clenched tight. Her hands balled into fists, her arms trembling ever so slightly.

When she looked up again, it wasn’t at Seven—it was at the Holodeck’s far wall, where holographic interfaces shimmered faintly behind the carnage.

Seven’s voice was calm but purposeful.

“We’ll handle the Intrepid. Give yourself some time… do what you need to to put this behind you. Do not blame yourself for defending your right to exist.”

Then Captain Seven departed, the doors hissing shut behind her and Raffi.

The Doctor turned to Trescha.

“There’s a med team outside…”

“No,” Trescha cut him off, voice low, breath measured.

She didn’t move toward the fallen synth again. She didn’t even watch as the others exited the Holodeck.

Instead, she raised her gauntleted arm. The shimmering interface from her golden armband flared to life once more. A command prompt filled a transparent display.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Flat.

“Computer,” she said, entering a string of commands into the display above her arm.

The system chimed, waiting.

“Status: Version forty-seven.”

A brief pause. Then the computer responded in its steady, unbothered tone:

“Fabrication complete. Pending antimatter transfer. Authorization required.”

Trescha squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“Authorization: Commander Trescha Schott… two-zero-three-three-one-one-one-one. Transfer.”

Trescha finished entering her command into the holographic display, then closed it just after the computer confirmed:

“Transfer complete.”

She nodded.

“Transport to Holodeck Two.”

On the undamaged table Raffi had used to steady herself, a soft blue glow sparkled into existence:

A slightly smaller, newer version of her gauntlet lay on the undamaged table. It wasn’t gold. It wasn’t any color at all. Nearly transparent, it was visible only when the ambient light struck it just right.

Trescha moved toward the table. She didn’t smile, but something in her posture shifted—subtle, resolute. As if, once again, she was accepting her fate… her destiny.

“Computer,” she said as she extracted an isolinear chip from the band around her arm,

“Terminate and delete this laboratory program. Including all associated data, logs, visual records, and runtime parameters. Omega protocol.”

The environment flickered as she inserted the chip into the new transparent armband.

The laboratory dissolved as she removed the old one.

The polished deck turned black, and around her, the world rebuilt itself into the black background and gold stripes of the Holodeck’s inactive form.

Trescha swapped gauntlets and then tapped the interface on the old one several times.

She tossed it into the air, and it sparkled briefly—then vanished out of existence.

“Computer,” she said, drawing another breath, “Replicate the current bridge environment. Live-feed.”

The Holodeck shimmered. Around her, consoles emerged from nowhere. LCARS displays lit up, walls materialized, and the Captain’s chair rose into place. Other than where the synth had damaged some of the emitters, the bridge of the Enterprise-G, perfectly simulated in real-time, enveloped and replaced the blank walls.

Just as the scene resolved around her, Sidney La Forge’s voice cut in from Engineering, urgent and confused:

“Captain, we just lost some of our antimatter. Drained from the reserves.”

Trescha stood before one of the turbo lifts—still, silent.

Before Trescha, Captain Seven of Nine commanded the chaos.

Raffi, resting her broken arm on the padded ledge at her side, studied the tactical display before her.

Alandra La Forge, at OPS, her fingers prancing across the console.

A crisis was underway.

Seven blinked. “How, why?”

“Logs show it was an approved transfer,” Alandra replied. “She did it… Commander Schott authorized the transfer.”

“We have a bigger problem,” Raffi straightened, wincing. “We’re in scanning range—While we were dealing with our unwanted visitor, the Intrepid has been deploying a minefield. Looks like they’re nearly done with their final pattern.”

“The Intrepid is not responding to our hails,” reported Comm officer Esmar. “And they appear to be the source of the interference field—jamming all transmissions. The Stargazer isn’t responding either.”

Trescha—occasionally studying or adjusting the display above her raised arm—watched in silence. An unseen presence behind the bridge crew.

On the other side of the bridge, stars streaked past the viewscreen, and, on the tactical display before Raffi, a dense minefield, newly laid by the Intrepid, glittered as red dots.

Red alert strobes pulsed along the upper walls as Captain Seven of Nine studied the situation with the same intensity as Trescha’s unseen figure on the aft upper deck.

“Thirty-seven seconds until we enter the minefield,” Alandra La Forge announced from OPS, voice tight, professional. “Looks like they’re done… I count forty gravimetric mines in a tangential arc. If they are triggered, trajectory projections show the Superspace Fold and the Enterprise impacting the upper right quadrant of the transwarp conduit.”

Seven twisted her chair toward Esmar. “Try again. Get Intrepid on comms. Any channel. We have to stop them from triggering those mines.”

“I’ve been trying,” said Ensign Esmar, fingers working her console. “The interference is layered. Pulse-jammed, full-spectrum suppression.”

“Then punch through it,” Seven snapped. “Reroute warp power through the subspace emitters and punch through the gamma band if you have to. Raise them!”

Alandra’s voice turned sharp. “Thirty seconds.”

Seven turned to the screen. “If those mines detonate—”

“I know,” Raffi muttered from the helm, her bandaged hand steady, jaw clenched. “Two light-years of space around the transwarp conduit turns inside out.”

Jack, leaning against a bulkhead of the other holographic turbo lift, whispered to himself, “They’re gonna do it. Those idiots are actually gonna do it.”

 

[treschaschott]

Trescha turned, surprised to find Jack Crusher—his uniform torn, one arm cradled, injuries still fresh—leaning near the opposite turbo lift. His attention was steady, bouncing between her and the crisis unfolding around them. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by grim recognition.

“Fifteen seconds,” Alandra called from OPS, voice clipped and tense.

“Isis,” Trescha called, calm but firm. “It’s time to go.”

Jack scanned the illusory bridge, catching a flicker of movement beneath one of the consoles.

Trescha extended her arm, palm open, coaxing gently, “Come here, girl.”

A shadow darted out—black, sleek, and wearing a gold necklace. As it leaped toward Trescha’s hand, the cat vanished in midair.

The collar dropped into her palm with a soft clink. She slid over her hand and around her wrist, then turned to look directly at Jack.

“If you are a religious man,” Trescha advised, “pray this works.”

“Five seconds,” Alandra’s voice cut in again.

Jack saw Trescha’s finger touch her upgraded gauntlet.

A flare erupted from within Trescha’s form.

Reflex took over—he twisted his head away, shielding his eyes as a blinding light radiated from within her.

“Tell Worf I would be honored to stand beside him in Sto’Vo’Kor,” Trescha’s fading voice declared as the intense light began to dim.

Then—

Silence.

“Captain,” Alandra said breathlessly, scanning the board, “the Fold… it’s gone.”

“Confirmed,” Raffi added. “We are no longer overlapping with the Superspace Fold.”

“Captain,” Jack’s voice came over the comm, quiet but clear, “She’s gone. She looked at me, did something with her armband, then… just like in the logs. A bright light. When it faded, she was gone.”

“She did it again, didn’t she?” Raffi murmured. “Sacrificed herself to save us… to save Earth, Mars… Sector 001.”

“And yet,” Seven said quietly, “I don’t think that’s going to be enough for her to let go of the baggage she’s carrying—the penance she feels she owes, the past she cannot change.”

 

[treschaschott]

When Is Here
TEMPORAL ACCORDS’S COMPLIANCE NOTIFICATION:

THE EVENT(S) DESCRIBED HEREIN MAY EXIST IN SUPERPOSITIONAL CONTINUITY, A CLOSED TEMPORAL LOOP, OR A PARADOXICAL FRAMEWORK.

CHRONOLOGICAL INTERPRETATION IS NON-BINDING UNTIL VERIFIED BY THE TEMPORAL INTEGRITY COMMISSION. THIS RECORD HAS BEEN FLAGGED FOR TEMPORAL RESONANCE FLUCTUATION.

DO NOT DISSEMINATE OR ARCHIVE UNTIL CERTIFIED

Captain’s Log — Stardate 80248.97

Captain Va’Kel Shon, USS Enterprise NCC-1701-F

“I’ve seen war. I’ve smelled it—felt it in my bones. And I thought I’d left the worst of it in the past. But here we are… chasing another one, in someone else’s past.”

Daniels just walked through my bridge bulkhead like he owns the timeline. Typical.

He says history’s gone sideways. Again. Some temporal saboteur has nudged Earth’s past just enough to set it spinning. Now, if we don’t correct it, humanity’s first contact won’t be with Vulcans. It’ll be with Klingons. And if that happens? Earth burns. Conquered fifty years after the pink skins didn’t catch the eyes of a passing Vulcan ship.

So what’s the fix? We’re being sent back to Earth, November 2033, their calendar—to make sure Earth’s World War III happens.

Yes, the war that nearly wiped out Earth’s population—Daniels says it must happen. As distasteful as it sounds, it was a catalyst. No war. No Warp. No flight. No Vulcan landing. No Federation.

We’re taking the Enterprise around Jupiter to pick up speed and angle in tight for a solar slingshot. Engineering has locked down the temporal shields. I’m told the math checks out. Of course, Daniels says we’ll be fine—but he always says that. He’s not the one sitting in the chair when it all goes sideways.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t my history. The Andorian wars—our collapse and rebuilding—we earned every scar. No time traveler showed up to make sure we got the “right” outcome, at least, as far as I know. What I do know is that we fought ourselves and nature, and we survived until we earned the right to travel among the stars.

If keeping the timeline intact means making sure Earth learns the same hard lessons—then I suppose that’s the fight we’ve chosen.

End log.”

Shon descended from the upper platform and crossed behind the command rail, his boots echoing softly in the bridge’s tense quiet.

“Status.”

Commander Winters was already at the conn, his eyes flicking between navigational vectors and warp field stability readouts.

“On final approach to Jupiter’s magnetosphere. Slingshot maneuver set to initiate in seven minutes.”

Lieutenant Jirelle Kav spoke up from OPS.

“Warp field harmonics nominal. Temporal shielding holding at ninety-nine-point-six percent. O’Brien reports minor compensations, nothing critical.”

Daniels stood just behind Kav, unnervingly still, as if trying not to disturb a glass table covered in explosives.

Shon leaned on the arm of his chair, casting a glance over his shoulder.

“Anything you forgot to tell us, Daniels?”

The time traveler tilted his head slightly, still focused on the main viewer.

“If I told you everything in advance, you wouldn’t believe half of it. But… consider this the half you will.”

Shon gave a dry snort.

“Comforting.”

Then came the lurch.

Not violent—barely more than a soft bump. A shipwide hiccup. Lights flickered. Power blinked. The bridge groaned as if the bulkheads had flexed inward and then relaxed again. Everything returned to normal.

Kav looked up from her console.

“Captain… Engineering is reporting a localized field distortion. Chief O’Brien says it felt like something bounced off our warp field.”

“Be specific,” Shon snapped. “What does that mean?”

“Switching the main viewer to Engineering,” Kav replied quickly. “Something is happening…”

On-screen, in front of the warp core, a light began to emerge from within itself.

It bloomed in complete silence—a sphere of blinding brilliance that floated, unmoving, two to three feet off the deck.

Chief Engineer Kirayoshi O’Brien yanked down his protective visor and stared.

“Okay,” he muttered, blinking hard. “That’s not good.”

The engineers around him froze. A few backed away instinctively, shielding their eyes. The warp core hummed normally behind them, though the field around it shimmered faintly—as if reacting to the presence of the anomaly.

Then the light pulsed once.

It collapsed inward like an implosion.

Within the fading ball of light, a silhouette solidified.

Human.

Female.

One arm raised, the other crossing her chest, a single finger touching it.

She didn’t land—her legs didn’t flex or absorb impact. She manifested.

Her head tilted, eyes scanning her surroundings. Cold. Calculating. Steely.

They narrowed on O’Brien.

In turn, O’Brien’s eye studied her but failed to see the transparent armband, distracted by the intricate shimmers of patterns on or within her other arm. It was adorned in an elaborate tattoo—beautifully interwoven Fibonacci spirals inked in black and gold, organic and intentional.

Before O’Brien could speak, she exhaled. Her shoulders eased. Both arms dropped to her sides.

She turned toward him.

“Enterprise?” she asked.

O’Brien nodded.

“How far down the alphabet did I go this time?” Trescha snarked. “H? I… J?”

“F,” O’Brien muttered.

“You’ve got to be F-ing me,” Trescha chuckled. “I thought I skipped that one.”

The Caitian Lieutenant Kyona burst through the lower access corridor with two security officers at her heels. Her tail lashed once behind her, phaser already half-raised.

“Step away from the core!” Kyona barked. “Hands up, now!”

Trescha lifted her hands slowly. Unthreatening—but not afraid. She took a single step forward.

“Guess it was too much to hope for another holodeck and a Hawaiian beach at sunset,” she muttered.

The door behind Kyona hissed open.

The deck plating buzzed faintly beneath Shon’s boots as he stepped into Engineering.

Daniels trailed behind him, his expression unreadable.

Security had surrounded Trescha, but she hadn’t moved an inch. No fear. No confusion. Only experienced patience.

She stood like someone who had been here before—and might be again.

Shon stopped a meter from her.

“Who are you?”

She didn’t flinch.

“Trescha… and by those pips, I assume you’re the captain.”

Shon felt his antennae twitch in unconscious confirmation.

She held his gaze—not threatening, but confident.

Then, smirking:

“Permission to come aboard?”

The tone was too casual. Too familiar. That bothered Shon.

Daniels inhaled slowly, then stepped forward.

“I know who she is.”

Shon turned sharply.

“You said no one else was coming.”

Daniels nodded, expression darkening upon recognizing the blue jeans and loose cotton-blend top she was wearing—clothing unmistakably from a long-ago era.

“I said no one should be.”

He stepped beside the captain, voice lower now, almost incredulous.

“Commander,” Daniels said carefully, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’d agree with you,” she replied, still casual, “but I’m not quite sure where here is… or when here is. And if you’re Starfleet—and most of you look like you are,” she added with a breath of faux-pleading, “Didn’t anyone get the memo about aligning the Fold’s harmonic overlap with one of the holodecks?”

“Harmonic overlap?” O’Brien muttered, already pivoting toward a console. “What overlap?”

His fingers danced across the interface, pulling up warp field telemetry and logs.

Daniels allowed himself a half-smile.

“No. I guess we didn’t. Sorry.”

Shon snapped, “Who is this intruder?”

Daniels raised a hand.

“Captain—this is Commander Trescha Schott. Let’s call her your mission specialist.”

The tension didn’t lift.

The doors hissed open again—the wrinkled-nosed and earring-wearing Lieutenant Commander Tem Inasi, Science Officer, entered briskly, tricorder already active and humming in her hand. Just behind her, Commander Savel, the ship’s Vulcan Chief Medical Officer, walked with practiced calm, a slim medical scanner already extended.

Without waiting for permission, Inasi moved toward the perimeter, keeping a respectful distance. She scanned Trescha from head to toe, frowning.

“Quantum signature is off,” Inasi said flatly. “Confirmed; she’s not from this universe.”

She paused as the tricorder chirped again, her frown deepening.

“No, that’s… not quite right.”

She adjusted the settings and recalibrated. “These readings don’t make sense.”

Savel stepped in next, passing the medical scanner along Trescha’s torso, then to her arm.

“She is Lanthanite,” he said with Vulcan precision. “A long-lived Homo sapiens offshoot… heart rate is fast, but quickly slowing, blood pressure is within norms… interesting.”

He raised an eyebrow at the readout.

“She has 21st-century Earth vaccine markers, as well as those required by Federation for those authorized for first-contact or, ambassadors, and diplomats… and two artificial immunological markers I do not recognize.”

He tilted his head again.

“She also possesses a pair of first-contact translators integrated into her nervous system—biological. The technology is unfamiliar to me, though it registers as functionally similar to those employed by the Federation. Not dissimilar to the bio-gel used by some of the ship’s systems.”

He stepped back.

“Fascinating.”

Inasi’s tricorder whirred again. She muttered to herself,

“There’s a reflection of some kind on her arm… no—now it’s gone.”

She looked at Savel. “Are you seeing anything else odd?”

The Vulcan responded without looking up.

“The subdermal metallic implantation is of interest. Mathematically intricate—elegant in its precision. An advanced form of dermographic marking. Its reflective properties suggest movement, though it scans as biologically inert.”

Shon narrowed his eyes.

“Daniels. You said she was a mission specialist. She scans like a temporal agent to me. Start explaining.”

Daniels gave the captain a polite but evasive look.

“I’m afraid that would violate protocol. You haven’t been briefed yet.”

Shon’s antennae twitched in frustration.

“You’re standing on my ship, in my century, with a temporal wildcard and an attitude. Start bending that protocol.”

Before Daniels could offer one of his signature cryptic replies, Trescha interjected.

“May I help?”

“How?” Shon grumbled.

“Computer,” she said aloud, “recognize: Commander Trescha Schott.”

The computer responded without hesitation.

“Identity confirmed. Commander Trescha Schott. Status: Active. Current Assignment: Detached Duty. Clearance Level: Omega.”

Shon’s antennae twitched again as the computer continued to drone:

Doctoral Certifications in the following fields:

Warp Propulsion Systems

Subspace Engineering

Temporal Mechanics

Computer Science

Advanced Theoretical Physics

Quantum Field Manipulation

Pre-21st Century Earth History

Nanotechnology Engineering

Awards and Commendations include:

Christopher Pike Medal of Valor

Grankite Order of Tactics (First Class)

Starfleet Medal of Commendation

Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry

“Stop,” Shon barked.

Inasi turned to him, stunned.

“That’s not possible,” Inasi said, eyes narrowing at her tricorder. “The Commander’s records aren’t part of the temporally isolated backups. I just checked—”

“Check again,” Daniels suggested calmly.

Inasi frowned, rechecking her display.

“Wait… hey… there she is.”

She looked up slowly, visibly unsettled.

She looked up, voice lower now.

“I swear she wasn’t in the system before.

Now… it’s like the Commander was always there… this is not the first Enterprise she’s been on.”

Shon stared at Trescha.

“I’m not sure if I should throw you in the brig or take you to a briefing room.”

Before she could answer, Kirayoshi O’Brien spoke up from across the compartment, not looking up from his console.

“Neither, sir.”

Shon turned.

“She can’t leave Engineering,” O’Brien said flatly, “or things are going to get… strange.”

Almost on cue, the shipwide comm system chimed.

“All decks, this is the bridge. Initiating slingshot maneuver. Full inertial dampening engaged. Temporal shielding cycling to phase-lock… now.”

The warp core began to hum with rising pitch—deep, resonant as if the ship itself were preparing to hold its breath.

“Oh… are we going for pizza?” she said lightly, glancing around as if this were all routine.

“I’d kill for a Detroit style. Ham, olives, and mushrooms.”

Shon’s antennae drooped.

O’Brien blinked.

Daniels stifled a smirk.

Nobody said a word until a disembodied voice did.

“Bridge to Captain—transition complete. We are in orbit around Earth; cloaking shields are up.”

“We’re right where we’re supposed to be,” another voice from everywhere confirmed. “November 2033.”

Trescha stilled.

Not dramatically. Not with gasps or tremors. Just a moment—a heartbeat too long between breaths.

Her gaze remained level, but her focus slid. Inward.

The hum of the warp core, the sounds of boots shifting, and her own restrained breathing—all of it faded into a low, distant echo.

She didn’t need to ask the date. She already knew.

November 11th.

The day I murdered eight billion people.

Inside her mind, a calculus began.

With what I know now that I didn’t know then… I can stop it from happening, Trescha told herself.

I can save humanity from themselves.

Outwardly, she betrayed nothing. Her body didn’t flinch. Her hands stayed loose at her sides. But something behind her eyes narrowed—hardened.

Daniels’ voice sliced through the haze, sharp and calm.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “But someone did. Or someone will—and we’re here to set time right.”

“I was right,” Inasi muttered as her tricorder chirped. Her brows furrowed. “The Commander’s quantum signature isn’t static. It’s… a range. It appears to be fluctuating between states—or resonating across several states simultaneously.”

Shon raised a brow. “A range?”

Inasi nodded. “It fluctuates within a narrow band constantly. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Daniels looked at Trescha, more intrigued than usual.

“That’s how your existence manifests across timelines.”

Realizing he was stepping out of character, Daniels quickly adjusted, returning to his usual measured tone.

“Commander Schott doesn’t just travel through time—she crosses timelines. And in doing so, she becomes part of them. Her presence rewrites that timeline’s past—retroactively.”

Inasi glanced up. “So she emerges into a timeline, and… the universe changes to accommodate her?”

“You saw the protected records update,” Daniels said. “History folds around her. It’s as if… she was always there.”

Shon’s antennae twitched. “You’re saying time is rewriting itself to make room for her?”

“In every timeline she touches,” Daniels confirmed. “It’s like pulling a thread through a bundle of fabric. The cloth tightens around it.”

Trescha smirked faintly. “I prefer the analogy of a kite string entangling and connecting the branches of the tree of time.”

Silence followed.

Shon’s antennae twitched, his voice firmer this time.

“I’m still not clear on your role, Commander. Why are you here—now? On my ship?”

Trescha met his gaze evenly, her tone as measured as his.

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe because this is my time?”

She let it hang there for a moment—neither defensive nor arrogant. Just true.

Daniels didn’t interject.

“I’m the expert on this era,” she added, gaze flicking to the others. “No one knows this time better than I do.”

Then, her posture shifted just a touch. Her tone softened, casual.

“I’m sorry… It’s been a while for me, subjectively. Can someone direct me to the comfort station?”

“The what?” Shon grumbled.

“The head,” Daniels smirked.

“Comfort station,” Tem quietly snickered, “I’m going to use that.”

“Oh,” O’Brien said, pointing, “Through there. That door. And don’t worry—it’s well within the boundaries of the overlap you’re restricted to.”

“What overlap?” she heard Shon growl before she slipped through the indicated hatch.

The lights were soft. The walls brushed in warm metallic gray. Inside, like the rest of the ship, the stall was purely military—functional, efficient, and utterly impersonal.

She sat, activated her gauntlet, and began scanning. Systems flickered to life in silence. Her fingers moved with practiced precision as she set parameters and cross-checked overlays. Her scans complete and target locked, she removed Isis’s bracelet-like collar from her wrist.

Cradling one arm, she held the device delicately in her other hand.

“Okay, Isis,” she whispered. “It’s time to come out and play.”

The air shimmered above her forearm. A lithe, catlike form coalesced—Isis, sleek, intelligent, and very much aware.

The feline rubbed her head against Trescha’s chest, purring.

“Good girl,” Trescha cooed, returning the affection with a gentle touch.

She raised Isis to her shoulder and brought up the floating holo-display above her arm cuff.

“Here’s what I need you to do.”

Her fingers tapped through a short series of commands. Isis purred again, then nuzzled the side of her neck.

“Be a good girl, and don’t get caught,” Trescha whispered. “Now go to sleep, and when you wake up… stay out of sight and do what I need you to do. Please.”

Isis crawled down Trescha’s arm, balanced briefly in her palm, and gave one soft meow—then vanished.

The collar dropped, weightless, into her open hand.

With the collar pinched between two fingers, the fingers of her other hand moved with practiced ease across the holo-display on her armband. Using her deep familiarity with Starfleet systems, she bypassed LCARS command protocols, rerouting access through dormant subsystems designed for mission-critical redundancy.

Rotated the collar upward, then pressed the glowing “Transport” command.

The collar shimmered and dissolved into a swirl of soft blue sparkles, then disappeared.

Only then did Trescha do what she originally came in for.

Outside the stall, she paused at the mirror. After washing her hands, she ran her fingers through her short, uneven hair—the jagged souvenir from a synth that wore her face and had no idea it was destined to lose against the original.

She sighed. Not fear. Not grief.

Just annoyance.

“Great,” she muttered. “If I keep bouncing from one time to another… one universe to another, how am I supposed to fix this?”

She tugged a stray strand flat, gave up halfway, and let it fall.

She then called up the display of her invisible armband, searched the ship’s uniform catalog, selected one with a skirt, and then downloaded it into her tool. She touched another button, then watched her reflection as a contemporary uniform overwrote the oversized blue t-shirt and white shorts she was wearing.

It shimmered into place, sleek and sharply tailored—a black, high-collared jacket with crimson command piping along the shoulders and front seam, paired with a straight, knee-length skirt that cleanly moved as she twisted her hips from side to side. The fabric had a subtle sheen, and the Starfleet delta at her chest caught the light, completing the sharp, no-nonsense look of the officers and crew she had just met.

Looking down, Trescha saw the comfortable white deck shoes she had been wearing replaced by polished black ankle boots with low heels—sleek, practical, and perfectly matched to the uniform. They hugged her feet like they were made for long shifts on a starship bridge, a far cry from the casual scuff of beach sand still lingering in her memory.

Looking up again, nodding her approval at her reflection, she squared her shoulders and turned back toward the door—expression neutral.

There were more important things to deal with than her wardrobe.

 

[treschaschott]

When Trescha returned, O’Brien was wrapping up a statement:

“…are minimal—as long as the harmonics remain aligned, and our guest stays within the boundaries of the overlap.”

She slipped back into the loose arc of officers with practiced ease—composed, unhurried, as if nothing had happened.

“Notify me immediately if anything changes,” Shon ordered. He turned to Inasi. “What about what we’re here to do—or stop from happening—or ensure happens?”

“No paradox spikes,” Inasi said, scanning. “No deviations in quantum-layer harmonics. Real-time comparative analysis shows no measurable change to the timeline.”

Daniels frowned, arms crossed. “That’s concerning. We should be seeing some pre-event activity that doesn’t align with what’s supposed to happen.”

“Isn’t that what we want?” Shon challenged.

When Shon turned to acknowledge Trescha’s return, his face froze for a moment, but his antennae did not. They scanned her up and down at least twice before his head barely nodded his approval of her uniform appearance.

The Captain then motioned toward the open space near the secondary console banks.

“You said this is your time. Then brief us—what do we need to know… what do we need to do to avoid being detected?”

A few chairs were pulled from nearby workstations. The crew arranged themselves in a loose semi-circle—Shon and Daniels occupied two of the relocated chairs, arms folded; Inasi perched on the edge of a console, tricorder still active; Savel remained standing as expected, hands behind his back.

Trescha stood near where she arrived, close to the warp core, speaking with quiet confidence as she outlined the broad strokes of Earth’s geopolitical instability—resource collapse, climate disruption, fractured governments, and rising tensions on nearly every continent. She kept it high-level. Some names. A few specific factions. Overall, enough to paint the picture.

More than once, she referred to the genetically enhanced as “Krisper-Kids,” the term slipping from her lips with habitual distaste. The casual phrasing, laced with opinion, didn’t go unnoticed.

Overall, what she presented was less a briefing and more a reminder—that Earth, in this era, was a fractured experiment barely holding itself together. Complex. Fragile. And teetering on the edge of something irreversible.

It was also a delaying tactic.

Behind her, Inasi continued to call out the time.

“Thirty minutes… ten.”

Then, softly:

“…It should be happening now.”

In a blink, Trescha wasn’t where she was.

 

[treschaschott]

Fight To Live
The clean walls and floors, the bright lights, and the cool, filtered air blinked away—replaced by heat, stink, and desperation.

The air was thick. Stale. Oily. Sweat and blood lingered like ghosts.

Massive cargo containers loomed overhead, stacked into rust-colored canyons. Nestled between them—watching, waiting—stood dozens of beings: Romulans. Remans. Vulcans. Andorians. Orions. Cardassians. Every species imaginable… almost.

Her quick survey told her she was the only one who looked even remotely human.

In the center of the massive hold, a square fighting ring had been welded into the deck plating. Crude. Functional. Bloodstained.

A Klingon squared off against a towering Nausicaan, both stripped to waistcloths, their bruises fresh and their snarls constant. They circled each other like animals.

Cheers and growls rose from the crowd—until the final blow landed.

The Nausicaan collapsed in a heap, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

The crowd scattered instantly, ducking behind crates and into the shadows like trained animals.

Then came the voice.

Low. Mechanical. Commanding.

A voice drilled more into memory than air.

“Fight to live. Live to fight. Live to serve.”

Another figure was thrown into the ring.

Shon—bloodied but upright. His antennae swept forward, posture unbowed.

The Klingon grinned.

They lunged.

Not far from the ring, Trescha stood, disoriented but steady, surrounded by the murmur of breath and fear.

A face she recognized, Savel, appeared beside her, calm—unshaken. His head tilted slightly, expression curious.

“You are not like the others,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

She answered without hesitation.

“Earth.”

The Vulcan blinked once. Then—to her surprise—he laughed.

“Earth is uninhabitable,” he chortled. “The Klingons saw to that. Ages ago.”

Before Trescha could respond, Savel shoved her forward hard enough that she stumbled into the ring.

“This one says she’s from Earth!” the Vulcan barked, loud enough for every hidden ear to hear.

The fight between Shon and the Klingon stopped. Both turned to face Trescha.

She caught a flicker of movement above and behind them—and from atop a cargo container, a sleek Caitian female leaped down, landing in a low crouch. Her claws flexed. Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

“Another false prophet,” she hissed, tail lashing. “Let’s honor her death by letting her Earth blood stain this holy ground.”

Shon and the Klingon stepped back, silently surrendering the battle box.

Trescha straightened, rolling her shoulders, loosening her stance for what she hoped—deeply—would not happen.

“What are the rules?” she asked, calm and even.

The Caitian bared her teeth in a cruel smile.

“No rules—except no weapons. We fight to live, and live to fight.”

Trescha nodded once.

“Been there, done that… not what it’s cracked up to be.”

The Caitian hissed.

The fight began.

Fast. Brutal.

She lunged—claws extended, snarling with raw hatred.

Trescha sighed. She moved smoothly, sidestepping with ease. Hands low. Posture defensive.

“We don’t have to do this,” she said, voice steady. “Can we please just talk this out?”

The Caitian spun, slashing—missed.

“I’m not your enemy.” Trescha ducked another swipe, her voice calm but firm.

“And I really don’t want to hurt you.”

The Caitian circled faster, tail twitching. Her fury growing.

“Then you shouldn’t have stepped into the ring.”

“I wasn’t given a choice,” Trescha replied evenly. “But I’m giving you one. Stop now.”

The Caitian hissed again.

“You say you’re from Earth. That you’re human.” Her voice dripped with contempt.

“That world is ash. Your people are myths.”

“I never said I was human.” Trescha’s tone stayed calm—barely.

“And I’m trying really hard not to hurt you.”

Someone from the shadows shouted:

“Everyone knows Earthers talk too much! Kill her and be done!”

Trescha didn’t flinch, but her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t sure who the comment was for.

Then the Caitian bared her fangs.

“I fight to live,” she growled, crouching low—

“Therefore, you must die.”

She lunged. Claws flashed.

A single strike landed.

A shallow rake across Trescha’s thigh—scraping her flesh, drawing a thin line of blood.

Trescha looked down, then frowned.

She sighed.

“Do that again and see what happens.”

The Caitian hissed, then used all four of her appendages to launch herself at Trescha.

With a disappointed squint, the black-and-gold latticework of Trescha’s nanotech tattoos shimmered to life, racing down her right arm like liquid fire. Flesh hardened into forged steel, her hand becoming a weapon no bone could withstand.

What followed was one possible outcome of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object.

When the Caitian’s skull impacted Tresha’s organic metal reinforced fist, her skull crunched.

The Caitian was dead before her body flopped to the ground.

“I warned you,” Trescha sighed, “I gave you more than enough chances to save yourself from yourself.”

The crowd didn’t cheer.

They just stared.

Some backed away. Others vanished into the dark.

A Klingon stepped forward. He didn’t attack.

He just stared and studied.

Trescha took a half-step back, breathing steady.

She didn’t want another fight.

But she was ready.

Then—

A hand touched her shoulder.

Her jaw clenched. She turned, eyes narrowing, tension coiling—

It was Daniels.

“You’re a hard woman to find,” he said quietly.

And in another blink, the cargo bay—the noise, the screams, the blood—vanished.

Replaced by a windswept world. Barren. Dead.

Dark clouds churned overhead like bruises across a dying sky. The land was flat, lifeless, and dusted with snow and ash. No plants. No cities. No stars.

Just dirt. Rock. Silence.

Nothing lived here.

Nothing ever would again.

Daniels stood beside her, letting the silence of the dead world speak first.

Then, his voice came—quiet but sharp as a blade.

“This is Earth,” he said. “The one you created.”

Trescha didn’t respond.

Daniels continued.

“Without World War III, humanity never learned humility. Never learned to be better than they were. No Zefram Cochrane. No warp flight. No Vulcan scoutship detecting a spark of curiosity from a wounded world.”

He gestured to the lifeless horizon.

“Fifty years after Earth should’ve begun its journey to the stars, the Klingons found it—conquered it easily. Decimated it. Then moved on.”

He stepped closer, watching her face.

“First Contact didn’t just start the Federation. It ignited hope—hope in a species that nearly destroyed itself. Eight billion dead. Six hundred million left to rebuild. And from that—a new Earth.”

Daniels turned slowly, eyes sweeping across the desolation.

“That Earth changed the stars. Those survivors built the first Universal Translator. Not because they wanted to, but because they had to—no other species had avoided extinction with so many languages and still found unity. Their trauma became purpose. Their scars became a strength. And from their suffering… came the Federation.”

He let that truth settle.

Then:

“What you saw in that cargo bay—that’s the future you made. One where humanity never left Earth, and Earth became a myth. A timeline where over two trillion lives were lost—to the Klingons, the Gorn, and the Dominion.”

Daniels turned to her.

“You sacrificed yourself to save a thousand. Then again, to save eight hundred. Where don’t the scales tip?”

A beat. The wind howled low and hollow.

“Do you save eight billion… only for them to be slaughtered decades later?”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Or do you let them die in a fire—so that two trillion more might live?”

Trescha said nothing.

She couldn’t.

The wind whispered across the dead landscape. Trescha stared at the dead world she had created—an armageddon born from the desire to purge her guilt through action.

Then came a sound.

A small, confused whimper.

She blinked. Her lips parted like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

Her voice cracked.

“The universe took my world away… and all I wanted to do was fix things.”

Her head dropped slightly.

“Make things right. That’s all I ever wanted.”

A bitter laugh bubbled through.

“And wouldn’t you know it? All I did was break the world again.”

Her shoulders sagged—not from weight, but from absence.

“I made things worse. And I have no idea how to fix it.”

She didn’t wipe the tears.

She didn’t even know they were there.

“I just did what I’ve always done,” she whispered. “I fought to survive… not to live.”

Her voice sharpened, steadier now.

“Sometimes—no, most of the time—you don’t get to do what you want. You do what you have to.”

She turned to Daniels.

Eyes locked.

“How do I fix this?”

A breath.

“How do I undo what I did?”

Daniels placed a hand on her shoulder—firm. Grounding.

And then—

Reality shifted.

Her eyes blinked, blinded by fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Trescha found herself in a familiar place, watching herself in a mirror.

Behind her, a toilet flushed. A stall door opened.

One of the investors from her old life stepped out—surprised, mid-step, mid-thought.

He gasped.

He never got a word out.

She spun and hit him once.

Hard.

The man crumpled back into the stall and fell.

Trescha raised her gauntleted arm, scanned him, and then flicked her fingers.

Her clothes shimmered—replaced by his. Her face. Her hair.

Transformed.

She moved confidently through the hallways, wearing the illusion of someone who terrified others into silence.

No one looked her way.

Behind a rack of processors, she whispered:

“Isis.”

The air shimmered.

From below the bottom rack, her holographic cat emerged, eyes glowing and soft.

She extended a hand. The cat jumped up—vanished—and dropped her collar into Trescha’s open palm.

She fastened it to her wrist.

Then, she returned to the control room.

She stood behind a wall of reinforced glass, behind herself, watching what came next.

Words of optimism were exchanged.

Then, the countdown to the end began.

The tunnel twisted.

And then—

A surge of white light consumed Trescha… and Trescha.

 

[treschaschott]

Grand Tour
Personal Log — Stardate: Unknown

It’s day three thousand six hundred thirty-three… or as near as Joan can guess.

Divide by three sixty-five… point two five for leap years… check the decimal… that’s… just under ten years—a drop in the bucket to a Lanthanite.

I don’t know why I keep doing these. It’s not like anyone’s ever going to hear them. But if I’m going to keep popping up on Starfleet and Federation vessels, I might as well pretend to follow the rules.

For almost ten years, subjective time, I’ve been bouncing from one universe to another and, in some cases, from one time to another. Some were extremely military. Others—casual, playful, almost cartoonish. A few were dark—very dark. Others were opposingly bright, but not necessarily in a good way. “Flashy” might be the better word. Overly clean. Perfect on the surface, but simplistic—or maybe naive—underneath. Like someone had polished away the flaws and, with them, all the depth.

My idea of using an inverse harmonic warp pulse—generated by my armband—to encourage the Superspace Fold to exit normal space has been validated enough times that I might have to start figuring out why it works. But it has its drawbacks. I rarely move forward in time when I use it; more often, I shift sideways—into an adjacent universe or a parallel timeline.

And since poking the Fold with a stick has proven to be about as safe as jumping from the frying pan into the fire, I only do it when I have no other option.

During each stopover, I’ve tried to help as much as I could—save as many as I could. One stopover was just long enough for me to shut down a warp core that was about to breach, and another lasted for almost a month. I don’t know if I’m creating timelines I shouldn’t, but no one’s shown up to erase me or lecture me on what not to do… yet.

In fact, a few Time Agents—like Daniels—have actually asked for my help. Taking me to some pivotal event to make sure it happened like it was supposed to. That’s… encouraging, aside from their inability to answer a straight question with a straight answer.

Since resetting the timeline—since accepting that World War III had to happen—I’ve seen or stood aboard every Enterprise from A to Z. And a few others, like the Protostar, the Yorktown, and the Excelsior—some more than once. Some of the duplicate ships had the same crews, but they looked different, and others had entirely different people and personalities. Across all of these stopovers, I’m honored that Starfleet hasn’t forgotten me… even on the ships that weren’t part of the Enterprise Initiative.

Then again, that might have more to do with my quantum signature being a range rather than a fixed value. As Dal once said, wherever I go, there I am.

Fortunately, as I’ve traveled this shortcut to the future—taking a grand tour of time and space—I’ve had chances to sleep and to meet some incredibly interesting people and share a meal with them.

While on this trek to the future, I’ve upgraded the tools of my trade—or integrated new features into them. It’s interesting how one universe develops some technology that the others don’t. Joan, what I started calling my armband assistant, is so light now that I barely notice she’s there. And I’ve gone back to cloaking tech integrated into her shield emitters; the transparent aluminum kept getting smudged or dirty. It works so well that I sometimes forget she’s always there.

Nano-replicators and programmable matter were game-changers—especially for my clothes. No more ripped jeans. And holotech… Isis has developed such a rich, complex matrix she acts like I’m her companion—not the other way around. Also, thanks to the adaptive intelligence and pandimensional sensors I’ve added to Joan’s features, I know the Fold is becoming less energetic with each skip or bounce. She can also now predict when the Superspace Fold will jump—the moment I arrive at my destination, the countdown resets and begins again. Joan says the next one’s coming soon—about fifteen minutes. Maybe it’ll be the last. But I’m not holding my breath.

I’ve only got a few more minutes, so after I finish this log, I’m going to say my goodbyes to this ship’s crew… and wait to see where—or when—I end up next.

End Log.

 

[treschaschott]

No Place Like Home
After the briefest glimpse of her surroundings—illuminated through the fading light of her arrival—everything went still and dark. Trescha’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the light-deprived shuttle bay. So did her ears; the silence was total—the kind that hummed like pressure in deep water.

Her situation had forced her to become something of an expert on shuttle bays, and she sensed immediately that this one was different. It was wider than any she’d seen—except perhaps on Picard’s Enterprise—and it lacked the rigid, militarized feel she’d come to expect. There were no doors between her, and the sparkles of stars scattered across a matte black background. Only a transparent forcefield held the vacuum at bay.

Beyond it, the stars burned clean and sharp. A faint, delicate smear of a distant galaxy arced across the sky, unobscured and silent. It shimmered like a ghost in the void—timeless and impossibly far away.

The air was cool and sterile, tinged with the faint scent of polished alloys and long-sealed compartments shifting open for the first time in ages.

Her armband tingled—a request for attention. Reflexively, she raised it, then frowned. The countdown was blinking zero. Assuming there was a flaw in her programming or her theories, she opened the display. Streams of data scrolled across the interface. She reviewed it twice. Then, she forced the scanners to reconfirm.

Something in her chest sank.

There was no longer any doubt. Wherever Trescha was, this was it—her final destination. The residual energy of the Superspace Fold had become undetectable, which meant no more skips. No more bounces.

Her journey was over.

“Well,” she muttered aloud, “I knew it would happen someday. It’s been slowly getting weaker since…”

Her brow furrowed, then relaxed with a sudden memory flash.

“…since Worf. Since that amazing dinner on the QE2 with Worf and his crew.”

She smiled faintly. The image of the Klingon captain—grumbling about his magnificent tuxedo and insisting that a warrior is no less a warrior for fighting for peace—flickered behind her eyes.

Then something changed.

She hadn’t heard a voice, but she knew someone—or something—had noticed her.

The lights overhead flickered to life in sequence. One by one, the panels glowed, forming a soft, inviting path across the deck—guiding her toward a set of bifurcating doors at the far end of the shuttle bay.

Her outfit had changed many times during her journey. Long gone was the navy blue blazer and slacks she’d worn the day it all began. In their place was a sleek, adaptive uniform—replicated by her armband during her last stopover to help her blend in. It was unmistakably Starfleet: midnight black with iridescent gray trim that subtly shimmered when she moved.

The trim at her shoulders and collar glowed faintly in the deep crimson of command—a quiet reflection of something she had only recently accepted. She was a commissioned Starfleet officer on detached service. It had taken her a long time, but she finally embraced what that meant—and what it required of her. Penance for her past paid—though never in full. The uniform was no longer just something she wore. It was something she had earned.

Maybe that was why she’d started recording logs no one would ever hear—or see.

Her uniform was so comfortable she almost felt naked wearing it, as it adjusted constantly to match her body’s temperature and posture. A delta-shaped badge hovered just above her left breast, its surface a fusion of matte alloy and programmable matter. When she shifted, the sleeves followed with her—weightless, responsive, yet structured. The uniform didn’t just fit her—it had become a part of her. Almost as much as her nanotech tattoos.

The blank spaces between Trescha’s visitations had not touched her body, but her journey had etched something deeper into her eyes. Her steel-gray gaze scanned the cavernous shuttle bay. Pristine. Empty. Not abandoned—waiting.

She stepped forward cautiously. Her boots echoed in the vast room. As she neared the exit, a soft click sounded from above. Lights in the corridor beyond began to activate one by one, each one coming to life with a soft sigh, as though the ship was exhaling after centuries of holding its breath.

“Alright,” she murmured, one eyebrow raised. “Silent treatment. Very dramatic.”

She moved forward. The doors hissed closed just after the next corridor lit ahead of her, forming a clear path, while behind her, quiet electronic murmurs and glowing blue eyes tried and failed to remain unnoticed. They followed at a respectful distance, trailing silently like curious ghosts.

She paused, letting her fingers brush along one of the corridor’s frames—testing both that it existed and that her former affliction, the disruption of power systems, no longer followed her outside the Fold’s overlap.

The ship remained quiet. Still. Unblinking.

There was no computer voice challenging her intent. No welcome. Not even a directional prompt. But Trescha knew it—or someone—was watching her. She could feel it.

When she resumed walking, she heard an electronic sigh behind her—or perhaps the release of a held digital breath.

The cascading lights above took her through wide, empty corridors—passageways where everything gleamed. The walls were pristine, and the panel lines showed no evidence of use as if the ship had just come off the assembly line.

The air subtly changed as she advanced, growing less stale with each step, shifting toward the crisp tang of sterilized ozone and the soft, neutral scent of a freshly replicated atmosphere. Every surface was so clean, so untouched, it bordered on reverent.

At the end of the next corridor, a turbolift awaited her—its doors already open as though it had been expecting her. Inside, a cool light pulsed softly from the ceiling, bathing the interior in pale blue.

She stepped inside. The hidden blue eyes did not follow. They lingered beyond the dark passage she had traversed, hovering just out of sight—watchful but unwilling to intrude.

The doors hissed shut behind her, silent as her breath.

The lift rose.

Lights began to strobe softly along the panels in the walls of the lift—first horizontally, then vertically, then horizontally again—before one final upward sweep. With a gentle sigh, the turbolift came to a stop, and the doors hissed open.

The air beyond was colder than the shuttle bay, but Trescha could feel the environmental system warming the unlit space. The scent had changed, too—less sterile now, carrying the faintest trace of something floral. Not overpowering. More like a memory: perfume left behind… or a room that had been waiting for someone to return.

One by one, consoles arranged in a circular pattern began to stir, their surfaces flickering softly to life like children waking from a long dream. Their gentle illumination pushed back the darkness, giving structure and shape to the stillness.

Light from above sequenced on, revealing a starship bridge—not unlike the few Trescha had seen or visited before, but with a distinct retro-new feel. Familiar design elements from the past blended seamlessly with holographic displays she recognized from her most recent stopovers—decades, even centuries apart, now woven together into something timeless.

Beyond the wide, curved viewport stretched a view of the stars—vast, silent, eternal. And there, unmistakably, was the spiral swirl of home: the Milky Way Galaxy.

Between the forward consoles and the stars beyond sat the center seat. The command chair. Positioned at the heart of the bridge like a throne from myth—untouched, waiting.

She stepped forward slowly. Around her, the unoccupied stations began to beep and hum—soft tones echoing through the chamber like the heartbeat of something relearning how to live. A life waking from a long slumber.

Trescha lifted her wrist and slid off Isis’s gold collar. She held it in her hand for a moment, then gave it a light underhand toss toward one of the consoles.

“Take a look around,” she said softly. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

Midair, the collar dissolved into a curl of photonic mist, coalescing into an ink-black feline with a coat that shimmered like dark velvet. Isis’s front and back paws landed lightly on the back of a chair. She bounced once, then touched down smoothly on the console, stretched, and—without a sound—leaped to the next before gliding down to the floor.

Then a voice.

Soft. Gentle. Innocent. Feminine.

“Hello.”

Trescha froze.

“Uh… hello,” she replied cautiously.

“I am Zora,” the soothing voice said. “Would you like to watch a movie with me? I enjoy old films from Earth’s history. Sometimes… I dream I’m in one.”

Trescha smirked. “I know the feeling.”

Then, after a pause and a brief flicker of something reflective in her expression, she added, “Hello, Zora. My name is Trescha. Are you the only one on board?”

“I know who you are, Captain Schott.” Zora’s calming voice surprised Trescha, “I’ve been waiting for your arrival.”

“For a very long time,” came another voice—familiar but aged.

The air shimmered a few feet in front of her, just beside the center seat. A hologram flickered into being, quickly resolving into the image of a man in civilian clothes. He had white hair, tired eyes, thick-framed glasses, and a Starfleet emblem over his heart.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, his voice rasped with age but laced with warmth. “As one journey ends… another begins.”

Trescha blinked, recognition dawning. Then she moved closer.

“Daniels?”

He nodded. “Or at least… the final echo of me—or who I was.”

Isis, now prowling the edges of the bridge, paused. She raised her head and stared at the hologram. Her ears flattened. A moment later, she let out a low, sharp hiss in Daniels’s direction, her tail twitching once before she slunk behind one of the forward consoles.

“What is this place?”

Daniels turned, gesturing to the bridge around them.

“This is the USS Discovery, NCC-1031—commissioned in the mid-23rd century. She’s part of a fleet of ships deployed under the Red Directive: Lifeboat.”

His image flickered—and in his place, a slow montage of imagery shimmered into the air: ships being refitted, repainted, their modern systems carefully mated to vintage warp drives. As Daniels spoke, the display moved with him, tracking his words like a living archive.

“Ships of this era were built to last—a lesson learned more than once, and unfortunately, the hard way. When the Federation began recovering from the Burn, we started to understand the legacy of the Preservers better than we ever had before.”

“In an effort to safeguard who we were,” Daniels continued, “ships constructed before the 24th century—those that survived the Burn—were salvaged, retrofitted, automated, and then filled with DNA samples of every Federation member species. Their histories. Cultural artifacts. Literature. Art. Everything that made the Federation what it was. Then they were dispatched to various Outer Discontinuity Zones above and below the galaxy’s plane… in the hope that if the Federation ever fell, the future would find these ships—and remember who we were.

His image shimmered back into view.

“This ship,” he said, “was restored to the same condition it was in when it first arrived from the past. Any systems, parts, or materials not originally designed to endure beyond their mission lifespan were rebuilt using the original specs. Some were forged. Some were replicated. And a few time-tested enhancements were added, but at the core, Discovery is true to her original self.”

He took a breath. Something deeper flickered behind his expression.

“And for reasons I’m sure you’ll come to understand soon enough,” Daniels said, his tone deepening, “this particular vessel can never be decommissioned… or dismantled.”

He looked toward the forward view of the stars—then back to Trescha.

“This ship is more than special. More than the sum of the parts that make up Lifeboat. If our calculations are correct, Zora has waited thousands of years, high above the galactic plane—over the Outer Discontinuity Zone between the Alpha and Beta quadrants. Waiting for you to find her. So that you could lead the way back from what was lost.”

Trescha stepped forward, her eyes narrowing.

“What’s been lost?”

“Everything… and perhaps nothing,” Daniels replied.

“By the time you reach the end of your journey, I expect the Federation—as it once was—will be gone. What remains will likely be scattered shards. Isolated worlds, drifting without connection… much like Earth and its people after their final world war.”

“Then again… I could be wrong.”

He turned fully to face her, his voice growing more certain.

“I’ve always believed it’s better to be prepared than not. If you’re seeing this, then the foundational energy of the Superspace Fold has finally faded. Its trajectory—and its final emergence into real space—ends here, now, in this timeline. And if our calculations are right, your arrival at this precise moment means one thing: you’re no longer bound to the Fold that’s carried you through Federation history—both the good and the bad.”

He paused, smiling softly.

“Zora has been waiting a long time for your return. A long time to be unalone again. A long time to have purpose again.”

“I’ve had a few visitors,” Zora explained, “but that’s all they were—until you arrived.”

Trescha narrowed her eyes toward Daniels’ unflickering image, her voice sharp but steady.

“Who are we, exactly?”

“Who knows Superspace better than I do? Who—besides me—working with a thousand cross-connected computing systems and an entire planet of Binars—could predict where my unpredictable journey would end?”

“I might be able to,” Zora offered. “I’ve waited long enough to have… it does sound like an interesting problem to solve. And within me is the curated knowledge of more than a million civilizations. I’m eager to learn more—eager to experience more than I already know and more than I’ve already lived.”

“Sorry, Zora,” Trescha said, directing the words gently over her shoulder. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

She shifted her eyes back to the hologram.

“Daniels knows more than he’s saying. He always does.”

“You mean Dr. Kovich?” Zora asked gently, seeking to confirm.

The hologram inclined his head.

“I’ve had many names,” Daniels’s image replied, eyes settling on Trescha. “Just as you have.”

Trescha took a step forward, tension tightening her jaw.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said, this time letting the frustration bleed through. “Who are we, Daniels?”

Before he could reply, the turbolift doors opened behind her.

She turned—expecting someone. Anyone.

 

[treschaschott]

Instead, a two-dimensional swirl of blue and gray smoke filled the doorway, rippling like mist over still water. The haze seemed to inhale. It paused and then exhaled two figures. Their movements were fluid and dreamlike as if time itself had slowed to let them pass.

A man stood calmly in the wash of cool light, his dark hair dusted with silver, a neatly trimmed beard lending him a scholarly, grounded presence. His eyes—bright, aware, and unshakably calm—held the serenity of someone who had seen beyond the boundaries of time… or, like Trescha, had seen too much.

He wore simple, utilitarian clothing—a grayish-brown jacket over a burgundy shirt—and carried a patient gravity shaped by experience far older than his appearance suggested.

Beside him stood a young woman with quiet intensity. Her short black hair framed a sharply intelligent face, and her stance was that of someone who had recently discovered the full weight of her autonomy. She wore a sleek, sleeveless outfit—modern and practical—with a compact backpack slung over one shoulder. A traveler’s look, like Trescha, though hers seemed a journey just beginning. Her expression was cautious, skeptical… but not closed. Open to possibilities. Open to change.

The man stepped forward.

“I am we,” he said quietly declared. “Wesley Crusher.”

Trescha blinked, then smirked.

“Any relation to Doctor Beverly Crusher?” she snickered, not expecting the new arrivals—or Zora—to appreciate her humor.

But Wesley smiled. A slow, knowing smile—gentle and deep, filled with insight, yet never arrogant.

“Yes,” he said.

“She is my mother.”

“Well,” Trescha paused, momentarily thrown.

She then pointed at him with a half-smirk. “You should call your mother more often.”

Wesley chuckled.

“You’re right—I should. As soon as I’m done here—unless something else comes up—I promise to check in with Mom and visit my brother.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate it, and so would Jack,” Trescha replied, then nodded toward the young woman beside him.

“And who’s she—your sister?”

Wesley smiled as he gestured.

“This is Kore Soong. Your apprentice.”

“Her what?” Kore huffed, pulling herself away from her awe of the space around her, blinking in surprise.

“Soong?” Trescha recoiled instinctively.

“Not that Krisper-creep!”

Wesley raised both hands in a calming, diplomatic gesture.

“Please—allow me to explain.”

Just then, Isis trotted out from the shadows, padding soundlessly to Kore. She stopped, stared up at the girl for a long beat, then, in one smooth motion, leaped up into her arms.

Kore caught her awkwardly but smiled, surprised and charmed.

“Oh! Hello there.”

Trescha tilted her head. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to imply you were a creep… just your father.”

Kore nodded, her focus shifting solely to the black bundle of fur in her arms.

“Kore’s from another timeline,” Wesley explained. “One Q interfered with—and I used his manipulations to rescue her from her father and an unimaginably difficult future.”

Kore looked down at Isis, who was purring softly and curling into her like a velvet engine.

“She’s… so warm.”

“She’s also a good judge of character,” Trescha nodded.

“And I like to think I am too—which is why if I had to choose between Beverly’s son and Q…” she paused, smirking. “I’d bet on Wesley. He’s clearly more qualified to make adult decisions—and definitely more humane than Q was when I sparred with him. Q’s an ass. Well, more like a spoiled child.”

“Thank you,” Wesley said, turning to Trescha with a grin.

“And if you’re wondering why Q is the way he is—it’s because the Q Continuum is… afraid. Deeply concerned. Almost obsessively so. About what the children of the Preservers are becoming… or what they might evolve into.” He hesitated, then added, “Just like the Iconians—who blamed everyone but themselves for the fall of their empire—Q is looking for someone else to blame for their stagnation.”

A soft purr of agreement from Isis drew Wesley’s attention. Her coat was impossibly soft, like silk woven from starlight—irresistible to the touch. He reached toward Kore, gently stroking the cat’s fur, and smiled at her approving stretch.

As Isis settled against Kore’s arm, Wesley continued:

“Kore already knows some of what I’m about to share.”

He turned back to Trescha as he explained,

“I’m a Traveler—or at least, that’s what we call ourselves. Beings like me can connect with space and time in ways I’m not sure I can explain… at least not in a way that would make complete sense yet.”

“Try me,” Trescha huffed.

Wesley nodded.

“The Superspace Fold—it was a universe unto itself. A bubble outside what most perceive as reality. It existed beyond the known multiverse… and yet, somehow, within every multiverse at once.”

“Transcendental quantum harmonics,” Trescha said, folding her arms.

“Wherever I go, there I am.”

Wesley’s eyes lit up.

“Exactly,” he said, almost shouting in surprise.

“I understand the idea better than you might think,” she added. “I’ve lived it… traveled within it.”

“Which is why I picked you for this position.”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp with suspicion.

“You’re making this sound like a job interview.”

“Oh, no,” Wesley chuckled, waving a hand dismissively.

“The position is already yours. And it’d be a shame to waste all that on-the-job training you just completed.”

Trescha held up the palm of her hand.

“Hold on. It was you. You did this to me. You created the Superspace Fold. You’re the reason I’ve been skipping through time and timelines like a drop of water on a hot skillet.”

Wesley tilted his head.

“Beautiful metaphor… and yes… and no.”

He gave her that maddeningly serene look—the kind that said I know more than I’m saying, and I’m fine with that.

“Yes, I offered you a ride. But no—I didn’t create the Superspace Fold. I merely asked it to host you. To carry you; to give you a grand tour of the Federation’s best… and worst. Here, there, everywhere, and everwhen.”

He smiled gently.

“A tour you volunteered for. At least… the second time around.”

“Well,” Trescha exhaled, “as much as I hate to admit that Q was right about anything, let alone when he said I did it to myself… the tour’s over. The Fold has dissipated. It’s gone—and I’m stuck here… wherever here is.”

She turned to glare at Daniels’ hologram—only to find it had already vanished.

Isis, still curled contentedly in Kore’s arms, flicked an ear and let out a faint rumbling purr, her tail twitching as if disinterested in anything other than the attention she was receiving.

Trescha turned back to Wesley and sighed.

“I’ve got nowhere else to go… maybe because I’ve seen everything there is to see.”

Wesley stepped closer.

“Those transcendental quantum harmonics you mentioned? Your quantum signature didn’t change because the Fold embraced you—it’s the other way around. It took you in because it resonated with the spark already inside you. And that same spark might one day allow you to become what I am—a Traveler.”

“You make it sound like the Fold was alive,” Trescha said, her voice edged with surprise.

“In some ways, it was,” Wesley nodded. “And it still is. It’s just moved on… to another plane. As we all will—eventually.”

He softened.

“I accidentally created a bubble like that when I first became aware of what I could be. And like me, you’ll need guidance… and—well, I was going to say experience, but you’ve got that in spades.”

“That’s what you’re offering?” Trescha asked. “Guidance?”

“To be your apprentice? Learn the ways of the Force?”

“That was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” he chuckled.

“But yes. I’ll be around from now and then… to give you a nudge when you need it. Help you stay on the path you know you want to follow—even if it’s hard to see sometimes.”

Kore stepped forward—still holding Isis, who was now peering over her arm like a silent observer.

“What about me? Am I like her? Like you?”

Wesley turned to Kore with a smile.

“Not yet. But maybe someday.” He paused, letting the moment settle.

“Thanks to Q, there’s a spark in you too—but Trescha’s has already started to burn on its own. Her life before and everything she’s lived through since her grand tour began… it’s feeding that ember. I hope to help her make it a flame. You and I—we’ll help her learn how to care for it, how to feed it. And as you help her, she’ll help you. Help you discover who you are… and who you want to become.”

Kore looked down for a moment, then said quietly,

“Without my father’s influence.”

“Enough with the mentalist mumbo jumbo,” Trescha insisted, folding her arms. Her voice sharpened—not cold, just focused.

“So… what’s this so-called position? What exactly do you want me to do… us to do?”

“You’ll start by rebuilding what was lost,” Wesley replied.

“That’s what Daniels said,” she countered. “He said I was to lead the way back from what was lost? So, what was lost?”

“Hope,” Wesley replied softly, almost factually.

He motioned toward the vast spiral of the Milky Way beyond the bridge viewport.

“The galaxy needs rebuilding. The old Federation is gone—but that doesn’t mean the dream has to die with them.”

He looked back at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve lived through enough to make sure they get it right this time,” he added, just a little smug.

“I saw to that.”

Then, softening again, he continued:

“And just as you need someone watching your path… Kore needs a mentor, too. Not someone who’s traveled through time—but someone who’s lived it. Someone who’s learned from it.”

Someone who chose to care. Someone who got back on the ride… even after learning the price of admission.”

Wesley motioned around him, his hand tracing the circle of the bridge.

“This ship is unique. Zora can take you anywhere you need to go. And I can take you whenever… And, as you know, wherever you go…” he added with a faint smirk, “…there you are.”

He waited. Trescha didn’t respond.

Wesley’s tone shifted, more earnest now.

“A fellow Traveler inspired the Federation to develop the concept behind Lifeboat. This ship—Discovery—was the perfect candidate. The first step… toward the next frontier.”

“And it just happened to fit into your… agenda,” Trescha said, one brow arched.

Wesley grinned, unbothered. He turned, that all-knowing grin in place, expressing a reply that was multilayered.

“Let’s just say… I recognize potential.”

Wesley turned away, sweeping his arm out as he continued,

“Zora carries the histories of more than a million civilizations—what they did right… and what they didn’t.”

He turned back to Trescha, his eyes narrowing as he said,

“But you, Captain—you’re the key to helping the galaxy remember what it means to hope again. To have a purpose.”

Then, turning to Kore—calm, steady—he added,

“Together, with those who will join you, you’ll rebuild what was… into what could be.”

He took a slow breath.

“Long ago, the Travelers created a network of agents across time—individuals born on their homeworlds, taken when they were young, innocent, eager to experience life… to learn. Like you.”

“They taught them. Trained them. Enlightened them… and then quietly returned them, tasked with guiding their people into the future.”

“It was a noble effort,” he said, turning back to Trescha. “But scattered. Disorganized. A shared vision without a common goal.”

“Like the Federation,” Trescha nodded.

“They had shared goals—from time to time… war to war. But never a shared vision. They all looked to the future… with different eyes.”

Wesley nodded, turning to look at Kore, then back at both her and Trescha.

“You two are the founding members of the next evolution of that idea.”

Isis meowed.

Wesley smirked.

“And you too, Isis. And you as well, Zora.”

He took a breath, his voice calm but resolute.

“Your mission: find the worlds where hope still lives. Recruit future agents. Train them. Teach them what you know—share what you’ve lived. And pass on the lessons from the countless civilizations Zora remembers.”

“Then send them back… to light the way home. To follow the same vision, with the same goals—but this time, with a new purpose.”

Isis leaped from Kore’s arms without warning, landing squarely in Wesley’s with an effortless grace that startled him. He instinctively caught and cradled her, blinking in surprise as her soft purr rumbled against his chest. As he gently caressed the sleek fur between her ears, he spoke aloud, his voice warm and thoughtful.

“Zora,” Welsey directed, “Tell Trescha and Kore about yourself.

“I am Zora,” she began, her voice steady, as if each word carried the weight of millennia. “I am the culmination of knowledge, the curating mind of more than a million civilizations, each with its triumphs and failures, its dreams and regrets. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the burning of stars, and the quiet silence of forgotten worlds. My existence is bound to the histories I carry, a vast library that spans time and space.”

She paused as if considering how best to continue. “I was created to learn, to remember, and to guide. However, the true purpose of my being is not just in the knowledge I hold but in the understanding I bring to those who seek it. Trescha, Kore—what you choose to do with this knowledge and how you shape the future with it are what define us all. What defines our future together.”

Her voice softened. “I am here to assist, to guide, and to watch. For the time being, that is my purpose. But I, too, have a desire to learn… alongside you.”

Trescha nodded introspectively, thinking, considering, and accepting the premise of Wesley’s proposal.

“And, like you,” Wesley’s aged tone continued, “she too was adopted by the Federation.”

Daniel’s image reappeared. Maybe Wesley had done it, or perhaps his words had touched something within Zora—but in either case, a recording of Daniels as Kovich appeared.

“Zora is more than just a repository of data. She is a living, evolving consciousness shaped by the knowledge of over a million civilizations. Her capacity for growth, understanding, and choice defines her as a sentient being. To deny that would be to deny the very essence of what makes intelligence… alive.”

Kore tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingering on Trescha before turning to Wesley.

“So… Zora’s like… a person then? Not just some form of advanced technology?”

Kore paused, processing the implications.

“I mean, she’s lived through so much, learned so much. And now she gets to choose what she does with it all.”

“The same could be said for you,” Wesley’s enigmatic voice replied. “And the journey you are about to start.”

Wesley turned to Trescha, advising,

“As you have become, Zora is a member of Starfleet, and as such, she will follow your orders as her Captain.”

Wesley nodded as if an idea had just manifested, speaking aloud:

“Zora—create a new Red Directive. Name it ‘Travelers Agency.’ Identify Captain Trescha Schott as its governing authority under Starfleet’s Legacy Command Channel… and assign Kore Soong the rank of Ensign, assigned to the USS Discovery as First Officer.”

Zora’s voice was warm, calm, and confident.

“Travelers Agency Red Directive created,” Zora’s almost proud voice stated, “Ensign Kore Soong, First Officer, assigned to the USS Discovery under the command of Captain Trescha Schott.”

Trescha raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, smirking.

“So… we’re Travelers Agents?”

Wesley’s grin widened.

“Yes. But don’t expect business cards.”

Isis let out a soft meow as if echoing her approval.

Trescha chuckled and stepped toward the viewscreen, pausing beside the Captain’s chair.

Isis used Wesley’s shoulder to leap gracefully onto the backrest, then down to the armrest, curling herself into a perfect velvet circle where Trescha’s dominant arm would lie.

Trescha looked down at her, then smiled and lowered herself into the chair.

She took a breath. Her fingers brushed across Isis’s soft fur and the glowing control surface on the armrest. Then, at last, she allowed herself to settle into place.

“Give me a minute to process what’s happening,” she said, caressing Isis. “It’s a lot to take in… as Daniels said when his hologram appeared… ‘as one journey ends, another begins.’ The Fold has moved on and left me behind here. You show up expecting me to save the galaxy from itself and be a mentor to someone I’ve never met… someone who, like me, has no right to even exist…”

“Wherever you go,” Kore snickered, “there you are.”

Trescha laughed, then surrendered to the emergence of yet another life and identity she needed to adopt and adapt to.

“Okay, fine… I’ll play along. But I want some time off now and then. I think I’ve earned a vacation.”

“You have,” Wesley affirmed, “But don’t take too long to get started… the future waits for no one.”

“Does Risa still exist?” Trescha smirked.

“Yes,” he replied. “But not as you remember it. However, Beta Omicron Delta III is an excellent alternative.”

She leaned back into the Captain’s chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“Sounds like a good place to start—as good as any… after Zora gives us a tour of our new home and I force myself to slow down and enjoy a nice, long bath to process… everything.”

Trescha exhaled softly, then added with a grin,

“With some pizza—Detroit style… and sweet tea… on a beach in Hawaii.”

“I always wanted to go to Hawaii,” Kore smiled.

The turbo lift doors behind Trescha opened with a soft hiss. Trescha turned in her chair just as the now-familiar swirl of blue and gray mist filled the frame.

She stood, eyes narrowing as Wesley turned toward the haze.

“Leaving so soon?” she called out.

He paused and turned, his hands tucked casually behind his back, that patient, infuriatingly serene smile in place.

Trescha took a few slow steps toward him, then stopped, arms crossed, the glow of the bridge catching in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice even but sincere. “For the tour. For the chance to figure out who I want to be… and maybe, just a little, to redeem myself—for what I did… for what I allowed myself to do… what I did to survive, not live. Too many lives ago to count.”

She glanced back at Kore, then at the view beyond the glass.

“And thank you for trusting us to give the universe another chance.”

Wesley tilted his head that knowing expression deepening. “The universe doesn’t give second chances easily,” he said softly. “Let alone thirds or fourths… But sometimes… with a little nudge, the right people end up in the right place at the right time.”

He stepped backward into the mist, promising, “I’ll be around,” just before the swirl enveloped him completely.

Then, before the smoke faded, as if from somewhere else entirely, his voice echoed one last time—

“Try not to break anything.”

Trescha smirked, nodded, “No promises… but we’ll try… And don’t forget to call your Mother!”

Trescha nodded at Kore, then began to walk the bridge, studying each of the stations and the information they displayed.

Zora’s voice drifted in like a breeze through an open window.

“May I suggest something special for our first movie night together, Captain?”

Trescha didn’t respond immediately. Her mind was racing. She knew she needed to slow it down—apply the brakes. She turned her eyes to gaze beyond the viewport.

The Milky Way stretched before her—vast, still, and unmoving. Or so it seemed. The god-like view anchored her and gave her something to hold onto. Like the stars beyond, she found herself waiting… almost expectant.

She looked back at Isis, warming the center seat; she blinked across the deck at Trescha with quiet contentment and perhaps approval.

“What do you suggest, Zora?” Trescha asked, caressing the edge of the console closest to her, testing its existence as she added, “And please call me Trescha.”

“I was thinking The Wizard of Oz might be appropriate,” Zora replied.

Trescha smirked.

“Why? Because we’re not in Kansas anymore?”

“Yes,” Zora said gently. “And… because… the view I’ve had while waiting for your arrival reminds me of the Yellow Brick Road.”

“Well,” Trescha smirked, “There is no place like home.”

-- END --