Sparkling in the light thrown off by three blue giants in a trinary star system, the starship Antares had all of her sensors trained on a thoroughly unremarkable planetoid. Resembling a twenty-kilometer-long potato, the pot-marked lump of iron and carbon would not normally be worth a passing glance, let alone a detailed sensor sweep, but Antares had been sent there precisely to confirm how unremarkable it was. As part of the calibration process for the new Daren Subspace Telescope Array, which was still under construction back inside Federation space, the ship had been sent to check the validity and reliability of the massive new telescope’s readings. Even only partially complete, it was already able to observe a large swath of space between the edge of Federation territory and the Talvath Cluster itself. So far, the readings were lining up precisely: even at five lightyears away, the Daren Array had correctly detected the planetoid’s mass, composition, age, and velocity.

In addition to being a test of a new piece of equipment, it was the first task for the new crew of Antares since their arrival on the outskirts of the cluster. Originally commissioned in the late 2370s, Antares was newly-refit and ready for another several decades of front-line service. Her new bridge module shone in gleaming white and steel, contrasted by the deep purple leather upholstery on the seats. During this particular alpha shift, nearly every station was crewed, and Commander Margaret Pierce had the conn.

“Commander, all of the non-invasive tests we have been asked to perform have come back in the green. The Daren Array can be given its merit badge in space rock identification,” Lieutenant Commander Aaron Alejandro reported from the science station on the starboard side of the bridge. His Risian deputy, Lieutenant Sarcaryn, snickered from the station next to him. “The next task on the list is to close within five kilometers to extract a core sample.”

“Minimize the commentary, gentlemen,” the first officer admonished. Pierce would have happily preferred if Starfleet were a military organization if it meant that decorum could be maintained on her bridge. She also knew that she had to start with a tight grip on the senior staff to stand any chance of asserting herself during the critical process of socializing a new crew. “Helm, maintain our current attitude and close to five kilometers. Maneuvering thrusters only.”

“Ma’am… Sir…, we could save a significant amount of time if I used the impulse engines,” Lieutenant Vega replied from the helm. He had quickly corrected himself to Pierce’s preferred form of address; she resented that the gendered term ‘sir’ had become the default honorific, but she would be damned before she allowed herself to be segregated verbally because of her sex. The first officer stared at the lieutenant for just long enough to get him to back down. “But following protocol is also good. Maneuvering thrusters, aye,” the young man said.

Under thruster power, Antares closed the distance separating her from the planetoid in just about five minutes. Inching through space ensured that any unforeseen gravitational anomalies or debris would be given more than enough clearance. The last thing Pierce wanted was to charge in and scratch the paint on their first mission. She had a feeling that Captain Armstrong would likely have acquiesced to the suggestion of using the impulse engines if it meant getting this menial task out of the way more quickly, but she knew that part of her job was to make the captain look affable, indulgent, and charming, and that meant playing bad cop.

“Sir, I recommend a seven-degree roll to port to align our ventral tractor-beam generator with the target area,” Lieutenant Valia suggested from the operations station next to Vega. He was a no-nonsense rule follower, and Pierce already knew that the young man would become one of her favorite subordinates. “Particulate density is increasing at this range, so I am angling our navigational deflector to compensate.”

“Very well, Lieutenant Valia. Helm, execute a seven-degree roll,” Pierce replied.

“Aye.”

Relative to the length of the Intrepid-class ship, five kilometers was still quite far away from the planetoid, but they were practically touching in cosmic terms. The plan was simple: they would bore into the rock with one of the phaser arrays to create a meter-wide cylinder a hundred meters down into the planetoid before a second pass with the phasers at a much wider angle severed the sample at its root to allow the tractor beam to pull it out. It was far too destructive a procedure to perform on a life-sustaining world, but it was standard practice in resource prospecting. If this ball of rock happened to be home to a dilithium deposit or some other valuable resource that their sensors missed, this would help them find it.

“We’re in position,” Alejandro reported from science.

“Charging phasers,” Lieutenant Commander Lykaios reported from the tactical station directly behind Pierce’s seat. Pierce found him to be a kindred spirit, though in their short time serving together, she had found the Greek man to be even more prone to expecting the worst from the universe than she was. “Firing sequence and ready on your orders, commander.”

“Execute,” Pierce ordered.

On the viewscreen, Pierce watched as the thinnest beam one of their type-X phaser arrays could produce made contact with the surface of the planetoid, scoring a circle carefully and precisely. Once the initial incision was made, Lykaios used one of the saucer arrays at a much steeper angle to make a very wide circle to cut down into the rock and separate their core sample. For a crew as well-trained as they were, this was something they could do in their sleep.

“Firing sequence complete,” Lykaios reported.

“I’m not detecting any settling or unusual tectonic activity. We’re ready to proceed with the tractor beam,” Alejandro said.

“Ops, activate the tractor beam,” Pierce ordered.

A blue shimmer filled the viewscreen as the tractor beam locked on. Exactly as planned, a core of rock began to emerge from the hole that they’d cut with the phasers. Visually, it was the same drab grey as the surface material so far, giving no indication that there was anything hidden beneath the surface.

“I’m detecting something unusual,” Lieutenant Sarcaryn said at Science II.

“Clarify, lieutenant,” Pierce ordered.

“There was a brief burst of subspace interference on the lateral sensor array, but it’s gone now,” the young man reported. He turned his chair around to face the first officer. “Apologies, Commander.”

“If there’s an issue with the sensors, I want to know about it,” Pierce said, tapping her badge. “Bridge to Engineering. Run a level four diagnostic on the lateral sensor array,” she ordered.

“Commander, there was a brief burst of subspace activity picked up by the communications array. It could be ambient interference, but there’s nothing in this system that would normally cause that,” Lieutenant Burke reported from the communications station.

“Operations confirms. It coincided with the activation of our tractor beam, commander,” Lieutenant Valia said.

Commander Pierce tapped her fingers on the edge of the captain’s chair for a moment; there were lots of explanations for disturbances in subspace, ranging from the benign to the dangerous. In the split second she took to consider her options, the proximity alert began to sound.

“Romulan warbird decloaking 500 meters ahead, commander!” Lykaios reported from tactical.

“Red alert. Captain Armstrong to the bridge,” Pierce ordered, avoiding shouting by just the barest of margins. “Cancel that tractor beam,” she added; moments later, the blue light cut out, and the half-exposed column of rock collapsed against the planetoid’s surface.

The viewer switched just in time to catch the end of the green shimmering that revealed a Dhailkhina-class warbird, one of the symbols of the Tal Shiar and the so-called Romulan Free State. Her outspread wings were dotted with disruptor canons, and Pierce knew her hanger was full of what Starfleet was calling “Snakehead” fighters. Antares was a good 40 meters longer than her opponent, but she was significantly out-gunned and now at point-blank range. So much for their milk run.

While Commander Pierce oversaw their scientific mission, Captain Armstrong had been ensconced in his ready room to continue planning for their initial sojourn into the Talvath Cluster. His prior assignment commanding a Parliament-class utility vessel had largely meant following orders closely and going where he was told. Now, he had the ability to chart his own course and see what was out there. Little was known about the Talvath Cluster, but data was already starting to pour in from the Daren Array, and there were a wealth of options open to him: would it be observing a black hole consume a pulsar or surveying a system where there appeared to be at least seven M-class worlds.

Armstrong’s uniform jacket was hanging from a peg on the side of his standing-style desk while he read through reports and snuck in a quick bicep workout with the variable weight dumbbell set he kept in the ready room. He had trouble with idle time, and the only time he was really comfortable sitting still was when he slipped into the captain’s chair on the bridge; otherwise, he was up and active as long as he was awake.

“Incoming holographic transmission from Commodore Brett Logan. Priority One,” the computer reported.

After setting his weight back into its clip under the desk and quickly putting his jacket back on, Armstrong tapped a button to answer the call. Commodore Logan appeared in front of his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. Nothing from Starfleet ever seemed to be lower than priority one, so he wasn’t particularly excited by the interruption.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon, sir,” Armstrong said. After their briefing on Deep Space 17, Logan had taken weekly reports from each of the captains in his squadron, but Armstrong’s had been just the previous day. “How can I help you?”

“I’ll cut to the chase, captain. I just got an urgent communiqué from Fourth Fleet Command. The Romulan Free State has been protesting our construction of the Daren Array for months now, and Command has decided to offer them an olive branch to prove that we’re not spying on them and we’re not developing a new anti-cloaking system,” Logan said. “You and the Antares will be that olive branch.”

“How do you mean, sir?” Armstrong asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“We’ve offered to cooperate with the Romulans on a joint exploratory mission with full transparency. They’ll get access to your scans and the data from the Daren Array, and we’ll get their scans,” the commodore replied. He waved his hand, and a star system appeared next to his hologram. “They’re particularly interested in this system, Omega Termini, but they won’t say why.”

“Typical. Do we have anything on it?” Armstrong asked.

“There’s a G-type star and three planets, one of which is M-class,” Logan replied. “It’s not particularly interesting, but if I were trying to get a baseline on our sensor capabilities, I’d probably pick an unremarkable system, too.”

“We should’ve invited them to join our examination of this planetoid, sir,” Armstrong joked.

“Careful what you wish for. As soon as we agreed, the Romulans said that they have a ship in the area and it will rendezvous ‘soon,’” Logan said. “You’ll be working with Commander Detrama. I’m sending you everything Starfleet Intelligence has put together on her, but it’s not much. Your orders are to accompany Detrama and her ship to Omega Termini and perform a standard survey. Any questions?”

“Do we really have no idea what they’re after in Omega Termini?” Armstrong asked.

“Nothing so far. If I had to guess, they think they already know enough about Omega Termini to reverse engineer the capabilities of our telescope. Consider figuring out their motivations a secondary objective,” Logan replied.

“Understood, commodore.”

“Stay alert and good hunting, captain,” Logan said, before his hologram disappeared and the transmission ended.

“So much for charting my own course,” Armstrong muttered.

The captain gestured sideways towards the holographic display projected above his desk to move the prospective reports on a dozen more interesting star systems back to his inbox to pull up the sensor data on Omega Termini and Commander Detrama’s dossier. Before he could get too far into reading either of them, the alert klaxon sounded.

“Red alert. Captain Armstrong to the bridge,” the first officer said over the intercom.

From the forward-facing viewports of the ready room, Armstrong could see a Romulan warbird decloaking. Evidently, when the Romulans said that they had a ship in the area, they were speaking very precisely. Armstrong straightened his uniform and walked onto the bridge, entering to the starboard side of the viewscreen. Senior officers were taking their stations, and Armstrong could sense the anxiety in the room.

“Stand down red alert,” Armstrong ordered.

“Sir, they’re right on our bow,” Pierce pointed out.

“Yes, I can see that. I just learned about a minute ago that we’d be having company. We’ve been ordered to cooperate with them. Tactical, stand down before this changes from a misunderstanding into a crisis,” Armstrong reiterated.

“Aye, captain,” Lieutenant Commander Lykaios replied through a scowl.

“Captain, the Romulan ship is hailing us,” Lieutenant Burke reported.

“On screen,” Armstrong said as he took his seat.  

The viewscreen switched to an interior view of the warbird’s bridge, which was illuminated with an unsettling green hue. Sitting on the command throne was a Romulan woman in a black uniform trimmed in leather. Her long obsidian hair was gathered so that it was draped forward over one of her shoulders.

“This is Commander Detrama of the Romulan Free State. I do hope I didn’t startle you and your crew, Captain Armstrong,” the Romulan said, smirking the entire time.

“Not at all, commander. I have to credit your timing, though: we just received our orders a few minutes ago. If you had been here any sooner, we may have had a miscommunication,” Armstrong replied.

“Yes, and that would have been such a shame,” Detrama replied, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. “It was fascinating to observe your studies of this useless asteroid. Was it some sort of trial of faith for your scientists? Or a punishment perhaps?”

Armstrong chuckled. “I think you’re fully aware that we were assisting in the calibration of the telescope array your government is so interested in,” he replied. “I can share our findings if you like.”

“No need. While you were carving away, we transported a sample from the center of the asteroid. It’s just iron and carbon,” Detrama said. “I assume if we give you our findings, your ‘business’ in this system will be complete, and we can proceed on our mission?”

“How thoughtful of you,” the captain replied. He tapped a few commands into the screen on the arm of his chair to access the navigational database. “Omega Termini is three days away at warp eight. That should be plenty of time for the two of us to get on the same page. We’ll follow your lead, commander.”

“Excellent. Detrama out.”

Armstrong exhaled through his nose. This is not how he saw his day going. He watched as the Romulan ship did a pirouette and began heading away from them. He wished he could just let them go—or lob a few torpedoes at them. Nothing with the Romulans was ever simple, and he was expecting a few more shoes to drop at any moment.

“Sir, they are sending flight data and offering a handshake protocol,” Lieutenant Burke reported from the communications station. “I can set up a firewall around the rest of our systems.”

“Transmit everything we have on Omega Termini but decline a direct interface, Lieutenant. We’ll let them earn that later,” Armstrong said. “Helm, match their course and speed. Engage when they do.”

“Aye,” both lieutenants replied.

“Commander, I want the senior staff in the briefing room in twenty minutes. I need a chance to read the dossier that Starfleet sent along. The Romulans timed their arrival to throw us off balance, so we’re going to have to get a grip on this mission in record time,” Armstrong said to Pierce.

Pierce nodded. “Of course, sir. We’ll be ready for your orders.”

“Engaging warp drive,” the helmsman reported.

When Armstrong looked up, there was a flash of light from the Romulan ship jumping past the lightspeed barrier before Antares herself followed moments later. The jump to warp filled the screen with the streaks of energy and light that marked travel at speeds far above standard cruising velocities. The captain stood up from his seat.

“You have the bridge, Commander Pierce. Keep an eye on our new colleagues.”

Captain’s Log, Supplemental.

Antares remains on course to Omega Termini along with Commander Detrama’s warbird. I have reviewed the dossiers forwarded by Starfleet Command, and I find myself with more questions than answers about this mission. By all accounts, Detrama is neither an explorer nor a scientist. Her presence here introduces a variable we will not be able to account for, as her behavior so far has shown she wants to test us—to throw us off balance, even. Whatever awaits us in the Omega Termini system, we will be in the unenviable position of needing to watch our back at every turn.

The senior staff of the Antares was gathered in the briefing room once Captain Armstrong had enough time to review the information Commodore Logan had sent along. Lieutenant Commander Alejandro and Lieutenant Serala had also been given a chance to review the data on Omega Termini and Commander Detrama, respectively. Armstrong found it a little worrying that he was already needing to loop his intelligence officer in on a potential security threat, but he was glad the Vulcan former V’Shar agent had found her way onto his crew.

“I hope it will be clear to all of you the longer we serve together that I do not like to make decisions on the fly. We plan our work, and then we work our plan on this ship,” Armstrong started, hands folded on the table in front of him. Most of his twelve senior staffers were relatively junior, and he saw a mix of excitement, anxiety, and fear on their faces. “Working with the Romulans is never straightforward, and I say that only because of over two centuries of evidence to support that. Being thrust into this mission will be a challenge, but one that will make us all the stronger for tackling it.”

Armstrong paused to tap one of the buttons on the control panel set into the surface of the table. The computer projected a schematic of the Daren Array, which was a set of hexagonal sensor clusters themselves being arranged into a hexagonal dish. Green sections indicated completed parts of the superstructure, while yellow and orange sections were in various stages of construction.

“As many of you are aware, this is the Daren Subspace Radio Telescope Array, which is being built in the Zeta Asteropes system at Deep Space 404, code-named Overwatch Station,” Armstrong explained. As he spoke, the computer expanded the view and projected a parallelogram out towards a dot representing the Antares. “This array is designed to provide extremely precise stellar cartographic readings and will eventually be able to reach the entirety of the Talvath Cluster by the end of 2405. The Romulan Free State is concerned that we are actually building a spy telescope.”

Dr. Lai cleared her throat. “Are we actually building a spy telescope?” she asked.

“No. The position the array is in is optimized to scan entirely in the wrong direction for that,” Armstrong replied. “It would take weeks to reposition it and give the Romulans unambiguous evidence that we were peaking across their borders.”

The captain paused again to zoom in on the area of space they were headed to, which contained Omega Termini. It was on the extreme edge of the Talvath Cluster in an area still considered merely ‘deep space.’ Interestingly, it was also on the outer edge of the Daren Array’s current range, suggesting the Romulans were aware of that fact.

“To demonstrate our peaceful intentions, Starfleet Command has agreed to a joint survey mission with the Romulan Free State. We will provide fully transparent access to our scientific results from our scans of this system as an olive branch,” Armstrong explained. “Commander Alejandro, what do we know about Omega Termini?”

The chief science officer looked down at his notes for a moment and then up at the map. He gestured towards it, and the computer took his cue to zoom in on the Omega Termini system. A terrestrial world circled a yellow sun, with much smaller rocky planets on either side of its orbital path.

“Containing three planets, Omega Termini is a relatively unremarkable system. Initial scans haven’t picked up any non-replicable resources like dilithium or latinum, and the one M-class world present is a little too warm and a little too high gravity, and a little too humid to be very pleasant for most Federation species other than maybe the Bolians,” Alejandro reported. “A closer look might reveal more favorable conditions if the planet is less dense than we believe, but the spectrographic analyses from the Daren Array have been remarkably precise so far.”

“Apparently, the Romulans were very insistent on visiting this world with us. Are there any clues at all why?” Armstrong asked.

“None that I could see, sir. Though, if they have our attention focused here, maybe they’re trying to keep our eyes off of something else?” Alejandro speculated. He glanced at Lieutenant Serala. “That seems like something that’s more up your alley, Lieutenant.”

Serala nodded. “Starfleet Intelligence is not aware of any connections between the Romulans generally or the Romulan Free State and this particular star system. I have sent an information request to the Zakdorn government to see if there are any historical records of Romulan activity in the area, but it may take a significant amount of time for them to respond. The Zakdorn bureaucracy is one of the most obdurate institutions I have ever interacted with,” the Vulcan explained.

“I don’t know what obdurate means, but they sound like a barrel of laughs,” Lieutenant Vega quipped.

The intelligence officer cocked her head. “Byzantine. Stubborn. Opaque. Resistant to reform,” she supplied.  

“I bet my vocabulary will expand to twice its current size by the end of this tour,” Vega said, winking at Serala.

“Flirt on your own time, Mr. Vega,” Commander Pierce interjected.

“Count on it, sir,” Vega replied, with the broad grin of someone who had probably been decked once or twice for opening his mouth one too many times at a bar.

Armstrong cleared his throat; as much as he’d enjoy seeing Pierce vaporize the pilot, he didn’t have the time. “Was there anything interesting in Commander Detrama’s file, Serala?” he asked.

“That is a matter of perspective, sir. It may be more efficient if I provide historical context,” Serala suggested, gesturing towards the holographic display. Armstrong nodded, and Serala tapped a command on her PADD to project a hologram of Detrama’s face, along with several Romulan starships. “As a reminder, the information presented in this briefing is classified at Starfleet level 5-Blue,” she stated.

Vega looked like he was about to sneak in a joke, but Armstrong held up a finger to cut that off at the pass.

“Commander Detrama is a known member of the Romulan Free State’s military apparatus, but Starfleet Intelligence has not been able to determine what her specific relationship is with the Tal Shiar. Detrama was born in the 2330s and is known to have served for many decades within the Romulan Imperial Navy, thanks to records obtained by the Romulan Republic. She did not begin her association with the Free State until after the fall of Rator last year,” Serala explained. “Until thirty minutes ago, when it was directly observed no longer to be the case, Starfleet had assumed she was still in command of a D’Deridex-class battlecruiser, the IRV Saehir, a vessel she was known to command during the Dominion War.”

Armstrong nodded. “That would put her in her 40s as a commander of a major Romulan warship. Impressive,” he observed. “Her current vessel is significantly smaller. Why would she give up the Saehir?”

“Starfleet Intelligence has observed a preference amongst the Free State for smaller, more agile warships. Unlike other factions, they have been particularly active in scrapping and repurposing older, larger vessels,” Lieutenant Serala explained.

“If I could just jump in as well, sir, the readings we got off of Detrama’s ship before she went to warp were nothing you’d sneeze at. I’d wager that there’s nearly as much power running through that vessel as one of their old battleships–the D’Deridex has a lot of empty space to increase its silhouette as an intimidation tactic, and this thing’s all lean muscle and no hollow bird bones if you’ll pardon the analogy,” Lieutenant Commander Navarro, chief engineer, added. 

Enthusiastic to a fault, Armstrong had yet to have a conversation with her that didn’t feature the young woman speaking so quickly that she nearly ran out of breath. He nodded at her.

“Noted, Ms. Navarro. That’s a good reminder not to let our guard down,” he said. “Serala, is there any indication of a specific ulterior motive here?”

“Not at this time, captain,” Serala replied. “The Free State is considered to be passively hostile towards the Federation. While there have been individual skirmishes outside of their borders, they have typically disavowed the perpetrators as ‘rogue actors’ and remain a party to a number of diplomatic agreements with the Federation,” she explained. “Given that we are currently engaged in an active state-sponsored operation, it would be illogical for Commander Detrama to attack unless provoked.”

“The Romulans aren’t always known for their logical thinking, regardless of their physiological and historical connections to the Vulcans, though,” Counselor Andrews chimed in. He was seated next to his husband and the ship’s communications officer, Lieutenant Burke. Technically, Andrews was Andrews-Burke, and Burke was Burke-Andrews, but they had mercifully decided to use their given names on duty. Even still, Armstrong was still having trouble keeping that straight. “Working with a Romulan warbird will be a significant morale challenge for the crew on this mission, sir.”

“Well, I know the feeling, counselor,” Armstrong admitted. He rapped his fingers on the table for a moment as he thought of ways of addressing that. “We’re three days away from our destination. We also have a brand-new recreation deck. Counselor, can I trust you to arrange some activities to keep the crew’s minds occupied?” he suggested.

Andrews blushed slightly. “Of course, captain,” he said, though his lack of confidence was extremely evident; Andrews didn’t really strike Armstrong as a party person, anyway.

“There’s no use ignoring them, though. Commander Pierce, schedule a tactical drill for each shift. Mr. Windsor and Mr. Lykaios will coordinate,” Armstrong added, looking from his first officer to second officer and tactical officer. “Is there anything I’m forgetting?” he asked, looking around the room. “No? Dismissed, then. Let’s get this done.”

“Captain, may I please speak to you with the first and second officers?” Lieutenant Serala asked as the others started to get up.

Armstrong nodded. Though the rest of the staff made some curious glances at the four who would be remaining in the room, they seemed to understand that the intelligence officer asking for a private moment wasn’t something for them to argue about. 

“Computer, seal the conference room doors. Authorization Serala Beta-Three,” Serala ordered. The computer chimed its assent, and Armstrong heard the door’s magnetic seal engage with a clunk. “Captain, Commanders, this portion of the briefing is classified at Starfleet level 9-Red.”

“We got that from the sealed doors. Carry on, Lieutenant,” Armstrong said. 

“As you are aware, Starfleet’s scientific equipment and engineering schematics are not usually classified. However, the Daren Array has tactical functionality that has been deemed need-to-know information,” Serala said.

“So it is a spy telescope?” Lieutenant Commander Windsor asked, incredulity and fascination immediately visible on his face. He had Navarro’s eagerness with slightly more control over the speed of his voice and an outward naïvete that Armstrong found endearing. “Or… a weapon?”

“Neither, commander,” Serala demurred. “At its highest resolution settings and once fully complete, the Daren Array is theoretically capable of defeating most known cloaking devices.”

Armstrong was stunned. A device like that could alter the balance of power in the quadrant, and that’s something that the Romulan Free State would be furious about if they knew. What’s more was that while not technically at odds with the letter of their mission, not revealing this capability to the Romulans definitely didn’t align with its spirit. 

“How?” Commander Pierce asked.

“The Daren Array is—or will be—an extremely sensitive device that can detect minute variations within subspace to infer the presence of objects in normal space. All objects with mass distort subspace proportionate to their mass,” Serala noted. “While modern cloaking devices can correct for this distortion, ambient tachyons are still impacted, and the Daren Array may be able to observe a cloaked ship.”

Pierce nodded. “Normally, we would need a coherent tachyon beam passed between two separate sensor arrays to detect a cloaked ship. You’re saying that this system could function like a tachyon detection grid but without the grid itself?” she asked.

“That is approximately correct, commander. This is only a theoretical functionality, however,” Serala confirmed. Armstrong gave her a quizzical look, which she interpreted correctly. “We are close enough to the Daren Array to have near real-time data from its sensors. Starfleet Intelligence has created a processing algorithm within the codec that interprets that data to substitute local tachyon readings from the receiving starship over any the Array might actually be reading.”

“So on the off chance that this system can detect a cloaked ship, we won’t have access to that information,” Pierce said.

“But neither will the Romulans since we have to share our data with them,” Windsor supplied.

The Vulcan nodded. “That is correct. However, Starfleet has ordered the closest subspace relay station to lock onto Antares to supply a live broadcast of the Federation News Service. Ostensibly, this is so we can route that data to Arcturus and Apollo, but a code has been created to inform us if a cloaked ship is detected.”

“Surely the Romulans would see any of that,” Armstrong pointed out.

“We do not believe so, sir, as it is not a literal code in the transmission. If the transmission cuts out, it is because Overwatch Station has detected a hidden ship within one light-year of the Antares,” Serala explained. “Again, this is only a theoretical capability of the Daren Array.”

“What do we do if the Romulans want detailed tachyon scans during this survey?” Windsor asked.

“That wouldn’t be standard for a planetary survey. But everything we’ve seen so far suggests the Array is extremely accurate, so it shouldn’t be unusual that our readings would match the Array’s precisely,” Armstrong said. “I don’t suppose your briefing notes say whether this theoretical functionality was developed on purpose or not?” he asked, smirking slightly.

“They did not,” Serala replied, blinking impassively.

“That’s Starfleet Engineering for you–so goddamn good at innovating that they may end up starting a war by building a telescope that’s too good at its job,” Armstrong observed to no one in particular. The wheels in his mind whirred as he thought of a way forward. “If you were to want to detect a cloaked ship, how would you do it without a tachyon scan?” he asked, looking between Serala and Pierce.

“If we’re talking about a known vessel like the one we’re following, I’d try to attach a physical transmitter to the ship. If it were activated, they’d notice it immediately, so I’d leave it offline until they cloaked,” Pierce suggested.

“Like tagging an astrozoan. Plan A,” Armstrong replied.

“That is a sound tactic if it can be done surreptitiously. Tagging a member of the crew with a viridium patch would provide another avenue of detection,” Serala offered.

“Could that be introduced while on the transport pad?” Armstrong asked.

Serala thought for a moment. “That is a stratagem the Romulans themselves have used. When they retrieved one of their agents, known to us as the Vulcan ambassador T’Pel, by beaming her off of a Starfleet transporter pad while simultaneously depositing organic residue to fake her death,” she said. “If we applied a similar principle, we could use a second simultaneous transporter beam to beam a viridium patch or other similar tracker onto someone leaving the Antares without it being picked up by the receiving pattern buffer.”

“Lots of room for that to go wrong,” Armstrong murmured. “Plan B, then.”

“Sir, I think I’m missing something: wouldn’t tagging the Romulan ship provoke them?” Windsor asked.

“Probably. They’re probably expecting that, though–if they cloak, I want a credible explanation of how we would be able to track them. A tracker on their hull or on one of their crew might spark an incident, but revealing that we may have stumbled onto a way of detecting their entire fleet is likely to escalate,” Armstrong said. “Commander, I want us to be ready for both plans,” he added, looking at his first officer. He smirked. “I guess Plan B means we need to invite them over for dinner.”

“Does he get that I’m a psychiatrist, not a morale officer?” Lieutenant Burke complained, absently tracing paths with the pads of his fingertips across the bare skin of Lieutenant Andrews’s bare chest. Captain Armstrong had ordered him to arrange a morale-boosting event for the crew, and the idea of planning a party was about as appealing to him as stepping out of an airlock without an EV suit. After a reprieve of enjoyable physicality with his husband, the oxytocin and afterglow were wearing off to the point that he was starting to get grumpy again. “How about a chess tournament?” he suggested.

Andrews chuckled, the mid-range timbre of his voice hitting Burke at the same time as he felt a deeper rumble within his partner’s chest from the way he was lying on top of him in the bedroom of their shared quarters. “I’m not sure that has the broadest appeal,” the other man said in the gentle tone Burke had come to associate with Burke Andrews him back down to Earth. “I think you’ve run into the number one rule with working for a Starfleet captain.”

“Namely?” Burke asked, sitting up a little to look Andrews in the eye.

“If you point out a potential problem, you’re going to be the one who has to solve it,” Burke said with a smile. “Psychiatrist or not, as ship’s counselor, you’re pulling triple duty as diplomatic officer and morale officer, too.”

Andrews scoffed and flounced back down on top of Burke’s chest, prompting his partner to run his fingers through his wavy brown hair. The two men had both started at Starfleet Academy in 2390 and were assigned as roommates. By the end of their first year, they were dating. By the time they graduated as ensigns, they were engaged. After Andrews spent four more years at Starfleet Medical Academy, adding a medical doctorate on top of his training as a counselor, and Burke earned one in linguistics, they were married. While Andrews finished a two-year residency in psychiatry at Starfleet Medical in San Francisco, Burke was assigned to the Starfleet Communications Research Center a few blocks away to help refine new universal translation algorithms. Now, the two of them were both on their first deep-space assignment together, and Andrews wasn’t sure that he’d understood what he was signing up for. Amazingly for a mental healthcare professional, he wasn’t exactly a “people person.”

“I just think he should have given this assignment to one of the jocks,” Andrews said.

“‘One of the jocks?’” Burke repeated.

“Vega or Windsor. They both have that ‘I was popular in high school’ energy to them. Windsor’s basically like a great, big golden retriever puppy, too,” Andrews clarified. He wrinkled his nose slightly. “They don’t give off ‘Starfleet’s Best and Brightest’ energy.”

Burke chuckled. “That’s a little harsh. You say the word ‘jocks’ like you didn’t marry one,” he reminded him.

“You have a doctorate in xenolinguistics,” the counselor replied.

“Windsor has the Starfleet Medal of Honor, and he outranks us even though he’s a year younger than we are,” Burke said, stroking his hair again. “I agree about the golden retriever thing, but I wouldn’t put him and Vega in the same category. Vega seems a little—”

“Vainglorious? Smug? Compensating for something?”

“I was going to say ‘insecure,’ but those words probably apply, too,” Burke agreed. He sat up to recline on the headboard between their bed and the viewports, slipping through Burke’s grip to leave his down near his navel. “Why are you acting like the gravity’s been turned all the way up, C.?”

“General ennui,” Burke replied, voice muffled. He remained where he was for a few more seconds before his brain complained loudly enough about the difficulty he was experiencing in taking in oxygen because of the way his face was mashed into Burke’s abs. He sat up, crossing his arms as he nestled himself in next to his husband, leaning against his side. “Isn’t my moodiness my most attractive quality?”

“The Greeks might say ‘Ἰατρέ, θεράπευσον σεαυτόν,’” Burke said, always prone to breaking out a Classical quotation where it might be even partially applicable. Andrews had only gone one semester into Greek—to try to impress Burke—and he was barely sure that the phrase was in that language, let alone attempt to translate it himself. “‘Physician, heal thyself,’” the linguist supplied.

“Hmm. I have another phrase for you: ‘do as I say, not as I do,’” Andrews said. “You’re such a nerd.”

Burke laughed. “Weren’t you just saying that’s what made you like me, even though I’m a ‘jock’?” he asked.

“Sort of—your nerdiness and jockitude balance each other out. It’s a yin-yang situation,” Andrews teased. He craned his neck up to kiss him briefly. “Or maybe like sea salt and chocolate.”

“I think the word you’re looking for there is ‘athleticism,’” Burke observed.

“Whatever,” Burke said, but the observation about different aspects of Burke’s personality and lifestyle coming together to form his extremely attractive husband gave him an idea. “Have you met Lieutenant Hidalgo, yet?” he asked.

“Yeah, at the gym,” Burke said.

“Of course,” Andrews said with a slight tut. “Well, he’s Windsor’s fiancé, and we could probably use at least one set of couple friends… Between the three of you, perhaps you would be a useful focus group to consider options for a morale-building exercise.”

“I might phrase it to them as your hope that they can help you brainstorm,” Burke suggested, being the wordsmith that he was. “But, that does sound like an elegant solution if you’re nervous about doing a good job with this,” he said, his voice creeping upwards in pitch and uncertainty towards the end of that sentence.

“I would dispute that, but you’re right,” Andrews replied. “Now, if the assignment were to optimize the crew’s brain chemistry, I’d be all aboard with some sort of atmospheric agent, but I don’t think that will cut it here.”

“Gassing the crew to make them forget about the Romulans is probably a bad idea, anyway,” Burke agreed. He pecked Andrews on the temple. “Well, my anti-social darling, let’s go see what the anthropomorphic golden retriever and his fiancé think.”

The recreation deck aboard the Antares was a large two-deck venue on the aft end of the saucer section, right above the aft torpedo launchers. Added during the ship’s most recent refit, it was one of many improvements that had been made to the ship’s ability to support its crew in comfort on long voyages. The lower level was just down the hall from the ship’s fitness facilities, and the upper level opened directly into the ship’s pool. While the ship also had a significant number of holosuites and two holodecks for large groups, the physical recreation spaces meant that more of the crew could exercise, relax, and/or get drunk at the same time.

Andrews and Burke were sitting on the lower level with Windsor and Hidalgo, getting to know one another over a glass of wine. While Andrews often found it difficult to open up to new people outside of a clinical setting, he found Windsor and Hidalgo to both be very easy to get along with. While Andrews and Burke were both more reserved, the other two men were on the more outgoing side and seemed to just have a more spontaneous quality.

“You never went to the rec deck on the Republic or the Exeter on your cadet cruise? Some of my favorite academy memories were playing shuffleboard,” Lieutenant Commander Windsor asked, looking genuinely surprised as he held a glass of wine in midair in front of his face. His other arm was draped on the back of the sofa he was sharing with Hidalgo, his absurdly long reach projecting an air of both strength and affability. “This has a lot in common with the old Constitution design. It’s an awesome throwback.”

“I didn’t do a training cruise on a starship. Just a few days at a time for the safety certifications,” Counselor Andrews explained; he had been marveling at how innovative the design seemed. He chuckled. “Clearly, I shouldn’t be making comments about astronautical engineering,” he offered.

“Don’t worry about it. Nate’s a big nerd when it comes to ships, and I say that as an actual engineer,” Hidalgo said, grinning at Andrews. “You’re right that this is an impressive design, though, not because of the architecture but because of how the Corps of Engineers managed to reduce the size of the fuel tanks that used to occupy this space without reducing our range.”

“That’s what they’ll be saying about the Antares all over the fleet: ‘Get a look at her petite fuel tanks!’” Windsor laughed before taking his long-paused drink of wine. “I’m glad you reached out. One of the most exciting parts of a new assignment is making new friends.”

“He’s so sensiblero,” Hidalgo said, teasing just slightly. Andrews agreed with that sentiment entirely, though something so sappy and saccharine seemed perfectly on-brand for Windsor to say. “Agreed, though.”

“A nuevos amigos,” Burke offered while raising his glass. The four men clinked their glasses together over the low table between them and then sat back. Andrews smiled when he felt Burke’s hand on his lower back. “I was on Spacedock before this, and this is Caden’s first deep-space assignment, so I’m sure we have a lot to learn from you,” he said to tee up the request Andrews was about to make.

“Specifically… What do you think might be a good activity to work on morale? The captain would prefer it if the Romulan ship wasn’t at the forefront of everyone’s mind,” the counselor asked. “I’m not really that kind of counselor. The hyper-social type.”

Hidalgo chuckled. “Isn’t that kind of like being a blind painter?”

“I prefer to think of myself as someone who defies expectations,” Andrews quipped.

“We generally like gatherings of this scale more than group events,” Burke clarified, gesturing to the four of them. Andrews could see the wheels in his mind whirling, though. “You mentioned shuffleboard earlier, though… I’m sure the computer could make that happen with the holoprojectors.”

Windsor’s eyes lit up. “I bet I’m not the only one who remembers that. A little friendly competition is a great way of building strong teams,” he said.

“Couldn’t that be a little… cruise ship?” Andrews asked as he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Why not lean in on that? A full Caribbean cruise experience: margaritas, dancing, and a shuffleboard tournament. Open up the doors to the pool upstairs, and bam: our very own Risa,” Hidalgo enthused. “With the right balance of chemicals in the environmental control systems, we can even add an ocean-scented breeze.”

“But without all the gross parts,” Windsor added.

“Yeah, just salt and flowers. Not fish leavings,” Hidalgo agreed.

The two men kept bouncing ideas off of one another while Burke tossed in a few of his own. Andrews was torn between slight alarm at how rapidly the three other men had begun to formulate a plan without him and satisfaction that he had found other people to arrange the social occasion for him. Almost all of it sounded like a specific version of Hell built just for him, though.

“You don’t look like you’re onboard, Caden,” Windsor observed, offering him an empathetic smile. “Sometimes, I can get a little carried away. I didn’t mean to hijack your project.”

“No, no. I’d be very happy just to let you do whatever you feel is best here,” Andrews replied. He swirled his wine a little. “It would be nice if there were something on offer for the introverts, though.”

“The two side lounges are more private. Cocktails and jazz in one?” Windsor suggested.

“And maybe chess and board games in the other?” Hidalgo added.

Andrews tossed an ‘I told you so’ look at his husband at the mention of chess, smiling as the idea really came together. After a few more minutes, the counselor was able to outline the full idea in a memo to the captain and first officer on his holoPADD.

“You two are probably the most efficient focus group I’ve ever facilitated,” the counselor noted.

“He’s joking,” Burke interjected. “In his weird little borderline-Machiavellian way.”

“I appreciate the insight,” Andrews said, hoping that sounded more sincere. “He thought my plan to just alter everyone’s brain chemistry with aerosolized psychoactive compounds was a step too far,” he added, getting a slightly nervous look from their two new friends and a nudge from his husband. “Also a joke. Psychiatrists are known for wanting to throw a drug at any problem we encounter.”

Windsor laughed. “You’re pretty unlikely to phase us; sarcasm is basically his first language,” he said, nodding to Hidalgo. “This is really all a set-up so I can wipe the deck with all of you at shuffleboard, you know.”

“‘Ship’s Shuffleboard Champion’ isn’t nearly as impressive as you think it is, babe,” Hidalgo said, shaking his head. He finished his glass of wine and set it down on the table. “So what’s next? Who’s up for tequila shots?”

Andrews and Burke looked at each other for a moment and then shrugged. Neither of them was particularly adventurous in that way, but it wasn’t often that they had a chance to make a good impression with new people on a new ship. Besides, at least to Andrews, the idea of spending the next two-and-a-half days accompanying a Romulan warbird fully sober was not appealing at all.

“Hit me,” Andrews said, smiling again.

After a day at warp eight, Antares was still more than five light-years and two days of travel away from Omega Termini. At that range, the ship’s own long-range sensors were able to get a better picture of the system than the Daren Array was able to provide, and nothing they were picking up was particularly exciting or encouraging. In fact, once she had confirmed there were no obvious signs of inhabitation, Antares would likely have bypassed the system entirely to leave it for follow-up by a lesser cruiser or surveyor—if they hadn’t been on special orders to perform a survey with the Romulans, that was. Lieutenant Commander Alejandro and Lieutenant Sarcaryn were focusing on the most interesting feature of the system to them as biologists: the sole M-class world.

“Based on its orbital distance and inclination, as well as our spectrographic assessment of its atmosphere, we can predict that Omega Termini III will have surface temperatures approaching 37 degrees over most of its surface, with high humidity,” Alejandro said, recording notes as he circled around a holographic model of the planet hovering above the dais. From the presentation lab on deck 10, he’d been able to see all of their readings in massive detail with a setup mirroring the astrometrics lab on the other side of the ship. “Surface water appears to be roughly 50%, with an expected gravity of 1.79 G.”

“Not exactly a tropical paradise,” Lieutenant Sarcaryn replied from the control console below where Alejandro was.

“Says the Risian. Next to your homeworld, everywhere else is Class-Y,” the commander teased. He realized that Earth had the same weather control system that Risa did, but the Risians seemed to know how to calibrate theirs so much better. “Until we get a clear picture of the geography, it’s hard to predict biome distribution unless you’re seeing something that I’m not.”

“Not presently. I’ve prioritized a survey team rotation schedule that will mix in personnel from operations, medical, and engineering to ensure we’re not spreading ourselves too thinly if we do end up needing to send ten teams down,” Sarcaryn said, tapping a button to display a set of rosters on the large screen behind Alejandro.

For an initial survey, the standard protocol was to gather data from all of the planet’s major biomes to check for sentient life. On an arid class-L world like Mars, that was easy, as there was only one biome. On an M-class world, there could be dozens. Luckily, regulations allowed for a starship captain to cap the number of survey sites to 10 as long as a representative picture of the planet’s surface could be created. Captain Armstrong had made it very clear that he wanted to spend as little time in the Omega Termini system as possible and had pre-authorized a plan to send all ten teams down at the same time once a senior officer away team confirmed a lack of hazards.

“Look at you go,” Alejandro complimented. He liked Sarcaryn a lot, even after just a few weeks of serving with him. He was friendly, efficient, intelligent, and eager to please. “Let’s also make sure that extra water packs are distributed and that someone on each team is either from medical or cross-trained. I’d rather not have Dr. Lai on my case about heat stroke.”

“You’ve got it,” Sarcaryn said, looking down to make a note.

The doors to the lab opened to admit Captain Armstrong, who was reading something off of the holographic PADD he was holding in the palm of his hand. The two science officers stood up straight, but he waved his hand to let them remain at ease.

“I’m just going over your initial survey plan, gentlemen. I’d like to use the Scorpio to survey the two inner planets. They’re extremely unlikely to support life, and we can shave two days off of this mission if we multi-task,” Armstrong announced, referring to the ship’s integrated aeroshuttle runabout. The normal procedure would be for the ship to spend one day on each of the inner planets before two days on the class-M one. Using the aeroshuttle would let them do both at the same time. “Mr. Sarcaryn, are you up for leading that science team?”

“What’s mine is yours, Captain,” the Risian man purred, nearly making Alejandro roll his eyes. The captain didn’t seem to notice—or at least he didn’t seem to mind. “However, I should note that someone from planetary science might be better equipped to handle that task than I am.”

Armstrong chuckled, dismissing his holodisplay and clipping the PADD to his belt. Alejandro saw him looking the lieutenant up and down for a moment, which made him actually roll his eyes. The captain crossed his arms and leaned up against one of the control consoles to face both scientists.

“Probably. But you know enough about geophysics and geochemistry to handle a survey like this if you’re the deputy science officer aboard a Federation starship, mister,” Armstrong said. “I am obviously the most qualified science officer aboard this ship to handle such a task, but I, unfortunately, have to stay on the ship, and Mr. Alejandro gets the dubious pleasure of being one of the first beings to step foot on what is likely to be an entirely unendearing swamp world, so that leaves you to head up the remote team.”

“I do want to point out that there’s the possibility that there are factors we can’t predict at this point that would make this world less unpleasant,” Alejandro chimed in. He couldn’t help but grin at Armstrong’s confidence in his own credentials, but there was no disputing the fact that he’d had a very successful career as a planetologist and had commanded a surveyor before Antares. “But I’d take the shuttle assignment any day. You’re very lucky, lieutenant.”

Sarcaryn chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he said, glancing up at Alejandro for a moment before looking back at Armstrong. “I’ll adjust our survey rosters to account for the change in plans.”

“Excellent,” Armstrong said. “I’m sending Lieutenant Commander Windsor and Lieutenant Knox-Stanton along with you. They’ll keep you out of trouble and fly the Scorpio.”

“Do those two even fit in the aeroshuttle? I didn’t know they made pilots that tall,” Alejandro quipped. While the three men there were all roughly 1.8 meters tall, at least based on Alejandro’s perception of his own height relative to Sarcaryn and Armstrong, Windsor and Knox-Stanton were both at least ten centimeters taller, and Alejandro felt himself feeling unusually short in their presence. “That leaves space for three more specialists. It might be worth taking along some of the midshipmen? That won’t throw off our other rosters.”

“Good idea. Let Windsor know when you’ve made your choices, Mr. Sarcaryn,” Armstrong said, receiving a nod from the Risian. He glanced up at the holographic image of Omega Termini III. “You know, I usually miss getting to beam down and get my hands dirty with a good old-fashioned survey, but I think I’m fine leaving this one to you and Commander Pierce,” he said, staring at the thick clouds encircling the warm, humid world.

“Rank does have its burdens but also its privileges,” Alejandro replied, chuckling. “I’d rather be down there with a mild risk of heat stroke than up here with the Romulans, though.”

“Touché, commander,” the captain said, sighing audibly. “On that note, I’ll leave you two to continue your plans. Carry on, gentlemen,” he said before heading towards the exit. When the double doors hissed open, he paused and glanced over his shoulder at them. “Oh! While I can’t require you to take part in a recreational activity, Counselor Andrews has arranged a social event this evening, and I’m heavily encouraging you both to attend. 1930 hours on the recreation deck,” he added, letting the doors close behind him without waiting for a reply from the scientists.

“Is it mean to observe that Counselor Andrews doesn’t seem like the type of man to throw a party?” Alejandro asked.

“No, I believe that is a reasonable inference that is value-neutral,” Sarcaryn agreed, chuckling. “But I heard that he got Windsor and Hidalgo to help him plan it, and Lieutenant Burke seems way more fun, so I think there’s a distinct possibility that it could be enjoyable.”

“It has to beat staring at this ball of mud, anyway,” Alejandro said before turning off the display. “Plus… we might get to see what the first officer does at a party.”

“That would be worth the price of admission, for sure.”