The Farragut came out of warp into the path of the freighter Kelzora as it tumbled sluggishly, one engine guttering, a long wound seared along her hull. Cargo pods spun like coins tossed into space. Behind and around her, smaller shapes: a tug with a shattered spine; a passenger scow, powerless, running lights dim.

“Drop to one-quarter impulse,” Parr said, already leaning forward on the armrests of the captain’s chair. “Bring us closer to the Kelzora and raise shields until we’re sure there’s nothing unexpected.”

“Aye,” the lieutenant replied, hands already moving.

“Framheim’s long range sensors just flagged this lane,” Jevlak said from her station. “They registered multiple distress calls several hours ago.”

“Parr to Ayres, you might want to see this.”

A moment later, Ayres emerged from the ready room. Parr rose and moved to her chair, allowing Ayres to take her place in the centre seat.

“Connect me to the Kelzora,” Ayres said, getting comfortable in the chair. “Open on hailing frequencies.”

The comm sounded static and then resolved. “this is … zora…” A rattle of interference. “…anyone. We’ve got fires on three decks, life support is” A low crackle. “…children aboard. Please.”

“This is Captain Ayres of the USS Farragut,” he said, voice level but warm. “We’re here. Hold fast. We’ll render aid.”

Parr, having registered something on her console, turned her chair just enough to give him the angle of a look that meant that we are about to be interrupted. “Sir,” Kincaid raised his voice with some degree of urgency. “Multiple warp signatures. Ten… no, twelve, resolving into the sector.”

The ships emerged on the viewscreen: lean shapes stitched together from civilian hulls, armour scavenged and refitted with care. Esoteric symbols glowed faintly on their hulls.

“Red alert,” Parr snapped. “Helm, put us in a defensive posture around the Kelzora. Kincaid, be ready to respond to any aggression.”

“That’s already starting,” Kincaid said, bringing their weapons online. The first volley lanced out: pale, clean shots, not ragged raider fire, but the disciplined stabs of seasoned and coordinated crews. The Farragut’s shields flared. But held fast.

“Return fire,” Ayres ordered. “Concentrate on any ships that come close to the freighter or any of the smaller vessels with lifesigns.”

“Understood.” Kincaid worked his console with grace. Phaser beams stitched a glittering curtain across the forward quarter; small detonations blossomed where pirate craft had hoped to slip in. The Farragut rolled a fraction to ensure they retained the best firing arcs.

“Bridge to flight control, prepare to launch. You’re going into incoming fire so be careful.”

“Acknowledged,” came Elkader’s voice over comms, clear and calm, a little too cheerful in the way fighter leaders are. “Fighters scrambling.”

“Keep it tight. Your rule of engagement is to shield, shepherd, and survive. I want to keep the freighter and civilians alive until we can drive off the pirates.”

“Acknowledged, captain,” Elkader replied, haste in her voice as she was clearer preparing her fighter.

The doors to the Farragut’s fighter pod opened and the fighters spat out, one-two-three-four, a sleek quartet stretching to six and then eight as more pilots manoeuvred into space, their nacelles igniting like struck matches.

Kincaid kept the Farragut’s phasers working in tight rhythmic bursts, creating corridors of safety through which the fighters slipped. “Computer, engage anything that moves within five hundred metres of the Kelzora. Captain, I’ll focus on providing support to the squadron.”

“Transporter room,” Parr said. “Stand by to lock onto Kelzora lifesigns as soon as we can give you the opportunity. Medical, prepare for casualties.”

“Incoming!” Kincaid called. “They’re being creative, trying to overload our targeting systems.”

The Farragut’s phasers changed character, short bursts blooming into scattering clouds: invisible lattices turned briefly visible. A fountain of needle-sharp debris glittered suddenly where one of the hostile volleys met its end.

Ayres felt the deck tremble, two hits stacking at once. “Report,” he said, forcing his voice to stay in the same register it had begun in.

“Shield down to eighty-two percent,” Jevlak said. “Their weapons are unimpressive but there are many of them. What appears to be a more substantial ship is holding back, watching our behaviour.”

On cue, a larger silhouette slid into prominence on the viewscreen. Cleaner lines. No scavenged patchwork of armour. The symbols painted on its hull glowed with a sullen, sacramental light.

“Centre it on screen and open a channel,” Ayres said.

The image magnified: a cruiser of some description, clearly built for war and not trade. The channel opened. A face appeared – a mask, featureless and foreboding. The voice that came through was modulated, softened, not the bark of a raider but the kind calm of a priest.

“Federation vessel,” the voice said. “We are the Pilgrims of the Veil. Lay down your weapons and witness the threshold.”

“I’m Captain Michael Ayres of the USS Farragut. I suggest you cease firing at my ship – and the civilian vessels – and we can talk.”

“Captain Ayres. Witness the threshold. The civilians you protect are apostates. Enemies of the veil. The prophet has declared that only with their extinction will you see the path.”

Ayres did not dignify the sermon with a formal reply. “Cut the channel,” he said. “Helm, bring us between that ship and the civilians. Kincaid, get me that transporter opportunity.”

“Elkader,” Parr called into the comms, “we’re about to evacuate the freighter. Can you get us a window?”

“Copy, Farragut,” Elkader acknowledged. “601, break left, aggressive screen. Thorne, take the Kelzora – make anything regret getting closer. My flight, follow me.”

The fighters wove a net, the Farragut’s phaser bursts seeding the void with quick, bright thorns. The fighters and the concentration of firepower were pushing the pirates back, further and further away from the Kelzora.

“Drop shields and energise,” Parr said.

“Energising.” Jevlak’s attention was closely focused. “Shields back up.”

The bridge crew let out a momentary, collective sigh of relief.

“Captain,” Jevlak broke the moment, “I have multiple new contacts – civilian signatures – coming in from starboard. Not hostile.”

“Noted, send them a transmission that they should converge close to us and follow instructions,” Ayres said. “Elkader, we have to expand our defensive posture. Let’s increase the aggression, get them to back off.”

The newcomers shuddered into view: a transport tug dragging cargo containers behind it and two small battered freighters.

The pirate pack sensed the scene changing and surged, three small ships breaking formation and diving low along the Kelzora’s port side. A Valkyrie fighter followed, crossing their path and and emptying phasers and micro torpedoes into one of the poorly-constructed pirates. The hull came apart in large, irregular chunks. The second ship then thought better, and wheeled about to return to the pack.

“Captain,” came Kincaid, quieter. “We’ve got a fighter down. Still in one piece but we’ll need to recover them soon.”

“Okay, Kincaid, let’s show our teeth,” Ayres stood up. “Helm, charge us toward that large ship. Kincaid, have the squadron remain with the civilian ships and then I want a full spread of torpedoes targeting their leader.”

“Aye, sir.”

The pirates made one last push. Nothing desperate about it; a final, disciplined attempt to counter the Farragut. It came to nothing. The Farragut’s attack pattern held; the Valkyries flew with the practiced neatness of pilots who had experienced far more complex missions.

“Contacts withdrawing,” Kincaid reported. “The cruiser is increasing its speed in an attempt to keep out of our range, but it’s slower. The pattern suggests it’s preparing to warp away.”

Ayres watched the larger ship sit in the near distance. He felt no triumph, only a sobre, proportionate satisfaction that the choreography had worked this time. “Let them go. We need to tend to the freighters.”

Then the Farragut gathered her makeshift flock. The tug tucked close, the scow tucked closer. The cargo containers spun in obedient, mathematically soothing ways.

Ayres watched as the small collection of ships oriented themselves. “If we keep picking up strays, we’ll need to be able to call this something other than a situation.”

“Convoy?” Jevlak offered tentatively.

“Too small for that,” Parr said, and then, catching herself, added, “for now.”

“For now,” Kincaid echoed. “A caravan.”

Ayres nodded. “Caravan it is.”