Time passed, and with preparation complete, everyone on the bridge was awaiting their orders.
The Horizon floated in the cavernous expanse of Earth Spacedock, her hull gleaming under the station's soft white lights—a Miranda-class starship—old by Starfleet standards, but refitted and ready for war. Beyond the massive doors, the stars waited like silent sentinels.
On the bridge, the crew moved with quiet precision—the hum of the warp core thrummed beneath their boots, a heartbeat of duranium and plasma. Rios stood at the centre, the weight of his first command responsibility pressing down like a gravity well.
Captain Vann settled into the command chair, her antennae angled forward. "Helm," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Request departure clearance."
Cole's fingers danced across the console. "Spacedock Control confirms clearance, Captain. Mooring clamps released. Thrusters standing by."
"Take us out," Vann ordered.
The massive doors of Spacedock began to part, revealing the infinite black beyond. The Horizon glided forward, impulse engines glowing amber as the station's lights fell away behind them. The stars grew brighter, sharper—an ocean of possibility and peril.
"Cleared the doors," Cole reported. "Setting course for Vega system."
"Engage impulse," Vann said. Then, after a beat: "Mr Rios—signal the crew."
Rios tapped the intercom that was at his station, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.
"All hands, this is the XO. Secure stations for warp. We are en route to the Vega system under Yellow alert conditions."
The words echoed through the ship, carried on the hum of the engines. In engineering, Daxan barked orders over the roar of plasma conduits. In sickbay, medics secured biobeds. In the mess hall, conversations died as crew members rallied to their stations, ready for what lay ahead.
"Course laid in," Cole said. "Warp engines standing by."
Vann's ice-grey eyes fixed on the stars. "Helm," she said softly, almost to herself. Then louder: "Engage."
The deck thrummed as the warp core surged to life. On the viewscreen, the stars stretched into brilliant streaks of light, and the familiar blue swirl of warp space enveloped them. The Horizon leapt forward, a lone ship racing to Vega.
Rios gripped the railing, his reflection caught in the glow of the warp field. For years, he had dreamed of this moment—the stars calling, the Horizon ahead. But dreams never carried this much weight—or this much fear.
This is it, he thought. No more simulations. No more safety nets. Just the void—and whatever waits for us in it.
Mess Hall
The mess hall was quiet, save for the low hum of the environmental systems and the occasional clink of utensils against trays. Through the wide viewport, Earth was lost in a sea of stars now, shrinking against the black canvas of space. The Horizon was at high warp, stars streaking past in silent brilliance.
Rios sat at a corner table, a mug of raktajino cooling in his hands. He wasn't alone for long.
Chief Lira Daxan slid into the seat opposite him, her bright blue skin and easy smile doing little to mask the tension in her eyes. "You always drink that stuff this late? You'll be vibrating through the deck plates by the time we hit Vega."
Rios managed a thin, mirthless smile. "Keeps me sharp."
"Sharp's good," she said, leaning in. "But sharp doesn't stop a Borg cutting beam."
Before Rios could answer, Jorak stomped over, tray in hand. The Tellarite dropped into the seat with a grunt. "This mission is a mistake. A Miranda-class ship against the Borg? We're cannon fodder."
"Starfleet doesn't send ships to die," Rios said evenly.
"Tell that to the Kyushu," Jorak shot back, his voice low but edged with anger. "Or the Melbourne. Wolf 359 wasn't that long ago."
The name hung in the air like a curse. Even Daxan's smile faltered.
Ensign Cole approached next, balancing a plate of something that looked vaguely like lasagna. "You guys really know how to kill the mood," he said, sliding into the seat beside Rios. "Look, it's probably nothing. A sensor glitch, a stray warp signature that's got ideas above its station. We'll check it out, file a report, and head home."
"Or," Jorak growled, "we find a Borg cube, and then what? We don't have the firepower. We don't have ablative armour."
T'Lenn appeared silently, as Vulcans often do, setting a tray down with precise care. "Speculation is illogical," she said, her voice calm but firm. "However, Lieutenant Jorak is correct in one respect: our tactical capabilities are limited. If the Borg are present, survival will depend on strategy, not strength."
Rios looked around the table. Four pairs of eyes—each carrying doubt, fear, or cold logic—fixed on him. He felt the weight of their unspoken question: Are you ready for this?
He set down his mug. "Listen. We don't know what's out there. But we do know this: we're Starfleet. We adapt. We survive. And, we do it together. That's how the Horizon earned her name."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Daxan gave a slight nod. Cole smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. Even Jorak grunted something that might have been agreement.
The ship's intercom broke the silence.
"Bridge to Commander Rios. We're approaching the Vega system. Captain wants you on the bridge."
Rios stood, his chair scraping softly against the deck. "Looks like we're about to find out what's waiting for us."