Mess Hall
The mess hall was quiet at first, the kind of silence that feels heavy, like the ship itself was holding its breath. Outside the viewport, the stars drifted past slowly—cold, indifferent witnesses to what had just happened.
Rios sat at a corner table, nursing a mug of lukewarm raktajino. His uniform was still scorched from the firefight on Vega, and his hands bore faint tremors he couldn't quite hide. He stared into the dark liquid, seeing not his reflection, but the faces of the colonists they couldn't save.
A tray clattered softly onto the table. Chief Lira Daxan slid into the seat opposite him, her usual bright smile dimmed to a faint curve. "You look like hell, Commander."
Rios managed a thin smile. "Feel like it too."
She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "You did well down there. Five hundred people are alive because of you."
"Five hundred out of thousands," Rios said quietly. "That's not good. That's survival math."
Before Daxan could answer, Jorak stomped over, his tusked jaw set in a grim line. He dropped into the seat with a grunt. "You want survival math? Try this: we faced a Borg sphere and an Undine bioship in the same fight—and we're still breathing. That's a win."
"Tell that to the families of the dead," Rios shot back, sharper than he intended.
Jorak's eyes narrowed, but before he could reply, T'Lenn appeared, setting a tray down with Vulcan precision. "Emotional recriminations will not alter the outcome," she said calmly. "However, they may impair your ability to process the experience constructively."
Rios gave a humourless laugh. "Thanks for the pep talk, Lieutenant."
Cole arrived last, sliding into the seat with a plate of something that looked vaguely like lasagna. His usual grin was gone, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes. "You know what I keep thinking about? That Undine ship. It could've finished us off. But it didn't."
"Because it had bigger prey," Jorak growled.
"Or," Cole said, lowering his voice, "because it didn't see us as prey at all."
The table fell silent for a moment. Outside, the stars drifted past, cold and endless.
Then Daxan broke the tension with a wry smile. "Well, if we're not prey, that makes us… what? The annoying little mammals that bite ankles?"
Cole chuckled, the sound breaking the heaviness like a crack in a storm cloud. "Speak for yourself. I'm more of a wolf."
"More like a targ," Jorak muttered, earning the faintest arch of an eyebrow from T'Lenn.
"Statistically," T'Lenn said, "the targ analogy is more accurate."
That earned a laugh—short, rough, but real. Cole leaned back, smirking. "Fine, targ it is. But a targ that can pull off a barrel roll at warp."
"You call that a barrel roll?" Jorak grunted. "I've seen Ferengi freighters with more grace."
Cole grinned. "Hey, that manoeuvre saved our nacelles."
"Barely," Daxan teased. "Next time, try not to make me spill plasma all over engineering."
"Next time," Cole shot back, "try not to yell 'we're all going to die' over the comm."
"I was being honest," Daxan said flatly with a deeper shade of blue developing on her cheeks.
Laughter rippled around the table, stronger this time. Even Rios felt the weight on his chest ease as the tension melted into something warmer—shared scars, shared survival.
Then Daxan leaned in, eyes twinkling. "You think this was bad? Reminds me of the time I was stuck on the T'Vora during a plasma storm near the Badlands. The whole ship went dark—no shields, no engines, just us and a plasma storm that wanted to eat us alive."
Cole perked up. "What happened?"
"We improvised," Daxan said with a grin. "Rerouted half the EPS grid through the replicators and used the galley ovens to stabilise the plasma flow."
Cole blinked. "You… cooked your way out of a plasma storm?"
"Best soufflé in the quadrant," Daxan said proudly.
Jorak snorted so hard his drink nearly came out of his nose. "That's not engineering. That's a cooking show."
"Worked, didn't it?" Daxan shot back. "Ship didn't blow up. And dessert was amazing."
Even T'Lenn allowed the faintest lift of an eyebrow. Her lips curved—just slightly, almost imperceptibly—but it was there. A Vulcan smile. "An illogical solution," she said softly. "But… effective."
Cole laughed, shaking his head. "Remind me never to complain about your maintenance schedules again."
Rios chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. "Note to self: if the warp core fails, call the chef."
That broke the last of the tension. Laughter rolled around the table, warm and genuine this time. For the first time since Vega, it felt like a crew—not just individuals thrown together by circumstance.
Rios lifted his mug. "Whatever we are—targs, wolves, or ankle-biters—we made it out together. That counts for something."
Daxan raised her glass. "To the Horizon—and to not dying horribly."
Cole clinked his fork against her glass. "I'll drink to that."
T'Lenn, after a pause, lifted her tea. "To survival—and to the statistical improbability of repeating it."
Jorak grunted, lifting his mug. "To prove the odds wrong."
Rios smiled, the first genuine smile since the battle. "No. To more than survival. To the crew of the Horizon. Whatever's waiting out there, we face it together."
The glasses met with a soft chime. Laughter followed—thin at first, then stronger, like the first warmth after a long winter. For the first time since the battle, the mess hall didn't feel quite so cold.
Later, the laughter faded into memory as Rios stepped into his quarters. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, sealing out the hum of the ship. Silence pressed in, broken only by the distant thrum of the warp core.
He shrugged off his torn jacket and let it fall to the deck. The silver pip on the collar caught the light as it rolled away, coming to rest against the bulkhead. For a long moment, he stared at it.
First Officer.
The words felt heavier now than they had in Spacedock. He had worn that pip for less than a day, and already it felt like a burden forged from duranium.
He crossed to the desk and activated the terminal. The casualty list glowed on the screen, names scrolling past like ghosts. He reached out to scroll further—then stopped, his hand trembling. With a sharp breath, he shut the terminal off. Darkness returned, save for the starlight spilling through the viewport.
Rios sank into the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. For the first time since the battle, the weight of it all crashed down—the screams, the fire, the green glow of assimilation. And the question that had haunted him since the ready room:
Can I do this? Can I be the officer they need me to be?
The comm panel chirped softly, breaking the silence. "Bridge to Commander Rios," came Vann's voice, calm and cold as ever. "Report to the ready room."
Rios looked up at the stars one last time. Then he stood, squared his shoulders, picked up the command pip along with a clean uniform jacket, and left the room—leaving the silence, the ghosts, and the question behind.
For now.
The Horizon limped through the black, her hull scarred and pitted, nacelles flickering like dying embers. The warp core throbbed faintly, barely holding the ship together. Ahead, Earth Spacedock loomed—a colossal ring of duranium and light, its docking arms stretching like the embrace of a guardian.
As the battered Miranda-class vessel approached, traffic control cleared a priority lane. Civilian freighters and sleek Starfleet cruisers drifted aside, their crews pausing to watch the wounded starship crawl home. The Horizon bore the marks of survival: carbon scoring across her saucer, a nacelle housing torn open like a wound, and the faint shimmer of emergency force fields patching breaches.
On the bridge, the crew sat in silence, the hum of the impulse engines the only sound. The usual chatter was gone, replaced by the quiet weight of exhaustion and unspoken questions.
"Docking approach confirmed," Cole said softly, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. "Spacedock Control is rolling out a repair team and medical units."
"Take us in," Vann ordered, her tone calm but edged with steel. Her antennae angled forward as the massive doors of Spacedock began to part, revealing the cavernous interior bathed in golden light.
The Horizon glided through the threshold, dwarfed by the station's immense scale. Starships of every class hung in ordered rows—sleek Sovereigns, stalwart Excelsiors, even a gleaming Odyssey-class cruiser. All pristine. All whole. The Horizon looked like a relic among them, a scarred veteran limping into port.
As the docking clamps engaged with a heavy thud, the ship shuddered to a halt. The lights dimmed, systems powering down one by one. For a moment, the silence was absolute.
The docking clamps locked with a heavy thud, and the Horizon shuddered to a halt. Systems powered down one by one, leaving only the low hum of auxiliary power.
Captain's Ready Room
The ready room was dim; the glow of Earth Spacedock filled the viewport. Captain Vann stood by the desk, her antennae angled forward in thought. A secure channel flickered on the wall display, the Starfleet Command insignia pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Admiral Quinn is waiting," Vann said without preamble. "And he's not happy."
Rios stepped inside, his jaw tight. "About Vega?"
"About everything," Vann replied. "The Borg. The Undine. The fact that a Miranda-class ship is now the only eyewitness to a first-contact scenario Starfleet hoped would never happen."
The screen came to life, revealing Admiral Quinn's stern face. His voice was clipped, urgent.
"Captain Vann. Commander Rios. You're to report immediately upon docking. The Federation Council is already in session. This isn't just a mission report anymore—it's a security crisis."
Rios felt the weight settle again, heavier than before. Vega was only the beginning.