Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Chapter Text

 [ Stardate 54231.3 ]

The USS Interpreter is a frequent visitor to what the Federation and its allies politely term ‘recently unaffiliated space’ --the territories in the Gamma Quadrant vacated by the Dominion in the wake of the war. The ship’s presence is meant to provide tangible evidence the Federation believes strongly in the right to self-determination for former Dominion worlds. 

A few of these worlds took the opportunity of the Dominion's weakening after its defeat to launch rebellions of their own; others were simply left to fend for themselves as the Dominion retreated behind a more defensible cordon. Now, the entire area is a hotbed of political jockeying. Some of this jockeying is relatively civil; Romulan, Klingon, and Federation ships transit the area regularly, as do the few Dominion vessels still active this far out. 

The uncivil jockeying, as the vultures of the universe move in on these newly vulnerable systems, is what necessitates an armed presence; Cardassian dissidents, the Orion Syndicate, various unaffiliated raiders–all of them have watched the great power of the Gamma Quadrant stumble, and they’re betting that the Dominion won’t recover enough to expand beyond its core worlds anytime soon. There are rich opportunities here for anyone unscrupulous enough to take advantage of them.

It’s one of the few places in either quadrant where something as heavily armed as the Interpreter is appropriate.

This is not, however, making its captain feel any better at the moment. Diane Chester is one of the cohort of Starfleet captains who came up through the ranks during the Dominion War, and as such, isn’t about to count on the heavily-armed nature of her ship in dangerous space. The Interpreter may have been purpose-built for the war, a heavy-hitter refitted into a deep space exploration vessel when the treaty was signed, but in some places, a heavy-hitter just means a bigger prize, and in the eighteen months of her command, there’ve been plenty of examples of that. 

The reasons for her caution are two. One, as they make the long arc past Gamma Hyperion that will mark their turn homeward, they will pass a particular subspace anomaly. The properties of that anomaly are heavily classified. The reason Diane knows what it does is unfortunate personal experience, making her one of the tiny handful outside of the highest levels of Starfleet Command who do.

The second is that she’s had a bad feeling all day. It’s like the stillness before a monsoon storm, before the first growls of thunder come to your ears, a heavy waiting tense feeling. She’s not one to ignore her gut feelings; she’s had too much practice surviving. And of all places in the galaxy to ignore them, here is not the place.

She’s up and peering at the sensor readings from the anomaly again, next to her science officer. Commander Salera raises an eyebrow but makes no comment. This puts her one ahead of others on the bridge. 

“I cannot help,” says a voice over her shoulder, and Diane pulls in a long breath that’s carefully not irritated, “but notice your agitation, Captain.”

“The Gamma Hyperion anomaly is a dangerous one, Mr. Tanek,” she says, and he makes a soft sound of derisive amusement at that. “I would have expected the Tal Shiar to be more concerned about navigational hazards.”

“I have seen you less concerned about hazards that were actively firing on us,” he says, dry amusement in his quiet voice; she looks up and over her shoulder at him, and he cocks an eyebrow at her. 

The Romulan Empire and the Federation may be playing nice for now, but sharing details of a classified anomaly with her Romulan liaison officer is still out of the question. “It’s just a feeling,” she says. “Perhaps Mr. Hawthorne’s caution is rubbing off on me.”

Tanek snorts, likely preparing some comment about how the chief engineer’s caution borders on the neurotic, when the turbolift doors open to admit said chief engineer. Diane raises her eyebrows back at Tanek, glances at the display again, and then heads back down to her chair–only she ends up bypassing it to peer over the navigator’s shoulder, checking their course. 

“Anything on long-range sensors?” she asks Mr. Kotan at the helm. 

“Nothing, sir,” he says, and carefully doesn’t say that it’s just like the last ten times she’s asked. 

The unease is stronger now, bringing the hairs on the back of her neck prickling up in a long wave, like hearing something in another room–a quiet where there shouldn’t be. She wants to think she’s making it up, it’s just a case of nerves. But she doesn’t need the memories of the last time she was here to make her take it seriously, or the quiet voice in the back of her head that reminds her fewer things in the universe are coincidence than most beings believe. 

“J’etris,” she tells her first officer, and the Klingon woman looks up, eyebrows raised, “I want us at yellow alert until we’ve cleared the anomaly.”

That gets the attention of all her senior officers at once. There’s frowns, consternation; she looks over her shoulder at them. “The warnings about this thing are pretty dire,” she says, trying for levity and knowing it’s falling flat. “Let’s just take that extra precaution. Worst that can happen is that we feel silly.”

She’s got a good crew. Not a single one believes her.

It makes her smile, though the gathering tension turns it into a grimace. She makes herself head back to her chair and sit, reminding herself to just let her people do their jobs.

“Thank you.”

Okay, one member of her crew will always believe in taking more precautions. Lt. Commander Hawthorne has finally made his way to stand next to her chair. 

“I would like to register, again, the objections to the course that took us this close to the anomaly in the first place. Please don’t ask me to do anything crazy to put stress on the engines around the unknown spatial disturbance.”

“We have to be close enough to do a thorough sensor sweep,” she says, still staring at the viewscreen. She realizes she sounds distracted and looks up at him. She can’t tell him that even if they fell in they’d be fine; it’s who might jump them on the other side that’s the concern. “Believe me, Piper, we want this thing monitored. Carefully.” 

Piper looks at her, a furrow in his brow. He doesn’t ask ‘what do you know’ aloud, but he’s clearly thinking it.

“And better us than some poor little scout ship,” Diane adds.

If anything comes out of it, the Federation needs to know. 

Not that anything has, not since–

“There is a gravimetric fluctuation in the anomaly,” says Commander Salera. “Increasing rapidly.”

Diane sits upright, the tension snapping. This is it! “Onscreen. Maximum magnification.” 

Space around the anomaly shudders and writhes, a wrongness that makes her eyeballs feel like they’re vibrating. And then, very suddenly, a drifting ship. Dirty white, red and blue-gray markings. A tiny one-pilot vessel, slanted wings on either side, and one at the bottom, a glass-bubble cockpit on top.

She knows that ship design. She knows those markings. She’s up and out of the chair, stepping forward to stare. “Scan for lifeforms,” she says.

“One, very weak,” is the response. 

“Get a lock and beam them directly to Sickbay.” She taps her commbadge. “Dr. Tyrell, you have an emergency case incoming. Unknown species, critical condition–unknown cause.”

“Well, that’s certainly a lot to go on,” says Tyrell, but she knows she’s made his day–he loves a mystery. 

“I’ll be down in a moment,” she says, and turns to Piper. “Get that ship in our shuttlebay posthaste. We don’t want someone stumbling on it. J’etris! Back us off two hundred thousand kilometers from the anomaly and hold position. Maintain yellow alert, comm me immediately if anything else comes out of there. Ms. Iverat–”

The Horta at communications rumbles softly and shifts her bulk slightly, giving Diane as much attention as someone who looks like a massive pile of rocks can. 

“Dispatch to Starfleet Command, encoded. Gamma Hyperion active, establishing defensive perimeter until intentions determined. Peaceful at this time. J’etris, you have the bridge.”

She hears Piper’s voice as she turns. “J’etris, tractor beam, extreme caution please, I’ll prepare shuttle bay for a ship of unknown origin–Cap!”

She hurries to the turbolift. “Sickbay.”

“‘Pret, hold please!” Hawthorne runs to the turbolift and jumps in next to her. “Shuttlebay. Thank you ‘Pret.” He exhales as the doors close. “Cap’, what the fuck!?”

She tries to steady herself, but her nerves are singing. All she can think about is what’s on the other side of that anomaly. Maybe someone got lost, she reminds herself. It happened. It’s a big, big galaxy over there and they don’t look out for their people like we do. It’s an accident. It should be an accident.

She can’t make herself believe it. When she closes her eyes she can see them–massive armies, massive warships, the machinery of an entire galaxy all turned against itself, and the memory of the people there, the people trying their best in a world abruptly gone mad–it doesn’t quiet the ball of dread in her gut.

“It’s bad,” she says, her voice steady. She and Piper have been through hell together; she doesn’t lie to him. That’s their pact. “That’s what it is. That anomaly isn’t a danger to ships on its own. It’s what’s on the other side.” It’s very classified, but this whole ship’s going to be in the shit in a few hours if this goes the way she thinks it will. “The people on the other side could roll us up like a rug if they wanted to. That’s why it’s classified. Get that ship aboard, Piper.”

The turbolift stops. She hurries out, heading for sickbay - catching the sounds of Piper’s confused cursing behind her until the turbolift doors close again.

The pilot is there, contained in a shimmer of a disinfectant shield. Tyrell is already hard at work, totally focused, and she stops, stifles her instinctive exclamation, because he needs that focus. The being on the biobed looks half-dead, but even so Diane recognizes him. 

Jedi Master Plo Koon saved Commander Diane Chester’s life easily a dozen times in the months she spent as an accidental guest of the Galactic Republic. Now, it looks like she gets to return the favor. 

There’s little detail visible past the shield and Dr Tyrell’s arms and instruments. That’s probably a good thing. She can smell the infection from here. There’s a bad burn spreading down the side of his face, from his forehead over those sensory horns, interrupted at the side of his mask. The rough–makeshift–bandages Tyrell is lifting away from his wounds are wet with dark orange blood and god knows what else. 

What the fuck did this to him? 

She wants to be angry for him, grieved for him, and she is, but she’s not a commander anymore, she’s a Captain, the Interpreter is her responsibility and she knows from bitter experience the sheer fragility of the Federation, and the second fear that upstages her personal horror is, and how soon are they coming for us?