Relevant Links: Initial Mission Hook | After Action Report | Transcript
‘Hazard Run’
USS Tykera, stationed at Deep Space 13
The view from DS13’s upper traffic lanes was as impersonal as always: ships drifting against the cold geometry of the docking bays, lights winking against the black. Routine. Predictable. Zohl had always valued that kind of order, until it became a screen for the quiet churn under his skin.
The USS Endeavour was already holding position when the Tykera moved into the slot beside her, impulse drives humming in patient readiness. Captain Mirazuni’s (@Sam) voice came across the comms with clipped assurance, a tone Zohl found agreeable. She seemed to be the kind of Captain who wasted neither words nor momentum.
Their mission was straightforward on paper, to escort a transport into the Briar Patch, collect sealed intelligence cargo from Station Delta-Six, and return without incident. The problem was that the Briar Patch seldom cared for such straightforward plans.
Since Vos’ death, Zohl had found himself measuring every mission against an impossible yardstick. How many moves ahead could he plan before the variables tore the shape of that plan apart? How many lives was he holding in the gap between what he hoped for and what fate would allow?
Their departure was clean and transit time to the Patch allowed for inter-ship sharing of relevant data. But it was all business. The convoy soon formed up at the Patch’s perimeter, meeting with the transport ship. Its unassuming frame sitting between the Endeavour and the Tykera.
Once inside, the haze closed around them like a slow tide, amber and violet curls distorting the light. The first sensor glitch was minor, a ripple in the data feed, nothing the crew couldn’t correct; but he felt the familiar pull of doubt, the reminder of how quickly small degradations could compound into something lethal.
The Patch had a way of tightening its grip the deeper you went, and it wasn’t long before a flare broke through the haze. Shields bristled white across the convoy, sensor clarity vanishing into a storm of static. He could hear the edge in his own voice as he ordered power rerouted from secondary deflectors and a recalibration of the sensor grid. It worked. The picture cleared. Still, the fact they had stumbled so early gnawed at him.
They pressed on, Endeavour shifting to the rear guard. Such hazards in the Patch could be anticipated but never wholly predicted; it was the living embodiment of risk in layers, each one waiting to peel back under the wrong pressure.
Time passed and the convoy made steady progress toward the rendezvous coordinates. Station Delta-Six… Starfleet Intelligence had been typically vague about its purpose, and Zohl didn’t expect more. His years running operations for them had taught him the futility of asking the “why” of an assignment. You were there to do a job. Protect the asset. Protect your crew. And, in this case, for his part, ensure the Endeavour and the transporter could do the same.
The haze thickened as they pressed deeper, particulate clouds twisting in sluggish currents around the formation. Readings shifted with each kilometre, graviton eddies and particle blooms forcing the helm to work in constant corrections. The tension on the bridge settled into something quiet and disciplined; a crew tuned to the knowledge that every stage of this approach was another chance for the Patch to turn on them.
It was in that stillness that the an unknown sensor contact appeared. Small. Fast. Erratic. The computer couldn’t resolve an ID before it moved, angling in from the convoy’s port quarter. Zohl’s eyes flicked to the transport’s icon on the tactical plot just as the contact broke from the haze: a compact, angular vessel, hull bristling with antennae, no transponder, no hesitation. His best guess was that it was a drone ship being remotely piloted.
It went straight for Sierra Echo One, the transport.
For a moment, Zohl saw the USS Ban Salan in his mind’s eye… saw himself too slow to pull the lower decks before the breach, too determined to hold the fight when he should have let go. But this time, he didn’t hesitate. The lack of a transponder told him enough; the speed and angle of approach filled in the rest. Hostile. Purposeful. “No lifesigns aboard” came the confirmation for what he’s already guessed.
He’d been in enough intelligence operations to know that classified cargo attracted predators, and the most dangerous weren’t always the ones broadcasting their presence. The drone’s movements were sharp but not random… it had picked its prey, and that prey was now under his protection.
“Helm, bring us hard to port,” he ordered, the words landing in the measured cadence of habit, not panic. “Get between it and the transport. Tactical, prepare suppressive fire to drive it off. Coordinate with the Endeavour.”
The Tykera surged forward, cutting a new line through the haze. Zohl felt the faint pull of inertia even through the dampeners as the ship took the turn, shields flaring under the drone’s first burst of particle fire.
At the edge of the LCARS tactical display, the Endeavour was already manoeuvring to reinforce the transport’s aft quarter, Mirazuni was reading the situation with the same speed he was. It was the kind of coordination that required no explanation from experienced captains. Two ships with one shared objective, closing ranks without debate.
The drone darted again, looking for an opening, but Zohl wasn’t interested in giving it one. His job was simple: hold the line, and in doing so, hold together the chain that connected the transport, the Endeavour, and his own crew.
“Lock tractor beam,” he said. “Full power. Let’s clip its wings.”
A lance of blue light leapt from the Tykera’s ventral array, catching the drone mid-turn. It fought, thrusters flaring, but momentum bled away under the beam’s grip.
“All phaser banks… fire.”
The barrage cut through the haze, beams striking home and burning through plating. In his peripheral vision, Zohl watched damage bloom across the hostile’s hull. The instinct to finish it was there, sharp and certain… but so was the awareness of the environment they were fighting in. The Briar Patch had a way of turning your victories into fresh threats.
And as the drone broke loose, diving toward an unstable gas cloud, he knew what would happen before it did.
The drone vanished into the turbulent crimson mass of the gas cloud, its hull sparking from the last of the phaser impacts. Zohl’s gut tightened. He’d seen this pattern before. Cornered prey seeking cover, unaware or unconcerned about what that cover contained. The Patch’s clouds were never inert.
The ignition was instant. A blossom of light erupted where the drone had been, swelling into an expanding fire wave that rolled outward with violent speed.
“Brace,” Commander Netal called from his right, though the word was almost redundant. His crew had already locked themselves to their stations, eyes fixed on the surging mass ahead.
There was no time to disengage. The convoy couldn’t outrun it; the station might have the defences to weather it… but might wasn’t good enough. This was a choice made for him before the thought could even take shape.
The Tykera and the Endeavour moved as one, sliding into position between the blast and the assets they guarded.
Impact came like a hammer blow. The Endeavour had just enough time to face into the shockwave. As a result it’s shields held firm, flaring brilliant white as they absorbed the energy more equally. The Tykera however was not so well positioned.
Her port quarter buckled under the strain, shield harmonics collapsing in a flash that left bare hull exposed to the energy wave. Zohl felt the deck shiver under his boots, the low thud of structural fields straining to keep the breaches contained.
“Seal those sections,” he ordered, his voice raised above the sound of the structural stress, “… and…”
Another voice interjected, “Reroute integrity fields. Damage control teams three, four and seven get to those sections now”, said Netal barely a heartbeat later, as if finishing Zohl’s own thought.
It struck him in that moment, for the first time since she’d come aboard, that she was more than simply a capable commander. Their years together, both on and off duty, had created a rhythm between them… even if it had been on ice for decades. She could still read the slope of his thoughts before they reached his mouth, and in the press of combat that was an advantage no tactical manual could teach. But there was a knife-edge to this as well: was she anticipating him because she trusted his judgement… or because she didn’t? Had this been why Command had forcibly assigned her?
There were no casualties. The station stood untouched, the transport was shielded under their protection. On the surface, that was success. Yet the Tykera’s port quarter was bleeding atmosphere, and the smell of burnt duranium was already creeping into the bridge vents.
Damage control reported within minutes. The breaches were sealed, structural fields rebalanced, and secondary systems brought back online. It would hold for now, but the scars would need drydock attention.
Zohl acknowledged the report, his antennae dipping once before lifting to the forward display. Station Delta-Six now hung in the haze ahead, its trussed framework and laboratory modules lit in the muted glow of the Patch.
Approach and docking were swift. The transport slid into position against the station’s berthing arms, cargo locks sealing as teams began the transfer manually. The station crew were efficient but silent, eyes down, movements precise, Starfleet Intelligence in every detail.
No one spoke of the drone. No one asked about the breach. The work was finished in under half an hour.
Once the last of the cargo was aboard Sierra Echo One, Zohl gave the order to form up. The Endeavour took point this time, the Tykera falling back to rear guard.
The return run was harder in some ways, easier in others. The Patch seemed to resent their departure, currents shifting unpredictably, pockets of interference sparking against shields. Yet the extraction route brought them through; plotted with care and guarded with equal discipline. A small crack of black ahead grew steadily until the haze began to thin and starlight bled through.
When they emerged into open space, the Endeavour reported no further damage, the transport was intact, and Station Delta-Six had long faded into the mist behind them. The threat was gone, the cargo secure. On the record, it would read as a clean operation.
For Zohl, it was another reminder that “clean” in Starfleet terms was never the same as “untouched.”
Breaking free into clear starlight should have felt like victory. Instead, Zohl caught himself studying the scorched lines along the Tykera’s port quarter on the damage report, thinking of what it meant to be the ship that holds the line. Not glory. Not clean triumph. Just standing where you have to stand, no matter what it costs you. He was glad to have the Endeavour there standing with him, and he knew the crew would be feeling that way too.
When they eventually made berth at DS13, Mirazuni’s debrief was crisp, factual, the kind of report Command would sign off without a second thought. Zohl agreed with every line.
Still, in his own supplement, he knew he would write it as it had felt: the weight of risk pressing at every stage, the choices made not because they were perfect but because they were necessary. And behind it all, the quiet knowledge that each time he stepped into a mission like this, he was trying… whether he admitted it or not… to prove to himself that Vos’ death hadn’t broken his ability to keep a crew alive… … … well, maybe he wouldn’t write all that.
The Tykera was in drydock now, crews moving like clockwork over her wounds. She would be ready again soon. And so would he. Or at least, that was what he told himself.