By 0655, the dull quiet of Deep Space Eleven’s early hours had surrendered to the low churn of Alpha Shift. The transition was seamless, with personnel relieving their counterparts through brief nods and quiet handovers.

Commander Thorne stood at the center console in Operations, one hand wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee, the other tucked behind her back as she stared around the compartment. The muted amber of the LCARS readouts reflected faintly off her eyes, but she didn’t see the displays. She was tracing signal paths in her mind.

Across from her, Lieutenant Commander Loyo Mojis lingered a moment longer at the center console. He was neither flustered nor tired despite having worked from the tail end of Beta Shift through his scheduled watch on Gamma Shift. His posture remained upright as his eyes fixed on the latest diagnostic results crawling in from the station’s sensor arrays.

Loyo’s gaze stayed fixed on the telemetry trace, eyes narrowed. “If I stay on it through the morning, I might be able to isolate the phase shadow. It’s buried deep, but I can thread it out with a rotating filter run.”

Thorne didn’t answer at first. She knew that tone—Bajoran restraint masking exhaustion.

“You have been on watch since 2300 yesterday,” Thorne said flatly.

He gave a slight shrug. “This thing’s not just background static. It’s studying us. And if I hand it off, someone might miss—”

“No.” She cut him off. “You’ve done enough. Alpha has it now.” She turned slightly, catching his eye. “Go get six hours of rest, Loyo. That’s an order.”

Loyo offered a curt nod and stepped away without protest. As he strode toward the turbolift, Thorne exhaled slowly and turned to the center console.

“Attention in Operations, this is Commander Thorne. I have the deck. Lay reports!”

“Aye, ma’am,” came the first reply from the communications officer, a young lieutenant at the rear console. “Routine hails from Task Group 97 assets. The last ping from Ulysses arrived on schedule via a tight-beam transmission. Minimal chatter otherwise.”

“Ops sensors nominal,” another voice added. “No flagged variances. Adjusting sensor gain on the portside array per Gamma’s last parameters. We’re tracking a faint scatter return consistent with long-range phase interference.”

Thorne nodded once. “Maintain filter layering and log every shift in return amplitude. No automated reclassification—manual only.”

“Aye, Commander.”

A subtle hush returned. The early murmur of shift change settled into operational cadence. The quiet hum of the deck plates, the subdued flicker of LCARS panels, and the methodical rhythm of keyed inputs created a sanctuary built on tension and routine.

Behind her, the turbolift doors whispered closed, taking Loyo with them. Thorne allowed herself a moment to watch the waveform stutter and repeat, then keyed in a system-wide access command.

“Station record, compartment secure. Initiate limited diagnostic scan, vector three-three-seven-mark-two. Passive only. Isolate subspace harmonic strata, portside array.”

“Working.” The main computer announced.

Across the board, the readings stayed stable.

Thorne folded her arms, jaw tight.

“Let’s see if you blink,” she said almost to herself.

________________________________________________________________________

Captain Maddox strode out of the turbolift onto Deck Ten, the doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. The ride down from Operations had been quiet, uninterrupted—a luxury that only lasted as long as the deck below.

The administrative concourse on Deck Ten was already humming with activity. Station personnel passed quietly with PADDs in hand, station support personnel moved in pairs, and the overhead lights were set to standard intensity—another signal that Alpha Shift was in full swing.

Maddox didn’t slow down. His gait was steady and deliberate, absorbing every subtle cue from the passing crew without acknowledging them. He didn’t need to issue a word. The space around him cleared instinctively.

Lieutenant Commander Rix Shavar, Deep Space Eleven’s Tactical Systems Officer and Chief of Security, stood at the junction ahead. The corridor lights caught the edge of his combadge as he offered Maddox a single, wordless nod.

“Walk with me,” Maddox ordered.

Shavar fell into step beside Maddox without question. The Tellarite’s stride was shorter but no less forceful. His arms swung at rigid angles while his boots clicked with the weight of deliberate restraint.

“Report,” Maddox said without looking over.

“Sector Four, near the outer utility conduits. Low-level access log inconsistencies and residual heat traces that don’t align with scheduled maintenance. It could be a tech logging error, but I don’t like the timing of it.” Shavar said.

Maddox gave a low grunt of acknowledgment. “Define the timing.”

“Coincides with the start of the spectral interference. Four hours before we noticed it.”

They turned a corner. The corridor was briefly empty, save for a petty officer a dozen meters ahead, who quickly stepped into a side hatch as the two officers approached.

“Are you telling me it’s sabotage?” Maddox asked.

“I am telling you something moved through that conduit with purpose. Power access relays were manually re-initialized, not tripped. No automation fault. No logical maintenance tag. Just… reset, like someone wanted to cover a trace.”

Maddox’s jaw tightened.

“Want me to lock it down?” Shavar asked.

“No. Not yet,” Maddox said, low. “Too soon. If it’s an error, we’ll appear unprofessional. If it’s not…” He trailed off for a breath. “You escalate under your own authority. Quiet. Focused. Keep it off the logs unless it escalates. Anything goes loud, you bring it to Thorne.” Maddox ordered emphatically.

Shavar nodded once.

They walked another six paces.

“If it smells like sabotage, we hit it hard and fast,” Shavar added.

“You’ll get the green light,” Maddox said. “Until then—eyes open. But no panic.”

The doors to Sickbay came into view ahead of them.

Shavar slowed enough for Maddox to take the lead.

“Good hunting, mister,” Maddox said.

“I don’t hunt, Captain. I corner.” Shavar’s nostrils flared faintly.

Maddox didn’t respond. The Sickbay doors slid open, and he stepped inside.

The lights inside were already at full operational brightness, casting a clinical gleam over biobeds, diagnostic tables, and wall-mounted LCARS panels. The scent of sterile alcohol and ozone hung faintly in the air, distilled to its essence by Starfleet medicine. He moved through the compartment like a man with business elsewhere, nodding once to the duty nurse before heading straight for the central diagnostic station. His posture was rigid, left shoulder just slightly higher than his right—enough to be missed by most, but not everyone.

Commander Kellen Rourke was already watching from his office. “Don’t touch anything,” Rourke called flatly from across the room, stepping out into the corridor with a PADD in hand. His tone wasn’t hostile—just tired, decisive, and unamused.

Maddox turned, one brow rising. “Checking to see if we had any post-arrival injuries. Standard transit protocol.”

“Sure,” Rourke replied dryly, stepping into Maddox’s path. The older man had a permanent hitch in his gait—an old spinal reinforcement that never entirely took—but there was nothing slow about his presence. “Except you already got that report at 0630, and there weren’t any.”

Maddox didn’t blink. “Making sure your staff didn’t miss anything.”

Rourke held the PADD up with a flick of his wrist, then let it fall to his side. “That limp you’re hiding is getting worse.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Maddox declared.

“You are compensating,” Rourke said, voice low now. “Favoring your right side, guarding the hip, avoiding sudden direction changes. I ran a movement profile after your last physical following Operation Iron Veil. You’re walking with residual instability in the sacroiliac joint, and your gait suggests chronic pelvic rotation. You’ve got a disc adhesion brewing, or worse.”

“I’ve handled worse,” Maddox replied coolly.

“I know. And you’ve ignored it worse, too. That’s not a compliment.” They stood face to face near Biobed Two, the hum of a peripheral dermal regenerator active in the background. Rourke didn’t flinch.

“You’re two weeks post-clearance to return to duty and pushing a high-command schedule like you didn’t spend the last month on neural inhibitors. Don’t feed me the standard line. You’ve got fascial tension in your thoracolumbar junction and a resting heart rate that is still eight points elevated from baseline. No combat stressor, no toxin exposure, no viral load—just a man pretending he isn’t in pain.” Rourke pressed.

“I’m doing my job.” Maddox remained still, jaw tight.

“No, Captain. You’re proving you can do your job. That’s the problem.” Rourke stepped back half a pace, enough to take the edge off. “Pain isn’t weakness. But ignoring it is. You’re not bleeding, but you’re not whole, either. And your crew will feel that long before you admit it.”

Maddox looked away, gaze drawn to the biostat readouts scrolling silently on the far wall.

“Take the damn neural rest. Eight hours. If you choose not to sleep, I’ll order a cortical suppression dose myself. And if you collapse on my deck, I will not be gentle.” Rourke challenged while holding the PADD out to Maddox.

Maddox didn’t take the PADD. He stared Rourke down like a starship through a target lock—calm, calculating, final.

“You done?”

Rourke didn’t answer.

“Good,” Maddox said, stepping just close enough to make the air shift.

“You don’t get to stand there and talk to me like I’m some green-blooded statistic limping in from my first skirmish. I’ve buried more officers than you’ve treated. I’ve made command calls that would crack the spine of lesser men, and I’ve carried this uniform into hell without a sedative, a scan, or your opinion.” He let the words sit—dry, exact.

“You’re not wrong, Doctor. I’m compensating. Because that’s what command is—compensation. For loss. For duty. For the fact that every decision I make out there puts lives on the line, and every scar I carry is a receipt for one I saved.”

Rourke’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“You want to help? Do your damn job. Keep my officers fit.I let you talk because I respect you abilities. But I don’t answer to you.” Maddox said as he finally took the PADD, glanced at it once, and then handed it back without flinching.

“You want to flag me as a risk? Go ahead. Write it up. Send it to Starfleet Medical, to Command, to whoever you think outranks me out here. But understand something—there’s no one coming. If you get in my way again under the guise of care,” Maddox said, voice barely above a whisper, “I will relieve you of duty without a second thought. Not because you’re wrong. But because I can’t afford a man in your position who confuses authority with entitlement.”

“I’ve replaced doctors before. Good ones. Brilliant ones. And do you know what they all had in common?” Maddox leaned in low and sharp.

Rourke didn’t answer.

“They thought their Caduceus’s and titles gave them equal weight at the table. It doesn’t. You’re not command, Commander Rourke. You are an instrument. And when instruments stop serving their purpose—when they become liabilities—I set them down. You have your orders. This conversation never happened.”

He turned for the exit but gave one final glance.

“And if I ever do collapse in your Sickbay, Rourke—pray you’re still assigned here. Because I won’t ask for help. But I’ll remember who tried to take the conn from me while I was still breathing.” Maddox threatened.

Then he was gone.

The doors hissed closed behind him, and for the first time in years, Rourke didn’t have anything left to say.

____________________________________________________________________________

The turbolift doors parted with a soft hydraulic hiss as Captain Maddox strode into Operations at precisely 0800.

Thorne didn’t look up right away. She stood at the center console, one hand resting lightly on its edge, the other clutching her morning mug—its contents, by now, more ceremonial than caffeinated.

“Captain in Operations,” she announced dryly without turning.

Maddox walked to her side. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Commander. We’d both look ridiculous.”

Thorne smirked faintly and turned. “Then stop arriving like a war monument, and maybe I’ll greet you like a person.”

Maddox grunted. “What have you got?”

“For now, nothing new.” Thorne replied.

He turned to her. “You’re thinking about the delegation?”

“I’m thinking the moment that delegation steps aboard our jolly station, the station is going to fill with old wars, bad nerves, and people who’ve practiced civility more than they’ve ever meant it.”

Maddox gave a faint grunt. “That’s optimistic.”

She finally turned toward him, one brow lifted. “The Kzinti changed their delegation manifest—twice—and the diplomatic liaison is dodging his own comms queue. But sure. Let’s call it optimism.”

Maddox gave no reply, only a long, measured breath.

Thorne tilted her head. “When were you planning to brief me on what the hell we’re walking into?”

“When I had something I could stomach repeating out loud,” Maddox said. “So far, everything I’ve seen points to a delegation hellbent on framing a move before Ulysses gets here.”

“Oh boy.” Thorne let out.

“The moment that ship arrives, the Kzinti are going to test the room. And MacLeod’s absence already has ears twitching.”

“MacLeod’s not dead,” Thorne said.

“No. But five days out might as well be five weeks out with Fourth Fleet Command breathing down our necks.” Maddox added.

She folded her arms. “So we stall?”

“No,” Maddox said. “We hold posture. We let the Kzinti see that we’re steady and poised to respond to anything. They will make a move before MacLeod arrives, so we box them in. No loose channels. No corridor conversations. Eyes and ears on every deck. No delegation staff without escorts, and no assumptions about intent.”

Thorne nodded slowly, her expression cooling as her mind began cycling through contingencies. “Understood. I’ll issue a quiet escalation of internal surveillance—no overt lockdowns, but no blind spots either.”

Maddox stepped closer to the central console, his eyes scanning the rolling diagnostics without really seeing them. “Keep it below the threshold of provocation. I want this station to feel like a fortress, not a trap.”

“Subtle intimidation,” Thorne murmured. “The Starfleet way.”

He allowed a faint smirk. “They’re predators. They’ll test for weakness before they ask for terms.”

“And if we don’t blink?”

“They’ll recalibrate. But they won’t forget,” Maddox said. He glanced toward the viewport where the stars slid past, cold and steady in their arc. “MacLeod’s coming. Just not fast enough.”

Thorne’s voice turned drier. “You say that like he’s cavalry.”

Maddox gave her a sideways glance. “You’ve served with him directly. You tell me.”

She let out a breath that was part laugh, part resignation. “I’ve seen him walk into a conference and clear half the table just by opening his mouth. If he gets here before this goes sideways, maybe we only bleed reputationally.”

“If,” Maddox echoed.  “Until then, it’s us.”

Thorne sipped her now-cold coffee, then set it down. “I’ll alert Shavar. He can thread the signal intercept with tighter filters. If there’s chatter bleeding from their transports, we’ll catch it.”

Maddox nodded once, then turned to leave—but paused just before the doors. “Maintain the deck, Commander. Keep it taut.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What, no stirring speech?”

He shot her a look that was all steel and no patience. “They’ll get speeches when MacLeod shows up. Until then, they get you. Diplomacy is the battlefield. And if we give ground, the Kzinti won’t stop at words.”

And with that, he was gone, the doors whispering shut behind him. Operations hummed on, quiet but alive, as Thorne turned back to her console. The Kzinti would test them—she was counting on it.