“Captain’s Log, Stardate 79411.1. The Thunderchild has been redeployed to Deep Space 47 under direct orders from Commodore Aben Ch’Thobar. Our new patrol sector places us in a strategic, but precarious region between Cardassian, Tzenkethi, and Breen-claimed space. While Starfleet maintains this corridor as open territory, recent spikes in Orion Syndicate activity, combined with reports of Tholian activity near the Thomar Expanse, have made the area a breeding ground for instability.

Intelligence reports suggest that elements of the former Obsidian Order, long thought to be destroyed, are operating in the region again as well. The USS Vallejo recently sustained major damage and crew losses due to one such group working in the shadows near the Kavaria system, barely outside the Badlands. I was just able to read Captain Day Renora’s classified report of the incident. Amazingly, a California-class ship was able to survive that encounter. What worries me most isn’t the activity itself, it’s the precision. These aren’t disorganized mercenaries; someone is pulling the strings, and they know how to stay hidden.

Following the Nightfall Incursion at Bynaus, we’ve taken aboard two new engineering officers, Bynars 1010 and 1101. Their skills have already begun improving our fore telemetry array. During the Vaadwaur invasion, their rapid field recalibration may have saved our port nacelle. Time will tell if they can integrate with the rest of the crew. The Thunderchild crew is nothing if not… diverse.

I am astutely aware of the volatile nature of this region of space, both from my own experience and from those of the previous Jast hosts. This whole situation with Obsidian Order remnants seems like misdirection… Time will tell what we can uncover.”

_____________________________________

The Thunderchild cruised quietly at warp 8.5, her hull humming with barely a tremor as the stars streaked across the ready room viewport. The lights were dimmed to a comfortable level, the sound of the replicator fading as two steaming cups materialized on the tray.

Captain Rynar Jast picked up his cup of Tarkalean tea and nodded his thanks to his first officer, Commander Zuri Velar, who opted for something dark and bitter-smelling from a Cardassian pattern.

Jast’s face was framed by the dark Trill spots that traced down from his temples and down along his neck. His dark hair was short, and his intense analytical gaze added to the air of command around him. Standing over 1.8 meters tall, his frame was muscular, the result of a career balancing tactical fieldwork, intelligence, and command service.

“Now that we’re through the badlands, this is officially now the farthest I’ve ever been from my homeworld,” Velar said, settling into the seat across from him. “I made it as far out as Bajor about five years ago. I’ve always thought there were far too many borders way out here, and too few rules.” Her bright emerald eyes seemed almost to glow in the dim room lighting, a striking contrast against her dark skin. Velar’s voice held a quiet confidence, her posture composed, every movement graceful. Her hair, pulled into a precise, intricate woven braided crown, marked her roots as a Valmari, a small world out y Tamarian space.

Jast sipped his tea, watching the display on his side panel slowly update with star charts. “This corridor is a fracture line. Breen, Cardassian, and Tzenkethi space all within a few days’ burn. Syndicate cells burrowed into half the ports, Ferengi opportunists all around us. And don’t forget about the Tholians, just waiting and glaring at anyone who breathes too close to their claimed space.”

“Speaking of Orions,” Velar added. “It seems they have been unusually active. Ch’Thobar’s deployment briefing suggests there’s a new clan playing the field. One that doesn’t answer to the old Syndicate houses.”

Jast raised an eyebrow. “My gut tells me the resurgence of Obsidian Order assets may be tied to that. They always excelled at using intermediaries to keep their hands relatively clean, or at least give them deniability.”

As Velar started to reply, a soft chirp interrupted them.

“Bridge to Captain Jast,” came the crips, level voice of Lieutenant T’Rell.

Jast tapped his badge in acknowledgement. “Go ahead.”

“Captain, we’ve picked up a distress signal. Priority one. Colony ID matches the Free Haven Colony in the Sanelar System.”

“Details?” Jast replied.

“It’s fragmented. Multiple transmissions layered together, possibly during a plasma storm. Commander Vok and I are attempting to clean it up now.”

Behind the calm tone over comms, Jast could almost hear the ever-present discipline in T’Rell’s clipped voice. The hybrid daughter of a Klingon warrior and a Vulcan scientist, T’Rell wore her Starfleet uniform with meticulous precision. Her voice carried the control of Vulcan logic, but her manner of speech was brisk, efficient. Jast had found her insights keen, and her loyalty unshakable… a valuable presence on his bridge.

Jast stood, already moving. “On my way.”

He glanced over at Velar, who followed wordlessly, leaving their half-finished drinks behind.

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Down on deck 14, the engine room was alive with motion. Cool blue lighting reflected off the surface of the warp core housing, bathing engineering in a rhythmic pulse. A constant thrum of humming power systems served as the mechanical heartbeat of the Thunderchild.

Dr. Thall Th’iveqan, Captain of Engineering, stood with his arms folded behind his back at the central diagnostic console, a characteristic scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was compact, but powerful, with the dense, coiled frame of a man built more like a shock trooper than a starship engineer.

Thick-shouldered and solid through the chest, his presence seemed to anchor the deck around him. His skin was a pale ice blue, the tone of a true-blooded Andorian from the Laikan region of Andoria. His close-cropped silver-white hair did little to soften the hard angles of his face. His antennae twitched slightly above his sharp, relentless eyes, watching every fluctuation on the console, daring the engines to act in a way that displeased him.

Every surface of Main Engineering bore his signature. He hadn’t just learned this engine… he designed and built it during the Akira-class development program. Now he guarded it with a territorial pride that left little room for excuses or substandard work.

Two small figures worked nearby in tandem, perched on small platforms they had dragged into position. The Bynars, 1010 and 1101, moved in eerie synchronicity. Pale lavender-gray hands darted over display consoles, adjusting subspace frequency harmonics while a series of binary code exchanges fluttered between them in high-pitched staccato tones, occasionally picked up by the UT.

“1010: 0100.00101.1101?”
“1101: 0100.00111. Confirmed variance.”
“1010: Adjusting telemetry buffer, 110010.0010110.”
“1101: Margin improved 0.0427 percent.”

They were small even by humanoid standards, barely reaching the chest height of the average officer. The hue of their skin gave them an unearthly cast under the console lights, and the cybernetic nodes fused into the sides of their heads had small indicator lights that blinked in sync with their rapid exchanges.

Dr. Th’iveqan tapped the control to freeze the readout mid-stream.

“You realize,” he said brusquely, “increasing the telemetry resolution by .04 percent is utterly pointless if the navigational compensators haven’t been re-aligned to accept the resolution change.”

The Bynars paused in perfect unison, turned to look at him, then turned to each other and issued another quick burst of binary.

“1101: 100101 did not specify 10.0010.”
“1010: Now has.”
“1101: 110101.001 Correction implemented.”

Their small hands began dancing across the console again.

Dr. Th’iveqan exhaled through his nose and muttered something impolite in High Andorian.

He watched them a moment longer, then stepped toward the warp field interlock display. The Thunderchild’s engines were, of course, holding steady… tuned almost to perfection.

He didn’t like it.

Beneath his cold precision lived memories that rarely stayed buried. The Dominion War had left many scars. Dr. Th’iveqan had been in the bowels of this very ship when the Breen turned the Fleet into coffins. He had routed plasma through her burning corridors, held relays closed with his bare hands over the bodies of dead crewmates, and crawled through decontamination mist too thick to even see through. Even now, the memory of melted circuitry and mangled bulkheads lingered like smoke in his mind. He kept the Thunderchild together through more battles than she had any right surviving. Cardassians, Breen, Dominion, Borg, now even Vaadwaur… she held together.

“Stability check,” he snapped. “Bring the warp injector feed variance to exactly point-one-two-six. Not point-one-two-five, not point-one-two-seven. Exactly point-one-two-six.”

“1010: 101101011.00 Accepted.”
“1101: Adjusting 110101001.00.”

A comm chirp interrupted.

“Bridge to Engineering. Captain Jast requests readiness for maximum warp.”

Dr. Th’iveqan rolled his eyes. “Of course he does.”

He tapped his badge. “Acknowledged, you have your speed, Captain.”

He turned back to the Bynars.

“You heard them, push it to 9.8… cleanly. If I see a micron of injector creep, you’ll be explaining it to me in slow, non-binary Federation Standard.”

The Bynars blinked in tandem.

“10100: Accepted.”
“1101: 1101011010.1101.”