Captain’s Log supplemental: The Sentinel and the Valhalla are on our third week here in the Shackleton Expanse. We have arrived at the Whicks System, bringing supplies to one of our new colonies.  I’m not sure what I was expecting with this assignment, but it’s been the same old same old, just a different constellation of stars.

Órlaith cradled her tea in her hands, letting the steam wash over her face and the heat seep into her hands. The hum of the bridge all around her. Everything around her was in perfect order. Officers who all knew their jobs didn’t need her standing over their shoulders checking in on them. Every starship commander said this, but in her case, she did have the best crew in the fleet.

The repetitive beep of an incoming transmission echoed throughout the bridge, and the carefully choreographed dance of routine operations stumbled as officers looked up from their consoles or turned with PADDs in hand. Lt. Commander Audrin Swiftblade shifted her position from the operations station at the back of the bridge, artificial lighting playing upon her platinum blonde hair braided into an intricate weave that exposed the points of her Vulcan-esque ears.

Her fingers danced over the operations console, her nails making soft clicks upon the touchscreen glass. “Captain, we are receiving a distress signal.” She hesitated as she worked through the commands. “The IKS H’Poc is under attack by a series of automated orbital platforms at 2-1-8 mark 5-4. They are venting atmosphere, engines are offline, and they are crash landing on the planet.”

“The H’Poc is assigned to Grid 25,” Commander Erin Hayden said from the console adjacent to the XO’s chair, the screen rotated towards her. “There’s an M-class planet with a pre-industrial civilization. Starfleet Anthropology has earmarked it for orbital survey, but as a low priority.”

Órlaith scowled and carefully set her tea on the space between the command chair and the XO’s. The cup and saucer made a soft rattle as she did. “What the hell are orbital defense platforms doing protecting a planet where the people are barely past the tie a rock to a stick and chucking it stage of development. And how did we miss these platforms?

Erin shrugged, “Our long-range probe detected no artificial satellites. There was a considerable amount of rocky debris that the report noted as ‘likely the remnants of a destroyed moon,'” she said, reading from her screen. “Powered down and embedded or placed amongst the debris, they would be almost impossible to detect unless you knew to look for them.”

Standing Órlaith moved to the center of the bridge with her hands clasped behind her back as she moved to stand over the helm. Her Bajoran helmsman, young Ensign Dalon Thom, sat patiently waiting orders. She noted that the coordinates were already plugged in, waiting for her command to engage. It was even set to maximum warp. She wasn’t sure that she liked being that predictable.

“Hail the Valhalla,” Órlaith announced.

There was a tick of manicured nails on glass, and the open hailing frequencies chimed from operations. “Channel open, captain.”

A moment later, the vastness of space was replaced by the imposing visage of Captain Xavier Vance. He was leaning on his right elbow, left hand braced on his thigh, framing his left side towards the camera, displaying the deadly scar from the Houdini mine that ripped across the left side of his body.

Always with the theatrics. That scar routine might intimidate Starfleet brass or Cardassians, but I know you too well, Xavier Vance, Órlaith thought to herself.

“Valhalla here. What can I do for you, Captain Murphy?”

“Did the Valhalla receive the distress signal from the Klingon ship?”

“We did. I understand that you are friends with the H’Poc’s captain, no?” Vance cocked his head, standing with his hands on his hips, eyes locked onto her. This was not the first time Órlaith had secretly wished that visual communication wasn’t standard, but sometimes text just wasn’t as efficient.

Vance shifted his position and stood in the awkward way that he did, placing most of his weight on his right leg. For a second, she swore she noticed a wash of pain flash across his dark face. Vance stepped down from the raised position of the Prometheus-class’s raised command deck to stand over the recessed helm and operations station. He moved like a predator stalking its prey.

Órlaith shifted slightly. It was irrelevant; as a Starfleet captain, it was their duty to respond to a distress signal. She took a deep breath and gave Vance a slight dip of her chin. “I am. I owe her my life, but we still have a duty as Starfleet captains.”

“Captain Murphy, we are obligated to respond, and we don’t have enough friends in the Empire that we can ill-afford to abandon our allies. That said, a Bird-of-prey was destroyed. You are not going to do this alone.”

Órlaith nodded, “Thank you, Xavier. I’ll see you there.”

Vance smirked, “Don’t go rushing in like a Klingon captain, Hindenberg. I know you fighter pilots are like hammers and everything’s a nail.”

Órlaith resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him, using her callsign. It was embarrassing, but at least it was down in a blaze of glory embarrassing. There was a pilot in her group called Compass. Compass couldn’t navigate his way out of a closet.

“Understood. Sentinel out.” The viewscreen chimed and returned to a view of space. She spun and headed for her chair. As she did, she shouted over her shoulder, “Helm set a course for intercept, maximum warp.”

“Course set, captain,” Ensign Dalon replied.

Órlaith crossed her legs and settled into her chair before picking up her tea and taking a sip. It was tepid, and she sighed. It was going to be one of those days for sure.

“Engage.”