Aloran’s tea sat cooling untouched while the holographic message from Starfleet hovered above his desk, the insignia of the diplomatic task force slowly revolving like a solemn seal. The call had ended less than a minute ago, its implications still echoing through him with a dull heaviness. A promotion to command of Task Force 72. It should have felt triumphant. Instead it felt like being handed a fragile piece of glass, one he was expected to hold steady in a storm.

The admiral’s clipped farewell lingered in memory. ‘Anthemius will rendezvous with you in forty-eight hours’. The call had cut immediately afterward, leaving Aloran alone with a dozen thoughts colliding behind his composed exterior. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped beneath his chin. To be given a task force command was no small thing. It meant diplomacy layered with strategy and a chance to put into practice his past career. It meant he was expected to help shape the Federation’s presence in the Shackleton Expanse, an expanse that other the past weeks he felt was increasingly unstable.

He rose slowly and crossed to the shelf, touching his fingers lightly to a small Vulcan sculpture, the wooden lattice warm beneath his skin. A gift from his first mentor. He had always found the habit embarrassingly sentimental but tonight it steadied him. He retrieved the tea, noting its chill, and drank it anyway. He needed clarity more than he needed warmth.

His thoughts drifted toward the USS Anthemius, the flagship of his soon-to-be command, currently cutting a path through deep space toward the Farragut’s coordinates. Modern, elegant and designed explicitly for diplomacy. Many aspects that the Farragut, bruised and overworked, presently was not. He imagined the ship’s bright shining corridors And he wondered what the Anthemius would make of the ramshackle convoy arranged around the Farragut, its ships battered, grateful, and increasingly dependent.

Another message light blinked on his desk. He was already growing accustomed to staff work. Engineering and science were reporting that the station systems were unusually efficient. One of the convoy’s liaisons reported that several trader captains were unsettled by the repair drones and were requesting reassurance. And a brief message from the Farragut’s captain, that he and Parr would update him after their dinner with the station’s administrator.

Aloran only had time to inhale before the lights wavered. Once. Twice.

“Computer,” he said sharply, “status of the ship’s systems?”

The computer responded instantly. “All systems within expected parameters.”

The lights flickered again anyway, dimming and brightening. Aloran tapped his combadge. “Aloran to bridge. Kincaid, confirm you are experiencing fluctuations in the ship’s systems?”

Static answered first, then Kincaid’s terse voice. “Confirmed, sir. Power fluctuations from the station. The readings are unusual.”

The lights dipped too low, then stabilised again. Then a tremor ran through the deck plates, subtle but unmistakable.

“Keep me updated,” Aloran said, and then an alarm shrieked through his mind. Not Starfleet’s tones but something alien and mechanical. Panic. Aloran moved to the door, which opened without hesitation. The corridor beyond flickered like a bad holo-rendering, the walls shuddering in pulses. He stepped out. “Computer,” he ordered, “emergency analysis.”

“Warning: anomalous energy surge detected. External origin.”

His heartbeat quickened. “Magnitude?”

“Sensor data is unavailable.”

That was worse than an answer. He started moving, boots hitting deck plates in quick, decisive strides. The corridor groaned. Panels flickered. The lights dimmed again. His combadge chirped violently but with no further sound emanating from it.

Aloran broke into a sprint.

He tapped his combadge again, hopeful. “Bridge, report!”

Silence. Then a burst of noise, and Kincaid’s voice, strained. “Sir, the station is emitting a massive waveform… power loss across…”

The rest cut off as the hum peaked.

The lights flared white and snapped out. Blackness swallowed everything. Then only faint red emergency strips pulsed along the floor. Every panel died. Every display blinked out.

Aloran staggered, catching himself against the wall. Darkness thickened around him. Somewhere distant, metal shrieked. The deck trembled beneath him.

Then he felt a pulse erupting outward all around him. It was silent but felt like a blow to his body and mind.

Every ship in the vicinity of Orantei Station went dark in unison.

Aloran lifted trembling fingers to his combadge. It chirped once, weak. Then the badge died.

The silence that followed was absolute and oppressive. For the first time in many years, Aloran felt profoundly unprepared for what was happening.