A low vibration hummed through the deck plating beneath Hara''s boots, a constant pressure against her soles, then ceased. Silence dropped. The chaotic swirl of warped spacetime compressed on the forward viewport—amber streaks blurring into violet rivers—snapped inward, vanished. Stars reappeared, sharp pinpricks scattered across bruised velvet. The shuttle slid back into realspace silence. Heat pricked faintly beneath Hara''s collar; the drive''s residual warmth lingered in the recycled air. A faint click sounded near the pilot''s station.


    Lieutenant Howell''s hands moved across the console. Fingers flicked switches; indicator bars shifted from amber to a flat grey. A rhythmic pulse from the optical cloak array beneath the floorboards stuttered, then died. The shuttle''s faint internal hum became the only steady sound, meshing with the soft hiss of Hara''s own suit regulator near her ear.


    "Nav lock confirmed," Howell''s voice, clipped, from the pilot seat. "Disabling cloak."


    Hara kept her gaze fixed on her own Ops console. Sensor grids bloomed across the screen – pale green lattices overlaid on the starfield. Clutter flared at one: jagged red returns, dense clusters flickering near the system''s edge. Wreckage. Hundreds of small signatures. A larger, more stable return pulsed steady – Cataclysm. Three others nearby. And one... broken shape. Endeavor. Hull integrity readout showed fractured red lines across its port side display icon.


    "Sensor interference high," Lieutenant Reyes reported from the Nav station beside Howell. His voice held a flat, tired edge. "Battle debris saturating short-range bands. Corridor dust adds background noise." A new schematic flared brief on his screen, visible in Hara''s periphery – tight beam scan vectors slicing through the static field towards the Cataclysm.


    Lieutenant Jansen leaned forward in the command seat, adjusting the angle of his spectacles on his nose. Lamplight glinted off the lenses. He tapped his integrated comm link. "Cataclysm Actual, this is Recon Alpha returning. Request immediate docking priority. Secure channel lambda for critical intel debrief." His voice was low, steady, cutting through the shuttle''s quiet hum.


    Static crackled harsh from the speakers, thick with corridor interference. A beat of silence stretched. Then, a filtered voice answered, female, tone level but strained: "Copy, Recon Alpha. Bridge acknowledges critical intel. Proceed direct to Hangar Bay Three. Green light on approach. Laehy out."


    Jansen dipped his chin once, a sharp, minimal movement, towards Howell. "Take us in, Lieutenant."


    Howell''s hands guided the yoke; the shuttle banked without shudder or hesitation. Thrusters fired with a soft hiss felt more than heard, a gentle pressure against Hara''s back as the shuttle moved. Through the viewport, the Cataclysm loomed larger—a vast, dark wedge against the swirling copper and violet backdrop of the supernova corridor nebula. Navigation lights winked slow, steady points of white against its immense hull. Smaller shapes—battleships Indomitable, Regulus, Vanguard—held tight formation nearby, their silhouettes sharp, functional.


    Then the Endeavor slid fully into view. Hara''s breath caught, a small hitch against her ribs. The carrier drifted, listing slight. Hara''s eyes tracked the carrier''s port flank—a ragged cavity, twisted metal spars jutting outward like broken teeth. Hull plates showed buckled, scorched black. Faint streams of venting gas puffed white against the void, dissipating slow. No running lights showed on that side. A ghost ship, tethered only by the faint pulse of its remaining systems. Hara''s fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of her console.


    "Looks worse up close," Reyes murmured, his voice low, his gaze also fixed on the carrier''s ruin displayed on his nav screen.


    Howell kept the shuttle''s approach path clear, weaving through faint debris trails – small metal fragments glinting dull as they tumbled past the viewport. Hara scanned the immediate vicinity on her sensor display. No active contacts beyond the Federation task force. No unexpected energy signatures flaring from the dust clouds. Just the quiet wreckage, the waiting fleet, and the vast, uncaring nebula stretching out beyond. Muscles knotted low in Hara''s stomach. Her shoulders loosened a fraction, tension easing from her jaw, but her fingers remained tight on the console edge. Scan the data. Report. Now.


    A low vibration pulsed through the shuttle, then ceased as magnetic docking clamps engaged overhead. A heavy CLUNK sounded, resonating through the hull plating beneath Hara''s boots. Outside the viewport, the immense ventral plating of the Cataclysm filled the view—a cityscape of layered armor, sensor arrays, and recessed turret emplacements, bathed in the stark white glare of hangar approach lights. Indicator strips along the docking tunnel blinked green in sequence.


    "Docking complete," Howell announced from the pilot seat. Her hands moved across the console; switches flicked. Primary thrusters shut down. The shuttle''s low ambient hum fell away, replaced by the faint, distant pulse of the Cataclysm''s internal atmospheric processors and the closer clatter of machinery from the hangar bay beyond the hatch.


    Hara unbuckled her harness, the mechanism releasing with a sharp click. The scent in the cockpit shifted—the faint ozone tang of their own recycled air overlaid now with a cooler, drier scent carrying hints of hydraulic fluid and ionized particles from the dreadnought''s massive bay. She stood, rolling her shoulders, the movement easing stiffness. The weight of her sidearm pressed familiar against her hip. Reyes stood at the shuttle''s internal locker, securing the recovered data unit containing the Station A logs. Jansen retrieved the alien beacon container, its padded surface absorbing the cockpit''s amber emergency lighting.


    "Gear secured," Reyes confirmed, snapping the locker shut. He turned, adjusting his spectacles. "Ready when you are, Lieutenant."


    Jansen nodded once, his gaze fixed on the forward hatch light cycling from red to green. "Let''s move."


    The ramp release hissed, the sound sharp in the quiet. The thick metal ramp lowered with a hydraulic groan, meeting the hangar deck plating with a solid THUD. White light flooded the cockpit, harsh after the dim amber. Sounds surged in—the echoing clang of boots on walkways high above, the whirr of cargo drones moving pallets in the distance, the sharp snap of a welding torch sparking in a far corner where repair crews swarmed over a damaged fighter. The air smelled clean but industrial – machine oil, ions, cold metal.


    Hara stepped onto the ramp, her magnetic boots thudding against the gridded metal. The sheer scale of Hangar Bay Three registered anew—a cavern stretching vast enough to swallow cruisers whole. Towering support struts rose into shadowed upper levels, catwalks crisscrossing high overhead where figures moved, small against the immensity. Floodlights mounted along the walls cast intersecting cones of brilliant white light, illuminating maintenance bays filled with shuttles, fighters, and hulking marine assault craft. Ground crew in grey jumpsuits moved around docked craft, securing lines or checking panels, their focus contained.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Waiting at the base of the ramp stood Commander Elira Laehy. She was flanked by two marines in full combat gear, helmets sealed, rifles held low. Laehy herself stood still, posture exact, her dark uniform crisp despite the evidence of recent, intense activity throughout the ship. Her hands were clasped behind her back. Her gaze tracked them as they descended, her expression a neutral mask in the harsh hangar lighting, lips pressed into a thin line. Her stance offered no greeting, no preliminary signal.


    Jansen reached the deck first, snapping a salute. "Commander. Recon Alpha reporting as ordered. Intel secured." He held up the padded beacon container.


    Laehy''s eyes moved to the container, then back to Jansen''s face. Her voice cut clear across the hangar''s ambient noise, tone level: "Lieutenant. Report status of recovered items."


    "Station A primary logs partially recovered, Lieutenant Reyes has the data unit," Jansen reported, indicating Reyes who held the unit secure. "Plus this beacon artefact, unknown origin, recovered from Ops Distribution cache."


    Laehy''s gaze shifted again to the beacon container Jansen held, lingered a heartbeat, then returned to his face. "Any hostile contact after departure from Station A?"


    "Negative, Commander," Howell reported from behind Hara, her voice steady. "Clean exit from the mass shadow, cloak held, warp jump nominal."


    Laehy gave a single, minimal nod. Her stare swept over Hara, then Reyes, pausing on Howell. "Good. Conference Room Beta, at once. Captain Rourke is waiting. Admiral Cassel joins via secure holo-link." Her words were direct, leaving no space for response.


    "Understood, Commander," Jansen confirmed.


    Laehy turned, her boots striking the deck plating. The marines fell into step behind her. Hara exchanged a quick glance with Reyes; the air felt thick, tension a palpable weight. "Let''s go," Jansen murmured, gesturing them forward.


    They followed Laehy and the guards away from the shuttle, past humming power conduits snaking across the deck, under the shadow of a massive marine dropship undergoing repairs. The clatter of tools grew louder nearby; a welding torch flared bright blue, spitting sparks. The scale, the readiness, the undercurrent of grim focus—it all pressed in. This was more than a standard debrief. Hara''s hand went to her sidearm, fingers brushing the grip—reflex. The corridor leading off the hangar bay opened ahead, its recessed lighting casting long shadows down its length.


    The corridor stretched ahead, a faint hum from the plates beneath Hara''s boots. Recessed lights cast pools of flat white illumination on the polished deck, bracketed by longer stretches of shadow. The air circulated cool and dry, carrying the tang of scrubbed oxygen and distant machinery. Laehy led the way, pace consistent, no haste shown, the two marine guards falling into escort positions a step behind her. Their heavy armor clanked low with each step, a muted sound against Laehy''s passage, which made no sound. Jansen walked just ahead of Hara, Reyes and Howell flanking him. The beacon container in Jansen''s grip looked inert, nondescript.


    They reached Conference Room Beta. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a chamber different from the main briefing room''s grandeur. Functional, compact. Steel-gray walls absorbed the light. A circular holo-table dominated the center, the surface dark. Minimal consoles lined one wall, screens dormant. Captain Nathaniel Rourke stood facing the entrance, his back to the far bulkhead where a larger tactical display screen remained inactive. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture locked, frame still. His gaze met theirs, direct, tracked their entry.


    "Team Alpha, secure stations," Laehy instructed, her voice echoing faint in the confined space. She moved to stand beside Rourke, taking a position near the holo-table controls. The marines posted themselves outside the door, which hissed shut, sealing them inside. The room''s sound dampeners engaged, muffling the corridor hum to near-total silence, broken only by the faint whir of environmental controls.


    Jansen stepped forward, placing the padded beacon container with measured movement on the holo-table''s dark surface. He activated his datapad, its screen flaring pale green. Reyes moved to a side console, plugging in the recovered data unit. Cables clicked into ports. Howell took a position near the wall, hands clasped behind her back, pilot''s stance maintained. Hara remained near the entrance, scanning the room, taking in Rourke''s neutral face, Laehy standing still, gaze steady.


    A chime sounded from the main console Laehy stood near. "Admiral Cassel linking in," Laehy stated. She tapped the console. The main display screen on the far wall flickered, then stabilized, showing Rear Admiral Thalia Cassel. The image was crisp. The source location looked like Endeavor''s patched bridge or med bay. Cassel sat upright, a pressure bandage stark white against the dark fabric of her uniform sleeve. Soot smudged one cheekbone, sharp against the pallor of her skin. Darkness showed under her eyes; her gaze held steady, stared directly into the room.


    "Report," Rourke''s voice was low, a rumble that cut the silence.


    Jansen took a breath. He angled his datapad towards the holo-table. At once, schematics of Frontier Station A flickered into existence above the table''s surface – wireframes, deck layouts, faded Federation markings. "Captain, Admiral. Station A confirmed derelict. Extensive structural damage consistent with age and probable micrometeoroid impacts over decades." A pointer light flared from his datapad, highlighting sections. "Evidence of recent, targeted salvage activity found throughout primary engineering and storage sections. Non-Federation markings present – consistent with patterns observed on disabled pirate corvette wreckage at Cassini."


    He swiped the display. Images appeared – photos from their helmet cams. Twisted metal, scorched walls, the cryptic symbols Hara had noted etched deep into bulkhead plating. "These markings predate the recent salvage. Age unknown. Structure compromised, gravity intermittent, atmosphere negligible."


    Hara took one step forward. "Residual radiation pockets near the damaged core shielding – low level but persistent," she added, voice level. "Life support systems completely offline. Found evidence of forced entry into sealed sections, including Ops Distribution."


    Jansen gestured towards the container on the table. "Ops Distribution cache yielded this." He tapped his datapad again. A 3D render of the hexagonal beacon spun slow above the table, glyphs casting a faint glow on its simulated surface. "Unknown technology. Not Federation standard issue, pre- or post-supernova. Construction materials register as anomalous alloy composites. It emitted a low-level energy signature before powering down upon removal from its mount."


    Reyes spoke from the side console, his voice low but tense. "Confirming intermittent EM pulses logged near the cache prior to beacon recovery. Consistent with residual power drain. Station logs..." He brought up streams of text on his console screen, mirrored above the table – fragmented, corrupted entries flashing red ''DATA LOSS'' flags. "...show heavy encryption layers, partial pirate overwrites. We bypassed surface layers. Found references to ''Haven network nodes'' and cross-links to salvaged Federation patrol grids."


    Howell leaned forward. "Sir, recovered a damaged holo-map projector near the command center. Managed to pull this fragment." She activated a control on her wrist interface. A new layer appeared on the holo-table – a partial star map, amber lanes flickering. Points blinked – Cassini, Station A – then another point flared brighter, labeled ''Haven,'' linked by a dotted line. Near Haven, another label flashed—on, off, flickering— ''SC-13''. "Map data corrupted, alignment uncertain, but the link between Station A, Haven, and this SC-13 coordinate is definite. Projection terminated before full system ID."


    Rourke leaned closer to the table, his gaze fixed on the ''SC-13'' label. Laehy unfolded her arms, fingertips tapped the console beside her. From the wall screen, Cassel''s voice rasped, the sound thin but clear. "Haven... SC-13... That matches whispers my intel picked up from Voss before the attack. He called Haven ''the hub.'' Said SC-13 was... something else. Production, maybe." Her image flickered, static buzzing brief. "That salvaged tech... the shields on their kingship... they held too long. Did you find source signatures? Blueprints?"


    Jansen shook his head, adjusting his spectacles. "Negative, Admiral. Heavy data corruption. But the encryption and the references..." He paused, taking another breath, his gaze meeting Rourke''s across the glowing holo-table. Silence deepened in the room. "The final layers we cracked weren''t just encrypted logs, sir," Jansen continued. "They contained references pointing towards the primary objective of the Ring''s presence at Station A." He stopped speaking, letting the silence stretch, the hum of the holo-table the only sound.