No One Else

Posted on Sat Jun 27th, 2026 @ 10:14pm by Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren

3,244 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: The Heir of a Buried World
Location: USS Ironwood, Outer Epsilon Fleet Patrol Corridor
Timeline: MD01

The first rule of patrol work was that nothing was ever routine just because the computer labeled it that way.

Commander Neris Jovan had learned that lesson young, and then again often enough that it settled into his bones. Patrol duty had a reputation among officers who had never truly done it. They imagined empty lanes, quiet sensor sweeps, minor traffic disputes, and the occasional freighter captain with more confidence than sense. There was some of that, of course. There were always captains with more confidence than sense. But the deeper truth of patrol work was that trouble rarely announced itself at a scale worthy of attention. It arrived in fragments. A transponder that lagged three seconds behind its stated position. A freighter running too cool through a traffic corridor. A clipped distress call that sounded less like panic and more like someone had recorded it with a hand over their mouth.

The USS Ironwood was running a standard sweep along the outer approach corridor to Starbase 369 when the first fragment appeared.

Jovan stood near the center of the Saber II-class patrol frigate’s compact bridge, one hand resting lightly against the back of the command chair. He did not sit unless he intended to remain there. On a ship the size of the Ironwood, command had a different shape than it did on larger vessels. The bridge was close enough that a captain could see the tension in an officer’s shoulders before the console reported a problem. Orders moved quickly because there was no room for ceremony to gather dust around them.

“Commander,” Lieutenant Ressa called from Operations, her voice clipped but not yet sharp. “We have a distress signal bearing zero-three-one mark two-seven. Weak transmission. Civilian registry.”

Jovan turned slightly. “Source?”

“Courier vessel.” Her fingers moved over the console. “Registry identifies as Mourning Dove, Federation commercial license, independent route certification. Filed for passage to Starbase 369 eighteen hours ago.”

The name sat poorly with him. Not because of superstition. He had served too long for that. Names did not doom ships. Captains and circumstances did that well enough. Still, some names seemed chosen by someone with no imagination for what might be said after an accident.

“Distance?”

“Eleven million kilometers and closing, but she’s not on her filed approach vector. She’s bleeding velocity.”

Jovan stepped down toward the forward rail. The main viewer shifted from the pale arc of distant stars to a tactical overlay. A small civilian marker flickered near the edge of the corridor, its telemetry unstable. Behind it, just outside what would have been acceptable pursuit distance for commercial traffic, another contact shimmered in and out of sensor resolution.

Jovan’s eyes narrowed.

“Tactical,” he said.

Lieutenant ch’Vren, seated at the compact tactical station, was already working. The Andorian’s antennae angled forward in concentration. “Second contact is running a masking profile. Civilian hull signature at first glance, but the power curve is wrong. Too disciplined. Too clean. Weapons residue in the courier’s wake.”

“Type?”

“Unknown. Not Starfleet. Not any registered civilian pattern I trust.” ch’Vren paused, then added, “I would not call that a merchant engine, sir.”

“No,” Jovan said quietly. “Neither would I.”

The distress call resolved in uneven bursts across the bridge speakers.

“…under attack… transport failure… requesting assistance… passenger priority…”

Static swallowed the next few seconds.

Ressa looked back over her shoulder. “The call is automated now. First thirty seconds were live.”

“Put the live segment through.”

The bridge listened.

There was a voice beneath the static. Female, strained, speaking too close to the pickup.

“Starfleet vessel, this is civilian courier Mourning Dove. We are under attack by an unidentified vessel. Shields failing. We have wounded aboard. Request immediate assistance.” A hard sound followed, not an explosion exactly, but the deep metallic complaint of a hull taking punishment. The voice returned thinner. “Passenger must not be returned. Repeat, passenger must not be…”

The transmission cut.

No one on the bridge spoke for half a breath.

Jovan looked to the helm. “Intercept course. Maximum warp until tactical drop. Red alert.”

The lights shifted across the bridge, painting every face in disciplined urgency. The Ironwood was not a grand ship. She did not carry the mass of a cruiser or the reputation of a flagship. She was compact, fast, and built for the kind of hard border work that demanded a ship arrive before a situation became a report written in regret. Her deck trembled as the warp field tightened around her.

“Time to intercept?” Jovan asked.

“Four minutes, twelve seconds,” the helmsman answered.

“Tactical, I want targeting solutions ready but hold weapons unless fired upon. Operations, open a channel to both vessels.”

“Aye, sir.”

The channel opened with a soft tone.

“This is Commander Neris Jovan of the Federation starship USS Ironwood to the unidentified vessel pursuing the civilian courier Mourning Dove. You are operating inside Epsilon Fleet patrol jurisdiction and have fired on a civilian ship. Power down weapons and identify yourself.”

For several seconds there was only static.

Then the answer came.

The voice was filtered, flattened through translation and deliberate distortion. “Federation vessel, this is a lawful recovery action. The passenger aboard that courier is subject to internal civil authority. Interference is not advised.”

Jovan felt the bridge still around him. That was another thing patrol work taught. Not all threats came dressed as threats. Some arrived with clean language and a legal tone, wrapped around the barrel of a weapon.

“Unidentified vessel,” Jovan replied, his voice calm enough that even he could not hear the anger under it, “you are pursuing a damaged civilian craft that has issued a distress call. You will power down weapons and stand by for identification.”

“The matter does not concern the Federation.”

“You made it concern the Federation when you fired on a civilian vessel in a Starfleet patrol corridor.”

A pause followed, small but telling.

“They are carrying a fugitive.”

“Then you can provide documentation to proper authorities once both vessels are secure.”

“That passenger must be returned.”

Jovan glanced at Tactical. ch’Vren shook his head once. The masked ship was not powering down. Its posture was changing, though. Not toward attack. Toward withdrawal.

“You are not listening carefully,” Jovan said. “That is unfortunate, but not fatal yet. Stand down.”

The masked vessel’s reply arrived colder than before.

“Commander Jovan, you are placing your ship between this matter and its lawful resolution.”

The use of his name was meant to unsettle. It did not succeed, but it did confirm that their databases were good and their confidence better than their judgment.

“Lieutenant ch’Vren,” Jovan said, not muting the channel, “lock weapons.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

The Andorian’s answer held just enough tooth to it to make the point.

The unidentified vessel held position for another three seconds. Then it banked hard, its masking field flaring as it turned away from the courier and accelerated toward the edge of the corridor.

“Pursuit?” Helm asked.

Jovan watched the contact stretch across the viewer.

Every instinct worth listening to told him the fleeing ship mattered. Every fact in front of him told him the courier mattered more.

“Negative. Maintain sensor lock as long as possible. Launch a passive telemetry buoy on their vector and transmit data to Fleet Ops. Our priority is the courier.”

“Aye, sir.”

The Mourning Dove appeared on the viewer as the Ironwood dropped from warp.

It was smaller than Jovan expected. A narrow-bodied civilian courier with a reinforced dorsal spine, built to carry diplomatic packets, private cargo, and passengers who could afford speed over comfort. Its starboard nacelle was dark, its shields nearly gone. Atmosphere vented in thin silver streamers from two compartments. The hull bore three clean weapons strikes, each placed to disable rather than destroy.

Capture pattern, Jovan thought.

He disliked being right.

“Life signs?” he asked.

Ressa’s face tightened. “Three faint. One conscious. Multiple lifesigns were present recently, but I am reading transporter interference and residual pattern distortion. Sir, some of the crew may have been taken before we arrived.”

That changed the temperature of the bridge.

“Boarding team,” Jovan ordered. “Medical with them. Transport if safe, shuttle if not.”

“Transporters are unstable through the interference,” Ressa reported. “I can get them into the forward compartment, but not directly to the survivor. Internal bulkheads are sealed.”

“Then put them where you can. Commander Vey to lead.”

He tapped the comm panel on the chair arm.

“Jovan to Vey.”

“Vey here.”

“Take a boarding team to the Mourning Dove. Armed, but rescue posture. One conscious survivor. Possible hostile extraction prior to our arrival. Secure logs, secure any passenger records, and keep an eye for traps.”

“Acknowledged.”

“And Commander?”

“Yes, sir?”

“If the conscious survivor says anything interesting, do not decide it is above your pay grade. Decide it is above mine and tell me.”

There was the smallest pause on the line.

“Understood, sir.”

The boarding team transported out in columns of light.

Jovan remained standing. The bridge continued around him in controlled motion. Reports moved station to station. The fleeing vessel dropped a sensor ghost, then another, both of them too obvious to be effective against a trained tactical officer and too effective to be meaningless. It wanted time. Or distance. Perhaps both.

On the viewer, the courier drifted against the darkness, damaged but stubbornly intact.

The first report from Vey came three minutes later.

“Boarding team to Ironwood. We are aboard. Forward compartments are damaged but stable. Two crew members found deceased near the cockpit. Cause appears to be explosive decompression and blunt trauma. Continuing aft.”

Jovan clasped his hands behind his back. “Acknowledged.”

The second report came with more static.

“Commander, we found the passenger manifest. It has been altered. There is one private passenger listed under the name Sarel Venn, no species marker, no point of origin. The file has been overwritten three times.”

Ressa looked up from Operations. “That is not standard civilian booking software behavior.”

“No,” Jovan said. “It is not.”

Vey’s voice came again, this time lower.

“We have found the survivor.”

Jovan lifted his chin slightly. “Status?”

“Young male. Tarethani, I think. Injured, conscious, refusing to leave a sealed compartment until he speaks to command authority.”

Jovan had heard many versions of that sentence over the years. Smug passengers. Frightened diplomats. Criminals who thought a title could be used as a shield. This did not sound like any of those. Vey was too careful.

“Put him through.”

A moment later the audio shifted. There was movement, a crackle of damaged circuitry, and then a young man’s voice entered the bridge.

“Who commands your vessel?”

The voice was strained by pain, but not broken by it. Educated. Controlled. Too controlled, perhaps. Fear held on a leash still had teeth.

Jovan stepped closer to the command chair. “Commander Neris Jovan, USS Ironwood.”

A silence followed.

“Epsilon Fleet?” the young man asked.

“Yes.”

Another pause. This one lasted long enough that Jovan heard him breathe.

“I require protected transfer to Starbase 369.”

“You are aboard a damaged civilian vessel that was attacked under pursuit. You are being transferred for medical treatment and debriefing.”

“No.”

Vey’s voice came in from farther away. “Sir, he is injured. Left shoulder, possible rib fracture, smoke inhalation. He is standing in front of what looks like a courier safe and will not let us near it.”

Jovan’s expression did not change.

“To whom am I speaking?” he asked.

The young man’s answer was immediate and useless.

“My travel identity is Sarel Venn.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“No,” the young man said softly. “It is not.”

There was movement on the line. A low sound, sharp enough that Jovan suspected one of the medical staff had attempted a scan and been refused.

“You are safe from the vessel that attacked you,” Jovan said.

“That is not the same as safe.”

It was a good answer. Uncomfortable, but good.

“You requested Starfleet assistance.”

“The courier requested assistance.”

“You were the passenger they wanted.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The young man did not answer.

Jovan let the silence sit. He had learned that most people feared silence more than questions. Those who did not were either trained, stubborn, or carrying something that mattered more than comfort.

At last, the young man spoke.

“I will surrender the archive object only to Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren.”

Ressa turned fully from Operations.

Jovan held up one hand, keeping the bridge quiet.

“Vice Admiral MacLaren commands Epsilon Fleet,” he said. “She does not personally receive every rescued passenger who objects to processing.”

“She will receive me.”

It was not arrogance. That was the part that caught Jovan’s attention. The young man did not sound like someone demanding status. He sounded like someone reciting the last intact instruction from a dead hand.

“And if she does not?” Jovan asked.

“Then I have failed before I arrived.”

The bridge felt smaller around him.

Jovan looked toward the viewer, where the wounded courier hung in space. He thought of the masked vessel and its careful weapons fire. He thought of the phrase lawful recovery and the way it had been delivered across a channel as if the right vocabulary could make pursuit clean.

“What is your true name?” Jovan asked.

The answer came after a long moment.

“Seren.”

Only that.

“Seren what?”

“Not over an open channel.”

Vey cut in again. “Sir, he has an object. Black stone or composite, copper veining, about the size of a padd. It is sealed. I am reading layered encryption and a biometric contact surface. There is an external Starfleet command tag.”

Jovan’s mouth tightened.

“Read it.”

Another pause.

Vey’s voice changed when she spoke again. Not frightened. Not quite. But more careful than before.

“Recipient authority: Vice Admiral Sidra MacLaren, Commanding Officer, Epsilon Fleet.”

No one on the bridge moved.

Jovan looked toward Ressa. “Confirm?”

“Receiving the object’s passive tag through Vey’s tricorder,” Ressa said. Her fingers flew across the console. “It is old encryption architecture with newer Starfleet-compatible wrapping. I cannot open it. I can barely read the outer shell.”

“What else?”

Ressa’s face lost a shade of color.

“Subject line only.”

Jovan waited.

She looked at him, then back to her console, as if hoping the words might arrange themselves into something less troubling.

“Tareth-Kal Custodial Continuance File.”

The name meant little to half the bridge. Jovan could see that at once. It meant enough to the computer to flag restricted historical references. It meant enough to Ressa that she stopped trying to make sense of it aloud.

It meant enough to the young man on the other end of the channel that his breathing changed.

Jovan had never served at Tareth-Kal. He had been a junior officer elsewhere when the final settlements were still fresh enough for diplomats to call them success and refugees to call them something else. He knew the public shape of it. A failed constitutional order. Regional intervention. Federation mediation. A treaty that ended the fighting. A world that had ceased to be a world in the political sense, which was the sort of sentence officials liked because it removed all the blood from the grammar.

He also knew this: no one hunted a passenger across a patrol corridor over settled history.

“Commander Vey,” he said, “take custody of Seren and the object. Medical priority, protective security posture. No scans of the archive beyond safety checks. No attempt to open it. Limit knowledge to your team and this bridge.”

“Aye, sir.”

Seren’s voice came through once more, quieter now.

“You will not return me.”

It was almost a question. Almost.

Jovan looked at the courier on the viewer. “No.”

“You will not hand me to Diplomatic Affairs before she reads it.”

“That decision is not yours.”

“I know.”

The admission was stark enough to sharpen the silence.

Jovan exhaled through his nose. “But until Vice Admiral MacLaren or her appointed authority says otherwise, you are under the protection of the USS Ironwood and Epsilon Fleet. That is not a decorative sentence, Mister Seren. Do not make me regret it.”

For the first time, something in the young man’s voice shifted. Not relief. Relief would have been too easy. This was smaller. The sound of a locked door holding for one more minute.

“I understand, Commander.”

“Good. Cooperate with my medical officer.”

“I will not release the object.”

“I did not ask you to.”

Another pause.

“Thank you.”

Jovan did not answer at once. Gratitude under these circumstances was a blade without a handle. There was no safe way to hold it.

“Boarding team,” he said, “bring him home.”

The channel closed.

On the bridge, the red alert lights continued their slow pulse. The masked vessel was gone from direct sensors now, leaving behind ghosts and unanswered questions. The Mourning Dove remained crippled, its dead still aboard, its missing crew now a separate problem waiting for names. Somewhere in the ship below him, an injured young Tarethani was being transported under guard with an object addressed to the commander of Epsilon Fleet.

Jovan looked once more at the words on Ressa’s console.

Tareth-Kal Custodial Continuance File.

It was an ugly thing, watching history wake up.

“Helm,” he said, “set course for Starbase 369. Best possible speed without compromising our guest or the boarding team.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Operations, prepare a priority channel to Fleet Ops. For Vice Admiral MacLaren’s office only. Full encryption, command authentication, no diplomatic distribution.”

Ressa nodded. “Channel ready.”

Jovan straightened his uniform jacket, though it did not need it. Then he looked at the viewer, at the damaged courier and the long dark corridor beyond it.

“Message begins,” he said.

The bridge computer chimed once.

“This is Commander Neris Jovan, commanding officer, USS Ironwood. We have recovered one survivor from the civilian courier Mourning Dove following hostile pursuit by a masked vessel operating inside Epsilon Fleet patrol jurisdiction. Survivor identifies as Seren, Tarethani, traveling under false documentation. He is injured but conscious, and he is carrying a sealed archive object addressed directly to Vice Admiral MacLaren’s command authority.”

He stopped for half a heartbeat.

“Be advised,” he continued, voice measured and clear, “the survivor has requested Vice Admiral MacLaren by name. His exact words were: no one else.”

Jovan glanced again at the line of text glowing on the operations console.

“Outer metadata references Tareth-Kal Custodial Continuance. We are en route to Starbase 369 under protective security posture. Further details upon secure arrival.”

He gave the computer a nod.

“End message. Send.”

The computer acknowledged transmission.

No one said what they were thinking. They did not need to. The Ironwood had answered a distress call. That was all. A simple act, clean and necessary, the sort of duty Starfleet liked to believe it understood.

But as the stars lengthened and the little patrol frigate turned toward Starbase 369, Jovan had the distinct and unpleasant feeling that they had not rescued a passenger from a ship.

They had intercepted the first shot of an argument everyone else had thought long buried.

Commander Neris Jovan
Commanding Officer
USS Ironwood
Epsilon Fleet

 

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