“We’ll deal with that when it happens. One crisis at a time.” I settle back into the command chair, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility. “In the meantime, we have a station to run and a crew to take care of.”
And each other,Zylthar adds through our bond.
And each other.
The next few hours pass in relative calm as we work to establish new normal routines. The crew adapts to their enhanced abilities with surprising ease—better coordination makes damage control more efficient, increased empathy improvesinterpersonal conflict resolution, and the subtle psychic connections allow for unprecedented teamwork.
But underneath the surface calm, tension builds. Through my enhanced awareness, I sense the approach of ships at the edge of sensor range—Earth vessels moving with the purposeful urgency of military response.
They’re coming,Zylthar observes through our link.
Sooner than expected.
Jorem must have transmitted his report immediately. Your government moves quickly when it perceives genetic threats.
I nod, watching the tactical display as three Federation starships drop out of warp at the system’s edge. Heavy cruisers with enough firepower to reduce Halcyon to component atoms if they consider us too dangerous to contain.
“Captain,” Williams reports from communications. “Incoming transmission from theUSSEndeavor. Admiral Morrison commanding.”
Admiral Sarah Morrison—I’ve heard of her. Career military, hardline conservative, known for her strict interpretation of Federation genetic purity laws. Not exactly the person I’d choose for delicate negotiations about evolutionary transformation.
“On screen.”
Morrison’s face appears on the main viewer—steel gray hair, cold blue eyes, and the kind of expression that suggests she’s already made up her mind about guilt and innocence. Behind her, I see theEndeavor’sbridge crew preparing for combat operations.
“Captain MacGray,” she says without preamble. “I’m here to investigate reports of unauthorized genetic modification among your crew. You and all affected personnel will submit to immediate medical examination and possible neural intervention.”
Not a request,Zylthar observes through our bond.
Definitely not.
“Admiral Morrison,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “My crew and I underwent genetic changes as a side effect of preventing dimensional collapse. We’re happy to provide full medical records for your review.”
“That’s not sufficient. The reports I’ve received suggest deliberate contamination with alien genetic material, possible biological warfare implications.” Her expression hardens. “Captain, you and your crew represent a potential threat to human genetic integrity. You’ll be transported to Earth for full evaluation and possible quarantine.”
Through our bond, I sense Zylthar’s spike of fear—not for himself, but for what Earth’s xenobiologists might do to me in the name of research. The idea of being treated as a laboratory specimen rather than a person cuts deeper than any threat of court-martial.
They want to study us,he realizes.Dissect our bond, analyze our genetic modifications, possibly attempt to reverse the process.
Over my dead body.
That might be exactly what they’re planning.
“Admiral,” I say, standing to face the screen. “My crew and I have committed no crimes. We prevented a catastrophe that would have killed millions of people across multiple star systems. If you want to study the results, you can do it here, under controlled conditions, with our full cooperation.”
“Captain MacGray, you’re not in a position to negotiate terms. Submit to immediate transport or I’ll be forced to consider you in rebellion against Federation authority.”
The words hang in the recycled air like a death sentence. Through our enhanced connection, I experience my crew’s emotions—anger, fear, determination, and underneath it all, absolute loyalty to whatever decision I make.
What do we do?I ask Zylthar through our bond.
We do what we’ve done since this started,he replies, his mental voice steady despite the fear I endure underneath.We face it together.
I look around the bridge one more time, seeing faces that trust me despite everything that’s happened. My people. My responsibility. My family.
“Admiral Morrison,” I say, my voice carrying the authority of someone who’s made peace with impossible choices. “Halcyon Station is under Starfleet jurisdiction, and I’m its appointed commander. If you want to board my station, you’ll do it according to proper diplomatic protocols.”
“Captain, you’re making a mistake that will haunt you forever.”
