I turn to find Dr. Yakamura standing in the doorway, medical scanner in hand and concern written across her features. “Doctor. You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about our guests and their biochemistry.” She approaches cautiously, the way she does when she suspects I’m about to tell her that whatever’s wrongisn’t worth her time. “How are you feeling? Any unusual symptoms since yesterday’s contact?”
“Such as?”
“Headaches, dizziness, vivid dreams.” Her scanner chirps softly as she runs it over my vital signs. “Zephyrian physiology is fascinating, but we don’t fully understand how their empathic abilities might affect humans.”
I freeze, the resistance bar still locked in my grip. “Empathic abilities?”
“Their crystalline neural pathways allow limited telepathic contact within their own species. It’s one reason they’re so formal—constant emotional noise would be overwhelming without strict mental discipline.” The scanner chirps again, and Yuki frowns at the readout. “Captain, your neural activity is elevated. Brainwave patterns I’ve never seen before.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m not sure. But if I had to guess, I’d say your mind is processing information it’s not designed to handle.” She looks up from the scanner, her expression shifting from clinical curiosity to genuine worry. “What kind of dreams?”
I set down the resistance bar and reach for my towel, buying time while I decide how much to tell her. Yuki is brilliant and trustworthy, but she’s also required to report anything that might affect my fitness for command. And right now, explaining that I dreamed about alien cities I’ve never seen feels like a fast track to medical leave.
“Just fragments. Nothing coherent.”
“Selena.” She uses my first name, which means she’s speaking as a friend rather than my chief medical officer. “Talk to me.”
Before I can answer, the comm system crackles to life with the harsh whine of a general alert. “All senior staff to the bridge. Repeat, all senior staff to the bridge immediately.”
I move before the announcement finishes, grabbing my uniform jacket and heading for the door. Whatever’s happening, it’s big enough to wake the night shift and important enough to interrupt the careful diplomatic protocols we’ve maintained with our Zephyrian guests.
The lift ride to the bridge feels eternal. When the doors finally open, I step into controlled chaos—officers running diagnostics, screens flashing priority alerts, and the low hum of conversation that means something has gone seriously wrong.
“Report,” I bark, dropping into the command chair.
“Spatial anomaly detected at bearing 127 mark 8,” Blaine announces from the tactical station. “Whatever it is, it’s big and it’s growing.”
The main viewer shifts to show long-range sensors, and my blood goes cold. A massive distortion ripples through space like a heat shimmer, bending starlight around its edges and growing larger with each passing second. It’s beautiful and terrifying, a wound in reality that pulses with energy I feel in my bones.
“Size and distance?”
“Approximately fifty kilometers across, range thirty thousand kilometers and closing.” Lieutenant Williams looks up from his console, face pale under the bridge lighting. “Captain, it’s notmoving toward us. It’s expanding. If the growth rate continues, it’ll engulf the station in six hours.”
“Source?”
“Unknown. The distortion appeared suddenly about twenty minutes ago. No preceding energy signatures, no gravitational anomalies, nothing on our sensors until it was just...there.”
I lean forward, studying the impossible sight on the screen. Space doesn’t just tear itself apart without cause. Something triggered this. Something with enough power to destabilize the fabric of reality itself.
“Williams, send a priority message to Starfleet Command. Full sensor logs, all available data. If this thing spreads beyond local space?—”
“Captain.” The voice comes from behind me, formal and controlled. I turn to see Envoy Zylthar standing at the entrance to the bridge, his purplish-blue eyes fixed on the main viewer.
Every head on the bridge turns toward him. In the harsh lighting, his markings glow with soft lavender radiance, and his pale skin seems to shimmer with contained energy. He’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight, but right now, I’m more concerned with the expression on his face.
He looks like someone who’s just seen his worst nightmare made real.
“Envoy Quoril,” I say, standing to face him. “I wasn’t aware you were awake.”
“The disturbance affects our rest cycles.” His gaze never leaves the screen. “Captain, I believe I may have information relevant to your current crisis.”
“I’m listening.”
He hesitates, and for a moment, his carefully controlled expression wavers. “It would be better discussed privately. The matter involves... sensitive cultural information.”
