The hollow reverberation of Ayres’s fist against the padded target echoed through the holodeck. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline as he slipped beneath an invisible counterpunch, pivoted on the balls of his feet, and drove a stinging right hook into his sparring partner’s foam-clad midsection.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low and steady, feet settling into the familiar pattern, “You’re faster than that, Milo”

For a heartbeat the holographic coach wavered – his angular jaw and silver streaked hair rippling like heat off a desert road – then curved into a knowing grin and lunged forward with oversized leather pads.

Each crash of pad on glove sounded like the soft cadence of raindrops on a dense forest canopy.
His heart drummed in his temples as Ayres flowed through the sequence: strike, retreat, pivot, repeat. Around him the worries of command – flickering console lights, diplomatic messages waiting in his inbox, the dull hum of starship systems – fell away like fallen leaves on a woodland floor. There was only the pulse of his breathing, the warm slick of exertion on his arms, the satisfying resistance of glove meeting pad.

Then, without warning, a searing flash of white light blazed around him, blinding and immediate. The holodeck vanished. His glove cut through empty air.

The first sensation was the chill. Not the carefully humidified climate control of a starship, but crisp, bracing air scented with pine resin. Dew clung to his skin in fine beads that cooled his sweat-soaked tank top. His spine prickled as if cooled by a mountain wind.

Ayres stood motionless, chest tight, listening to the rustle of high branches overhead and the distant call of a wood thrush. His gloves were still laced on; his training shorts and tank top clung to him like wet moss. No combadge, no tricorder, no phaser. The absence of technology felt as strange as walking barefoot on the forest floor.

“Computer, end program,” he called, voice swallowed by the hush of pine needles underfoot. No answer came, only the steady whisper of wind through needles and the soft scuttle of tiny creatures in the underbrush.

“Sacramento, this is Captain Ayres,” he tried, tone firm against the unknown. Silence answered him. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the resinous tang of fir and the cool breath of dawn.

He turned slowly in a small clearing ringed by towering conifers whose trunks rose like ancient columns toward a sky strewn with stars. The horizon glowed pale pink as dawn pushed back night, and beyond the tree line jagged peaks loomed, their snow-dusted summits catching the first slant of sun like a promise of distant heights.

“Could’ve beamed me into a locker room at least,” he muttered, flexing his arms as a breeze sifted through the clearing, stealing more of his warmth.

His thoughts drifted to the Task Force communique he’d skimmed hours ago. An invitation wrapped in diplomatic flourish. He’d rolled his eyes then.

At the edge of the clearing, half-buried in a tangle of ancient roots and moss, he spotted a small pack: Federation-issue, rugged and utilitarian. He knelt on soft earth and unzipped it, revealing supplies as practical as a mountain trail kit: a water canister, a hand-crank torch, a foil thermal blanket that glinted like morning frost, compact rations, a basic med-kit, a field tricorder. And, to his relief, sturdy boots and fresh clothes. Lifting the pack, its weight settled over his shoulders with a comforting dose of reality.