It is a strange thing to catch the scent of old books aboard a starship, the earthy musk of decaying cellulose that heralds their collective presence, out of place amongst the blinking lights and smooth duranium skin of a space-faring ship. Considered relics for acquisition by some and outdated artefacts by others, paper-based books are an oddity that some have never even encountered. Yet set neatly along rows of wooden shelves following the spine of Ascension, there is a forest of inked pages capable of rivalling any of the great woods that root themselves in the dirt of the Federation.

Atil’ika couldn’t help but smile as she trailed a finger over the spines of the library’s books, neatly ordered like soldiers on parade. Everything here in the long room was satisfyingly analogue, save for the small control console nestled by the door. Even the walls were bedecked with paper, across their surface subtle weaves of arcing geometric bevels that crinkled at the corners. The Andorian suspected the ageing paper was somewhat of an affectation, and one that could easily be remedied, but no engineer dared to edit the room that was arguably the captain’s favourite.

“I thought I might find you here.” She whispered with a smile as she rounded a tall stack of leather-bound spines marked with the name Shakespeare in delicate gold filigree to find Nemros reclined on a well-worn wingback chair.

“Ah-Ah-Ah, no tech in my library, thank you.” Captain Nemros chided as he caught a glimpse of the silver padd in Atil’ika’s hand in the room’s dim light.

“I’m afraid that rule gets superseded.”

“By who?”

“Starfleet Command.” Atil’ika proffered the PADD towards the man.

Nemros regarded the silver slip with a distasteful curling of his lip before reaching out to take the device with a gnarled hand.

“Anything important?” he queried as he laid the PADD on his lap without activating the screen. He had long ago learnt that his XO’s summaries were far more succinct and insightful than anything that might be on the digital briefing.

“Perhaps, the latest scouting reports from Durandal. There are a number of non-Federation ships along our flight path.” Atil’ika lowered herself slowly down onto a nearby ottoman, its threadbare top sighing lightly under her weight. “They wanted to give us a heads up.”

“That’s kind of them. Should we be worried?”

“Not particularly, most are civilian cargo hauliers and passenger liners from across the Expanse. Likely filled with devotees of our diminutive guest.”

The Rigellian captain offered a chiding frown at the woman who held her hands up apologetically.

“She’s actually quite tall for her age, or so she tells me,” Nemros added, stretching his legs onto a nearby footstool with a satisfied groan. “A whole two inches taller than her brother was, apparently. She’s very proud of that.”

“Just how old is she?” Atil’ika asked as she fiddled with a loose thread on her ottoman come lounger, the long red cotton strand a stark contrast to her dark blue skin. “She seems young?”

“It’s hard to say, the Yomaji don’t measure maturity by cycles of the calendar but rather by the milestones of their life. Don’t pass the first hurdle, and you could be considered a child for the rest of your days.” A glint of excitement flared in Nemros’ eye as he sprang on the opportunity to engage in his favourite activity, sharing titbits. “By our reckoning, she’s about thirteen ‘years’ old.”

“That’s a lot of power for someone so young.” Atil’ika pursed her lips; she’d seen her fair share of young leaders with runaway power in five decades of service, and more often than not, it was dangerous. “Holding that much sway?”

“Her sway is more spiritual than practical, and that’s always tempered somewhat by her advisors. Since their leap into interstellar capabilities, the Yomaji are increasingly moving away from their religious dogma.” Nemros offered a shrug. “Which it seems is often the lot of such spiritual peoples.”

“The Bajorans?” Atil’ika parried.

“Are far less spiritual than they once were, but I don’t think that’s entirely the result of their technological developments.”

“Still, The Divine’s practical sway seems to be quite high. Enough to disappear people entirely, it appears.” Atil’ika pursed her lips again as Nemros offered a confused furrowing of his eyebrows. She’d resisted the urge to investigate a hunch for several hours whilst the welcome dinner occurred, but the woman couldn’t bat away intuition developed from a lifetime of accurate gut feelings.

“I did some poking,” She finally confessed.

“About the Divine? We’re not here to judge the Yomaji or make a diplomatic incident, Atil’ika. We’re here to escort her on her pilgrimage to their holy site.” The request had been an unexpected one, but Starfleet, desperate to make inroads into the Expanse, had quickly snapped it up. Days later, Ascension had been dispatched, her grandeur and reputation considered a fitting contribution, and one Starfleet hoped would make a good impression.

Atil’ika held up her hands apologetically once more.

“I couldn’t help it, Nemros. Can’t ignore the twitching antenna.” She motioned with two gnarled fingers towards the slowly circling stems atop her head, lazily wiggling with a slowness of age.

“Did your poking turn anything up?”

Atil’ika nodded towards the PADD on his lap.

“Something and nothing. Literally.” She reached over and activated the device, summoning a set of internal scans to the screen, a series of numbers lining the side of the screen.

“Don’t tell me she’s actually a sentient black hole or something?” Nemros cast a wary eye over the figures as they twitched minutely; environmental readings, hull stresses, and power flows, all well within normal limits.

“Unconfirmed at this time.” Atil’ika smiled at the playful jibe. “What was concerning was this.”

She flicked the screen back and forth between two time indexes, a few minutes apart. Nothing jumped from the screen to Nemros’ aged eyes, and he looked to Atil’ika with confusion.

“21:00.” She slid the screen across. “21:05.”

Shed slid the screen back and forth a few times.

“21:00. 21:05. Notice the change?”

“The bio signs…” Nemros’s attention slipped towards the number nestled unobtrusively at the top of the long list, as the time index changed, the value twisted back and forth unexpectedly.

Five hundred and twenty.

Five hundred and nineteen.

Five hundred and twenty.

Five hundred and nineteen.

“We’re missing someone?” Nemros’s voice was tinged with concern.

“Not us, all the crew are accounted for.” Atil’ika tapped the screen again, summoning a register of everyone present on board. “The missing person is a familiar face, though.”

The wrinkled visage of a Yomaji chaperone appeared on the screen, her face bearing the same angry disapproval she had shown Ensign Tribolus earlier in the corridor following her accidental interruption. The Divine hadn’t seemed happy with her actions, but nothing suggested she was to be punished for it as the retinue departed.

“Removed?” Nemros posited.

“To where? And how? The Yomaji don’t use transporters because of a whole existential concern. And they came aboard on one of our shuttles; there’s nowhere to go.” A distasteful suggestion hung on the edges of her dark lips.

“Did we detect any sign of weapons fire or reports of violence?” Nemros asked quietly, dangerous and unwelcome possibilities pushing at the edge of his brain.

“No,” Atil’ika conceded. “But I also got a translation of The Divine’s instruction, and I think I need to do some more poking.”

She tapped the screen one last time, a sequence of unknown curving glyphs clattering onto the screen as the translation of the Yomaji language unfurled into English.

YOU ARE FOREVER DISMISSED.

“You think they killed her?” Nemros hissed. The thought of such an instruction alighting from the mouth of the cherubic Divine seemed completely surreal.

“It’s hard to see an alternative.” Atil’ika sighed, annoyed that her antennae were proving as reliable as ever in detecting something amiss.

“I’m due to meet The Divine again for breakfast, I’ll see what I can feel out without asking anything directly, we don’t want to alienate them just yet.” Nemros closed the PADD, attempting to dismiss the dark thought, but it hung at the corner of his mind, slipping into the dim light of the library.

“And me?”

“You have my official permission to poke some more.” Nemros’s lips tightened as a bitter taste filled his mouth. “Let us hope there is a simple explanation.”