The T’Seran quietly moved as she explored the Shackleton Expanse. On the bridge, Commander Tavik Rhehl stood with his hands folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the stars. They were as indifferent, cold. He didn’t like this assignment and the quiet was getting to him.

A chime broke the stillness. A fragmented subspace signal flickered across long-range sensors, faint and broken but strangely structured. Deep inside the carrier wave lurked traces of Tal Shiar encryption, layered over frequencies that almost matched Starfleet harmonics. The combination was impossible, which made it dangerous.

“Commander,” Centuron Rekan tr’Pareth reported, “the signal’s partial, but… there are harmonic intervals consistent with possibly Federation technology. It’s not an exact match.”

Tavik didn’t turn. “How not exact?”

Rekan hesitated. “Close enough to raise questions, far enough to make every answer wrong.”

“Then we treat it as contamination,” Tavik said. “Quarantine the channel. No transmission in or out. Bridge crew only.” He paused. “And no reports to Central Command until I understand what this is.”

Rekan nodded. The rest of the bridge remained quiet, every officer trained to hide curiosity behind discipline. Every officer except one.

Mel leaned forward from the liaison’s station, “Commander, with respect, those harmonics aren’t random noise. They sound like a distress call. Someone could be in trouble.”

Tavik finally turned his head. “Or someone wants you to think that.”

“Maybe,” she shot back, “but we don’t get to ignore a call for help just because it’s inconvenient. If this is a trap, we’ll know soon enough.”

Her defiance drew a subtle twitch from Serala t’Varin, but Tavik only looked at Borden. “You are certain it is a distress call?”

“I’m certain it’s close,” she said. “Could be one of ours, could be someone trying to sound like it. Either way, pretending we don’t hear it makes us complicit.”

Tavik’s expression didn’t change. “The Tal Shiar are fond of mimicry. A false distress call is the perfect trap for bleeding hearts.”

“Then you’d better hope I’m wrong,” she muttered.

Serala spoke. “Observation seems the most prudent action. Quarantine the frequency but study it under isolation protocols.”

Tavik nodded in agreement. “Observation before engagement. Knowledge before trust. Rekan, secure analysis only. Borden, you may advise if the readings shift toward a biological origin. Until then, restraint.”

Mel’s jaw tightened. “Understood,” she said, but the tone implied anything but.

Lines of code and energy traces filled the holoscreens. The pattern was too deliberate for background noise, too chaotic for any known cipher.

“Status?” Tavik asked.

Rekan frowned. “There’s a faint organic signature nested in the modulation. Weak, intermittent. Possibly a pod, maybe debris. Life signs minimal.”

“Barely alive,” Tavik murmured. “Or pretending to be.”

The bridge stayed silent, though he could feel the tension under it: Rekan’s quiet calculation, Serala’s measured caution, Borden’s restless impatience. All of them were waiting for him to tip the balance.

“Continue analysis,” he said at last. “Document everything. Discretion above all.”

“Yes, Commander,” Serala replied.

Mel couldn’t stop herself. “If it is someone out there, waiting for rescue, delay could kill them.”

Tavik looked at her, “We will act when the facts demand it, not before. Until then, discretion first. Loyalty always.”

The engines hummed. Outside, the stars zipped past, while the strange signal pulsed again: neither Romulan nor Federation. It was something unknown.

Tavik clasped his hands behind his back. “Rekan,” he said quietly, “build a containment matrix. Simulate every possible solution. Trust nothing, not the signal, not yourself.”

Rekan nodded. Tavik’s eyes stayed on the viewscreen. For now, he would watch. He would wait. And when the time came, he would make his decision.