The doors to the conference room slid open, admitting Vann and Rios into a space that felt more like a tactical nerve centre than a simple briefing suite. Polished bulkheads lined the walls, embedded with holographic displays flickering with real-time data feeds—sector maps of the Vega system, warp traffic logs from nearby colonies, and encrypted subspace chatter from Starfleet outposts. A long, obsidian conference table dominated the centre, its surface a seamless LCARS interface projecting a three-dimensional reconstruction of the Vega battle: the Horizon's scarred hull weaving through Borg debris, the ominous rift pulsing with otherworldly energy, and the sleek, biomechanical silhouette of the Undine bioship vanishing into the void.
At the head of the table stood Admiral Jorel Quinn, his Trill features composed but etched with the subtle weariness of command. His joined symbiont lent him an air of wisdom, the distinctive spots tracing from his temples down his neck a reminder of lives lived across centuries. His uniform was impeccable, the four gold pips of a fleet admiral gleaming under the overhead lights, but his dark eyes held the sharp focus of someone who'd stared down far worse than a subspace anomaly. Flanking him were two aides—a Vulcan lieutenant scribbling notes on a PADD and a human commander monitoring incoming transmissions—but Quinn dismissed them with a subtle nod as Vann and Rios entered.
"Captain Vann, Commander Rios," Quinn said, his voice measured and carrying the weight of Starfleet Command. He gestured to the seats opposite him, though he remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. "I've reviewed your logs from Vega. Impressive work—surviving a Borg sphere with a Miranda-class is no small feat. But let's cut to the core of this engagement: walk me through it. From the rupture onward."
Vann took her seat first, her antennae angling forward in deference but not deference alone—there was a history here, Rios sensed, a shared scar from older battles. "Admiral," she began, her tone crisp and unembellished, "we dropped out of warp into a debris field: the Khartoum and civilian ships, all assimilated or destroyed. Borg probes engaged immediately. We held them off long enough to beam down evacuation teams to the colony surface."
Rios leaned in, activating a holographic overlay on the table to illustrate. The projection zoomed in on Vega IX's surface, red icons marking assimilation hotspots. "Ground ops were chaos, sir. Drones were adapting faster than expected—nanoprobes turning colonists in seconds. We prioritised the main settlement, extracted five hundred, and obtained a copy of the colonies' data backups before the sphere locked on. That's when the rupture widened."
Quinn's spots seemed to darken slightly as he studied the holo. "The Undine bioship. Your report says it emerged mid-engagement and primarily targeted the Borg. Not us."
"Correct," Rios confirmed, his voice steady despite the fresh memory. He met the admiral's gaze, drawing on Vann's earlier encouragement. "It ignored the Horizon at first—almost like we were beneath notice. Fired on the sphere, disrupted their assimilation beam. It gave us the window to evac. But sensors caught morphogenic signatures before it arrived. Infiltrators, maybe. Stirring the pot."
The admiral paced slowly, the holo casting ethereal shadows across his face. "Undine—Species 8472. We've had whispers of their incursions since Voyager's reports from the Delta Quadrant. Fluidic space bleed-overs, shapeshifters embedding in key positions. If they're probing Vega, it's not random. The colonies are near the Klingon border, and they could be testing alliances for weaknesses." He stopped, fixing Vann with a knowing look. "Elira, you and I both know the Borg don't deviate like this without provocation. Wolf 359 was brute force. This? Calculated. Your call to prioritise survivors over pursuit—that saved lives. Starfleet's already spinning this as a victory in the briefings."
Vann's scar tightened with a faint twitch. "With respect, Admiral, it doesn't feel like one. We lost good people. The Khartoum's crew... assimilated. And if the Undine are escalating—"
"They are," Quinn interjected, his tone grave. "Intel from Deep Space K-7 suggests Klingon raids masking something bigger. Undine could be playing both sides, inflaming the war to weaken us all." He turned to Rios, appraising him with a mentor's eye. "Commander, your tactical logs show quick thinking—rerouting auxiliary power mid-beam-out, evading that cutting beam. Vann here recommended you for XO straight out of the Academy. Looks like she was right. Hesitation could've cost the ship."
Rios felt a flush of pride mixed with the lingering ache of Vega's losses. "Thank you, sir. But credit goes to the crew. Chief Daxan kept the engines from melting; Lieutenant Jorak held the line at tactical. We adapted because we had to."
Quinn nodded, a rare flicker of approval crossing his features. "That's Starfleet. Adapt and overcome." He tapped the table, dissolving the holo and pulling up a new projection: a diplomatic itinerary scrolling with Vulcan script. "Which brings us to your next assignment. The Horizon is in drydock for repairs— all being well, she should be spaceworthy in 48 hours. After that, you're on diplomatic escort duty. Ambassador Sokketh—a Vulcan dignitary—needs safe passage to P'Jem for high-level talks. Routine, but with Klingon patrols sniffing around the border, stay sharp."
Vann exchanged a glance with Rios—routine, but after Vega, nothing felt routine. "Understood, Admiral."
"Good," Quinn said, straightening. "Dismissed. And Commander Rios—welcome to the front lines. You've earned that pip. Don't let it weigh you down; let it guide you."
As they rose to leave, Vann paused as the door closed behind them, her voice low for Rios alone. "See? Told you. Quinn doesn't hand out praise lightly. You held your own in there."
Rios managed a wry smile, the debriefs tension easing into resolve. "Felt like facing a tribunal. But... thanks. For the push."
She clapped his shoulder, Andorian strength tempered with camaraderie. "That's what captains are for. Now, let's get that diplomat to P'Jem before the Klingons crash the party."
As Vann and Rios stepped back into the bustling corridors of Earth Spacedock, the admiral's words lingered in his mind. The station's hum—conversations blending with the whine of repair drones and the soft chime of incoming shuttles—felt almost mundane after the intensity of the debrief. Rios glanced at his captain, noting the subtle tension in her antennae; she was already mentally charting their course to P'Jem, no doubt calculating variables from Klingon patrol patterns to other 3rd parties making an appearance.
"Diplomatic escort," Rios mused aloud as they navigated toward the turbolift cluster. "After Vega, it almost sounds like a vacation. Assuming Sokketh doesn't turn out to be a changeling…"
Vann's lips quirked in a rare, wry smile. "In this quadrant? Assume nothing. But Quinn's right—stay sharp. The Horizon's taken a beating; Daxan will have her purring again, but we'll need every edge for border runs."