"First" Contact

The first five days in space are damn near exactly how Starfleet expected. The Enterprise passes her warp trials with only a few minor hiccups, easily hammered out by Scotty and his team of engineers, and the new-and-improved warp core handles the stresses of maximum warp like a champ, to the captain's profound relief. Life support easily handles the workload of four hundred thirty-three souls on board, though it becomes pretty clear early on that some crew quarters will have to be reassigned if they expect to keep the peace for the next five years. And there's some minor excitement on day three when the replicators bug out and refuse to produce anything other than orange juice and potatoes, a problem that takes ten hours to fix and leads Jim to discover that his personal food stash is nowhere close to big enough to stave off a late-night panic attack.

One by one, every system on board is subjected to stresses above and beyond their normal expected operation. Phaser banks, navigation systems, artificial gravity, even uniform fabrication and recreational programs are tested to the limits, no system too small or trivial to be overlooked, not when the ship and her crew might not see Federation territory for half a decade. And the Enterprise isn't the only one being run through her paces. Her crew, too, practice drills for everything from red alerts and emergency evacuation to fire suppression and intruder alerts.

Day six.

Jim steps onto the bridge at 0800 sharp, datapad in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, and though his face shows little sign, a knot of anticipation coils in his stomach, one that has nothing to do with today's scheduled testing.

Spock's expression, of course, might as well be carved from granite for all the emotion it conveys as the Vulcan vacates the command chair. "Captain," Spock greets him, hands clasped behind his back at parade rest. "Gamma shift reports a minor abnormality in impulse engine response time, and a defect in the starboard tractor beam. All other systems operating within standard parameters."

Yet another small bump in the road, but that's what this shakedown cruise is designed for. Nothing to worry about. "Is Scotty looking into it yet?" Jim asks, slipping into his seat as naturally as breathing, resting his padd on his thigh. "Or, wait, no, it's Keenser at this hour, my mistake." Can't fall into the habit of expecting Scotty to be up and at 'em twenty-four hours a day, even though it's damn near true nine times out of ten anyway.

Spock inclines his head a fraction. "Indeed. Both repairs are expected to be completed within the next two hours."

"Good. Thank you, Mister Spock." It's all so incredibly routine, comfortably familiar, finding easy patterns to fall into again after only five days at sail. No huge surprises, no obvious dangers, nothing outside of Starfleet's expectations.

Jim's always had a hell of a time sticking to what Starfleet has planned.

* * *

Around 1140, halfway into running science lab hazard drills and transport diagnostics, Spock abruptly straightens at the science station. "Captain, long-range sensors are detecting a large metallic mass at maximum range. It appears to be fluctuating in shape and orientation; its mass appears to exceed one thousand times that of the Enterprise."

The mild monotony of the bridge breaks as curious personnel perk up at their posts, and Chekov quickly consults the Enterprise nav system. "Stellar charts show no metallic celestial bodies in this sector."

"It is not a natural celestial object," Spock confirms, looking up from the sensor hood, one eyebrow cocked. "Composition is refined titanium and several alloys I am unfamiliar with. It is possible that the mass is either one extremely large starship, or more likely, multiple spacecraft."

Even though Jim is ninety-nine percent sure he knows who it is, he's learned better not to just assume. "Yellow Alert," he orders. "Helm, put us on an intercept course, warp three. Uhura, begin broadcasting universal greetings, and advise Starfleet we are moving to intercept a possible visitor. Spock, when we're in visual range, put it up on the viewer."

A chorus of affirmatives follow the captain's commands, and the Enterprise yaws and rolls, pivoting to her new heading, routine testing abandoned for something far more interesting. Jim forces himself to sit still in his seat, fingers drumming on the armrest as his gaze bores into the blackness of the void, as if he could see beyond sensor range and confirm the identity of the unknown contact himself.

He doesn't have to be impatient for long.

It's one thing to know just how many ships are in a fleet, and an entirely different thing to see it. As the Enterprise approaches and the image resolves, it swiftly becomes clear that the mystery mass is made up of hundreds of ships, great and small. Tiny scout craft buzz around massive bulky egg-shaped vessels like a swarm of bees, mismatched patchwork ships scattered throughout the mass of ships, and at the perimeter of the formation, several sleeker ships bristle with particle cannon thrusting out from hardened hull plating.

"Sensors indicate nine hundred sixty-eight vessels in total," Spock reports calmly, a stark contrast to the faint murmurs of his nonVulcan crewmates. "Their designs do not match anything in the Federation database. Life signs number approximately eighteen point nine one million."

That's fewer than Jim expected, and for a moment, fear clenches in his belly. Did some of them not make the jump? He can't see any battle damage on the ships, but the Death wouldn't leave any, would it? On the other hand... maybe the ship's sensors just can't distinguish K'da when they're riding their hosts.

That's what he'll have to hope, anyway. "Uhura, any response to our hails?" Jim asks.

"Coming in now, captain." Skilled fingers fly across the communications console, routing the signal to the main viewer.

The Shontin who appears onscreen isn't one that Jim is familiar with, tall and orange with tan dapples across his scalp and shoulders. Nor is the vibrant green K'da at his side, her frame slightly smaller than Faris', sitting on her haunches with her nose held high. The Shontin crosses his wrists and pulls them apart swiftly, as though snapping invisible shackles. "I am Tylinn, commander of Stillwalker and elected speaker of the K'da-Shontine fleet. Our greetings to you in peace."

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise. Greetings in peace," Jim echoes, sitting up straight in his command chair, a textbook image of confidence that belays the anxiety gnawing away at his gut. "Your fleet is well within the boundaries of Federation space. What are your intentions here?"

"We have heard of your Federation, an alliance formed of many peoples from many worlds," Tylinn says, both hands held palm-outward, fingers spread. "Many generations ago, my peoples were driven from our home by war we did not want, and since that time we have searched for a place to call home in peace. We have traveled far to ask your Federation for asylum."

A small murmur from various stations on the bridge, astonishment at the sheer size of such a refugee fleet, but Jim holds his composure well, every inch the captain he's determined to be. "Asylum?" he repeats, playing his part to the hilt. "The Federation is open to refugees, but my superiors will need to know if there is a risk of bringing a new enemy to our doorstep."

Tylinn opens his mouth, and folds his hands together. "Of course. It is wise to be cautious. We are willing to send representatives to discuss the matter, wherever they must go."

"We'll be happy to make arrangements for that." Behind him, he can hear Uhura already updating Starfleet with a request for diplomats. Jim's smile is small but confident, seizing the opportunity just as he would if this was a real first contact. Better to welcome new friends with open arms and a wary eye than to hold them at arm's length and make a bad first impression. "In the meantime, we humans have a custom of getting to know each other over a meal. If your people are willing, I'd be happy to host a small delegation aboard the Enterprise this evening."

"An admirable custom," Tylinn says approvingly. "We accept your gracious offer, Captain. I look forward to it."

* * *

It's three more days before the Enterprise returns to Spacedock, later than her scheduled arrival, but the news is already buzzing with talk of the K'da-Shontine fleet, speculation on their intentions, the logistics of suddenly having to find accommodations for millions of unlikely refugees, the ethics of possibly becoming entangled in a war with an enemy that is completely unknown. Commentary and opinions on both sides fly across the holonet, and though there are some that argue suspicion of outsiders with a one-sided history of their peoples' war, they're far outweighed by scientific curiosity and compassion, those who cite the Federation's founding principles of diversity and unity.

It's a debate that's bound to stretch through the coming months, now that the Federation's diplomats and ambassadors are on the case, especially. And in a way, Jim regrets that he won't be around to see it play out, to stand as a supportive voice for sheltering those in need. Though there's little he could do in person anyway, their fate out of his hands now, set on a course that he hopes will lead to peace and prosperity for a people who have already seen too much hardship.

But he has a pretty damn good feeling about all this.