The control bunker beneath Velara Prime’s capital city was a chaotic symphony of alarms and shouting. Nestled within a neutral expanse between the Federation, Gorn Hegemony and the enigmatic Metron Consortium, Velara Prime occupied a dangerous crossroads. Its leaders had long clung to the hope that their world’s isolation would shield them from the grasp of more powerful neighbors. But hope had always been a fragile defense. A pre-warp civilization, the Velarans had looked to the stars with wonder, not realizing the danger that lay beyond.

The air inside the control bunker hung heavy with the acrid tang of overheated electronics as technicians rushed between consoles, their faces pale and slick with sweat. Above them, the ceiling groaned ominously with each tremor that rippled through the planet. Somewhere nearby, an explosion sent another faint shudder through the ground.

President Anith Thal stood at the center of the room, gripping the edge of the command table as though it might keep him anchored. His ceremonial sash, once a symbol of his authority and optimism, now felt like a noose.

The glowing holographic map projected above the table displayed a grim picture: seven alien ships encircled the planet like vultures, their angular forms stark against the faint outline of Velara’s orbital defenses.

“Status report,” Thal demanded, his voice low but steely. Around him, the din of the bunker quieted slightly.

A young officer glanced up from her console, her trembling fingers poised over a touchpad. “Seven alien vessels confirmed, Governor. Three cruisers, two destroyers, and two troop carriers. They’ve destroyed our communication satellites and disabled the orbital platforms. The remaining defenses won’t hold much longer.”

Thal’s clenched his jaw tightly. The orbital platforms were more than just their first step into space—they symbolized Velara’s dreams. Dreams that were now burning in orbit. “And the planetary shield?”

The officer hesitated, her gaze dropping. “Failing, sir. It wasn’t designed for sustained firepower. It will collapse within the hour.”

A cold dread coiled in Thal’s chest. “And the subspace relay? Have we made contact with the Federation?”

The communications chief straightened from his console; his expression grim. “We managed to boost the signal through the old lunar relay. It’s broadcasting now, but the jamming field is strong. There’s no guarantee it’s getting through.”

Thal drew in a slow breath, forcing himself to stand taller. The Federation—if they heard the message—was their only hope. The Velarans had known of Starfleet for years, and their scientists had observed their ships passing through nearby systems. They’d pieced together an image of a vast interstellar alliance, powerful yet committed to peace. It had become a symbol of hope, almost mythical. But now, Thal needed it to be confirmed.

“Keep the signal going,” he said firmly. “Push it until the array burns out if you have to.”

“Yes, Mister President.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The cockpit of the Starlight was a tight, cluttered space, its walls lined with mismatched panels and blinking readouts from at least three decades of starship design. Captain Jarek Olis adjusted his pilot’s seat, a well-worn cushion patched with tape and stared at the chaos beyond his viewport. Debris from Velara Prime’s orbital platforms drifted like ghostly wreckage, their glowing embers a reminder of the destruction still unfolding below.

Olis rubbed at the ridged crest on his bald blue head, a habitual gesture when stress mounted. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered, his voice carrying the unmistakable cadence of a Bolian accent—musical yet tinged with exasperation. “A simple cargo run, Jarek. Easy credits, no trouble.”

Instead, trouble had found him.

His freighter hung in the shadow of Velara Prime’s third moon; its engines powered down to avoid detection. Beyond the moon’s curve, Gorn warships prowled in orbit, their silhouettes jagged and predatory. The Starlight’s sensors chimed softly, alerting him to new activity. Olis leaned forward, his round face illuminated by the flickering glow of his displays. Multiple heat signatures appeared—Gorn landers descending toward the planet’s surface.

“Figures,” he said, his fingers flying over the console. “Not content with wrecking the place from orbit, are we?”

The Gorn weren’t raiders; they didn’t believe in half-measures. He’d seen their handiwork while hauling relief supplies to the Perelian colonies. They were systematic and ruthless. The Velarans didn’t stand a chance.

Olis hesitated, his hand hovering over the comm panel. Sending a transmission would risk exposing his position. The Gorn might have ignored his freighter so far, mistaking it for inert debris, but one broadcast and they’d know he was here. The Starlight was old, patched together with ingenuity and hope, but it wouldn’t survive a firefight.

He sat back, exhaling through his teeth. “What’s the alternative, Jarek? Watch from a safe distance while they level the place?”

His conscience answered before his brain could finish weighing the risks. His hand shot out, activating the comm.

“To any Federation vessel within range, this is the freighter Starlight. Velara Prime is under attack. Gorn ships are in orbit, and ground forces are deploying. The colony doesn’t stand a chance. If anyone can hear this, please respond.”

The channel closed with a soft beep, and silence settled over the cockpit. Olis leaned back in his chair, staring out at the stars. The Gorn ships remained distant shadows against the wreckage, oblivious to his transmission.

He reached into a compartment beneath the console, retrieving a small holo-frame. The image shimmered to life: his family gathered on the steps of their home on Bolarus IX. His siblings waved enthusiastically in the image loop, their faces brimming with joy, while his parents stood behind them, their expressions warm and proud.

Olis let the frame rest on the console; its soft glow a reminder of why he’d made the call. It wasn’t just about Velara Prime. It was about every family like his, living with no idea what might descend from the stars one day. If the Federation could stop it here, maybe they wouldn’t have to face it elsewhere.

“Hang in there, Velara,” he said quietly, his voice steady now. “Help is on the way.”

Whether or not the message would reach anyone in time, he couldn’t say. But at least he tried. Outside, the Gorn warships continued their ominous patrol, a looming threat over a planet that had hoped its isolation would shield it from harm.

___________________________________________________________________________

As President Thal watched the holographic map, the bunker’s air grew heavy with silence. The Gorn ships continued their predatory orbit, unchallenged and unyielding. The planetary shield flickered one last time and collapsed entirely, leaving Velara Prime exposed. On the display, the Gorn troop carriers began their descent, slow and deliberate, like vultures swooping on their prey.

Thal tightened his grip on the edge of the table. “Do we still have contact with the relay?”

The communications officer shook his head. “No, Mister President. The jamming field is overpowering the signal. We lost the channel.”

Thal’s shoulders sagged. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the map as the cold reality settled over him. Then, with a deep breath, he straightened, regaining his composure.

“We’re not done,” he said firmly. “Not yet. Begin the evacuation protocols. Prioritize medical facilities and shelters. We’ll get as many out as we can.”

Around him, the room stirred into motion. Officers and technicians worked feverishly, clinging to hope that anyone might aid them.

____________________________________________________________________________

High above Velara Prime, Captain Olis stared at the approaching Gorn patrol ship, his hands gripping the controls of the Starlight so tightly his knuckles turned pale blue. The old freighter’s engines sputtered, struggling to bring the freighter to life. A low growl escaped him as the patrol ship drew nearer, its silhouette cutting an ominous path through the drifting debris.

“This is not how I’m going out,” he muttered, punching commands into the console. “Not today.”

The Starlight groaned as its thrusters fired, nudging it deeper into the debris field. Olis’s heart pounded as he weaved the ship through the wreckage, narrowly avoiding jagged shards of twisted metal. He knew the Gorn ship would follow, but he also knew these fields better than they did. It wasn’t much of an edge, but it was something.

The proximity alarm screamed again. Olis glanced at his display to see the patrol ship gaining ground. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he cursed under his breath.

Then his comm console flickered. An automated response from the planetary relay cut through the static: “To any vessel… Velara Prime is under attack… immediate assistance required…”

Olis slammed his fist against the panel. “Come on, Starfleet. Hear it. Somebody hear it!”

Outside the viewport, the Gorn patrol ship continued closing in. Olis braced himself, every instinct screaming at him to flee. But he didn’t. His hands stayed steady on the controls with his eyes fixed on the flickering stars beyond the wreckage.

“If this is it,” he said quietly, glancing at the holo-frame of his family, “at least I tried.”

The patrol ship’s disruptors flared, bathing the cockpit in green light. The Starlight shuddered violently, its shields buckling under the assault. Warning klaxons wailed, drowning out Olis’s muttered curses.

Just as the first explosion rocked the freighter, Olis embraced a wide view of Velara Prime. The Gorn landers pierced the atmosphere like fiery daggers, their descent unopposed. Debris drifted in silent orbit, casting long shadows over the vulnerable planet below.

Somewhere in the chaos, Jarek Olis’s faint distress call pulsed through the void—a flicker in the shadows, reaching for a savior that might never come.

And then, darkness.