The nebula was no longer the distant, abstract feature of star charts and sensor compositions. Ketha’s Shroud unfurled before the Tempest’s viewscreen in an immense, hazy cloud, strands of green and gold curling like ink in water, punctuated by flashes of pale lightning running through the eddies.

Pentecost stood in the centre of the bridge, hands clasped behind her back to stop her from pacing. They’d been dredging through these depths of the nebula for a day, now, and each hour of monotonous scanning felt like it was taking something from her.

‘Local density increasing,’ Sorren reported from Science, not for the first time. ‘Electromagnetic scatter is destabilising long-range readings.’

‘No wonder nobody found these ships in two hundred years,’ muttered Hargreaves from Helm. ‘It’s like flying with soup over the controls.’

‘You got experience of that, Lieutenant?’ said Pentecost, forcing herself to be lighter.

‘There was this one time at the Academy -’

‘I’ve got something.’ Sorren’s voice came like a whip, and the main screen crackled with static as he coaxed the sensors through interference. Then the picture resolved into shapes darker than the nebula around them: saucer sections, nacelles, jagged beams. The unmistakable outline, even after two hundred years of time, battle, and changing design, of Starfleet hulls.

The bridge’s momentary hush broke with an audible intake of breath. Hargreaves whispered, ‘Is that the Mercury?’

Sorren leaned forward over his console, brow furrowed with his usual level of scientific detachment. ‘Columbia class. Aft saucer section and hull heavily damaged, but intact. Other contacts include an Intrepid and a Freedom class remains; I’d have to study other wreckage further. And… Klingon. Birds-of-prey. Some larger warships.’

The graveyard filled the screen. A Freedom main hull inverted, registry numbers eroded but legible. A bird-of-prey’s wings had been split like a butcher had gone to work on them. A Klingon battleship’s bridge module spinning free of its sundered neck. Federation and Klingon alike – and more Federation – scattered together in an endless drift of death.

Pentecost’s breath caught in her chest. ‘We’ve found them. We’ve bloody found them!’ It was jubilation and reverence both, a fist-pump of excitement, but before she could marshal it, there was a chirrup from Tactical, and Renard looked up.

‘Incoming hail from the Mat’lor.’

The screen flickered and Kovor appeared on his bridge, seated upon his command chair like it was a throne. He gave a slow, approving nod. ‘So it is true. A site of ancient battle, a reckoning for this region. Here is where our warriors faced one another, and the Empire stood victorious.’

‘I guess so,’ said Pentecost, hands opening. ‘I’m not here to dispute a defeat, Captain. I’m here to find out what happened, and why, the same as you. I’m sure you’ll find some marvellous evidence of the House of Mokvarn’s bravery in securing the Skaleri sector.’

Excitement meant she hadn’t marshalled her tone enough, and Kovor’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he read her as disinterested in his political agenda, or mocking; if she were sincere, she intended both.

‘You may hunt for snapshots of how your people died,’ Kovor sneered. ‘I will seek proof of how my people won. Explore your own vessels, by all means. I will sweep the Klingon ships. We will find what we need.’

At the aft rail, Ash’rogh stood silent, eyes fixed on the wrecks. Pentecost glanced his way, just long enough to realise he wasn’t going anywhere, before she answered Kovor. ‘That sounds fair. We search, and share notes. Tempest out.’

Sorren glanced to Ash’rogh before he addressed Pentecost as the screen went dead. ‘A B’rel class will struggle to determine much of nuance in this interference.’

‘My captain will give an overview,’ said Ash’rogh, voice rather neutral. ‘I ask we continue to share in your hunt here.’

‘That is the agreement,’ said Pentecost, trying to not sound frustrated, but Sorren’s gaze was still pointed. ‘What’ve you got, Ked?’

He grimaced now, and tapped a command to bring a new display on the viewscreen. ‘We’re at the periphery of a star system. One of the planets is M-class. Populated. Pre-industrial. No artificial power grid. No warp.’ The image he’d brought up was a blue-white orb of a planet’s surface, marred with continents, oceans, and shifting atmospheric patterns.

‘That’s close to the debris field,’ said Pentecost. ‘Any indication there’s been much drift that way?’

Sorren shrugged. ‘At present, I believe the battle site is too far away to be caught in its gravitic pull. And we’re too far to be seen by the sorts of technology I anticipate they have.’

‘Let’s keep it that way. Prime Directive isn’t optional, people.’ She turned back to Sorren. ‘Catalogue the debris field. Radiation levels, structural stability, hull integrity. Find out what we’re looking at before we dive deeper.’

The next hours passed in hushed focus. Tempest crept through the debris field with cautious reverence, and Pentecost was relieved to see the Mat’lor keep its movement to scans at the periphery for now. Thrusters nudged them between hulks, only the Klingon remains bigger than them; what had once served as a flagship of Starfleet was now little better than a discreet scout, and even the mightiest Starfleet wreck was no longer intact.

Radiation fields were faint, dispersed long ago, though Sorren called out the ionisation in the nebula and its effect on the hulls and energy coils as they passed shattered hulks with ruptured decks and open compartments. Pentecost monitored everything as each station called out its findings, less a conductor than the architect. Her people gave her the pieces, and she built the final product.

That final product was the flagship.

Mercury hung at the graveyard’s heart. Her saucer was broken but whole, impulse engines gutted, one nacelle long gone, the other torn open. But her name was still visible across the cracked plating: USS MERCURY NCC-119.

‘Her condition’s the most stable,’ Sorren confirmed at last. ‘Radiation low. Emergency grid dormant but intact. Bridge superstructure compromised but accessible. If there’s computer records intact anywhere, that’s our best shot.’

‘EVA will be required,’ said Valois, reading from his armrest’s display. ‘Atmosphere’s long gone. Grav plating inoperative. Forward breach looks open enough for ingress. Controlled approach, bridge access within two sections.’ He looked up at her. ‘I’ll take the away team.’

It was almost a question. Not quite. Pentecost’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re an expert in 22nd century Starfleet technology?’

‘Enough to assess integrity and either restore power to secure systems, or identify what technical expertise we have, Captain. That’ll need an engineer. And it might all be for nothing.’ Valois nodded to the viewscreen and the scrolling data coming in from their scans. ‘The real gold-mine’s here.’

‘I’ve hunted Eurus-7 for years.’ But she sounded plaintive even to her own ears, and scowled at the notion she had to beg her own XO to let her go into a dangerous place where she wasn’t needed, just for the experience of it. Her jaw worked, and she gave a frustrated exhale through her nose. ‘Fine.’

‘Captain. I would like to join them, with Sergeant Jodrak.’ Ash’rogh straightened at that, and shrugged as eyes fell on him. ‘I am little use on the bridge. But I may be of use making sense of battle records from the flagship. And Jodrak is an engineer.’

‘And your captain would love that data. Which we’re treaty-bound to share,’ said Pentecost, giving up trying to sound gracious now her treat had been denied her. ‘Granted.’

Valois nodded and stood. ‘Lieutenant Renard, with me, also.’ At Pentecost’s frown, he looked between the two women, bemused. ‘She’s certified in starship SAR. Perfect expertise for navigating unstable wrecks.’

Renard looked like she’d swallowed a lemon at her brother deigning to know things about her, so Pentecost cocked her head at her Chief of Security. ‘You just keep on secret-ing, don’t you, Lieutenant. Next you’ll tell me you never knew how to play the violin.’

That made Renard’s expression change to the usual frown of consternation at her captain’s antics. ‘I… don’t know how to play the violin.’

‘See? It’s like I never knew you.’ She waved a hand. ‘Fine. Go, the four of you. Suit up, beam over. See if you can access computer records.’

‘It is fitting,’ said Ash’rogh, pushing away from the railing. ‘Klingons and Starfleet treading together where we both bled. We will honour this place.’

It was better than Kovor’s confrontationalism. Pentecost nodded. ‘Glad to hear it. Get going. Sorren, keep mapping the field. Helm, make sure we don’t hit anything. The Mat’lor can keep sweeping the Klingon wrecks. Let’s do what we came here to do.’

Her eyes lingered one last time on the drifting hulk of the flagship Mercury. Her veins hummed at the thought of walking those halls, but she knew that would be an enclosed space, cut off from other sights, other knowledge. She wasn’t just here for the flagship – she was here for all of it.

Sorren leaned forward as the away team left the bridge, eyes landing on her. ‘This is still your finding for the history books, Captain.’

‘That’s not why I do this,’ said Pentecost, waving a hand.

‘Sure,’ said Hargreaves, looking over her shoulder with a faint grin. ‘But it doesn’t hurt that every kid from the Academy taking the obligatory Early Federation History module will have to read about your discovery of Eurus-7, huh, Cap?’

Pentecost’s lips twisted, trying to smother her own self-satisfied smile. ‘Alright. Maybe. But we’re not done yet. We don’t know how this went down, or what happened, or why. Still a lot of ghosts to sift through before we get to the truth.’

And with the Mat’lor prowling at the edges, and Klingons joining her people’s venture into the heart of the graveyard, one question shone bright among the thousands still unanswered: whose truth?