The warm amber lighting of Counselor Alex Cross’s office stood in quiet contrast to the cold darkness beyond the large viewport. His desk, crafted to resemble polished Louisiana oak, was neatly organized with only a single PADD resting near his folded hands. The familiar décor—a framed photograph of the French Quarter at dusk, shelves lined with carefully selected books, and the soft instrumental strains of New Orleans jazz playing almost imperceptibly in the background—gave the room an inviting calm despite the uncertainty surrounding the ship’s latest assignment.

Cross leaned back slightly in his chair, his attention fixed on the stars beyond the glass.

Listening Post 47 hung silently against the backdrop of the PX-941 system, its sensor arrays extending into space like watchful fingers. Around it, the twin stars bathed the region in a pale glow that did little to soften the mystery waiting somewhere beyond the station’s scanners.

A distress call, he mused to himself. A Starfleet vessel lost for over a century. And a crew that, somehow, might still be alive.

He had spent enough years studying trauma to recognize that not every wound was physical. If Admiral Archer’s assessment proved true, the officers of the Pathfinder would have endured an experience almost impossible to comprehend. Whether they had lived through a temporal anomaly in moments or decades, awakening to discover that everyone they had ever known was gone would carry a psychological burden few could prepare for.

His thoughts shifted to Captain T’Nara and the away team now meeting aboard the listening post. Science and engineering would undoubtedly focus on understanding the anomaly. Security would concern itself with the dangers it posed.

His responsibility would come afterward. Helping people make sense of the impossible. Cross reached for the console built into the corner of his desk.

“Computer, access Starfleet historical archives. Download the most recent duty roster for the USS Pathfinder, NCC-74621, immediately preceding her disappearance. Include crew assignments, next-of-kin information, counseling records authorized for Chief Counselor access, psychological evaluations, command fitness reports, and any available behavioral or psychiatric profiles for the ship’s complement. Cross-reference the data with current Starfleet records and identify any immediate family members, descendants, or significant personal contacts still living within the Federation.” He paused for a moment before adding another request.

“Also flag any officers with documented histories of anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress, depressive episodes, survivor’s guilt, or other conditions that may require immediate intervention should recovery operations prove successful. Assemble the information into a briefing suitable for mission preparation.” Cross folded his hands once more as he waited for the computer to compile the request.

If someone truly was waiting beyond that anomaly, they would not simply be stepping aboard another starship. They would awaken to a galaxy transformed.

Friends and family would have grown old generations ago. Familiar worlds would have changed. Technology, politics, even the Federation itself would be different from the one they remembered. Some might adapt with remarkable resilience. Others could find the realization overwhelming.

Having even a basic understanding of who these people had been before the Pathfinder vanished could make all the difference in helping them become who they would need to be afterward.

Cross returned his gaze to the viewport, watching the lonely silhouette of Listening Post 47 against the sea of stars. “Whatever is transmitting that distress call… someone is still out there.” He mused to himself.

Commander Vance’s words lingered in his thoughts.
If those officers truly were waiting beyond the anomaly, they deserved more than a rescue.

They deserved to be understood before they ever set foot aboard the Ark Angel.

Lieutenant Alex Cross
Chief Counselor
U.S.S. Ark Angel