Centurion Trax Sullan relished in solitary missions. He loved kicking up his feet, letting music flow, and not having Commander Arkah breathing down his neck. The blackness of space with no light other than the glittering of distant stars allowed his mind to be at ease. This was as much a form of mental relaxation as it was physical. For the past few weeks, his right eye had been experiencing a dull, pulsing pain. It would only last for a few seconds at a time, but when it occurred it destroyed his concentration. The pain was not significant enough to be bothered with a visit to a doctor, but the darkness of space seemed to calm the tension. A day's travel remained before he would intercept the Fortitude, this meant he had at least a half a day to himself and his thoughts before he would prepare to board the enemy ship. He reclined in the pilot's seat and nearly drifted to sleep.

"Computer, set my alarm for nine hours from now," he said with a yawn.

The computer did not respond, it found itself occupied with a more concerning task.

"It is not recommended that you sleep, Centurion. There is hostile activity within range."

He braced the sides of his chair to avoid falling over.

"What!? Explain that another way. More explicitly, please."

"Centurion, it is recommended that you look on the screen. There are three unknown entities approaching this vessel. Forty-seven seconds ago, one of them caused an asteroid in its path to disappear. The device it used to do that, from what I can tell, is preparing to do that again. The likely target is this vessel. What is your recommended course of action?"

Trax's right eye twitched and he knitted his brow. He furiously scanned the digital monitor to assess the impending threat from the approaching entities, but failed to track their movements. The ship's computer informed him that these objects were nearing them, but he saw only erratic movements.

"Centurion, what is your recommended course of action?"

"Uh, uh, I'm not sure, I can't understand their movements."

His gut told him to ignore the display screen and use his own eyes. To his horror, when he looked out the large viewing window of his ship, he did not find the emptiness of space. Instead, he eyed a distorted blurriness and as far he could tell, it was coming closer. Was this mumbled space distortion one of the entities?

"Computer, cloak and evade, n-now!"

His voice hitched, but it was clear enough to command the ship. As the cloak started to materialize, a solid force started to bend and warp the side of the vessel. Trax could feel impending loss of oxygen and his heart throttled in his chest.

"C-c-computer, I-I- n-need a s-s-spacesuit," he forced out of his lungs.

"Centurion, it is recommended that you stay calm."

The ship opened a closet which released a gold and white EVA suit. It would be difficult to put it on if oxygen fell further. The order of operations was to suit up, and then send a distress signal, but how could he do any of that when the floor beneath his feet seemed to be losing integrity. He watched in stricken terror as the exterior walls of the ship stretched and thinned.

Gulping the dissipating air, he resolved to get himself into the suit.

"Centurion, you will pass out soon. Should I send a distress signal on your behalf?"

"N-n-not yet," he uttered through gasps.

As he struggled to force the suit to open, his cells felt as though they were being mangled and torn to bits. With shaking hands, he managed to bust the contraption open and pull himself inside. The instant he secured the seals on the protective gear, he slumped his shoulders and sighed for momentary relief.

"Centurion, I recommend sending a distress signal. It's unlikely the ship will maintain structural integrity for long." The computer's voice alternated between high and low frequencies.

With oxygen freely flowing to his brain, Trax could focus on adhering to his mission. He would call for help, but he wouldn't reveal his identity.

"Computer, I need to reconfigure the distress beacon so it appears as though it's coming from a Vulcan ship."

"That course of action is not recommended. You will jeopardize the mission if you do not get help immediately."

"It won't take me long! I'm an expert at signal translation! And stop calling me Centurion! When that Federation ship answers the beacon, and trust me it will answer a Vulcan beacon, they must have no knowledge that I am a centurion or anyone of import. Just call me Trax."

Another crushing wave came over the ship. The computer sputtered out a disagreeable response reminding Trax that he was failing to follow recommended protocol.

"Computer, the last time I didn't follow protocol, I got a promotion."

Trax manipulated the code, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and expertise. Whatever the entities were doing, it was impairing his ability to think and function. He gritted his teeth before finalizing the transmission. Through the confusion and torsion, he hoped he sent something plausibly Vulcan. He barely had a moment to contemplate his next course of action when a high-velocity object colliding with his head forced him into unconsciousness.