EP 9 "EPISODE NINE - LIBERTY BEL" - ACT 3
COMMAND YACHT, 0650 HOURS
“Captain’s Log, supplemental. Five hours ago I left the Beta Section inside Bel’s drydock ship under the command of Commodore Jackson - with the assistance of Commander Struckchev. The drydock will be moved to the relative safety of the Caprall Expanse on the edge of the Penzar Empire, about a day and a half’s journey away at high warp. I have taken a skeleton crew aboard the Command Yacht to follow up our lead from Bel’s pilot friend on the possible whereabouts of the wrecks of several Starfleet vessels. Bel has sent a number of her men along for the ride – that way our repairs can continue en route.
“One discovery we’ve already made is in the form of eight prototype Federation style service robots circa 2345. They’re still in working operation – and even though I know this particular model was unreliable so quickly taken out of service, I believe the advances we’ve made over the last three decades will allow them to be easily upgraded. According to the docket inside the cargo container, there should be many more robots of all shapes and sizes in storage on the Passenger Section – all left over from the days when there was a certain penchant for mechanical attendants. Not exactly a match to the K’Tani Rogues in this part of space, but more than adequate for our purposes. They can be easily programmed for routine maintenance and repair functions, and so could add a level of speed and efficiency.
“Our route is taking us back in the general direction of Qovakia. Preliminary scans have confirmed that there are no wormholes and no K’Tani ships for at least ten hours. That means at this moment we have around four to safely make our reconnaissance and retreat.”
Christian hit the pause button. It was nearly 0700 and he was sure that Lirik would be as prompt as ever for their daily routine, despite their current perilous mission and repair schedule. He decided to make a supplementary entry later when he had some peace. He'd been in two minds who out of Lirik and Struckchev he would rather bring along, but he was curious how the man would behave if given the opportunity to act as his deputy.
The Captain smiled to himself as a hollow ‘dong’ heralded the Yeoman’s prompt arrival. “Come.”
Rather, it was Hedrik, wearing one of the many Starfleet prototype sample uniforms they had found. Aside from Lirik’s recommendation and Bel’s request, it was Jackson’s suppositions that convinced him to agree. She felt that by allowing the volunteer crew to wear the uniforms it would not only allow them to feel more a part of the crew, but also possibly allow them to select one appropriate set of uniforms for permanent use rather than wasting replicator energy and resources to create copies of existing designs.
Commodore Jackson had reminded him that in exceptional, long-term deep space missions, it was the Captain’s prerogative to adapt uniforms appropriate for the journey and mission – a rule made up in years past, back when 10 year missions were common, and one that had not been rescinded since. Christian didn’t see the point, but Jackson impressed that from a morale point of view, everyone could share in the experience – Starfleet and non Starfleet alike.
Hedrik’s current attire was the third outfit Christian had seen her wearing in less than a day: this, a standard jumpsuit, but more figure-hugging than previous issues, and topped with a short open collar double-breasted jacket. Though mostly black, it bore the familiar tan of the engineering department, denoted by a thick stripe of colour down each sleeve and along the outer leg piping of the trouser. She walked over to stand in front of Christian’s desk.
It reminded Christian of the costume his parents had tried to make him wear on his first Christmas shore-leave from active duty after graduation in the role of a person called ‘Buttons’ in something they had called a ‘pan-toe’. He’d made excuses about having too much study work, but couldn’t avoid watching the performance several evenings in a row. Though childishly amusing, he had failed to appreciate the constant dialogue between the performers and the audience, though the New Parisian colonists seemed to lap it up.
“Captain, with the help of Bel’s men, I’ve finished repairing the executive transporter,” Hedrik stood almost to attention, despite her lack of training.
“That’s very good, Miss Hedrik,” Christian adopted a paternal tone, elated at having a transporter to add to his growing list of available systems. “What about the cargo transporter?”
If she had felt deflated, she didn’t show it. “I’m scheduled to work on it right after I help repair the tractor beam emitter in the shuttle bay,” she said. “But I’ve already made a preliminary scan. With several of the specialist component replicators in the maintenance bay now working it shouldn’t take more than five hours from start to finish, maybe less.”
“Very good. Carry on,” he nodded. Without a word, she turned on her heel and quickly exited, almost knocking Lirik over on his way in if she hadn’t made a quick body swerve around his shield.
Christian considered the Orion woman's behaviour – instead of her previous tactics of trying too hard to impress him by trying to lure his gaze toward her open blouse it seemed Hedrik was now doing everything asked of her to gain respect and appreciation. She’d dropped her ‘floosy’ ways (as Souveson had described them) and was even holding her tongue around the other women. It was an unexpected but welcome change in her personality.
The Captain realised that as a green-skinned ‘Animal Woman’ who had escaped the clutches of her Syndicate owner, Hedrik would have been through a lot in her life and gained a great deal of maturity and experience in certain matters. And that in itself could come in very handy around such novices as Souveson, Yip and Murak. She only lacked discipline, and Starfleet training, and her current attempt at self control was a brave effort in the right direction, if not potentially short-lived.
“Someone’s looking a little jipper this morning,” the Yeoman smiled, handing over the duty officer’s log for inspection before the Captain took his place on the Bridge. “Morning, Captain,” he said almost as an afterthought.
“Thank you,” Christian avoided small-talk with the diplomat and scanned through the report – nothing of much note until he reached the scientific data. It seemed initial long range scans were picking up faint readings of the debris field at the periphery of quality scanning on their planned heading. There was no way of knowing for another hour or so, but the size of the field was consistent with that of several starships and concurred with the alien pilot’s story.
Lirik walked over to the newly repaired replicator and ordered a coffee, adding in supplementary parameters before initiating the beam. (Coffee was one of just seven hot beverages currently available through the swiftly repaired food synthesis system on the Yacht.) The smell of roasted beans ground and steeped in hot water filled the office. Christian raised an eyebrow when he noticed the Yeoman had not ordered a completed drink already in a cup. Instead, he carried to the desk a small tray containing a Diplomatic issue individual silver and glass cafétier full of steaming dark coffee and its grinds. Also on the tray, a silver jug of milk, a silver spoon and a white coffee mug – his eccentricity tempered only by loyalty to the Service it seemed. The Captain noted a thin gold band around the top and bottom of the mug and the Starfleet insignia on both sides containing within the arms of the Corps – a studded leather gloved hand holding a sword within a wreath of laurel leaves, lightening bolts erupting from the tip beneath a star.
“Don’t let me stop your enjoyment,” Christian sat back and watched the slightly podgy Englishman go through the ritual of carefully plunging the coffee, pouring just enough milk into the mug and then slowly pouring the coffee on top, creating a swirling head of creamy froth.
“Without a coffee in the morning I’m no god to anyone, Captain,” Lirik quipped and sipped the hot drink. He half-winced, half-slapped his lips with pleasure. “Can’t beat it.” Lirik sipped and smirked. “Yeaugh…krep milk and something more like meat juice than coffee. But at least it got the aroma right.”
Shaking his head Christian turned back to the report, tabbing across the data from each of the departments. With Bel’s men supplementing the skeleton crew they had been able to continue apace with improvements to all critical systems. They now had around seven minutes worth of phaser power (only medium yield), 75% shields (the remaining 25% sited on the still damaged underside of the Yacht), a greater manoeuvrability at high speed, and now a transporter on deck one. The Captain also noted that unintentionally holographic systems were also 25% operational throughout the Yacht, though with only several genre of configurations, characters and scenarios available.
Christian pressed his thumb on the confirmation panel of the padd, the data simultaneously updated in the Yacht’s computer core – another recent repair. The Captain smiled and handed Lirik his own padd.
“What’s this?” Lirik instinctively took another sip of his coffee, and winced again.
Christian stood, straightened himself and walked slowly to the exit. “Over the past week you’ve handed me wish list after wish list from each section leader, plus a few of your own. I thought it was time I issued you with one of mine.”
Lirik put down his mug and scrolled through the list, frowning. “Compiling a list of birthday and other cross-cultural celebrations? That’s hardly a priority given the circumstances, Captain.”
“We agreed your primary role was as Purser,” the Captain stated matter of factly. “So… purse.”
Lirik read on, oblivious to Christian’s pun, his face contorting into a look of pained protest. “Parties and other social events?!”
“As you already know, I think it’s important for the crew to have the opportunity to relax and integrate as a social group,” Christian explained. “I learned that at Command School,” he said sarcastically.
Lirik shot Christian a look, realising that he was only teasing. The half-Medusan turned back to the list. “Wait a minute, one-to-one guided tours of the ship to all non-volunteers?!!!”
“I realise it might appear to be a waste of your talents,” Christian said. “But you are responsible for all the civilians who have opted to not volunteer. I believe that with the right sort of encouragement some could be persuaded to change their minds.”
Lirik shook his head. “I’m no recruitment officer.”
Christian stopped and turned back, standing beside the now open door. “I hope for us to make some allies over the next few months. Think of it as a trial run for when you’re asked to give a potential friend the full diplomatic treatment.”
The Yeoman nodded slowly - he had considered the possibility of entertaining (and schmoozing) dignitaries and potential allies in his capacity as the resident Starfleet diplomat. Suddenly he realised the Captain was leaving him without having their morning review. “Sir, what about our meeting?”
“There are other, er, ‘Pursering’ matters on that list,” Christian said, stepping out. “Why don’t you use the time to give them some thought.”
The doors closed and Lirik turned back to what had instantly become a hateful task list. He had partly hoped that in his privileged position Christian and Commodore Jackson would give him the opportunity of Command – possibly even the role of Second Officer given his extensive skills and experience. But still it seemed they were postponing making a final decision on people’s ranks and the hierarchy of the ship until a later date. He made a bet to himself that, given recent events, Struckchev would be given superiority over him sooner rather than later, and that stuck in his craw. Still, perhaps their personal challenge would sort the men from the boys, he thought, and he smiled at the thought of the upcoming contests.
The list went on. It seemed among the first priorities was an order for all volunteers to undergo standard Starfleet tests to ensure they were all up to scratch on their necessary duties. Hedrik had been asked to locate the appropriate holo programmes in the ship’s vast data library. Additionally there were many personal duties to the Commodore and the Captain - Lirik was instructed to appoint an administrative staff with a view to assisting Senior Officers in establishing ship’s protocol and routine administration – at least that had a certain responsibility. Additionally he was to oversee communications protocols and even work with Lieutenant O’Hara in arranging a group of volunteer ship’s counsellors to aid the civilians and crew badly affected by the K’Tani invasion.
This new batch of orders was no mean feat on top of his current duties, he decided. If the Captain was to get his wishlist, Lirik knew he would have to gather a reliable staff he could depend upon – and find his own office for that matter.
* * *
Christian entered the bridge with a slight skip in his step and walked onto the platform behind Souveson.
“Captain on the bridge,” she quickly informed everyone.
Mr Pernahlius rose from the centre seat, eager to hand over. “Captain, we’re still monitoring the debris field. The Professor is confident that it consists of what remains of a number of starships – as yet unidentified.”
“Very good,” Christian stepped down to him – he looked weary. “I have the conn.”
The red skinned alien smiled weakly and made for the turbolift along with several other crew who were being replaced by yawning, nervous arrivals. After a short while, Reb emerged from the aft corridor – the last to his station. He wore his familiar garb, having disagreed with the Captain’s directive to wear the potential new uniforms – he said he’d not joined Starfleet yet, so wouldn’t follow Starfleet dress code. Christian admitted to himself that many of his peers and his superiors in Starfleet Command would eagerly agree. Taking his well-worn leather jacket off and placing it over the back of the chair, Reb slid into his seat with a look of boredom and ran his hands through his matted hair.
“Mister Rebbik,” the Captain made sure his voice could be heard by everyone present. Reb turned to face him defiantly fearful. “I am unaccustomed to an untidy Bridge. Chairs are for sitting, not for hanging clothes.”
“What?!” Reb said incredulously. Christian’s gaze narrowed. Reluctantly, the young half Human, half Ferengi pilot silently stood and roughly donned the jacket, falling back into his seat rigidly.
“And you were three minutes late for duty, Mister,” Christian saw the half-Ferengi’s neck stiffen, his head shake with repressed anger and resentment. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”
* * *
The debris field filled the viewscreen – a vast number of broken pieces, fanning out from several larger chunks of twisted metal, drifting slowly through space.
Christian waited patiently beside the stony faced Vulcan professor as she continued her analysis, her beautiful face bathed in the myriad colours of her display monitors. He could already see the data he was looking for on some of the many dedicated circular screens above her head. Imperceptibly, he breathed in through his nose, smelling the woman’s hair and stared down into its shiny blackness. It was such fine, straight hair, exuding spicy aromas, and catching the light perfectly. The Captain thought once again of his previous love, but the reverie always ended in thoughts of hurt and disappointment.
The Professor craned her head round to look at the Captain. Her lips parted slowly and stickily, causing Christian to swallow hard as she began to speak. “The debris field comprises three vessels, all Starfleet in origin. By the rate of degradation, these ships were destroyed approximately 47 hours ago.”
The Bridge crew reacted differently to this. The volunteer crew tried to see three vessels’ worth on the screen. The Starfleet officers and Bel’s crew were more excited than the others – in the realisation that despite first appearances, sections of the debris were large enough to house survivors. Souveson particularly felt encouraged. Ever the optimist she hoped this could be the first sign that they weren’t the only ones to have escaped the initial invasion and remained at large for so long. Despite the enormous loss before her, she couldn’t help but feel inspired.
“Have you identified them?” the Captain asked dutifully.
Karnak nodded. “By patching into the runabout Severn’s onboard database I can identify them as the USS Collingwood, Predator Class, crew compliment 147, the USS Gorgon, Steamrunner Class, crew compliment 422 and the USS Iron Duke, Regal Interceptor Class, 44 personnel,” Karnak posted the images of the ships as they once were to the corners of the main viewscreen for all to study.
No-one present was able to see any resemblance to the craft in the debris field before them, so badly wrecked were the obliterated sections. In fact, only one portion, the lower central saucer of the Collingwood, was relatively identifiable.
“That section there,” Christian asked with not a hint of expectation, pointing at the screen; “Any life readings?”
Souveson analysed the Professor’s scans. “The internal layout is intact, but the section is badly compressed …and I’m detecting high levels of radiation. It’s flooded with gas – coolant, probably. Readings are indeterminate because of the dense structure and rad emissions, though I am picking up intermittent bio signatures. They could be coming from an amount of still functional bio-neuro-gel packs or they could be very faint life signs.”
“There is some power, then, at least,” the Captain suddenly felt a rush of renewed hope and crossed to the small blonde Canadian’s station to make a few deeper scans himself. “Part of the section is still pressurised, and there’s a suitable transport site,” he said, as if to himself; “minimal power with incremental fall-off. Must be failing generators. Not much of an atmosphere, but survivable with resp masks. If my knowledge of the Predator layout is right, their sick bay might still be intact.”
Lirik entered the bridge and crossed to the Purser’s station. He pressed a holographic preference key for tactical interface and the station instantly transformed into as near a central control panel for bridge operations as the Operations station itself. “Captain, I’ve been monitoring the situation from your office and have taken the liberty of inputting the remaining items on our purchase order into the computer,” he pressed a series of carefully considered keys. “This section could possibly contain a significant number of those items if the ship’s Quartermaster has followed Starfleet regulations. With the Captain’s permission I would like to use the transporter to determine their location and blind-beam those items aboard.”
Christian tried to hide his surprise at Lirik’s quick thinking and time saving, if not entirely pertinent, suggestion. He never thought in a million years that he would end up scavenging from other Starfleet vessels to replace unique parts. “A search and rescue is our first priority, Yeoman, and after that a tactical survey to try and learn as much as we can about the K’Tani,” he said, deciding instantly on the boarding party. “Protocol demands an away team. Engineer Warnerburg, Ensign Souveson, Professor Karnak, Lieutenant O’Hara, please report to the Executive Transporter on Deck One for an away mission.”
Lirik turned in his chair, biting a lip. “Captain, according to the USS Collingwood’s blueprints, as well as the sick bay, part of the computer core is still intact. It could contain vital sensor data.”
Christian couldn’t help smiling this time. “As soon as we’ve secured the Collingwood, we’ll see if we can access the mainframe. If we have time, we can then tag any items we need, beam them into space behind the Fantasy, then once the tractor beam is online, we can haul the salvage aboard.”
“Aye sir,” Lirik turned back to his station, pressing the intercom. “Bridge to Main Shuttle Bay, what’s our ET on the tractor beam?”
“Another forty five minutes, or thereabouts,” Hedrik sounded curt, clearly dogged by some technical problem, Christian assumed, that or annoyed by the Yeoman’s interruption.
The turbolift door opened to a pale looking Warnerburg and a determined looking nurse. O’Hara carried her medkit, such that it was, and urgently called to Ambassador Narli who was prepping the transporter controls in the aft corridor, waving him aside into the shadows.
Christian made several precautionary command entries into the security station as his away team moved toward the rear port side corridor. “Mister Lirik, you have the Bridge. Keep a channel open and one eye on long range sensors for any sign of trouble.” The Yeoman nodded a response, too proud of the moment to risk opening his mouth – perhaps the Captain really was considering him for a command position after all.
In the dimly lit corridor behind the bridge, Ambassador Narli was handing out breathing helmets – they looked positively antique, but he assured them they would provide total protection to their eyes, ears and airways. O’Hara was waiting impatiently to continue her private chat with him.
Although Warnerburg was clearly apprehensive, Christian noticed it was Karnak whose eyes revealed the most fear. As always her exterior was fighting to restrain any hint of emotion, her lips vaguely moving in the recitation of a Vulcan focussing ritual to calm her mind and soothe her Human passions.
O’Hara had finally pulled the Ambassador further down the corridor, out of earshot, and seemed to be furiously explaining something to the Andorian. As he opened his mouth to respond Christian saw her place a finger to his lips in an almost aggressive way and she spoke sternly with her head closer to his. With her head slightly turned away, Christian couldn’t lip read what she was saying. He saw the Ambassador pause then nod slowly and the two turned back and approached the transporter area.
“Everything all right, Lieutenant?” he asked. Narli’s expression didn’t give a thing away.
O’Hara licked her lips, a possible sign of deception, Christian wondered. “Just a few pointers on the medical expectations of a transport such as this, Captain,” she replied, taking her place on the tx padd.
Christian searched the Andorian’s face for a clue, but there was nothing. Narli nodded as Christian entered his preferred destination coordinates onto the console. There was a lot of interference from the structure – only several pockets open enough to accommodate a full pattern lock, and these were flooded with fatally poisonous gasses.
“We’re beaming into a corridor adjacent to the main sick bay. It’s also a designated shelter area. We’ll make a visual recon for survivors then try and access the computer. If time permits, we’ll scan-lock equipment for transport.” Chistian turned to them all, though he was truly addressing the Professor. “Bear in mind we may find a number of bodies. Please do not touch anything that may risk your safety. I’m only initially interested in gathering data and seeing if anyone managed to survive. Understood?”
They all nodded, looking odd in their long-nosed faceplates that covered their ears and most of their heads, Souveson giving a brave ‘yessir’. The Captain donned his own mask, took his place on the pad and turned back to face Narli. “Whenever you’re ready.”
* * *
The sound of the transporter was different to any he’d heard previously and for a moment the Captain wondered if it were malfunctioning. But the soft shimmer of light and colour melting into a snowy haze quickly came and went, leaving him standing in a dimly lit, foggy corridor of the Collingwood. He was alive and, thankfully, intact.
O’Hara and Karnak already had their tricorders open and scanning, Souveson was happier cocking her phaser and pointing it into the mists.
“Sheath your weapon,” Christian ordered her abruptly, “this stuff may ignite even with the lowest setting.”
Souveson did so immediately, feeling a little stupid at not remembering such basic training, and followed the group down the corridor. Her boot brushed something on the floor under the mist causing her to gasp.
The others turned as she knelt, disturbing the mists and revealing the ashen face of a female crewman, her eyes wide open in terror, her mouth agape, now and forever gasping for air, accentuated by hands, open and rigid around her throat.
“Lethal coolant poisoning,” O’Hara observed. “Being a shelter section, all the out-take pipes were sealed once catastrophic decompression took place throughout the ship. There was nowhere for the leaking gasses to go.”
“The emergency and redundant vents must have both failed for this amount of coolant to escape,” Warnerburg shook her head, “the poor souls.”
“If it is any consolation,” the Professor stated quietly, “they would not have suffered for long.”
Warnerburg’s shoulders tensed. “It isn’t a consolation one damned bit!” she barked.
Christian placed a firm hand on the engineer’s shoulder. “Let’s move along now.”
O’Hara led the way, her tricorder vocalising its constant readings. Her own intended destination was sick bay itself – not only for the medicines and equipment she hoped to discover within, but also as it was usually one of the safest most secure places on all modern Starfleet vessels and so the most likely place to find survivors.
The Nurse recalled the massive error in the early Intrepid design where a plasma conduit had been routed dangerously close to the sickbay – combined with an overload in the large main console it could create a catastrophic explosion in a level three combat situation. All Intrepids were overhauled just as soon as the mistake was realised, but she heard via Federation News Service reports that it had been too late for the poor Voyager’s medical crew, resulting in their prolonged use of the EMH program.
“Wait!” Souveson shouted, studying the wall close up with her tricorder and shocking O’Hara out of her reverie. “Biological readings within the wall,” she peered closer at the panelled recess, realising what it was. “An emergency survival compartment.”
The Lieutenant spun round and joined her so fast she knocked Karnak to one side in her haste. Her own medical tricorder chirped a happy tune several times. “My God, someone’s alive in there. Barely, but alive.” She looked around her. “Can we beam them out?”
“This is Lirik,” the voice across the comm channel was unexpected, almost intrusive. They were suddenly aware that all along they had been overheard by everyone on the bridge thanks to Lirik’s dutiful monitoring. “We are barely reading the five of you, the dense structure is interfering with our lock as you move deeper into the section.”
“We need to move them out into an open space, back down the corridor,” Christian voiced their task ahead.
“They wouldn’t survive longer than a minute in this,” O’Hara responded.
“Which means we need to vent the gasses,” Christian finished.
Warnerburg was already moving off in the opposite direction. “For this section to be fully intact, there would have to be primary bulkheads all around. I should be able to find one with an active multi-conduit valve. We could use it manually as an extractor, vent the gasses into an adjoining section.”
“I’ll take this side,” Christian said moving on ahead, pointing at the walls. “There are other survivor pods within the walls, the rest of you look for others.”
“You better hurry, Captain,” O’Hara said, moving her lipstick-like scanner device around the surface separating her from the survivor.
* * *
Lirik walked back into the rear port corridor of deck one, surprising Narli. “Can you boost scanner signal?”
“I’ve tried everything I know,” the Ambassador’s finger paused above the wide beam-out function should anything go wrong for the boarding party.
“Maybe I should take a look?” Lirik suggested, walking around behind him. Narli blocked his path.
“I know what I’m doing, Lirik,” he warned.
The Englishman stepped back, mock-aghast at the Ambassador’s front and twisted his head to study the console, to see what he was trying to hide. Narli’s hand pushed Lirik’s shoulder in an attempt to force him back, but the Yeoman slapped it away with a fizz of his shield.
Lirik read the transporter log of the away team’s outward beam and read each of the personnel readings on the screen.
“Lirik, I promised..” the Andorian pleaded, weakly trying to deter him.
The Yeoman slouched in over-accentuated relief, smiling at their now shared knowledge. “To a Medusan, that’s old news,” he said nonchalently.
Narli grabbed the Yeoman’s arm, unperturbed by the feelings it stirred in him. “Promise you will say nothing.”
“By the moons of Andor,” Lirik spoke a familiar assurance and returned to the Bridge.
* * *
Aboard the Collingwood six dead humanoids had been discovered, and one other faint life reading in a survival pod with one of the deceased. O’Hara stood beside the door to Sick Bay, not able to penetrate beyond with her tricorder. Moreover, there was no way she could open and close the door fast enough to prevent coolant from pouring in, so she was having to wait for the Captain and the engineering veteran to finish their work.
Karnak had been in contact several times with Lirik, who said Narli was having trouble locking onto any booty that wasn’t exposed to space – trouble with the targetting scanners and the ship’s dense structure in the surviving sections. She had been giving him vital co-ordinate references in order to scan-lock the materials for a safe extraction.
Finally Warnerburg and Christian returned together, both panting from physical exertion. “The system’s kicking in, we should be clear in several minutes,” he explained. Sure enough, the mists finally swirled and shrank away, eerily revealing the bodies of more dead laying prone on the floor. Unlike many of Starfleet’s ships, the Predator class was used for non-front line duty, and so had both civilian and military communities aboard. The number of young dead was sickening.
Once all coolant was gone, they heard the hiss of the emergency life support system kicking in, tanks emptying what remained of any breathable atmosphere into all sections. That would give them less than an hour without masks. Removing their helmets at O’Hara’s tricorder-verified approval, they took up positions quickly around the Survival Pods and popped them open, one after the other. The first reading they had picked up was from a human male crewman, science division, of around 50 years of age. The other faint life reading had come from a baby, in a pod with its now deceased mother, an additional breathing mask strapped over its head and the only measure that had kept it’s frail body alive. Both were severely malnourished and dehydrated.
Warnerburg visibly wept, distraught by yet another orphan as a result of K’Tani military domination and carefully cradling the barely breathing baby in her arms, gently jigging it up and down with “shh”ing sounds.
O’Hara’s able assistant Wheezy was already in position beside the transporter padd on the Fantasy’s Command Yacht, so the survivors were swiftly moved to a wider part of the Collingwood’s corridor and beamed out.
O’Hara insisted they thoroughly search all the other pods in the section, just in case, but ten minutes later no-one else had been found.
* * *
Narli held the tiny baby in his arms, holding the respirator over its face while Wheezy was busy, it seemed, plying the other patient with what useable Romulan drugs she now had before she moved him with great ease off the transporter padd and onto a jury-rigged anti grav gurney.
Lirik stood over them all and took note, the reality of their perilous situation reignited. He churlishly dismissed all his previous thoughts about rank and file and self-positioning on the ship – how could he have been so callous and selfish given the horrific events that had taken place? His petty feud with Struckchev now seemed more than irrelevant.
* * *
The others further back down the corridor, Christian and Souveson manually opened the Sick Bay doors. Once inside, they all felt deeply deflated on finding 18 more dead – though some had clearly died of physical trauma, presumably from battle with the K’Tani, before the rest of the survivors had suffocated. One man had apparently attempted to slow his vital functions to near-dead, strapping himself up to a life support machine and hoping he would last just that bit longer. He probably did. But not long enough.
O’Hara made a quick physical check on each of them in turn, just to be sure there was no foul play at work. After that, she coldly set to work filling every moveable trolley unit with all the equipment and medicines she could lay her hands on.
Meanwhile, Christian accessed the local computer net via the CMO’s terminal, plugging in the runabout Severn’s portable generator and recorder cartridge for full and speedy efficiency. It didn’t take him long to download all the recent departmental log entries, though reading down the Captain’s Log menu he discovered that command had fallen to the Science Officer some days earlier. That officer had made less than a few fleeting log entries during her command, so the Captain focused on the medical logs instead. According to the handsome Risan CMO, the Collingwood had managed to escape the initial invasion along with five other vessels:- USS Glatton, USS Barfleur, USS Iron Duke, the Klingon battlecruiser Choshar and the Alpha Centaurion science vessel Tsunami.
In a matter of a few days, K’Tani ships were detected closing on them. Despite their best efforts, the enemy doggedly pursued and finally converged on them and a running battle ensued. They lost the Tsunami almost immediately, though it managed to take one of their four pursuit craft with it in the process. If it hadn’t been for the Choshar sacrificing itself, the other ships would never have escaped.
After a short lull of several hours, they realised they were being pursued at a distance once again. For ten more days they managed to evade the enemy with some skill and daring, but soon they realised they were being forced towards the near-impenetrable border of the Wibbly Wobbly Way. Sadly, it seemed they had not lasted much longer after that, forced to turn away from the asteroid fields and toward VauWin space only to run into other K’Tani ships coming from that direction.
Hurriedly in realisation, Christian scrolled back up and down the log entries. There was no mention of the Barfleur’s demise. But neither was there mention of its survival. Perhaps it was an oversight on the part of the CMO, or perhaps a weak but deliberate attempt to keep information from the enemy should they be boarded. He couldn’t be sure, but neither could he ignore the possibility.
“Christian to Fantasy,” the Captain spoke excitedly. “Yeoman, I want you to scan for engine emissions. I’m looking for the trail of a Starfleet vessel, Intrepid Class, leading off away from this area, somewhere between the asteroid zone and our present position. It could be days old and they may have tried to cover their tracks.”
“Er…that might take some time, Captain,” Lirik didn’t lie, it was a vast area of space to scan.
“Understood, but proceed nonetheless,” Christian turned to the poignant last entry the CMO made. It seemed that the three vessels they found here were corralled into this open region of space and ambushed. The CMO had a house full of wounded and additional civilians in and around the sick bay/shelter area when the ship was dramatically carved up by powerful cutting beams from the enemy ships. This caught the Captain’s attention – the technology was news to Christian, and he made a mental note to study the damage in order to prepare a defence for such a weapon. (Initially he could only compare it to the Borg weapon against which he knew there was only a temporary randomly shifting shield that merely bought finite minutes of time.)
The multiple hull breaches had caused coolant to leak into the immediate surrounding areas and had also badly damaged the sick bay’s life support systems. They soon realised the air would quickly run out. Despite several brave volunteers having tried in succession to go into the corridor and vent the coolant, all attempts had clearly failed. So they had little choice but to accept their fate. It was only because the undamaged survival compartments in the corridors had their own, independently controlled air supply and sedatory wave that reduced breathing and circulation to a minimum, that the two survivors had been found alive. Otherwise it was an utter tragedy.
Christian couldn’t help but look at the faces of the dead. One young man, barely out of his teens, lay with his eyes closed, almost peaceful on one of the treatment beds. He was devilishly handsome, even in the pallid shroud of death, and the Captain suspected from his finely honed clean cut appearance that he must have been very popular among his peers. He wore the pips of a junior lieutenant and the red of his undershirt showed a career full of ambition and promise.
So the others couldn’t hear him, Christian placed a hand on the boy’s solid chest and said: “Don’t worry son, we’ll get the bastards who did this to you. I swear it.”
* * *
“Captain’s log, Stardate 51373.2,” Christian flopped into his chair in his office and activated the small, newly installed monitor, selecting a view of the starboard side of the ship, pausing for thought. On the display he could see a hotch-potch collection of what looked like scrap, stationary in the vacuum of space just a few metres from the Yacht's side-mounted shuttle bay. While most items they could move by hand or carry had been transported into the Exec Transporter platform, a deal of other salvage could only be scan locked rather than transporter locked for beam out. With these additional items being larger than the average humanoid, it was far safer to beam them into open space and tractor them aboard than risk damaging the transporter plant on Deck One.
Delicately, each item was being brought piece by piece into the shuttlebay just several decks below him by the shimmering green beams, each operator being given on the job personal training from Hedrik - a suggestion from Lirik.
“We have rescued two survivors from the USS Collingwood and are now in the process of bringing aboard many vital supplies. Not least of which, Lieutenant O’Hara now has a medicine cabinet equipped to Starfleet standards, albeit a limited supply. She hopes to be able to synthesise many medicines now, though she suggested we seek out local medicine and cultivate our own natural remedies as a necessity. A secondary survey team remains on what’s left of the vessel to make a full analysis of the K’Tani attack, though initial intelligence is limited to anomalies we don’t yet understand-“
“Bridge to the Captain!” it was Lirik’s voice, with more than a hint of urgency.
“Christian here, what is it, Yeoman?” in a split second he stood, looking down at the display screen. He mentally estimated the time it would take to bring the rest of the booty aboard: about twenty minutes give or take.
“Four vessels just appeared out of nowhere on long range sensors, standard K’Tani search pattern,” he spoke the words the Captain was already thinking. “They are on an intercept course, Sir.”
“Call the away team back, and get as much salvage aboard as you can,” he said, ending the recording of his log with the press of a single, pale blue lcars key. “We leave in five minutes.”
That would put the K’Tani about 55 minutes behind them, maybe 40 if they pushed the pedal to the metal. Still Christian hoped to be long gone. Reb had already worked out seven possible escape routes that would hopefully shake off any would-be pursuer. But knowing so little about K’Tani technology, he wasn’t sure how far they could scan, and whether such evasive tactics would actually work in the long term.
“Report!” he barked as he walked onto the Bridge, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal. He joined the portly Lirik at the short row of Command seats.
“The Away Team is back on board,” Lirik calmly tapped a few lcars keys – clearly still in the process of assessing the reclaimed salvage. “Two more minutes until all the salvage is aboard.”
Christian shook his head. “Tell them they have thirty seconds,” He picked the deadline out of thin air – two minutes was probably okay, but he wanted to keep as much distance from the enemy as possible. Normally going to warp was enough to shake off any pursuit, but given that their flight path would be generally in one direction (ie moving away from K’Tani controlled Qovakia and deeper into K’Tani controlled VauWin space) it made them more vulnerable.
“Any luck finding the USS Barfleur?” he asked. Lirik shook his head.
“Sorry, Captain, scans have been unsuccessful,” then Lirik added: “But that’s not to say they didn’t escape. They may have made their move a long time before here.” Christian nodded.
“Mister Rebbik, standby to engage, maximum warp – optimum escape vector,” as he spoke he could hear Lirik contact the shuttle bay: ‘Shuttlebay, this is the bridge, you have thirty seconds to bring the rest of the materials aboard – make them count’.
“Confirmed!” Hedrik’s voice shouted.
“Course laid in, Captain,” Reb said, a little less animated than usual, and sat with a finger poised over the execute key.
Five seconds passed, then another, then another – Christian could feel his heart beating almost in time to the seconds he was counting off in his head. He could physically feel the tension and nervous apprehension amongst the rest of the bridge crew – it was almost exillerating. At last, he thought, they can feel what active duty is really like: a heady mix of clarity of thought and fearful intoxication.
“All salvage stowed, Bridge!” came the panting voice of Hedrik, though there was a crashing, scattering sound in the background. She must have been successful in repairing the cargo transporter, he thought, and used a wide beam to transport the whole lot aboard in one go. Only, without zero g, once aboard the stuff had come crashing to the deck as soon as the beam cycle was complete. That was one mess he wouldn’t like to clear up.
Christian gently sat down, perched on the edge of his seat. “Mister Reb, take us out.”
“One moment, Captain!” Ambassador Narli swept onto the bridge from the rear port side corridor. His unexpected, haughty interruption halted Reb from carrying out the Captain’s orders, the long, bony finger shaking above the engage command. As Christian craned his neck around, he could see the Andorian was cradling what appeared to be a large Type S Warhead from a Class IX Photon Torpedo.
“Good God, man! What the hell are you doing with that?!” the Captain leapt to his feet, a feeling of pressure building in his stomach.
“Captain…?” Reb urged Christian, his hand still poised.
“Just a moment!” the Captain shouted, instinctively realising what the Andorian was suggesting. He felt a euphoric sensation of seizing the opportunity backed up by a good feeling of revenge. “Planning to leave them a present, eh?”
The Ambassador carefully placed the warhead on the flat surface of the Operations console then flounced up to the Tactical station and glowered at the short Canadian to step aside. Reluctantly she did at the nod of her Captain, though her eyes were mostly fixed on the megatonnes of photonic power lying several metres away. “I used the transporter scanners to search the rest of the debris for other useful resources. I found these twelve class IV photon torpedos as loose debris, all warheads intact in a heavily armoured but irrepairably damaged stowing cartridge.”
“But…” the Captain’s faced flushed red. Glancing into the dim corridor behind the Andorian, he could see the warheads stacked neatly along the deck. Christian felt pallid with shock at the danger of what Narli had done. “You used a transporter to beam highly explosive photon based warheads onto the Bridge, or as good as. Commander, that's what we call an unacceptable level of risk. As a line officer aboard this ship you must consult a senior command officer before executing such a potentially lethal if not catastrophic procedure, do you understand?!” The transportation of such volatile materials was highly delicate and extremely dangerous, he was surprised the Trade Ambassador had such skill, even if he were a former, or possibly existing, agent for his government.
“Don’t worry, Captain, none of them are armed,” Narli smiled widely, a mad glint in his eyes. "Besides, this upgrade of the Class IX warhead has official transporter-safe approval, isn't that right, Lieutenant?"
"Er..." Souveson blushed at the Captain, "yes, that's correct. It was a very recent upgrade."
"Surely you don't think I wouldn't have bothered to check the Starfleet database first, do you Captain?" the Ambassador was enjoying his moment.
"Of course," Christian acceded as graciously as he could, "I'm sorry Mister Narli."
For Narli the disagreement was over. He tapped several keys and scrolled down a list of materials. “I seem to remember we had a variety of probes on our wish list…ah, yes. We now have one on board.”
Christian joined the tall, cryptic blue man and peered over Souveson’s shoulder at what the display said. He could see where the Andorian was going. But before he could react:
“Bridge to shuttlebay!” Lirik whelped quickly into the intercom – interrupting the Captain before he could speak. Clearly the Yeoman had also worked it out and taken the initiative. “Bring the Type I Energy Probe to the bridge.”
“On my way,” Hedrik’s voice confirmed.
“Captain!!!” Reb shouted, wanting to engage the warp drive without further delay.
“Stand by, Mister Rebbik,” Christian bellowed, his voice full of authority. Reb’s lips puckered tight and he tried to relax, but this was getting beyond a joke. There was no doubt in his mind that the Captain and this bloody ship would be the death of him.
Souveson walked over to the warhead and popped its control panel. Narli moved in to assist her, closely followed by the Captain and Lirik. But the short young woman glared incredulously at the three older, eager men surrounding her. “I believe as the ship’s Tactical Officer this is my bag, gentlemen.” And with that she turned back to her job of manually arming the warhead herself. Christian dropped the sides of his mouth, looking at the other men, who raised eyebrows and they all moved away. It was clear the Ensign was beginning to speak up for herself, and that pleased her Captain.
Christian considered what they were about to do. Were he in command of a fully-combat ready Starfleet ship, he wouldn’t hesitate to take action against his pursuers. He imagined remaining in wait near to the debris field to lure all four ships into the blast zone and then striking them when they engaged. But reality soon hit home. This was merely a souped-up civilian vessel with a few currently empty torpedo magazines and partially active phaser turrets. Best, in that case, to just set the device and retreat and hope for the best.
A thought suddenly flashed across his mind. Like a final year cadet at the Academy, Christian felt poised between two hunches. An impossible scenario from which he knew there would be no single answer. Going by the book he would instruct the Ensign to set the warhead to maximise yield to attempt destruction of all four ships in a single explosion. But then, he knew if he instructed her to set the warhead just so, he could make it so that the blast would leave one ship intact, if badly damaged, but available for them to capture and study. Possibly even take hostages – or maybe even open a dialogue. Surely, he thought, such possibilities were too huge to ignore – if he could just find a weakness in the enemy, or a bargaining tool, it would make their future more certain.
But then again, that would also be a huge gamble. In a worst case scenario only one, or possibly none, of the ships would be incapacitated. And then they would have no chance to defend themselves in a fight and the whole resistance campaign would be lost before it even began.
Panic crept into the back of his mind, mostly from his lack of experience with the crew, such that they were, the ship and this part of space, though partly from the strangeness of his first proper command. The voice of reason (and it sounded in his head like Commodore Jackson!) took control.
No, he decided, the risk was too great. Best look on this as just a way of saying “up yours”. If they managed to destroy one of the ships, or even merely inconvenienced them by delaying their pursuit then that would be a bonus. They would plant and run, hopefully securing their successful escape and retreat to the Beta Section on the other side of VauWin space. It was the only sensible course open.
“Captain,” Lirik spoke softly, and Christian turned to see the Englishman studying him closely. “Could I have a word in private?” He didn’t wait for an answer, walking into the Starboard corridor out of earshot of everyone. Christian raised an eyebrow at the melodramatics, but followed. It would take Souveson a while longer, after all.
“Permission to speak freely?” he asked as soon as Christian had his back to the closed doors in the partially lit narrow empty corridor.
The Captain pre-empted him. “If you’re going to recommend we use these weapons as an opportunity to capture a K’Tani vessel, I’ve already dismissed that as a valid option,” he said. Before Lirik could protest, he reaffirmed: “We have a responsibility to the survivors-“
“I know, I know,” Lirik nodded wearily, “lose the battle to win the war, and all that. However, this is also a golden opportunity. When might we find a place to entrap the K’Tani again?”
“You know I can’t answer that,” Christian explained. “But surely you must understand that we cannot take the risk for the sake of the survivors and the rest of our people who are relying on us to somehow work out a way to liberate them?”
“I thought command was all about risk!” Lirik retorted.
It was true, Christian thought – another irony of command. “Normally I would agree, but in our present circumstances the buck stops with us. With me, actually. And I won’t take the risk.”
He looked Lirik in the eye, waiting for the Englishman’s next response. Instead of a continued debate, the Yeoman instead yielded with a short nod. Lirik walked back toward the Bridge, but Christian placed an arm out, touching his shield and stopping him.
“You were correct to point it out, though,” Christian explained, trying his best to sound kindly. “And rest assured if the opportunity arises again, don’t worry, I won’t hesitate to use it to our best advantage. In the meantime, don’t be embarrassed about challenging me in front of the crew. You are one of the…team leaders, after all.”
Lirik smiled, friendly and warm and followed Christian back onto the bridge.
* * *
Less than an hour later, the Yacht was well into its return journey. There was little talking, everyone waiting patiently for word of whether the booby trap had been discovered or not.
“Detonation has occurred,” Karnak confirmed watching as the iconographic pinpoint of light grew brighter then faded to nothing on the long range sensor display. Everyone on the Bridge visibly relaxed.
“The K’Tani?” Christian asked. Their tension raised slightly again.
“It is too early to tell due to blast interference, and we will be out of range soon,” she sounded almost Human for once. “However, there are no obvious pursuers at this time.”
Christian nodded and glanced over at the Andorian Ambassador, his face intent on the Operations displays. Narli had shown considerable bravado back there, and not a little lack of cautiousness. The Captain knew that Andorians were by their nature aggressive, violent and devious, but he had expected more restraint from a veteran diplomat. His actions could have quite easily caused the deaths of everyone aboard.
Christian reminded himself that Lirik was much the same – and yet consistently had acted in the best interests of the ship and its people. Perhaps, the Captain wondered, he could learn to trust Ambassador Narli in the same way. At that moment, the big blue man turned his head and looked directly at the Captain, a challenging sparkle in his eyes.
“Of course,” Narli spoke directly at the Captain, as if in private conversation. “They may have discovered the bomb and detonated it themselves.”
Christian swallowed, but Souveson chipped in before he could reply. “Still no sign of pursuit, Captain.”
“Very good,” Christian smiled and nodded, turning to look busy with his arm console.
* * *
ACT 4