2.

She groaned when she moved, but sucked back the sound when she heard new echoes forming in the hold. It was like water in a pipe at first, and then coupled with voices. The steady hiss of steam masked the words at first. But she knew they were voices.

She wondered who the hell it was this time.

Not that she would have been able to prevent a second set of visitors. Obviously, no one had stopped the first ones-the Cardassian ship that had effortlessly disabled Mesler's barge, killed Mesler and the others, then came for her.

Blood trickled from her mouth and over her brow ridge and temple. Her arms shook as she tried futilely to push herself up, but her torso and everything past it felt like a ton of duranium. Her body, already caked with soot from that horrible engine Mesler probably never did intend to fix, bore a cold layer of sweat, more weight still upon her as she heard, barely, the movements in the hold just ahead.

The Cardassian had left her to bleed merely for lack of time. She wondered bitterly what she was thinking when she actually thought she could escape, hide just long enough for them to deal with Mesler and go away. Even if she'd had the bridge to herself, any decent shuttle could have blown that crummy little freighter to dust. She tried to crawl around the intruders anyway; after being found, she was stupid enough to try to fight him, and so the man twice her size struck her to the floor with a single swat-and didn't stop there.

Indeed, she had been stupid enough to piss him off when she knew she didn't have any way out, learned with painful accuracy that sparring at the Academy was very different to being beaten to the ground by someone who didn't care about his victim's survival. Oddly, the pain wasn't as troubling to her as the inability to push herself up.

Gratefully, in her last bits of consciousness, she'd seen the shimmer of a transporter take them away as a crack and rattle shook the bulkheads. Another attacker.

Just what this piece of crap needs, she'd thought as her head fell to the deck.

Minutes later, still trying to force herself to stay awake, she knew what she heard ahead wasn't anything Cardassian. She'd memorized their inflection and would never, never forget the sounds they made and the officer's snide smile.

Still, she wasn't so naive to think that just because the Cardassians were gone everything was okay. There were several varieties of scum in the quadrant, of equal and varying degrees and all wanting something. Unfortunately, she had already run across more of those sorts than not. There were several humans she'd prefer not to meet again.

She heard a familiar systems whirr, then, "Hey, come take a look at this."

"That's some of it at least," was the response a moment later. "Good thing, too. We're really needing it."

As if she hadn't already thought it was as bad as it could get, but to be at the so-called mercy of whoever won the day there. She didn't even have stinking Mesler to back her up-as if he would have in the first place.

Hell, he'd have probably sold me off, too-or tried to.

She took a couple breaths, stuffing down the heat that came with those thoughts, which really weren't worth thinking.

What was worth thinking about was trying to figure out how to get out of it-again. Protecting herself and what was left of the ship-even if what she was in it wasn't hers and was apparently illegal-somehow became a priority within the very little she had left.

She didn't bother to wonder why.

Rather, she tried again to peel herself from the ground, blinking away the stinging blood from her eye, and ignoring the pain, the anger, the fear...

"Damned Mesler," came another voice, a thin growl around the corner-maybe human. The accent was strange, so she couldn't be certain if it was a human dialect or translation. "Should have known he couldn't keep this jug strung well enough to finish the job."

"Pays to be cheap," said another man, likely human, more cautious, appraising...nearing. His heels were like wood pipes, a hollow pang with each step upon the grate floor, slow and rhythmic. Then they stopped, scraped slightly, then silenced again. "Something's held it together long enough to get it this far, though."

Yeah, me.

Her arms buckled, sending her down to the deck again. She grunted with frustration, but stifled any further noise. They knew Mesler-which wasn't exactly something that earned her trust right off.

"Well, there's nothing we can do for him now. Might as well get what's ours."

"The Cardassians take much?"

"Not that I can see. These crates are still packed in. I don't think our heavy parts were here in the first place, though...No, I think those other visitors distracted them in time."

"Think we should grab it all, then, before that other ship comes back?"

"I'm not about to make any enemies. But we can finish Mesler's job-if that other ship isn't already looking for their share. I don't want any more trouble than we've got already."

"Gotcha."

Another ship? She blew her breath against the deck. "Damn, damn, damn you, Mesler."

"Let's get to work. -And get Savan down here to look at these holds, tell us where they're from. You get on the circuits back there, get the computer up before either one of those ships come back. Upload the crew records and dump us from the mainframe. Use what you need to do it-quick and dirty if you have to."

"Will do."

A couple moments passed, with a shuffling away and then several seconds of silence. She waited, trying futilely in the dark to spot something to grab hold of-if she could even reach that far.

The steps came closer, and she felt her heart pounding again, half with anxiety and half with the pain, steadily increasing. Bruises had formed where she'd been kicked and struck. She was starting to get a good mental image of what they'd done to her.

Better than what they could have done, she reminded herself.

Unfortunately, her lousy day wasn't over yet.

She saw the light, a glimmer of yellowish white in the dark amber emergency lights. It stilled for a moment, then flickered around, searching, then pointed ahead again. With an effort, she pulled her sprawling leg closer in; out of the path of the light was apparently following. At the same time, she wondered why they hadn't detected her lifesign yet.

Tricobalt signatures, she answered herself. The idiot Mesler hadn't bothered, but the Cardassian was more than happy to inform her that her dead captain had been carrying weapons. Not that it surprised her. She hadn't taken the job for his virtuous reputation.

The light danced around the corridor, finding nothing much on that end but some spare stores and sooty bulkheads, products of an owner who didn't care much about the holds as much as what he'd get out of them, which was at least part of his undoing. The light showed that keeping a good ship was more important than the prize that could come from it. The ship was what kept a body alive in that unforgiving space. The light bounced, but slowed for a moment for an odd shadow at the side, an unusual curve on the angular ship, perhaps only a shadow that shouldn't have been...

Her eyes fluttered; her head spun anew. The stress and the pain were starting to get to her despite her natural resistance. Her heart flickered weakly, too drained to do much more.

But everything else in her mind told her not to...not to...

The light came, turned...

"We have a survivor!"

The sudden noise startled her eyes open again, and she blearily looked past the light to the figure looming above her, a steady form silhouetted in the dim light, then quickly crouching down beside her. He looked human. He smelled of something vaguely stale.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Eh...Engineer," she gasped.

"Got a name, Engineer?"

"B'Elanna...Torres."

A pause, then a quick nod. "My people are on board. You're safe now."

She didn't say anything-couldn't, really-but squinted to try to focus on the man. He was still only a shadow in that corner, though he checked her over briefly, laid a steady hand on her arm.

"We've got some medicines in stock and someone who knows how to use them," he told her. "If necessary, we can find a doctor. You'll be okay."

"Thanks," she coughed.

Without warning, he ducked around to peer out of the hold. "You have the medkit?"

There was no answer, though a lighter patter echoed down the corridor. Quick yet perfectly timed, it seemed as though the person approaching had calculated an appropriate pace and obeyed it.

The steps halted at the entrance to the hold.

"Jerod asked me to inform you that the Cardassians have left the area, and that the 'tag team' has returned-alone," a female stated.

Just great, B'Elanna thought, growling as a new slice of pain ran up her leg.

"I'll handle it," the man replied, easing his hand off her arm to stand. "Take care of her."

"Our transporters are still offline," the woman told him as she knelt with the kit.

"Not that they were much to begin with."

"My point remains: She will be unable to climb out of the hold."

"I guess it was too much to hope Mesler's were any more useful. I'll send Ridge to carry her up."

As quickly as he'd lowered himself by her, he was gone again, moving off towards the main cargo bay, where several other voices had started up.

"Look, we're not here to take anything that's yours," came a lean voice down the corridor. "We came to get what's ours, and that's all."

"That was convenient," was the suspicious reply.

"What, you don't believe us?"

"I think you're too interested in this storeroom for someone who's already found their part of the cargo."

"We didn't know this was yours," the first man insisted. "We came because Mesler was late and we were nearby-just like you, I guess."

"Or you could have been tracking Mesler."

"You think we're stupid enough to take on the Cardassians, you've got to fix more than your-"

"Jerod." It was the man who had left-calm, but with an edge that spoke of having the last word. "I'll take care of this. Do me a favor and trade off with Ridge. I need his hands for a minute. Savan needs help."

"You got it," Jerod responded sourly. "I was already sick of this, anyway."

Though it was painful, B'Elanna tried to turn her head, perhaps to get a glimpse of what was going on. Several more people had come into the storeroom and sounded busy. Just as she began to get a good look inside the hold, though, the woman who had already opened a medkit and a tricorder easily pressed the engineer back to the deck.

"Do not attempt to move," Savan said, her tone as even and impassive as the rest of the ship was excited. "The captain will take care of the situation. You are safe with us."

Another instrument came out and was activated. It was aimed at B'Elanna's bloody brow a moment later.

"Anything bad?" Torres asked, still trying to look around.

"You have a concussion, several lacerations, two broken ribs and a fractured knee," was the answer. "You have lost a notable amount of blood. You will require more than I can treat here, but will on our ship. Please remain still."

"What's going on in there?" she asked. She could hear a couple people coming close again. "Who's collecting the cargo besides your people?"

"If you remain quiet, perhaps we will find out," Savan answered. "And I would recommend silence. Allow our captain to deal with the other crew as he is best able. More, not exerting yourself further will assist in your recovery."

"Sorry, not my specialty," Torres returned.

The other woman didn't acknowledge the sarcasm. "This does not surprise me. However, it would be the wiser thing for you to do."

The nearing steps, heavy and deliberate, stopped. For several seconds, the commotion in the main bay took precedence, many voices in several dialects, mostly roughened and tired, cursing and even laughing, too. People who knew each other and yet the conversations were not too casual as they opened cases and moved them around.

Torres hardly breathed in those seconds; more curious than she wanted to admit, and also realizing how tired she was once she'd stopped trying to move. Still, she listened, waited and then saw...

The men released each other's hands after a firm but quick handshake-as much respect as could be had between strangers with competing interests.

Their appraising stares did not break for as long as they had stopped in the dim, musty corridor, too. One saw a man around forty, with salt and pepper hair and a dark tattoo on his forehead. Wide-shouldered and dressed in earthy browns and leather, his eyes were like a turtle's, solid and unblinking. He stood evenly on his feet. From what she could see of him, the other man had rumpled dark blond hair, was a little taller, leaner, and had his weight shifted, which added a certain swagger to his well-postured frame. Torres watched his head tilt as he briefly scanned the room.

The other man remained hard and solemn. The men's eyes met again, less challenging that time, but still cautious.

"You're the captain?" the fairer man asked.

"Yes." Sober, curious, the older man seemed as cautious as the others were. "I get the feeling we're sharing space for our purchases."

"Actually, the cargo is mostly yours. Ours are barely here, from what I can see. I'd like to see if there's anything else, though."

"You might already know why that could make my people uncomfortable."

"That's the way of the world out here."

"And what way do you want it to be?"

"The easiest one. You get yours, we'll get ours-and the salvage of the ship, if you don't mind, and we'll be on our way. Good enough?"

"The salvage?"

"Mesler didn't only owe us a few supplies," the fair man said. "He owed a portion of a profit we helped him to last time we came through here. It's why we decided to catch up with him. But I think we can make up for some of it with some key parts from the ship-granted any of it works."

B'Elanna sniffed for want of a laugh.

"I'd like it if we could discuss some of those systems," the older captain said, cautious again. "I happen to be in need of a memory core."

"Yeah, I'm sure you could use it-and keep it out of anyone else's hands. I'm not going to want it, so we don't even have to make that deal. The last thing I need is a point inspection to turn up anything in a spare memory core that'd implicate my crew. The Federation is getting paranoid enough that they'd look for it."

This interested the darker man. "You think?"

"I take it you haven't been around zero-zero-one in a while. Well, I'll admit I haven't either, but certain...factions are making themselves pretty well-known, and making Starfleet nervous-as you've probably noticed. Word is they might start doing something about it."

"It's what I've expected," the captain said, still appraising the man before him. Finally, he gave another nod. "Thank you."

"Let me know if my crew can help you in any way while we're all here," the fair man said graciously. "My ship doesn't deal in the sort of cargo the Mesler was willing to, but we're not blind to what's going on, either. We're careful, but we get by all right."

"I don't want to insult you, Captain, but judging by the look of your ship, you're just doing that." The tattooed captain turned his gaze. "You could do more."

The fair man showed no reaction, even as he said, "We could also land ourselves in a Federation penal resort according to the new treaty-which is the last thing I'll let happen to myself or my crew. There're plenty of other traders in this area willing to make deals inside the region. I think you should assess the conditions of their ships before looking at mine, much as it might want for better."

"I understand."

"I'm glad you do. So, why don't we check our stores and see how much Mesler cheated us?"

"Good idea." The Maquis extended his hand once more. The other man shook it. "Hope you don't mind we don't introduce ourselves."

"You know the look of my ship well enough and you've probably scanned it to dust already. And I'll know you in a crowd. That's more than enough for me."

With a pat on the Maquis' shoulder, the younger captain led them away and back to the main cargo hold. On the way, he waved to his technician, a dark, husky man who had to duck to miss the coolant pipes after he leapt down from the docking ladder.

"Where do you need me?" he asked.

"In the forward hold," the fair captain told him, pointing. "Help them out, will you?"

"Will do, Tom."

He rolled his eyes, but let it go with a shake of his head as he leaned against a ladder and contacted his bridge.

The Maquis captain had likewise not missed the name, but said as much about it as he continued into the next hold to ask about their progress.

Meanwhile, the burly technician made his way through the darkened corridor of Mesler's ship, ducking under another cross of pipes and hoisting his toolbox sling more comfortably onto his shoulder. Looking around, he snorted. "Never thought this old barge could get any worse."

But he forgot that long standing joke as soon as he saw the skirt of Savan's tunic, just visible inside the next juncture-and forgot about his tools, too, when he saw what his captain really needed him to do. His burden was lying below Savan's typically plain stare.

The kid was just that-barely old enough to be out of college; small-built and sort of pretty, for what he could see of her past the mop of short, dark curls that were half-crushed against her face. Despite her disarray, she looked totally out of place-at least to him-on Mesler's barge. She wasn't all Klingon, either, he could tell, not only by her appearance, but also in her expression. Bruised and ripped, covered with engine slag, the young woman still had an oddly peaceful look on her face as she slept.

"Use caution with her leg," Savan told him, tucking away the hypospray she had utilized moments before Ridge's arrival. "Her knee is broken."

"Damned Cardassians," Ridge muttered as he knelt down beside his Vulcan crewmate. Easing the patient into his powerful arms, he lifted her effortlessly from the deck. "Wish they'd find someone their own size to pick on-leave us alone."

"Unfortunately, that is not the case," Savan replied, rising to her feet and slipping around the bulky man to lead the way out to the main hold.

He turned the limp form onto his shoulder and followed without another word. Thankfully, the Maquis there all but ignored them. They had their own business to deal with. Catching Tom's glance, he blinked a reassuring nod as he approached. Tom had a thing about injured people-normal, of course, but he tended to take it too much to heart. Ridge understood why well enough, so as came to the ladder, he told the captain, "We'll take care of her."

"See if she's got any personal belongings, a bunk or anything," Tom ordered quietly. "She won't be staying here."

"I'll send Maryl," Ridge said, reaching up for the highest rung of the ladder to pull himself and his burden up.

After the technician disappeared into the docking hold, Tom Paris remained near the ladder. His arms crossed as he watched the other captain's crew quickly assemble their cargo and beam it out of the bay, bit by bit. Their banter both rough and good-natured but not distracting from their business for an instant, they were like army ants on a watermelon.

It was a bad business, Tom knew, and the Maquis were increasingly a bad sort to mix with. A few of them had already stared him down, thinking who-knew-what about why he was there and waiting as he was, though a couple of them gave him some ideas.

"Don't forget to scrub the floor when we leave," a Bajoran woman smirked at him as she turned an assembly on its side. "Cardassians like to train their servants on squeaky tile."

"Guess you'd know," Tom replied coldly, turning his stare askance when her eyes narrowed. "Tell me, you like it doggie style or with your wrists tied to the girders?"

She snarled and jerked her attention back to the remaining inventory. "You'd better watch yourself," she muttered.

"Just do your work," Tom told her. "Your fight's not with me."

"It could be," she warned.

"Much as you seem to enjoy Cardassian booty, I don't think you or your captain would appreciate the Federation crawling up your ass for knocking off a registered tradeship in what should have been neutral territory when you're supposedly defending some colonies no one seems to agree on. Do your job and take your fight back where it belongs."

A few of the others mumbled some choice words his way for that one.

Tom didn't care. He hadn't come there for the congeniality prize, and tradesmen in general weren't usually respected, even when they were honest. Rather, a straight tradesman was more a liability to the Maquis, who depended on silence and underhanded deals to get by. So, he didn't try to convince them otherwise. He just wanted his materials and what parts could make up for Mesler's ineptitude in actually finishing a bargain honestly, and he wanted to get the hell out of the DMZ. Were he very lucky, he wouldn't have to bring the ship back to that part of space.

With that thought in mind, he tapped his shoulder to activate his communicator. "Maryl, you have our docking at Podala worked out yet?"

"I haven't been able to patch in again since we got in this mess," was her clipped reply, "and I haven't gotten a reply yet. You'll know when I do."

"Okay." Pushing himself from the wall, he moved aft to see how Jerod was coming with accessing the optical data network. The technician was hidden behind the main computer core, doing just that. Grabbing a demagnifyer, Tom moved in to start on the sensor grid and prioritize what else they might salvage from engineering. Having already breezed through there, he knew it was a mess, but it wasn't a total waste.

He knew it again when he returned to the organized chaos still steaming and sparking but otherwise dead. Looking around at the many attempts to string together that battered rig, Tom knew that Mesler had somehow picked up a good engineer.

Tom grinned to himself as he tapped a dim monitor to life. Maybe the young woman now lying in the lab on his ship was crazy enough to take the job he had open. She'd worked for Mesler, after all.

He shrugged about it a moment later. Whatever she might be, she wasn't in any shape to do much there and then.

He tapped his shoulder again. "Ridge. -Care to come down to share the grease in Mesler's bucket?"

"Just put the cricket down, actually," the man answered. "I'll be there in two minutes. -Though, I'll still wish it were the grease at the bottom of a bowl of fried oysters. Have I told you recently how delicious they were?"

Tom managed an uneasy grin at that, shaking his head as he turned to the impulse housing-the first thing he decided should come out. "Asshole."

"And cute as hell to boot. Be down in a bit."

The comm was cut, but Tom was already elbow-deep in the bulkhead, staring in awe of the work he saw there. It was almost a shame to take it out.

A moment later, however, the disengaged grid housing was in a crate to take back to his ship and he was working on the next one. The juncture would come next; the manifold itself would follow. It was usually an easy extraction.

The thought playing in his mind, and looking around to see that he was indeed alone, he walked around to the hold to find Jerod. Crouching down, he saw two boots and a set of hands stuck up into the ODN's main access panel. "How's it coming along?" he asked.

"Almost done," the technician replied, not looking away from his work.

He nodded to himself, said quietly, "I need you to do something else-now, if you can."

"I'm in right now. What is it?"

"Your tea okay?" Tom asked as he motioned to the teapot he'd snagged from Jerod's quarters on his way up to the lounge.

The effort was a sort of thanks, even if Tom had been ticked off when the Maquis asked for more than was originally requested-first the memory core, then the primary power nodes, and then the central isolinear matrix. Meanwhile, the way his crew stuck so closely to him, he'd half expected the Maquis captain to hold their meeting in public, too.

It seemed the tan and tattooed man was wiser than that, however, and carried his carefulness over to his dealings. Simple and direct without giving anything away but what he wanted, he also had a talent for extracting information without asking for it. None from his surly group had accompanied him; he chose to let his singular presence do the work.

Tom likewise asked his crew to leave that meeting to him. They were more than happy to.

"I'm fine, thank you." Captain Chakotay leaned back in the chair he'd chosen, a wide, spare rack with a back on it, facing the door. He watched the other man nod, more to himself as he warmed his hands on the sides of his mug.

The young captain wasn't a bad dealer, Chakotay surmised. He was deceivingly casual, easy-going, subtle in the negative, generous in the positive. He knew where to draw the line, and that in a pleasantly tenacious way that was slightly annoying-a part of his method, Chakotay understood.

"I hope you don't mind my taking the hull for scrap," Tom said, finally leaning back in his seat to drink the cup he'd made for himself, as Irish a coffee as he could manage so far away from anyone who knew what a good whiskey might be.

Chakotay shook his head. "Saves us the time and trouble," he answered. "For that matter, you still have some latinum coming to you."

"Thank you," Tom said, simple yet sincere. He really did want to make up for what he could. They'd lost two weeks when Livich cut out on them, not to mention forty bars of latinum for Mesler's double-playing them. Worse, Tom felt like an idiot for allowing Mesler to convince him he'd follow through.

"You're welcome," Chakotay replied. "To be honest, I'm glad we were able to work out our mutual problem. I think we're all getting as much as we can with this arrangement. It's good to know we can be reasonable, in spite of our different priorities."

Nine out of ten says he was Starfleet somewhere along the line, Tom smirked to himself. "Nice to know we agree."

They'd finally agreed to split both the power nodes and the parts from the central computer. The Maquis would have the main unit and the memory core. The trader claimed to be satisfied with the distribution matrix, comm relay and sensor manifolds.

It wasn't a bad deal, Chakotay knew, considering how much Mesler had cheated the tradeship. He had become unused to dealing with traders who wanted equal outcomes-or maybe the younger man just wanted to be on his way without earning a grudge. Not a bad idea. Cargo vessels like that one didn't need enemies, though many of them had made quite a few for their necessarily underhanded dealings. Those sorts did whatever they could to get by.

The Maquis employed quite a few of them.

Still, Chakotay honestly didn't suspect that this was the case, even if the other captain hadn't yet mentioned the casualty from Mesler's ship that hadn't been "buried."

"I was told your technician carried a body out of one of the holds."

Tom finished his sip and swallowed with a nod. "One of my people was injured while investigating the forward compartments." It wasn't a complete lie: Jerod cut his finger on a casing while working on the central subprocessor. Either way, just for that the Maquis captain thought to ask after something that shouldn't have concerned him, Tom wasn't about to confess it.

"I hope she's recovering," Chakotay ventured, his eyes hunting over the other man's reactions. "They said she was bad off, dirty compared to the rest of your crew."

"Can't expect much different from a determined engineer-especially on this ship," Tom said lightly, adding a chuckle for effect. "Just got too far into a dark hold, knocked over some containers and hurt her knee, bumped her head. I haven't heard the whole story yet. Luckily, my science analyst did some time in medical school. I'm lucky to have her."

"You are." Chakotay finished off his tea. It wasn't very good, but it was better than he'd had in weeks. He could tell the man had diverted his question nicely, but he was content to drop his curiosity there. Maybe the captain was telling the truth about the crewperson-and if he wasn't, it didn't mean she knew anything about the Liberty. If necessary, however, he could find them again. The trader was quite correct in that the Liberty had scanned the little freighter down to the screws, thanks to Seska, her tenacity and her fast-acting hatred for the young captain.

In fact, the ship and its crew might make such an effort worthwhile. They had a few well-sealed cargo bays, a decent staff and a workable leader, all things Chakotay knew were worth their weight in latinum. Indeed, he would remember them.

"I wouldn't mind getting my hands on a medic," he continued, setting the cup on the table.

"I'll bet," Tom said, meaning it. "The colonies see a lot of action these days. You've got lots of reasons to need one." He held Chakotay's stare. "I hope you find someone soon."

"Thank you." A pause, then a press on his knees, and Chakotay stood. Regarding the younger captain anew, he offered his hand. "It was good doing business with you, Captain. I hope we have the chance to deal with each other again."

"Let's hope we stick around that long," Tom grinned, rising from his seat to shake the man's hand. "Thanks for making this as easy as it was. I wasn't expecting it."

"I wasn't, either. It's a nice surprise."

"Good luck to you, Captain."

Chakotay gave a nod of thanks and moved a step back. Tapping his commlink, he said, "Seska, has our salvage been transferred?"

"Yes," came the reply, sounding none too happy with it. "I noticed there wasn't much of it. How much did you give them?"

"I gave them what was fair." Chakotay didn't address it further-wouldn't address it there, anyway. "One to transport."

"Just a second. I have to reset the targeting frequency."

Chakotay furrowed his brow. "Is something wrong with the transporter?"

"No," the woman replied. "I'd just finished a decontamination analysis. I'm diverting power back to the transporters."

"I thought we irradiated the supplies already."

"It's nothing you need to worry about," she insisted, then confirmed, "It's ready now. Prepare for transport."

About ten seconds later, the Maquis captain dematerialized in a river of light, leaving the other captain alone in the lounge, his glass and an empty cup on the table at his side. A beat of silence filled the hollow room; the thrum of the engines followed it.

"About time," Tom muttered.

Glancing out the viewport to see the Maquis ship begin to turn off, he backed off to the door and strode the short distance forward to the small, worn bridge that had mostly been his home for the past two years. Some days, it felt like decades. That day was one of them.

Peeking over to a monitor to check their preset coordinates, he nodded and shot a glance to the ops station on his way to his seat.

"Maryl, get us the hell out of here, warp whatever you want."

"Gladly," she replied and tapped the initiator.