Heronas, Lost At Sea, T Minus 39 Hours
"Try again now."
The grinding increased in volume until the entire engine sputtered to a stop. If they hadn't already been at impulse, well...the results would not have been pretty.
"Dammit."
Trip stared at the melted, burned mess of fuses and wiring that had been the result of the exactly wrong thing falling off in high warp. An external panel covering a whole mess of breakers and heat-bleed flanges and coolant piping, which were now venting precious coolant and plasma into space.
Not any more it won't.
He hit the comms. "Jones! You got the coolant valves shut yet?"
"In a moment...there."
Trip checked the readouts...yeah, pressure building back to normal levels, they could reroute it safely now. "Okay, start rerouting it through the secondary and tertiary backups, let me know when you're done. I'll try to fix the wiring in helm control."
He stared at the mess again. Well, maybe it was a good thing to know exactly which wires to pull or disable to stop a starship from going to warp. These sure did the trick. Maybe someday someone would need to sabotage their own ship like this...
A presence at his shoulder made him turn and blink owlishly at Sergeant Fujisawa, the commanding officer for their small detachment of ten MACOs.
"Anything I can do for you, sergeant?"
"Actually, I was wondering if there's anything we can do. We're feeling a bit superfluous at the moment."
Her accent was mainland Japanese, but not heavy, and had a hint of Frisco to it. Likely an immigrant, then. "I dunno. Is there anything you can do?"
"We're all rated for emergency hull and infrastructure repairs, and half of us have EVA-ratings. Murtaugh has worker bee clearance. Anything you can use there?"
"Actually, yeah. Get two of your men down to storage and bring out some duranium plating. Then take whoever you think necessary and get that hull plating fixed. We can't well repair this bucket if we're gonna have to stop for repairs in half a lightyear again."
"Will do."
Yeah, I bet you will. Whoever got me a bunch of tech-savvy MACOs deserves a hug and kiss right about now...
…
…
Starfleet Command, San Francisco, Earth, T Minus 35 Hours
The doors slid open, and Admiral Gardner marched in, slamming a padd on the desk hard. "What the hell is this?"
The proper word for his current mood would be 'livid'.
Admiral Black stared at his uninvited guest. "What is what, exactly?"
Gardner picked the padd back up. "This is not the crew roster I approved for the Heronas. Wong was supposed to be second-in-command, Jacob Sawyer was meant to be chief engineer, and I sure as hell didn't approve altering the transfer for the Vulcan!"
"Well...first of all, I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that tone with me, admiral. Second, last I checked I was fleet admiral and could alter any orders given by my subordinates if no major objections could be raised. Third, the evaluations and alterations for the new crew roster were checked and double-checked by commodore Hernandez on my direct order. The current crew is what it is because these are the people available at the proper skill level required."
If Black was a less pleasant man, he'd be gloating about now. Fortunately, he had enough restraint to keep any such unsightly displays until later.
"...the MACOs, though. Why a military detachment, the Buran-class are couriers and we barely have enough troops-"
"Ten MACOs hardly make a dent in the military detachments, and you know it. Since we're at war, I have ordered that no ship, whether of the line or support, be without a minimum number of MACO trained in whatever field the ship is aimed. Even the planned science vessels will have a few SigInt MACO, just in case."
Unfortunately, none of this seemed to be calming Gardner down. The man was red in the face, irate, livid, all the usual phrases. He also appeared to be in some distress.
"...are you all right?"
Gardner blinked, breathing heavily. "No...no, I'm not. I..." He gripped his arm. "I think...I think I'm having a heart attack."
…
"Harris."
"Is it done?"
"Yes. He'll live, but he'll be out of commission for a few months. Then he'll probably retire as soon as the doctors clear him. They're talking about a replacement, already."
"Good. Did you..."
"Nothing that'll show on scans. And most of it was his own fault, anyway. I didn't make him over-salt his eggs each morning or get him extra helpings of French fries. He did that all on his own."
"Good. Any word on the replacement candidates?"
"Either Farragut or Grissom."
"Farragut is a warmonger. Grissom is...a bit soft, but has the right ideas about the Coalition. Let's make sure Grissom gets the position."
"You sure?"
"Quite."
…
…
Enterprise, Gamma Hydra System, T Minus 34 Hours
"They're coming about! Shields at fifty percent!"
"Aft torpedoes, full yield. T'Pol, is the flare ready yet?"
"Aye sir, full yield."
"Not yet, captain."
Jonathan Archer watched his tactical officer do the adjustments, after which two golden points of light detached and made their way towards the Romulan carrier...only to impact against shields at full strength. An all too familiar sight by now. The fighters flitted about doing no damage, but the carrier...oh, the carrier was a different beast. Huge, lumbering, heavily armed and armored.
"No real damage, sir."
"Evasive action!" Doing so meant less accuracy in firing back, but also less chance of getting hit. Always with the compromises. But all they needed were a few more minutes before the tables would be turned. Always keep a back-up plan, that's what Forrest taught him. At least one.
We're getting hammered.
"Their fighters are withdrawing."
What?
He realized his mistake mere moments later. "All hands, brace yourself!"
Because now the second part of the trap appeared. Coming out of the sun from the far side of the planet, three Romulan Warbirds, firing green death. The ship shook with each impact, panels sparking and inertial compensators straining...and those were just from the disruptor hits.
"T'Pol!"
"One minute!"
"We don't have one minute!"
Her hands moved in a blur over the consoles, then she looked up at Reed. "Shut down all sensors and targeting systems on my mark. Mr Mayweather, you know what to do when it comes."
"Aye, commander."
Closer...closer...
"Mark!"
The sound of sensory systems being shut down was much like the sound of bells tolling at a funeral. The ship spun and twirled, a nauseating sensation in everyone's guts reminding them that without inertial dampers and compensators they'd be smears on the walls, floor and ceiling by the maneuvers the young lieutenant was performing.
"Weapon launched."
Always keep a back-up plan. The Romulans had played hide-and-go-seek with Starfleet for almost a year now. Time to see how they did that without eyes.
"Optimal range in twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Detonation."
The view screen flared white even though the hull cameras were down and Archer could see T'Pol blink, repeatedly. Most of the bridge crew had looked away entirely when the modified photon torpedo had gone up like a mini-nova. A flash-bang torpedo.
If it's blinding like this to us, imagine how it was for the unaware Romulans...
…
Dagger of S'Lar
"My eyes!" Centurion Thveihr shrieked in abject agony, throwing himself away from the sensor scope. Even Valdore had to blink stars out of his own eyes. The secondary eyelids had done nothing to protect them against whatever that had been.
"Damage report!" The room was blurry, going from light to dark and back again. He found himself unable to focus, and the weakness irked him.
"All...all sensors are down, burned out. Whatever the Terrans fired on us, it was designed to blind us."
"The other battle groups?"
"Pinion reports all sensors down, though their fighters were unharmed, being in the hangar bays. Claw is also blinded. Engineering says it will take at least ten hours to repair the damage."
…
Enterprise
"Anything?"
"The Romulan vessels are for the most part dead in the water. But so are we. We have half impulse, shields have taken a beating, and the warp core is beyond repair."
"Keep it under containment. We might need to jettison the core as a last resort. For now, concentrate on getting impulse, weapons and shields back."
Archer leaned back into a chair that was as much a second home to him now as the cabin he shared with a small dog.
Well, at least we have sensors...
He frowned. "Could someone go check on Porthos?"
…
…
Heronas, Dead In The Water, T Minus 35 Hours
"Dammit, not again. Farrell, Wilkes, get in there and dig out the burnt out conduits."
"Sir, do we really have time for-"
"Is the warp core online? No? Then we got time. Now get in there." Trip looked around. "Where the hell is Jonsson?"
"Storage, sir, digging out the cooling flanges you ordered."
"Right." He rubbed his eyes. He hadn't gone this long without sleep since...the Expanse.
Don't think about the Expanse.
"The hull repairs done yet?"
"Yessir. The MACOs are inbound."
"Yeah, let's just rotate into the regular hull crew. Give the MACOs a short rest, then have them do shift duty with the others. If Jonsson gets the flanges I want we're doing a quick jury-rig that'll come in handy when we arrive."
"...yessir."
I hope to God we'll make it there in time.
…
…
Enterprise, Gamma Hydra IV Orbit, T Minus 34 Hours
T'Pol calmed herself for the fifth time since she began repairing the communications array. The exterior parts were done, but the interior was so much melted wiring and plastic, and the fumes assaulted her sensitive olfactory senses so intensely that they bypassed her nasal inhibitors quite without effort.
"Anything?"
She resisted the urge to tell the captain it would be done when it was done, and instead simply responded in as simple and straight-forward a manner as she could muster. "The exterior arrays and comms dishes have been replaced, but I'm afraid we'll have to replace an entire console. I'm having one brought up from ops."
"How long?"
"Unknown. Most of the engineering crew is busy with the engines and shields. They have prepared another of the flare torpedoes, should the opportunity arise."
"Somehow I doubt they'll fall for that one again. Still, it's good to have options."
…
Dagger of S'Lar
"Have the repairs been completed?"
"...only partly. The visual and most of the electromagnetic spectra are still beyond repair, the lenses burned out completely. We have lidar and gravitics, but they require a fair amount of close distance with our foe to be accurate enough for targeting. We still have sub-space jamming and communications working, though not at range. If they send a log buoy..."
Valdore reclined in his seat, thumb under his chin and index finger idly tapping his lips. "We need a diversion. The humans could be further along in their repairs than we are."
Sitting up, he began to make his plans. The humans had caught them unawares, turning the tables for the very first time in the war. Still, it was only one ship and a few freighters...
Freighters...
…
ECAV Kobayashi Maru
"God, I hate this crap. Starfleet gets a bright idea, now my viewscreen keeps showing big sunflowers no matter what."
"Looks more like coffee stains to me."
Kojiro Vance gave his first mate a sour glare. "That's not funny. Any luck with the engines?"
"None whatsoever. We have the plasma cannon on-line, though. And hull-plating."
"Great. We'll be the most heavily armed brick in the system. Not counting our friends out there..."
…
…
Heronas, Still Stuck, T Minus 30 Hours
"Bridge to captain Tucker."
Tucker sighed, let go of the piece of busted piping and stood up. Hitting the comms he leaned on the wall more out of necessity than habit. "Tucker here. What you got?"
"Sir, we've received a message that I think you might want to hear. Actually, several."
He took a deep breath. "I'll take it in my quarters. Thanks."
…
Ten minutes later he was feeling decidedly happier. Well, at least there was some balance in the universe. He hit the comms again.
"Tucker to engineering."
"Engineering, Sawyer here. The chief is working on the warp coils."
"Warp coils? That means most of the engine is fixed. More good news."
"Yessir."
He checked in with each department in turn, and each had a positive response. The EVA job was done, the jury-rig complete and solid as it could get...they'd be underway in an hour. He took a deep sigh, rubbed his eyes, then gently tapped his forehead with a knuckle.
Knock on wood.
…
Wong had gone off shift by now, and helm was taken by Gordon, a cheerful young brunette who seemed altogether far too chipper for her job.
"Tucker to bridge."
"This is the bridge, what can I do you for, captain?"
There was a brief pause, then the captain again, this time sounding vaguely amused. "Uh, I take it Wong is off his shift...anyone from the regular crew up there?"
"Only lieutenant Nessler, sir, he's got the con. Want to talk to him?"
"Uh...no, no need. I'm taking the opportunity for five hours sleep. Wake me if anything happens, and prepare to get underway the moment engineering clears you. Maximum warp."
"Will do, captain."
Nessler looked at the pilot's seat for a long time, then shook his head.
Mein Gott, I have to face another three hours of this?
…
…
The bar is lit by pale green glowbulbs in the ceiling. It's crowded, in the upper double digits. Three men in silver and black uniforms sit by the bar, sipping blue thunder in tall glasses. As he walks up to it the bartender smiles at him, half his ridged, alien face and skull burnt away by a stray disruptor blast and motions for him to take his seat.
"Friend! Always welcome here you are. Please, what will it be?"
Trip looks around. He recognizes the bartender, as well as the three men on barstools next to him. One has the tell-tale signs of having been garroted by a thin mono-filament wire, another lacks an eye where the long, slim dirk whose hilt still protrudes from the socket struck him and the third has most of his chest gone. They look over and nod.
"Got any bourbon?"
"But of course! Always the best for you, friend."
A glass is poured, and he takes it down in one swallow, but there is no burn, no taste, no spike in his gut from the alcohol. He frowns. Nothing.
The bartender looks concerned. "Is something the matter, friend?"
Trip hesitates, wonders if he should tell him. Decides not to. Instead he asks, "So where have we met before?"
Now the bartender looks a little hurt. "Friend, how can you ask me such a thing? We are all here because of you. Each and every one of us. Do you not recognize us?"
Trip stares at the man. Familiar... He looks at the men in the barstools. Familiar. He turns around and looks at the people seated by tables, the people standing in corners. Men, women, some Vulcan, some Romulan, a couple of Klingons, a Nausicaan, several Orion males and females...he blinks.
"You're dead."
The bartender grins at him. "Of course we are! We are all dead here. And so are you."
Trip frowns, then looks down where the bartender is pointing and there is the great big hole where the disruptor blast hit it wasn't a transponder dart it was an actual disruptor and he's screaming and-
…
He sat up, panting, sweating, choking down a startled shout. The sheets were bundled up in damp knots, the room was stuffy and warm (still no working environmental controls, then), and the stars outside...
...the stars outside were streaks of light zipping by.
"Tucker to bridge."
"Bridge here." That was Sawyer, back in the tactical seat.
"I take it we got the warp core online again?"
"Yessir. Purrs like a kitten. I think she's actually working better than-"
"What speed we at?" No time for chit-chat.
"Warp six point five and holding steady."
Trip smiled in spite of himself. Glancing at the clock told him that it was exactly seven hours after he turned in. "What happened to my wake-up call?"
"We decided you needed the sleep. Half the shifts are taking their beauty sleep as well."
He nodded, knowing they couldn't see him. Good idea. No use having everyone passing out from fatigue when they arrived.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Tell Jonsson to take a couple of crewmen not too otherwise occupied and fix the damn environmentals."
"Yessir."
He stared out the window. Then he picked up the padd he'd been reading, his frown deepening.
Starfleet regulation revisions, September 18th 2155: Codes of conduct.
…
TBC