Chapter 2:

Wednesday, June 14th, 2243
The Lady Grey
On the North Atlantic

The fog wasn't planned, but it couldn't have been any better if it was.

The Lady Grey had drifted through the peasoup haze that had rose from the sea, only a short time before the Queen Mary was due to arrive. Running under jibs and staysails only, she more crept through the water than bounded; all those on deck, only enough to keep her under control, didn't speak above whispers.

They had been playing something like chess for the better part of twenty-four hours, sailing the Grey into position, adjusting her course when needed. After the decoy was finished and outfitted with running lamps, Scott had put some of his improvisational talents to rigging a tricorder and communicator to try to track the Queen Mary, despite all jamming. The tricorder for its detailed information, the communicator for its range. It had taken him hours, some of those spent growling under his breath at not having enough tools for the job, but he'd finally done it.

They could have probably used it to contact Starfleet. But they didn't. In the end, the Wildstorm's crew decided to stay out of it all, and Sean Kelley just shook his head and likewise stayed silent. Team C, who had started this, was determined to see it through - but when it came down to it, only two people on that team planned to take the fall for the rest.

More probably would have. They were a loyal lot. But part of loyalty was knowing when not to ask for it.

The decoy looked the part, even if she didn't have the size. She set sail into the fog, this little boat that mimicked a schooner, complete right to her port and starboard running lamps, and her masthead light. Still tethered back to the schooner, of course, but that one thin line wasn't enough to destroy the illusion.

The fog, in true approaching dawn form, was starting to ease up. With any luck the distortion of it, as well as the sometimes strange perspectives at sea, would convince the Queen Mary that the Lady Grey was just half-drifting aimlessly in her path.

The real Lady Grey was dark, silent and invisible. If the decoy was a phantom, a trick, then she was the real ghost. Team C, absent only a handful left to sail the Grey, were waiting in the lifeboats already launched from her side, still connected to the falls to keep them from drifting off. They were all counting on the element of surprise in this venture; counting on the Queen Mary not seeing them, but seeing their decoy. Counting on the other crew not to even know they're there until it was too late.

The order had been passed for absolute silence before they went down in the boats. All vital communication took place via whispered relay, and that was it.

That left the quiet moments before the attack for reflection. Most of the Grey's crew of cadets were a mix between determined and giddy; it was exciting, if nothing else, committing high seas warfare. While the danger of the storm had put a razor's edge on what had originally been a daring coup, nearly everyone still felt that it was a chance to do something outlandishly fun. Especially since they'd all come to the conclusion that Starfleet just couldn't afford to court martial all of them.

Corry sat shoulder to shoulder with his best friend, occasionally casting a look at the tricorder whenever Scotty uncovered the screen he had his hand over to check it himself. Other than that, though, Corry didn't say anything. They hadn't done much talking in the past few days; it seemed like neither was exactly sure of what could be said. But they kept silent company anyway.

It still felt a little like they were in the water, though. It was a feeling that Cor hadn't been entirely able to shake, despite his best efforts to get back to the status quo. His attempts towards humor were usually met with a half-smile at best, but he really couldn't feel frustrated by it. He didn't feel his own humor. It wasn't that he felt terrible, even. He wasn't exactly sure what he felt. He only knew that he felt shaken.

"How would I have lived with that?"

When his father was sick, he only knew that he was afraid and desperate. After the fire, he was miserable and more than a little regretful.

But this was the first time he'd ever had to genuinely look at that question. Not the question of what he would do to prevent the bad things from happening, but how he would live with it if he couldn't. The fact that he didn't even have an idea of what the answer would be to that question...

Scott shivered beside him briefly, probably a chill brought on by the fog, and Corry glanced over. Despite the look and quick nod he got back - "I'm all right." - it still bothered him. It was hard enough to grapple with the actual events; what it took to save his best friend, not only from the water but the fire before that, but the miserable question of how he could have lived with it had he not been able to, and finally, a spike of anger towards those who'd set up both situations.

He didn't regret following Scotty into the fire, or the water. He never could. That's what friendship was supposed to be about.

But someone was gonna regret both of those happening in the first place.

He gestured to the tricoder and then looked at the screen when it was shown to him. It was just about the time to go, and he asked Scott, "Ready?"

"I'm ready," was the quiet answer.

Corry nodded, unsmiling, then started whispering the relayed orders. Time to go.

"What is it?" O'Sullivan asked, having been practically dragged up on deck. He squinted into the dark and the slowly lifting fog, trying to get a clear idea of what exactly he was supposed to be looking at. The fact that the faintest edge of gray, dawn light had just started rising made it even more difficult.

It looked like a ship; a masthead light, a port and starboard running light, and the vaguely defined phantoms of white sails. But there was no way that it could be; they were in the lead, by far. The Wildstorm didn't even exist anymore, and the Lady Grey was crippled.

"Looks like a ship to me," Maggie said, quietly. "But-"

"Shit!"

The single yell came from aft; the Queen Mary had taken in sail and she had barely been moving to begin with, her steel hull making it harder for her to make use of the very light air. O'Sullivan couldn't guess at why anyone would be yelling.

And then chaos broke loose.

Swarming over the sides, pulling themselves over the bulwark and through the scuppers were people. What was worse, though, was that Keith recognized some of them.

"Bleedin' Hell," he muttered, and got ready to fight.

When the Grey's crew came aboard the Queen Mary, the world became chaos. Over twenty bellowing cadets with war-cries, going from the bulwark to leaping on anything that moved, sometimes to the point of tackling each other.

Corry dodged two fists, one flying body and nearly ended up knocked back over the bulwark by another. "Cripes!"

"Reminds me of a barroom brawl," Scott commented, both eyebrows up, as he neatly sidestepped whoever it was who had nearly plowed Corry overboard. "Little more messy, though."

"You people are crazy!" the body said, then got to its feet and ran aft.

"Can you imagine this with swords and muskets?" Cor asked, having to dodge out of the way of one of their own teammates giving chase to whoever it was that just questioned their sanity.

"No, not really." Scotty shook his head and consulted his tricorder after looking up to make sure that he wasn't about to get ran into, decked or anything else. "I'm gonna try'n find whatever they're jammin' us with."

Corry nodded, then caught a glimpse of O'Sullivan across the deck swinging on Albright, who mercifully ducked in time. The gray light was beginning to rise at the same time as his own blood was. "I'm gonna do a little payback."

Scott picked his head up to follow the look, then frowned. "Be careful. Throws a mean right."

"So do I." Cor smirked, then started across the deck. He was just about to pick up speed and do a little body-checking when Maggie ran into him with a startled cry, trying to flee Jerry and Lewis.

"Corry, what are you doing?" she asked, frantically, grabbing onto his arm and looking like the damsel in distress in one of those old movies. "This is... this is..."

"Deserved," Corry answered, with a grin. He pulled free then took her arm, though not very hard, and held her there for Lewis and Jansson. "Tie this one up good, guys. She's pretty slimy."

Maggie looked aghast, and the damsel in distress aura faded when she realized it wouldn't work. She was cussing at Cor even as the other two guys got a hand each on her arms.

"Love you, too, Mags." He gave her a sardonic smile and a mock salute, and then kept on going.

It was a clever little rig. Likewise tricorder-and-communicator based, just like his own modification, but much larger and more powerful. Overall, Scott counted three different cannibalized tricorders, two communicators (likely one each for them and the Wildstorm), and the damned thing used the Queen Mary's mainmast as a sort of giant antenna. Despite the fact that he was in the guts of the enemy's ship, he had to take time to admire the work.

The sounds of the madness taking place up on the maindeck were pretty well muffled down in the hold of the Queen Mary, though he could hear a couple of really good brawls going on up there. Part of him wanted to go and jump in, but any prior taste for violence he might have had lurking in his soul was firmly snuffed out in the North Atlantic a few days ago. Not that he still wasn't up for a fist-fight, if it came down to it. But the act of not fighting was still so new that he wasn't sure exactly how to live with it yet.

Corry, on the other hand...

He frowned to himself, even as a good part of his brain devoted itself to picking apart the contraption in front of him. He didn't want to disable it yet; once it was shut down, Starfleet would realize that the Wildstorm was gone, and it was a sure bet that they would be there in very short order.

Corry.

Scotty couldn't blame his best friend for being a little off-balanced, and he certainly couldn't begrudge any righteous anger, but the idea that the same leap into the water that had saved his own life might have cost Cor something that made him... made him Corry was more than a little upsetting. That his best friend could have given up something vital, just to protect him.

Scotty tried to shake it off, but it was a persistent worry. Out of the two of them, Corry was the big-hearted, optimistic one who had been practically sickened by the rage that had gotten ahold of him before the fire - he sure didn't spend his life with his fists up, ready to take a swing at anyone or everyone. And while they'd both been adrift and somewhat distant, still trying to find where they stood in this world, that grim look that Corry had been wearing earlier bothered Scott.

He looked at the contraption again, and then shook his head. He could come back and deal with this later. Then he turned around...

...and Harrison was holding a phaser.

"It's too late," Harrison said, practically crying from fear. "It's too late."

Keith O'Sullivan was one tough fighter. He'd managed to stun Joe Albright pretty bad with one blow, and he'd managed to knock down a few other cadets immediately after. Even while the rest of the crew was being taken down right and left, he was still on his feet.

He was just finishing up with another one when he turned around and got slammed across the jaw hard enough to put him on his knees.

Corry shook his hand, eyes narrowed. "I owed you that one."

O'Sullivan smirked, spitting blood on the deck before he looked up. "Ain't you I was after. But if ye're that worried about yer little pal, it's not me you should be lookin' out for."

"What d'you mean?" Cor asked, scowling.

"Harrison lost it when ya boarded. I'm bettin' he went to get that phaser we had hidden below-decks."

"Ye really don't wanna do anything stupid," Scotty said, keeping his hands out to his sides, and holding still otherwise. Harrison looked like he was about two seconds from having a major panic attack, and when it came to phasers, panic was not a good thing. "It's one thing t'do a bit o' sabotage, but phaserin' someone..."

"Maybe we can make a break for it. Starfleet won't do anything to me if I have a hostage." Harrison nodded, a bit manically. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. You know that, right? I mean, no one was really supposed to get hurt."

"Aye, I know." Scott believed it. That didn't take away the fact that he was pretty sure that Harrison was desperate enough to hurt or kill now, though. "Why don't we... why don't we come up with some idea, an' maybe then we'll all get out o' this in one piece."

Harrison shook his head, and the tears started running down his face. "It's too late. You know? It's too late."

"John..." It'd be a damnable thing to die just when you're really starting to grasp what it is to be alive. Scotty shook his head, trying to stay calm and cool about this himself. But for some reason, he couldn't get the thought out of his head that if he died like this, after all of this...

There was a roar that he had never heard before, and the reason he was alive to begin with ran into Harrison so hard that they both rebounded off the bulkhead. Even as fast as Scotty could be on his feet, he barely had time to process what was happening before Corry was snarling at Harrison, now pinned and half-stunned on the deckplates.

Cor didn't say anything; hit the other cadet with already bruised knuckles, and he was radiating rage. Not like the rage he'd had when he and Scott had it out, not that cold anger, but something else, and it was... was...

This was it. This.

If he would have died like that, something else in someone else would've died with him. And if his life was saved in the Atlantic by not fighting, then this was his moment where he had to fight again. But not for his life, or for his right to breathe, or in plain defiance of the universe, but for something that his best friend was a swing of a fist from losing.

"Stop," he said, and it was a sharp note he'd never heard from himself before now. "Corry, stop."

"I'm sick of this," Cor snapped, but even with his fist drawn back again, and his eyes narrowed on Harrison, he held still there. And even with the anger in his voice, there was an edge of desperation under it. "How the Hell are we ever gonna be okay, when these things keep happening? And this little... little fuck-up didn't even care. He coulda killed you, and it never woulda even mattered to him!"

That was some language Scott never heard out of his best friend before, and it was enough to make him fall silent for a moment. He didn't know what to say. What could he say? He didn't have the answers that they both once did, before that line was crossed, even if he was starting to get that those answers then were never the right ones.

But he needed to say something, and was desperate enough to say something.

"I know you," he said, and drew in a deep breath. "I know you. An' this... this isn't worth what ye'd give up. The part o' you that ye'd need to let go of... it's not worth it."

Corry tightened his grip on Harrison's coat, not taking his gaze off the other cadet, who was positively terrified and probably holding his breath. "I'm tired of us getting knocked down! We're still in the water. I want to."

"That's why ye shouldn't." Scotty shook his head, hard, trying to keep the frantic feeling he had digging a sharp point into some spot just below his breastbone from getting into his voice.

"He deserves it," Cor said, but he was wavering.

Still in the water. He was right. They were still in the water, but this time...

"Don't pull me out o' the dark, just to go there yerself." And it was a plea, and maybe defiance, and certainly desperate.

The universe never stopped for heartbroken pleas, or even primal defiance, but it paused when you answered one of its infinite, unanswerable questions.

"What if I couldn't have saved you?" Corry asked, and he was the one fighting for oxygen, here and now at this time, looking at his best friend for an answer he probably didn't believe existed.

And Scotty gave it to him.

"You already have."