A/N: Thanks for the feedback and support! Once again, with feeling: I don't own these characters or elements from canon, and I don't make money off them.

Vorkado is featured in the ENT pocket novel To Brave the Storm, but mine is pretty drastically different. Since we're at midseason, I wanted to let everyone know we're going to finish this extended universe strong with a full length Season Seven. Planning is underway!

Just like we had a Bajoran arc, we're flirting with a Denobulan arc coming up very soon. Like we haven't already had enough of these guys, am I right?

I had fun with the B-plot this week. No offense to Trip, but saving the ship in your underwear is out, and saving the ship in your pajamas is in. Alira's abuse of stun grenades reaches an all-time high. I also realized I did everyone a disservice by letting Archer and Shran's bonding during E6.6: Battle of Threllvia get cut for time, so a bit of that wound up here.

Next time: an attempt to recreate the magic of TNG 6x15 Tapestry. Elsewhere, drama city.

Season Six

Episode Twelve: Battle of Vorkado

Maelstrom Captain's Log, October 5th, 2158: After nearly two years off the front lines, we've finally arriving at Vorkado to receive our marching orders. Though we couldn't be farther from Earth, I gotta say, it's good to be home.

It was going on midnight, and Alira was just about ready to jump out of her skin.

As they neared the rest of the Coalition fleet, she found that she couldn't sit still. Every time they slowed down to take on cargo or fix an engine problem, she started pacing, so much so that Trip had to tell her to knock it off, lest she wear a hole in the deck plating. A week ahead of time, she began to clean and rearrange her quarters over and over, aware that she was nesting but fully unable to stop it. Now, with precious few hours until they arrived, she found herself making one continuous sweep of the armory, adjusting a hatch here and stacking up PADDs there. Travis had promised to give her advanced warning before they dropped out of warp, and she intended to be prepared.

For perhaps the hundredth time that past hour, she checked the time at the main security console. She ran her fingers through her ponytail and then over the contours of her uniform, dipping her head towards her ground and taking a deep, shuddering breath.

Okay?

Okay.

Deciding she ought to cut to the chase and head down to the transporter pad before she could do any further damage, Alira began to shut down for the evening, keen on leaving everything just so for gamma shift. Just as her hand closed over the final key, the hull lurched, indicative of a sudden all-stop. That was when she heard it.

The faint whirr of the transporter had never sounded so rapturous. She didn't even need to turn around. She knew it was him from the jolt of electricity that would forever shoot up her spine whenever he looked her way.

"Clearance code?" She asked immediately, keeping her eyes trained on the screen. Sure enough, she could just barely make out his silhouette reflected in the tiny pixels of the display. Her gut twisted in an entirely unexpected burst of butterflies, and when he didn't respond, she pressed on: "The armory is a restricted area. Authorized personnel only."

"I see. I must have taken a wrong turn."

"I should say so. Might I point you in the right direction? Perhaps the airlock?"

"Actually, I was looking for the ship's tactical officer." A second later, he was right there, laying a hand on the swell of her hip before snaking it around her abdomen to pull her close. Alira wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to close the distance between them that fast, but all the same, she was quickly losing her resolve to continue the game, reaching up to trace his jawline up into his hair, as if to confirm he was really there, this was happening, this was real. "I heard it's her birthday."

So it was. She was ninety-three, just over halfway to middle-aged by Denobulan standards, yet she was sure that if she was stricken down right then she could die a happy woman. Before she could say anything, his free hand crossed over and held her flowers out in front of her, those same red-and-purple Betazoid muktoks she'd received from him for every birthday and anniversary and special occasion.

And just like she remembered, when the blooms were shaken, they emitted a faint musical sound so beautiful in that moment it almost took her breath away.

"Do you two have big plans?"

"I thought I might go to dinner and then to that little stargazing room on D Deck...maybe the sweet spot…" With unerring accuracy, his lips found that sensitive area behind her ear, and she shuddered into him. "We'll take a walk, and then I'll take her to bed."

That was it. She slammed the flowers down, then turned in the circle of his arms and kissed him with everything she had. To his credit, he didn't even hesitate, backing her up against the console and lifting her atop it with no trouble at all. In the back of her mind, she recalled the early days of their relationship, hands held clandestinely underneath the wardroom table during morning briefings, desperate makeout sessions in weapons lockers, and near constant flirtation. It was all coming back to her now, and felt even more natural than before.

All things considered, she didn't think she'd mind if he skipped a few of those aforementioned steps.

Finally, Malcolm pulled away, entirely breathless, and pressed his forehead against hers. His fingers found a pulsepoint, confirming her heart was racing just as fast as his own, then treated her to a rare, snaggle-toothed smile that precious few others got to see. For days on end, he had dreamed of her, held on to a fleeting memory knowing full well they might never get the time back.

One year, eight months, twenty-five days, and an odd number of hours. Never again.

"Travis told me he'd give me a heads up before we arrived," she whispered, depositing featherlight butterfly kisses across his cheekbones. Someone could walk in at any moment, but for now, they might as well be the only two people in the universe. "He gave me his word."

"I may have pulled a few strings." Or, in this case, plied him with the promise of several favors.

Alira shook her head, wrapping her arms around his neck and melting into him, not even resisting as he pulled her down to her feet. She was suddenly drowsy, content, love drunk to the highest extent of the word, her reply coming out in the barest hint of a sigh. "That two-timing no good double crosser…"

"You can give him what-for in the morning," he insisted, flexing his knees ever so slightly to retrieve the overnight bag at his feet. Slowly, he disentangled himself, making it several steps before she even seemed to realize what was going on. Alira reached back for her flowers, drinking in their scent, and watched him retreat as far as the hatch. Finally, sensing she was waiting for him to make the first move, he took one step over the threshold into the hallway. "Coming?"

"One can only hope," she teased, and charged after him.

Jonathan Archer, for as often as he tried to deny it, was a creature of habit.

He'd always been that way, even before Enterprise. All in all, he supposed T'Pol had something to do with it, and though tomorrow was forever uncertain, he took comfort in being able to spend his days at her side.

The morning always began the same exact way, bright and early. He would hit snooze a couple times while she meditated, eventually wandering off to the shower and soon finding himself with some very attractive company. Porthos would get a walk, and then they would take in breakfast with any number of members of the crew, poring over the reports that had accrued overnight and determining what levels of fresh hell the enemy had managed to bring down upon them while they slept.

Duty usually passed in a blur, and they flitted between the bridge, their offices, and various departments all over the ship. Afterwards, they took in a run at the gym, or attended movie night, or dipped into a social function to which they'd been extended a belated invitation. Invariably, their days would end the same, cuddled up on the couch while catching up on their reading, enjoying the kind of physical proximity of which they could never really get enough.

Of course, there were some habits which would never die. Whenever the Imperial Guard flagship Undali came within sensor range, he could always count on a communique addressed to him. Jonathan knew that unless he wanted to receive a dozen more just like it, there was no way he could refuse.

And that was how he found himself in Shran's quarters in the middle of the night, laughing and carousing and drinking far too much Andorian ale for his own good.

Their conversations always began with some innocent posturing - really, that was how their exceedingly complicated relationship began, all those years ago at P'Jem - and devolved in catching up on one another's personal affairs, discussing the business in and out of the quadrant, and strategizing as to the next coordinated steps for their fleets. Shran's advice was often completely out of left field, but he still appreciated his input, his opinions, and his (mostly) wise and sound counsel.

After an hour or two, upon sparing a passing glance at the bottom of his glass, Jonathan noticed his companion shoving the bottle back in his direction. He smiled and tapped the side of his head. "I think I oughta stop while I'm ahead. She feels every bit of this, you know."

T'Pol's alcohol tolerance was even higher than his, but he knew she would appreciate it, and felt the requisite surge of gratitude through their bond. Then again, she'd had no problem overdoing it on chocolate the night before the Maelstrom shipped off to the Alpha Quadrant, something he was all too keen on reminding her every time she teased him about indulging.

"This bond of yours…" Shran grumbled and trailed off, pouring another glass for himself before hurriedly polishing it off. For once, he said nothing, frowning ruefully.

"I know it sounds crazy. Apparently, every mated couple on Vulcan has one. It makes everything a lot easier - communication, trust…"

"I know that," he admitted, cutting a glance out of the viewport. Right outside their window, the fleet was still mustering, and the surrounding space was a mess of battleships and interceptors from all over the Coalition. Just like at the conclusion of the Babel Crisis, the sight gave him a sense of completion, a notion he knew wasn't lost on his blue friend. "I was just wishing I could have one with Jhamel."

Shran's continued dedication to his family back home was endearing; even before he brought out the booze, he was showing him pictures of their daughter Talla, nearly three, toddling about and waving around a tiny ushaan-tor. He'd complimented her adorable smile, her apparent keen skills as a warrior, and how much she really did look like him.

"What's she up to these days, anyway?"

"Lobbying for greater rights and protections for the Aenar," he replied automatically, not for a second being able to hide the pride in his voice. "She's quite popular at the Imperial Council chambers. When she speaks, people listen, and it's not because they're afraid of her."

The subtext there was obvious. Whenever Shran talked about his feelings, it was in that strange, roundabout way where nothing could ever really be said clearly. "Thinking about a change in career? I understand your ambassador isn't too fond of the job."

"He just can't stand Soval."

"And you can?"

"He's grown on me," Shran admitted. It was clear that just getting those words out was physically painful, and he took a healthy swig from the bottle, circumventing his glass altogether. "Say what you want about our relationship or lack thereof, but we do have a lot in common."

Archer crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, silently prompting him to continue.

"We both fight dirty, but with honor." He sniffed disdainfully. "Or whatever passes for it on Vulcan."

"Where does that put Starfleet?"

"Clean, but with honor. Sometimes you don't push far enough." At his look of consternation, he forged on, indicating that it wasn't up for debate: "Our enemy fights dirty, with no honor. They only think of expansion. There can be no higher power than the Romulan Star Empire."

He was sure they'd say just about the opposite about them if questioned, but left that much unsaid. Checking off boxes in his head, he realized that one crucial area hadn't been covered. "Who's fighting clean, but with no honor?"

"Those would be our Denobulan friends," Shran said resolutely, with the unyielding confidence of a man who didn't often concede to being wrong.

"The Denobulans?"

A sudden burst of laughter caught him off guard. "Archer, I know all about Taxa and…"

"Shran…"

"Her involvement with that Special Ops kill squad." Conscious effort was taken not to visibly display his relief at his ignorance of Section 31. "You've got to remember, she made multiple attempts on my life."

"But that was when she thought you killed her father."

"Turns out it was her old mentor all along. You've got to admit, between her and that MACO that died during that Ktarian incident…" He paused, redirecting in an instant. "How stupid did Mr. Tucker have to be to fall for that ruse, anyway?"

He said nothing, knowing full well it was a mistake he could've easily made during his first few years of command. Were it not for the fact they'd lost two crewmen in the process, he was sure it would have faded back into their memories, never to be considered again.

Saben's true affiliation was still unknown - they surmised he'd been working with the enemy, but seeing as they couldn't reveal what they discovered about established Denobulan trade agreements without laying the Xantoras mission wide open, they'd left most of it to the investigators. Though he'd covered his tracks exceedingly well, his deathbed confession had been enough to exonerate Ensign Nguyen, and he'd signed his recommission orders only a few weeks back.

Shran continued: "You took a great risk letting her onto your crew knowing her past. She could've killed you at any time."

"But she didn't." Jonathan couldn't begin to estimate how many times they'd walked into dangerous negotiations together, how often she'd thrown herself on the blade, how frequently she proved to be a loyal officer, time and time again. In the Expanse and now in the throes of war, he'd seen enough to know that even the most unfortunate souls could find redemption. "And if she's still a traitor after all this, she's definitely playing the long game."

"I maintain a healthy fear and respect for her." Shran took another sip from the bottle before chugging the rest. "Come to think of it, that's also how I feel about your Vulcan."

"You're diverting."

"All I'm saying is there's trouble brewing in the Supreme Council. They're vulnerable, and there's talk of declaring General Vesena unfit for duty." He sucked in his cheeks, furrowing his brows in the way he always did when he believed he was about to say something brilliant. "If we want to bring them into the battlefield, we have to act now."

"That's not how we win allies, Shran."

"Is it not?" He cast a dismissive gesture towards the Kriosian fleet far off in the distance, as if to remind him that Trip had bought their involvement in the Coalition with a single beryllium crystal. Faced with the apparent hypocrisy of that statement, Jonathan was forced to acquiesce. "Whatever the Reeds want to do about it, they have my full support. Our intelligence service is at their disposal."

The fact that he skipped right over him and T'Pol was somehow amusing. "And what should I do in the meantime?"

"Figure out how you're going to defend yourself at the upcoming board of inquiry," he said nonchalantly, causing a swift and severe reaction.

"We've got a few months, and we've already started reading back reports, combing through mission logs…"

"That's not going to be enough."

"What makes you say that?"

The look he was dealt was positively incredulous, and then he leaned in, lowering his voice considerably. "The prosecution has decided to take an unusual angle. My comm officer has picked up on a bit of subspace chatter…"

"Why am I not surprised?" The near constant surveillance on the part of the Imperial Guard against damn near everyone in the fleet was nothing new.

"Listen," Shran demanded forcefully, then reached out and hit an unseen button on the side of the table. The deadbolt turned in the hatch, ensuring they were well and truly alone. "I need you to hear me when I tell you it's going to be all about the team below ground…"

As her imminent doom approached, it was all Rachel could do to maintain a tenuous grasp on reality.

They'd been undercover for over eighteen months, and she had almost completely forgotten her past life. No longer was she Lieutenant Garcia, tactical officer of the NX-03 Cochrane, agent of Section 31 and denouncer of her past mistakes - instead, she was only Sarva, defected hybrid freighter pilot and personal servant to the woman who would one day be Praetor.

Somewhere in the depths of her psyche, she made peace with her fate, knowing she could never return home again. Though she hadn't really thought about it since her first communion, she returned to religion, replaying old sermons over in her head, recalling vivid descriptions of fire and brimstone that once kept her up at night.

Rachel knew their day of judgment was nigh, could feel the deep ache of a foregoing knowledge of oblivion in her bones. To soothe her weary spirit, she pretended she was already a speck of stardust, drifting anonymously through the cosmos, at last with a knowledge of true peace. It felt so very close and yet so far away, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the end, the golden censer, the trumpeters, the heavenly acolytes condemning her soul to eternal damnation.

And just like that, the four horsemen of the apocalypse were laid bare to her.

Conquest. Admiral Valdore rode forth on a pale horse, carrying a bow and a crown, representing the ideals of Romulan expansion. He was a pestilence upon the Coalition, slaying their beasts and razing their fields. The onslaught had gone on for years, and would likely go on until he was dead.

War. First Consul T'Leikha came next with her sword, and though she'd spent countless hours with her, she had never once heard her utter a single kind word. She was pure spite and malice down to her rotten core.

Famine. Chairman Solan of the Tal Shiar represented a destructive appetite to right the wrongs which had been done to him. He would not rest until he either murdered his half-sister T'Pol or brought her into the fold, and she suspected none of them would either.

Death. That was Dr. T'Uerell, who had served as a sleeper agent in the Science Directorate for years. To that end, she had clandestinely masterminded the subjection of the Betazoids for their neural telepresence units, honed and perfected the Loque'eque virus, and put the finishing touches on both the World Ender and the Hijacker weapons. In her spare time, she enacted horrific experiments on whatever prisoners she could find, up to and including any hybrid that crossed her.

And in their midst was either their salvation or their doom - Praetor D'Deridex, who had joined them just a few days ago. While others saw an emperor, an unyielding sovereign, a brilliant tactician who could not lead them astray, she saw a weak and vulnerable man, one who would be cast aside the same moment he wasn't useful.

It was common knowledge, at least in intelligence circles, that the man suffered from degenerative Tuvan Syndrome. Though he tried to hide it, his ailment was obvious in his frequent forgetfulness of small details, the tremor in his hands. T'Leikha, although she was tremendously careful not to insult him to his face, kept drawing subtle attention to his predicament, all the while casting sidelong glances at her from across the room.

Her intent could not have been mistaken for a second. Rachel vividly recalled being asked if she would do anything for her, even kill, and could hear herself agreeing, telling her of course, naturally, without pause. Now, as she bent down to serve her the evening meal (the last supper, her mind told her) she felt the cold press of a disruptor pistol being shoved into her side, and knew the time was now.

So much for being subtle about it.

Their forthcoming attack would provide all the distraction they needed. It was a bold move to take the heart of Logistics Command into battle, but if Solan's knowledge of his sister's instincts were in any way correct, they could be assured that the main event would come to them.

All the same, she sent a half dozen messages ahead out on carrier waves, hoping her warning could percolate through the right channels of the Section and get to the fleet ahead of time.

Simon was there, and she could see him now, moving about the back of the room with the rest of the servants. They all stood at a distance, one ear angled towards the table and another to the roaring engines underneath their feet, knowing all too well they would soon become collateral damage of a war they agreed to fight without knowing the stakes.

Nero fiddled while Rome burned. As for the leaders of the Romulan fleet, they dined with ale.

At one point, Valdore's PADD trilled, and he went to check it, holding it into the light. "Only minutes now."

"Perhaps we ought to start sharpening our blades," T'Uerell suggested evenly, with such cool detachment that it sent a shiver up her spine.

"Patience," T'Leikha encouraged, reaching across the table to lay her hand on Solan's arm. On the opposite side of her, D'Deridex watched with unbridled curiosity, entirely taken in by the woman to whom he'd foolishly entrusted his faith. "You will soon have your prize."

"As will I," Nieron challenged, once again the only unmasked individual in the room, the only smile for light years around.

"So I get to my office Monday morning, flip on the lights, pull back my chair, and…"

"Was this before or after spending all night trying to get the aft torpedo launchers online?"

"After. Some idiot in engineering decided to reroute power for a diagnostic without telling us. We spent all night looking for a bird…"

"A wild goose chase?"

"Whatever - anyway, I pull back my chair and Ensign Bhaduri is down there. He jumps up, I scream, he screams, I give the man a bloody nose…"

"Couldn't be worse than the time you pistol whipped him on the bridge." Though he hadn't been there, he'd heard way too much about their telepresence unit possession incident for his own good.

"Right?" Alira sighed, releasing all of the tension in her shoulders, and used that as an excuse to settle further into his side. He was of the distinct opinion that they couldn't get much closer if they tried - she was practically cemented to him, warm and snuggly and content, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a welcome benediction from the months stuck remembering just how right this all felt. "Come to find out, Ethan put a bounty out on me. Whoever triggered my fight-or-flight reflex first won the pool."

Though her description was deliberately vague, he knew exactly what she was talking about. Malcolm had seen that particular evolutionary defense mechanism more than once, first from Phlox during their first stint of shore leave following the Xindi War. Some xenophobes had cornered him, and he'd stopped a barfight in its tracks by inflating his face like a pufferfish.

Of course, he'd seen that very same biological curiosity on his wife years ago when he'd caught a cold and inadvertently passed it on to her. She sneezed hard enough that it came entirely unbidden, and spent several rather undignified minutes attempting to restore her features back to normal. All the while, Alira had insisted that he stop laughing, this really isn't funny, not funny at all, when it definitely, irrefutably was.

"How much?" He asked nonchalantly. With his free hand, he stirred the saucepan on the stove, keen not to get so caught up in her story that he accidentally ruined her final present of the evening.

At some point, they realized that neither of them had had much in the way of dinner. Maelstrom's chef was much less temperamental than the one they knew and loved on the Enterprise, and wasn't likely to chase them out even if he discovered them rifling through his stasis unit in the middle of the night.

And so they'd stolen out of her quarters - at first, she'd been reluctant to get dressed, but eventually had slipped into his sweatshirt and a pair of his exercise shorts (he understood that not one piece of his clothing had really been his since they got together) and led the way to the galley. In her slightly giddy state, she'd neglected to put on shoes, instead opting for a pair of fluffy socks Hoshi had bestowed upon her for her birthday. Alira kept pausing to pull him along, allowing him to catch up, and he couldn't help but admire her warmth, her smile, that tinge of a blush that graced her cheeks and would for hours to come.

Malcolm was never really much of a cook. He had spent most of his adult life a bachelor, and as such had run up a tab at most takeout joints in San Francisco. Seeing as she'd availed him with so many traditional Denobulan dishes over the years, he was all too willing to demonstrate one of the few recipes he knew by heart, however pitiful it was.

Hot chocolate was a sacred thing in the Reed household, reserved for snowy afternoons and scuffed knees and days fleeing schoolyard bullies. It tapered off over the years into nothingness, something that always bewildered him. One night as teenagers on a weekend away from boarding school, after hearing their parents carry on in one never-ending row, he'd woken his sister Madeline and tiptoed down to the kitchen, where they prepared two mugs in near total darkness, careful to clean up before the evidence could be discovered at breakfast.

He left home soon after that, without a plan and almost entirely directionless, and she eventually followed him to attend uni. There, in that dilapidated flat they shared in Brixton, they'd made many fond memories, experienced wonder and loss and heartbreak, and had been born anew of the ashes of their mutually traumatizing childhoods. Later on, he left to heed the call of Starfleet, but the tradition remained. It had come to represent a comfort, a small luxury, a warm embrace from the long-distant past.

Not unlike the return of the love of his life after so long apart.

At some point, she had dragged a stool over from the island and set right down by his side, intending to maintain physical proximity by whatever means necessary. She watched with rapt attention, though setting milk and vanilla to a boil didn't exactly require culinary skill, availing him along the way with stories that didn't make it into their daily letters. Her persistent babbling had always been a comfort to him, overwriting his racing and intrusive thoughts, and now was no exception.

"A hundred protein resequencer credits," she said at last, snapping him out of his reverie.

Malcolm pulled a scrunched up, contemplative face, and looked away from her so she wouldn't catch him laughing. "Hell, I'd get in on the action."

"Now listen here…"

"Who wound up winning?"

"Kelby, if you can believe that. He asked me to help him down in the starboard EPS juncture, and right when I walked in, he jumped out from behind the hatch and…" She made a wild grab for his hips, and he startled dutifully before pulling her in once again. "He got a black eye out of it."

"Ill-gotten gains?"

"He claims it was worth it." Without prompting, she reached for the tin of cocoa powder, tipping it over and turning the mixture a rich chocolate color. "I'll get him back some day."

There was a pause wherein they languished in the companionable silence, a moment where it seemed like nothing had changed at all. In his mind, they weren't standing among hundreds of ships preparing for a forward driving assault into enemy territory. There were only the two of them, counterpoints, touchstones, combined so spiritually and cosmically that they could never really be separated.

If he had anything to do with it, that is.

"Want to go over your lines again?"

"I've got them memorized," she assured him, as if they hadn't just spent an hour of pillow talk going over the plan. In the morning, during the appointment Archer had carved out for the both of them, they would make their case, explaining why they needed to be assigned to the same ship in an excruciatingly detailed fifteen-point treatise. Alira wanted to say that it might be a little overkill, but she wasn't about to leave anything to chance, even though she hoped the Commodore would give in somewhere around point three or four.

Switching XOs and separating Julia and Travis wasn't an option anymore. They needed to convince the powers that be that he should abandon the tactical desk and serve as first officer alone, and they needed to do it with confidence.

"Any news from home?"

Alira shrugged noncommittally, as if to say, good and bad. Ever so slowly, she reached for the two mugs he had lined up on the counter, and he took a moment to admire her slender wrists, her calloused palms, and the little finger she'd partially lost during her time imprisoned by the Xantoras. "Mareth won the majority vote for Supreme Council. He's now representing district one, capital center."

He had met her brother once, during the signing of the Coalition charter, while he served as chief legal counsel to the aforementioned body. At first he had intimidated him, pulling him to one side and demanding to know what his intentions were with his sister, before realizing Alira had likely put him up to it all along. That evening, just a few hours short of their ill-fated reconnaissance mission to Paan Mokar, he had asked him for his blessing, and been quite reassured by the results.

"Wasn't it a tight race?" Already, he knew the answer, knew that the limited real estate on Denobula meant hundreds of thousands of people occupied a single square kilometer, resulting in towering skyscrapers lined up for as far as the eye could see. From her stories and his limited experience during treaty negotiations all those years back, he knew the capital to be a beautiful, shining utopia, but not without political ambition and intrigue.

"Sure was. He beat out a dozen other candidates." They both knew, but didn't feel the need to lend credence to the fact that he hadn't gotten there on his wits alone. Following a deep dive into the council's checkered past, he discovered the government's involvement in their father's death, how he'd been murdered by his first officer following a weapons trade with the Andorians gone wrong. In a bid to keep him in line, that same first officer conned Alira into Special Ops, knowing if he forced her to commit enough atrocities the family could never really retaliate against them.

Now that she really put a good deal of thought behind it, Saben's sudden appearance was a little too well timed to be good intentioned. He could have been working for the Supreme Commander for years, even decades, threatened by a long-standing hit on his family and ex-wives that could be executed at any moment.

It was all an incredibly tangled web, and the longer she sat there, the more it sank in that she never really had control over the situation at all. While she tried to make peace with the past, meditating and seeking therapy and letting go of the pain which had so long guided her actions, she often experienced setbacks, including just weeks ago, when she'd nearly fallen off the wagon altogether. Saben confessed to stealing their command codes, and indirectly ruining the career of a treasured friend. Under the influence of a truth serum, she'd told him that she didn't intend to mourn for him, that once he was gone she would never think of him ever again.

But she had, and she did. Progress wasn't linear, or so she told herself, so she rolled with the punches where they came.

"What about your sister?" Malcolm must have picked up on her contemplative silence, so very rare for her, because he had turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his own.

She met his gaze, offering a small, sad smile. Their legal struggles were still ongoing - citing her marriage to a human, and their second oldest sister's impending nuptials to an Antaran, Seray had invoked an obscure legal precedent to attempt to force their mother's estate to skip over them and be placed in her control.

She was Phlox's daughter, but had inherited none of his kindness. Even though Mareth was back home representing her in absentia, they were fighting a losing battle.

"Persistent," she confessed at last. "It's not looking good, beloved."

With an abundance of tenderness, he brushed a lock of hair away and tucked it behind her ear, lingering there. "Do you want sympathy or solutions?"

"Neither. I'm thinking about giving in and letting them take away my papers." He started to laugh, before realizing she was serious. "Think I'd have trouble applying for United Earth citizenship?"

Malcolm made a big show of considering this. "You've got to pass a test and have character references. Do you know anyone who would be willing to write one?"

Only several dozen, spread out across several ships. Then again, she also realized he was teasing. Hooking two fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, she drew him closer until they were eye-to-eye, ever so subtly daring him to disagree. "I know one person who might be persuaded."

"I'd say you've got your work cut out for you." Somehow his hand found that ticklish spot at the small of her back, then traveled up over her shoulders and into her hair right where she wanted it. He often pretended to resist her, but never could for long, and she couldn't help but reward his initiative with a searing kiss.

And then the hull lurched and shook, setting everything in the room to vibrate and nearly launching the saucepan off the stove.

She pulled away in an instant, willing her oxygen-addled brain to make sense of the situation. Ships were still arriving ahead of the fleet deployment in two days, but this felt horrifically, dangerously close, as if someone had emerged out of subspace directly above them. No Coalition pilot worth their salt would have made such a mistake, and since there were no windows in the room, she had no way of confirming her suspicions.

From somewhere on the opposite side of the wall, something heavy hit the ground, followed by a flurry of footsteps. Alira swiveled around on her stool and jumped down, almost immediately stumbling into the counter on unsteady legs. Behind her, she heard him stifle a laugh, and she held up a hand in warning, opening the hatch and peering into the corridor.

A second later, she inhaled sharply, and the door slid shut in front of her. Though it was hushed and nearly imperceptible, the emphatic nope that escaped her lips was certainly unmistakable.

Alira punched in her security override so quickly her fingers became a blur. From somewhere around or above them, someone screamed, and a flurry of weapons fire cut through the stillness of the night. He was there in a second, not daring to push past her, but laying an imploring hand against her arm as she blocked the doorway with her body.

"Malcolm," she began carefully. "What would you do if I told you there's a few dozen hybrid soldiers on board right now?"

Operating on the same train of thought, they both reached to where they'd normally keep their phase pistols on duty, only to come up woefully empty. Alira's search continued, and when it proved fruitless, she exhaled raggedly, grabbing great handfuls of her hair.

"What, no stun grenades?"

"You know, I'm sorry I didn't bring any weapons to bed with me tonight!" Her hand shot out and hit the comm. "Bridge!"

Ethan's voice came through, a bit strained, but present nonetheless. "We see them. Their transports are all around us. I've mobilized the MACOs, but…"

An ambush. There was no doubt about it, and there was also no doubt the hybrids had seen her poke her head out into the hallway - a second later, a disruptor blast shot clean through the bulkhead, missing her by mere centimeters, ricocheting off the kitchen island and disappearing into the ceiling. As one, they moved to the opposite wall, mentally calculating a plan that was all too slow to materialize.

"Are they confined to one particular area?"

"Just D Deck. We've sealed the turbolifts and hatches. If you can ensure everyone evacuates…"

"Way ahead of you. Have everyone move towards the emergency bulkhead in section eighteen."

"Where are we?" Malcolm whispered, not daring to raise his voice any higher.

Section three, she mouthed back, because of course they were. "Ordinarily I'd wait for the captain to get up there."

"He's not going to mind," Ethan said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Just make sure you keep them out of engineering, and the primary energy core, and…"

"The armory," she finished for him, just as an unseen hybrid soldier threw their entire weight against the door.

The connection ended then, and there was a brief struggle before the enemy managed to force their way inside. A young woman was first, dressed in a broad shouldered jacket and a full coverage balaclava. She quickly surmised that this was the kitchen - though something was still simmering away on the stove, the lights were off and there was no one to be seen. This perturbed her - unless she'd finally, irrevocably lost her mind, she knew she'd seen someone peeking out just moments before. Switching on the beacon at the end of her rifle, she stole quietly into the room, barely registering her partner stepping over the threshold.

The roar of the engines was near deafening on this deck. She knew Vulcans served aboard several Starfleet vessels, and she wondered just how they could stand it. Ordinarily, she could hear their targets breathing from meters away, could feed off of their trepidation and mortal terror. It made her an exceedingly efficient killer, but in the moment, it was as if she was walking in completely blind.

From the bottom shelf underneath the kitchen island, Alira watched as their target took slow, measured steps deeper into the galley. From her vantage point, she could see Malcolm's hiding spot, could see her start to turn on her heels toward it, and decided she couldn't risk it. Wrapping her fingers around the carving knife she'd stolen from the chef's block, she surged forward, sinking the blade into her heel and severing her Achilles' tendon.

The cry was ear-splitting and immediate, and on cue, Malcolm burst from the spice cabinet, grabbed hold of the saucepan, and dumped the scalding contents all over her. The disruptor rifle she'd been carrying went flying, and he whirled around, striking her in the face with the bottom of the pan and knocking her unconscious.

No sooner did she hit the ground was Alira scrambling out on top of her, rising to her knees and letting the knife in her hand go. At first, she wasn't sure it would land anywhere close to her target, but a second later she saw the second hybrid gasp and reach for his throat, hissing and gurgling as the contents of his carotid artery sprayed all over the counter.

His hands were on her then, helping her to her feet and handing her one of the abandoned weapons. Together they stumbled to the door, and it occurred to her then just how ridiculous they must have looked armed to the teeth wearing blood-stained pajamas.

"Chef's not going to like this," Malcolm said plaintively, having surveyed the damage. Despite the direness of the situation, she found that inordinately amusing.

They prepared themselves to meet their immediate demise on the opposite side of the door, but curiously found the corridor empty. There was a brief moment of confusion, then he dashed away with a considerable degree of surety. Just before he was out of her reach, she seized him by the back of the shirt, forcing him to turn around and face the right direction.

"This way."

Minutes before disaster struck, Lieutenant Cutler lay atop a biobed, tracing patterns on backs of her eyelids. Somewhere, somehow, her fiance was still puttering about in sick bay, and though she could hear him filling hyposprays, feeding his creatures, and catching up on his technical journals - all means of Phloxian things - she couldn't bring herself to join him.

At least he'd had the good sense to dim the lights. While her demons kept her caught between the waking world and the next, his kept him hyperactive. They complemented each other in that way, kept each other centered, kept each other sane. At some points during the Xindi War, it was the only thing that kept her from flying apart.

Besides, Liz never really did sleep well without her own personal space heater.

He brought it up often, in his most vulnerable moments, that this wasn't them. They weren't warriors, or visionaries, or anything of the sort - they were plain and simple scientists, and though they were bound to the crew by a sense of destiny, duty, friendship, and family, they often fantasized about going somewhere else. After the war, maybe they'd retire to the colonies on Loracus Prime, where she would continue her entomological studies, or back to San Francisco, where he could accept that standing offer as the director of xenobiology at the Interspecies Medical Exchange.

Whatever the case may be, they felt stuck in the space between now and then, and though seven years on one ship must have been a blip on the radar for a Denobulan, it felt like an eternity for her. She wanted a home, a family, and all those wonderful things she'd turned her nose up at as a teenager. She wanted to feel fulfilled, in more ways than one.

But still, she hoped there was a place for them in the fleet once the war had turned them inside out, once their mission was no longer about exploration and discovery, but slaughter and conquest.

The writing was on the wall. Liz knew she wasn't the only one who saw it.

"I've heard back from my half-daughter about the ceremony," he said loudly, interrupting her reverie. In the low light of sickbay, she could only just barely see him moving behind the curtains. Arching her back, she stretched with catlike grace, covering her eyes with the crook of her elbow. "Her trade routes have been significantly altered since lockdown was lifted - it's likely she won't be available until May."

A full three months later than they'd planned. She rapidly retreated within herself, looking for a part of her that cared that their nuptials were being delayed, but came up empty. Really, it didn't matter where they were married, though it couldn't be Earth, because of anti-bigamy laws, and not on his homeworld, because of an existing ban on foreign nationals save for business of grave importance. When she dreamed about her own wedding, she never imagined it would be a rushed affair held in the storage hold of a distant family member's cargo ship sitting on the border between two systems.

And yet, after all this time, she wouldn't have it any other way. Liz hoped he knew that.

"Vaneel's open to it. Pehle's father has to come all the way from Antar, you see, and he's a man of some importance. In their culture, the closest paternal relative has to be present for it to be official."

"Sounds needlessly complicated."

He mumbled something, maybe you're telling me, or you've got no idea, then fell silent. For the longest time, his oldest daughter had been pining after a scientist she'd met during her travels. Nevermind the fact that he belonged to a species with whom they'd waged war against multiple times - when she finally made her intentions clear one night over crackling subspace, he'd approved immediately, and they'd started planning a joint ceremony.

As she soon found out, many Denobulan weddings featured two or three couples being married at once. It saved time and energy, and they never did need an excuse to get the family together.

In her heart, she knew it would cause an uproar. It already had, between existing xenophobic groups on all three worlds were involved. A Terra Prime offshoot had made its displeasure known, stalking and harassing her parents as they had Malcolm's sister. Though she'd vocally encouraged him to leave well enough alone, Phlox had even reached out to his youngest son Mettus, who had spent decades under the spell of similar hateful rhetoric. To her utter shock, he'd accepted his invitation, and she had to continually prevent herself from imagining all the ways their special day could go wrong.

"I'll let Malcolm know about the change of plans," she whispered into the darkness, and finally heard him break through the curtain and steal to her side. "Bless his heart, he's got the spirit, but he's a little confused. When I first told him, he asked me if I was going to become the new wife number two or four."

Although she couldn't see him, she could imagine him offering her a small, sad smile, momentarily lost in the rivers of his memory. It was over in an instant when he gingerly seized her free hand and drew it up to eye level, depositing a kiss on her palm.

"Not a replacement. An addition."

His words were delivered with an absolutely heartbreaking amount of sincerity. Before he could pull away or distance himself, she moved to intertwine their fingers together, squeezing forcefully. It didn't escape her that were it not for Feezal's ultimate sacrifice, she could have remained like this for the rest of her life. Alira would still have a mother. They might have maintained their belief in a true and virtuous Starfleet for a little bit longer.

She was about to say something to that effect, to assure him, to assert that they were making the right choice, when the sound of a transporter activating filled her ears. They hardly had time to react at all - one moment they were alone, and the next a trio of disruptor blasts slashed through the curtain and lodged themselves into the wall behind the biobed.

Liz wasn't sure exactly how she made it on her feet, but the next thing she knew she was reaching for something to defend herself, a heavy tray, a cardiostimulator, a scalpel, anything. Before she could even start advancing on the intruders, she felt two strong hands on her shoulders pushing her towards the door.

"Run," he insisted hoarsely, giving her absolutely no time to argue.

One step, two steps, and then a trio of enemy marauders burst into view, every part of their faces obscured save for their lips and cold, dispassionate eyes. She'd seen it several times before, the most recent being back on Haakona Prime, and there was once again no doubt in her mind.

These soldiers were here to kill.

They seemed to move faster than light, and perhaps it was shock, but she hardly hard time to react before one of them seized her by the shoulder and threw her down to the floor, causing her to skid nearly halfway across the room. Her head hit the deck plating with an audible crack, and she reflexively spit out blood before attempting to claw her way to a defensive position. Behind her, she could hear the warp and warble of their words as they navigated their UTs, making severe and unquestionable demands of the man she loved more than life itself.

"Take us to the antidote serum."

"What serum?"

"The Loque'eque. Your initial methods weren't sophisticated enough…"

"Degradation of the sample…"

"Show us where the rest is, and we won't splatter the brains of this girl across that wall!"

This girl. They meant her, of that she was certain. Dizzy and disoriented, Liz pulled herself to her knees, then stumbled to her feet. The doors of sickbay seemed a thousand kilometers away, but she couldn't just stand there. She had to find a real weapon. She had to call for help.

Curiously, they let her go, and before she even hit the juncture of the corridor, she was screaming absolute bloody murder.

Now alone in sickbay with a trio of murderous hybrids, Phlox attempted to make sense of his predicament. It wasn't the first time he'd been forced to bargain with something that shouldn't be sold, to stay alive by trickery alone - his ordeal with the Klingon augment virus immediately came to mind. It was an unfortunate characteristic of his people that they could be bitter, vengeful, and duplicitous when threatened, and he felt that part of himself coming to the forefront now. His smile fell from his face, and he held up both hands towards them, desperate to deescalate the situation.

"I can assure you, I don't know what you're talking about." Phlox meant to get between them and the hatch, but found himself pinned against the biobed with little room to negotiate. Their ringleader advanced on him until the barrel of his rifle was pressed into his sternum.

"Coalition lies. This is where the serum originated. We know you have more."

"Like I said, I don't…" With his thumb, he clicked the safety off, and adjusted his sights to his forehead. Breathing evenly, in and out, Phlox began to crouch down, indicating a cabinet next to the floor. "It's in here. If you would just allow me to…"

"Step aside," one of the others ordered, and he complied, allowing his fingers to curl around his target just as the three of them stooped over to inspect their bounty. Without thinking, he hurled the flask at the ground and took off into a run, hoping to be long gone before any of them were the wiser.

Halfway across sickbay, he realized his mistake.

He used that chemical to perform yearly fit tests on crewmen who were authorized to wear a respirator, so he should have known the affects of releasing too much. Stannic chloride smoke curled through the air, and soon he was coughing and hacking, eyes watering enough to blur his line of sight. Fortunately, he knew the route well, surging forward into the locker room and then into decon, not daring to glance back until he was in the antechamber adjourning the hallway.

Not a second too late, he reached for the control panel and punched it, causing the hatch to slide shut behind him. The soldiers hit the wall with bone-crushing force, and he engaged the safety interlock, effectively trapping them within. He watched them struggle, felt the bulkheads around him vibrate and shudder as they attempted to fire on him through half-meter thick duritanium. He watched them scream and thrash, and felt the anger boiling deep within him.

How dare they threaten him in his own sickbay, his family, his friends, his livelihood. They had thrown his Elizabeth to the ground like yesterday's garbage, not knowing or caring who she was or how much she had suffered in recent months. In that instant, something snapped, and all morality left him. He hit the switch that would flood the room with anesthizine. The soldiers faltered, collapsing against the walls and benches as they lost consciousness.

Long after he should have shut off the gas, Phlox stood there, watching them weaken, and felt all the more horrified by what they had all become.

Jonathan returned a few hours after departing for the Undali, red-faced and tipsy, but otherwise no worse for wear.

The first thing he did was gather her in his arms and kiss her soundly and somewhat sloppily, and even though the smell of alcohol made her stomach turn in knots, she allowed it. Sensing her discomfort, he mumbled an apology and stumbled off in search of a breath mint.

Having endured the after-effects of her bondmate's nights out with Shran for years now, T'Pol was nothing if not prepared. She administered one of Phlox's detox hypos, and he was back to normal within the hour, albeit with a renewed surge of energy. It was well past midnight, but he insisted on taking Porthos for his nightly walk, and because the corridors were mostly deserted, she joined him, intertwining her fingers with his and allowing him to lead her wherever he wanted to go.

Tonight, his musings lead them down to D Deck, where they checked in on the gamma shift attendants of both the armory and engineering. He took her to the mess hall for a cup of chamomile tea, and she listened as he detailed the pitfalls of another mission undertaken by Shran's fleet and interjected wherever she could. Really, the Andorians had some nerve implying they were constantly wandering into a misadventure when their track record vastly outpaced their own.

They decided to end the evening with a visit to sickbay - Porthos was quite fond of the doctor, perhaps for his congenial nature, or the treats he doled out during his checkups. The little beagle seemed to sense where they were heading and broke out into a trot, disappearing around the corner before they could catch up to him.

That was when they heard it: a blast of weapons fire, something heavy hitting the ground, and then a few indecipherable screams. Porthos barked and bolted in the opposite direction, setting the stage for Lieutenant Cutler as she staggered into sight, bleeding profusely from cuts on her forehead and upper lip.

She ran right into the solid wall of Jonathan's chest, then broke away, so overwhelmed she couldn't get the words out. It was plain to see she was terrified; T'Pol could sense it rolling off of her in waves. Reaching out, she hit the nearest comm, and all but collapsed into the wall.

"Hutchison here," came the reply, chipper as ever.

"Intruders, D Deck, section two," she gasped. "Tactical alert."

There was a brief commotion on the opposite end of the line, and then the klaxon ripped through the speakers, nearly descending the corridor into darkness. Throughout the lower decks, the crew was stirring, and it was only a matter of time before they would swarm.

"We're receiving a distress call from the Maelstrom," Jack reported. "I can't hardly make out what Hoshi's saying, but we're surrounded. There's birds of prey and transports all around us, and more are on the way. They must have been cloaked, waiting just for…"

"Instruct the rest of the fleet to engage. Mobilize the MACOs and have them…" Jonathan's orders were precluded by a sharp electrical sizzle from somewhere behind them, and though they desperately don't want it to be true, they knew exactly what it was. T'Pol swiftly bent down to retrieve Porthos, but he was already gone, howling all the way.

Her bondmate startled, turned on his heels, and threw his arms wide, stepping in front of her and taking the first disruptor blast straight to the abdomen.

At that moment, it felt like someone had just ripped out her heart through her chest. The persistent warmth through their bond sputtered and halted altogether, and suddenly her mind was quiet, free of any of his usual stray thoughts.

The sensation was jarring and horrifying, and before she could stop herself, she launched headfirst into the trio of hybrid soldiers that were rapidly gaining on them. T'Pol had fought her way out of life-or-death situations before, mostly during her rescue and retrieval missions with the Ministry of Security, but this was nothing like that. She fought savagely, seething through her teeth as she incapacitated the first one and stomped the side of his face into the deck plating. Lieutenant Cutler was gone, and then she was back, having retrieved a phase rifle from a nearby weapons locker. Fortunately for the both of them, she was a pretty good shot, and soon they were alone in the corridor amongst blood and smoke and impending death.

It occurred to her then - if they attacked sickbay on the Enterprise, there was really only one thing they could have been after. Likewise with the Maelstrom, the only Coalition ship from which they'd previously stolen command codes. Their intent was incredibly blatant. It wasn't about the Commodore, or even the ship. It was about her, and there was only one person in the universe who would give those orders.

"T'Pol to Sergeant Cole," she ground out through the comm, scarcely recognizing her own voice. In her peripheral vision, Liz was cradling Jonathan, feeling around for a pulse. Porthos was back, sniffing and whimpering at his feet. Emotion was crashing down on her from all sides, and she was rapidly losing her will to fight it.

"Go ahead, ma'am. We're less than a minute from sickbay. I'll update you when we…"

"Beam about their lead transport," she interrupted with unquestioning ferocity. "Find the man known as Chairman Solan and bring him to me."

Captain Erika Hernandez, CO of the NX-16 Boadicea, was experiencing the rare flush of anticipation that came before a good fight.

Long ago, she had learned to take her nerves and shift it into something constructive - in this case, the battle in question was still a day or two away, and they were presently speeding along to the rendezvous point at Vorkado. Restless and unable to sleep, she found herself on the bridge, where she was surrounded by a coterie of newly commissioned and extremely nervous gamma shift officers.

Over two dozen crewmen had followed her over from the NX-02 Columbia following its destruction at the hands of the Hijacker, including Commander Mbatha, her trusted first officer. The rest, following reflection and extensive therapy, had either decided to request a ground assignment or decommission altogether. She didn't question their motives, but approved each transfer automatically, mostly without even looking.

After all that had transpired, she certainly had no room to judge anyone, even though many of the survivors asked for her counsel during their journey home. First, they were taken to Starbase 1, then to Earth on a civilian transport.

She took Admiral Gardner's harsh and pointed critique of her command decisions with a smile on her face, and once they were released, she found herself with a full month of leave and no idea what to do with it.

She didn't go home. Rather, she went to Ireland, to the Cliffs of Moher, where she finally laid what remained of Captain Laura Pritchard to rest.

It was a beautiful mid-summer day, and though the hover-taxi driver was jovial and talkative, he didn't pry into her intentions. He let her out at the welcome center and she wandered away from the demarcated paths, wading through knee-high grasses and allowing the warm sea breeze to refresh her spirit anew.

Once she was far from civilization, she sank to her knees and kissed the test tube filled with her genetic material once more before burying her in the soft earth, drinking in the scent of recent rain. It was all immaculate closure, perfect absolution, and though she allowed herself to grieve the loss of her partner, she did not cry.

Time for that was long since past.

Erika remained there until the sun began to set and the wind picked up, and then she caught a ride into town. Laura's parents met her at her childhood home, amidst a flourishing garden bracketed by a white picket fence, and embraced her as one of their own. She stayed there that night, offered her condolences, and then caught a shuttle ride to New York City, where she allowed herself to get lost in the crowd.

Being anonymous after so long of having her every move observed was a thrill. On the first day, she found a salon and had her hair chopped off to just above her shoulders. She visited an antique dealer with the intention of restarting her vinyl collection, and then ducked into a boutique, where she bought herself some new, pretty things for the first time in years.

That night, she seduced a much younger man in the bar of the hotel where she'd been staying, just to prove to herself that she could. Midlife crisis, a certain sardonic part of her brain whispered, and she laughed it off with the good humor only someone who had truly been through it all could possess.

She did all the touristy things, the museums and the piers and the historical landmarks, and loved every second of it. On a whim, she went to a tattoo parlor and presented the artist with a long string of numbers and letters, and though she likely didn't understand what she was looking at, she readily set to her work.

Years ago in flight school, following a lost bet, she and Jon had been forced to get their serial numbers tattooed somewhere on their bodies. She had opted for the center of her back, just above her bra line, while he had gone for a decidedly less visible location. All the while, she was laughing at him, and he was turning beet red and trying not to make eye contact with their buddies lined up against the far wall.

Now, she got Laura's code permanently etched on her body underneath the first one, along with every member of her senior staff that she'd lost during the attack, four in all. Sensing she was processing some difficult emotions, another artist came to sit next to her as she lay on the table, had taken her hand and availed her of some idle chit chat. For the first time since the temporary triage ward on the Enterprise, she allowed herself to cry, though her teardrops were few and far between.

The next morning, she finally went home. Her mother and grandmother were waiting at their homestead in New Mexico, and though she was exhausted from her travels, she told them everything, and had fallen asleep between them on the couch, just as she had so many times over during her childhood.

There, the days bled into weeks, and she lost herself in the easy rhythm of the countryside. She tended the land, and assisted her aunts at the looms. She attended her little cousin's birthday party, and let the tribal elders pray over her more than once. Finally, when it was time to head back to San Francisco, she waited until the late evening, just so she could watch the brilliant sunset over the ridge one more time.

Back at HQ, everything felt different. After living in a bubble and then being exposed to the wonderful world, her next orders left a distinctly bitter taste in her mouth. They were to take command of the third Coalition fleet and proceed directly to Vorkado, where the first forward driving assault into enemy territory would begin.

The Boadicea, as anticipated, was a sight to behold - gorgeously sleek and blindingly silver, it gave a tantalizing hint of what lay ahead for the Poseidon and Yorktown classes. Her ship had a secondary hull housing the engine underneath the saucer section, and though she marveled at the ingenuity of it all, she couldn't help but wonder if the fate of the Columbia would have been different if they had the ability to eject the warp core at will.

At the end of the day, after spending several months settling into their new roles, she knew her crew was up for the challenge. Either that, or they would learn through trial and error, by dashing through the flames, just as she and Jon had done when they first ventured into deep space.

Then again, she wouldn't have wished those first few years on anyone.

"Call ahead to the Enterprise," she called out, swiveling around to glance at the nighttime comm officer. He was painfully young and terribly nervous around authority figures, but still met her gaze evenly. "Ask the captain and the commodore to join me for breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am." He started to type, only to be interrupted a fraction of a second later.

"Reach out to Tucker and Hammond as well." Erika couldn't help but remember her former science officer and chief engineer fondly, no matter how short their tenures had been.

There was a suspiciously long pause. Chills raced up her spine, and she dug her fingernails into the armrest, silently daring the universe not to confirm her suspicions.

"We're receiving distress calls," he said at last, his voice warping in terror. Beating the tactical officer to the punch, she slammed on the alert, causing the overhead lights to flicker and flash red. All around them, she imagined the fleet following her lead, and was rewarded by a trill of direct messages lighting up the center console.

"Could you be a little more specific than that, Ensign?"

"The Enterprise has been raided by enemy troops. It sounds like they've managed to subdue them, but…" He inhaled sharply. "The Commodore is down. Captain T'Pol has assumed command."

"Anything else?" She said automatically, forcing all emotion out of her voice. The officers around her were visibly shaken, and she was determined not to feed off of the growing unrest. The turbolift doors slid open, and the senior staff began to filter in.

"Engineering and the armory have been lost on the Maelstrom. The rest of the fleet has moved to engage their transports."

"Anything on long range?"

The crewman at the science station turned to peer into the viewfinder. "A couple dozen birds-of-prey incoming. I doubt they can sense us yet."

"Redline it," Erika ordered, rising from her chair and retreating to her office. One step over the threshold, and she leaned back into the room with the momentum of the Boadicea jumping to warp seven. "And get me Captain Shran. Right now."

Although he supposed there couldn't have been worse timing for this battle, Malcolm had to acquiesce that running for his life was slightly less terrifying with Alira at his side.

It didn't take long for them to catch up on the advancing hybrid marauders, even though they were at a disadvantage because they were behind them. Malcolm dearly hoped the MACOs were on the other end of the line, that they were gradually squeezing them into a smaller area of the ship, but he really had no way of knowing. Everything on the Maelstrom was a mirror image of the Enterprise, and several key sections were switched, meaning he had to rely on her sense of direction. More than once, they passed specialists and non-comms emerging from their quarters on the way to the evacuation point, but barely spared them a passing glance.

Hopefully, they could read between the lines and determine that wherever two tactical officers were running, they ought to proceed in the exact opposite direction.

After what seemed like an eternity, they crashed into an auxiliary weapons locker, engaging the security override and pushing a heavy shelf in front of the door. Alira collapsed against the wall, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, and gestured noncommittally further into the room.

"There's got to be a couple dozen of them. Maybe a hundred. If we…"

"You think it's like this on the other ships?"

As if on cue, the hull bucked and shuddered, indicative of nearby weapons fire. His internal clock was working to try and determine how much time had passed, but came up empty. "I bet you anything that's the third fleet, Captain Hernandez and all."

"That's not what I asked."

"The answer is no," he said, reaching for a phase pistol tucked into a cubby and handing it over. "Maelstrom is the only ship that we know of whose command codes have been compromised."

"Not anymore. We switched to alphanumeric sequences a few months back."

"But they don't know that. I don't know about you, but if I were the enemy on a ship this size, I'd head directly to…"

"Engineering and the armory," she concluded, eyes widening as realization struck. "Their ships can't go warp seven yet - they're stuck at six-point-five. And we've been helping with the psionic resonator, the one they stole from…"

"Gravenor Station," he finished. There was a sudden scream from the other size of the bulkhead, followed by a burst of weapons fire. Alira sprung into action, making a beeline for the stun grenades and starting to fill the pockets of his shorts.

It was a fascinating weapon, one of the High Command's most sinister instruments of mass destruction. While the Romulans employed the telepresence units to terrorize the Vulcans, they'd been working on a device which would use an individual's negative or violent thoughts as a means to irreparably destroy the synaptic pathways in the brain. The idea was that one day in the distant future every Coalition ship would carry one and tune it just so that it couldn't get through their own deflective shielding. It would allow them to plow through enemy fleets like a battering ram.

Truthfully, he hadn't allowed himself even a moment to consider the ethical ramifications of that. All he knew was that his own brigade was swamped, so he'd passed it along to the Maelstrom, and now, everyone on board was at risk for it.

She was alternating now between shoving stun grenades down her sweatshirt and into a sack laying on the ground. As an afterthought, she whipped off her fuzzy socks and pitched them into some darkened corner of the room. Although it had been somewhat amusing to watch her skid out on the slippery floor, arms desperately windmilling as she tried to prevent herself from slamming into the wall, he had to admit they couldn't afford to lose any more valuable time.

"Think you have enough stun grenades?"

"No," she said plaintively, and reached up to snap the elastic off her wrist.

It wasn't a secret that he was absolutely fascinated by her hair; it perfectly framed her face in a honey blonde halo, corkscrew curled and immaculately soft, and every time it was down, his mind couldn't help but leap to any number of comparisons, borne of many years of forced art appreciation at boarding school. Botticelli's Birth of Venus, perhaps, or Rossetti's Lady Lilith. None of them could ever do her justice, his heart, his best friend, his warrior woman.

"You're going to wear it like that?"

"What about it?" She put the finishing touches on her tight chignon, then turned back to him, passing a phase rifle into his waiting hands.

"When you do that, everyone knows you mean business."

"And you're rolling up your sleeves," Alira corrected him. "Same thing."

They moved as one to the door, easing the shelf back and pausing for a split second. He believed he knew where she was going with this, but had to make sure.

"Just like Xantoras?"

Her smile, even under present circumstances, was nothing if not beguiling. "Just for old time's sake."

Even though the corridors were deserted, engineering was bustling.

Whoever was on the bridge had the good sense to remotely lock down the computer. Every display and control panel flashed alternating red and blue, displaying the seal of the Maelstrom and their designation, and no less than a dozen hybrids were busily attempting to burst through their defenses.

They observed all of this from the safety of the upper level, where they took one step forward and almost immediately tripped over the form of a fallen crewmen. Alira crouched down over him, and he knew the results of her survey from her reticence. She reached for his discarded tricorder, aiming it towards the center of the room.

"There's three more in here. They're all dead," she whispered, her voice tightening over those last words. Not daring to give that a second thought, she stowed the scanner and straightened up, pressing her back against the wall.

"You go left, I go right."

"Mhm."

"And if all else fails…" He trailed off, gesturing towards the rifle slung over her shoulder, then sought her hand for the briefest of moments. A quick squeeze, and then she took a deep breath, summoning every last bit of resolve she had remaining.

"Hey!"

The sound of her own voice was thunderous in the cavernous chamber, and as she burst into view, absolutely booking it across the walkway, every eye in the room turned towards her. Alira whooped and waved her arms and almost immediately had to dive to the ground to avoid a blast of disruptor fire, but still surged forward without pause, knowing full well the grating was biting hard enough into her feet to make them bleed.

Hybrids seemed to converge on the far side of the room, waiting to get a clear shot on her, but Malcolm was already in position. At the moment she reached him, he overturned the sack he'd been carrying, causing dozens of stun grenades to rain down over their unsuspecting victims.

The resulting boom was shockingly loud and incredibly close, and forced both of them off their feet. Her ears were ringing and popping painfully, but she still took his hand, allowing him to drag her towards an open maintenance hatch in the wall.

By the time they were halfway to the armory, her hearing mostly returned. They emerged into an empty hallway and located a comm. Trip's voice sounded simultaneously underwater and far away. She squinted, pressing the side of her face into the speaker, waiting for an improvement which never came.

"There's too many of them, close to a hundred. We're going to vent the atmosphere of D Deck into space," he explained. "There's still a few human biosigns in section twelve. You'll need to find them and make sure they…"

"Where?" Malcolm hissed, but what he really meant was dear God, who could possibly be stupid enough to still be down here?

"The armory," Trip replied, none too impressed.

Naturally, Alira had trained her brigade to stand and fight wherever they could, even when it was to their detriment.

"Give us five minutes and then pull the plug. Reed out."

They were moving again in an instant. At one point, she glanced down, realizing her steps had become staggers and she was leaving faint bloody footprints all over the deck plating. His next question was obvious, so she was all too willing to fill in the blanks: "There's a manual hatch in my office leading directly into the maintenance tunnel running the length of C Deck. It's right above my desk."

"Do you make good use of that?"

"Oh, sometimes, when you're avoiding conversation…" The hull suddenly bucked and rolled underneath them, and were it not for the strong arm wrapped around her waist, she would've slammed into the wall with force. "Or Jules is in there, and you're running late with a report…"

"Are they firing weapons in there?" Even at a distance, they could hear that was very much the case, and a fresh wave of terror seized her anew, knowing one ill-placed shot could blow them all to high heaven.

There was no time to assess the situation, let alone hesitate. They burst through the hatch and into nearly impenetrable crossfire, finding a huddle of armory crewmen standing guard over the entrance to the nuclear isolation chamber, surrounded by so many hybrid soldiers she could scarcely tell where one ended and the other began. The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she almost instantly regretted it.

"Get out of here!"

All of a sudden, all attention was on them, and a disruptor blast shattered the display screen above the door, covering them in a hail of broken glass. Again, they seemed to move faster than any humanoid ought to - Alira set her sights and pressed the trigger on her rifle, only to discover it was jammed, the power cell irreparably damaged during the previous grenade detonation. Flustered and low on options, she slid it off her shoulder and threw it with full force at the nearest hybrid, clotheslining him and causing him to fall backwards onto the ground.

Malcolm wasn't so lucky. He attempted to close the distance between them, but was sideswiped, forcing him to fall to his knees and slide the rest of the way to the pillar midway through the chamber. Her crewmen were scattering to the wind, seeming to have the same idea, and she went to join them, willfully ignoring the glass biting into her feet, moving erratically and getting in shots with her phase pistol wherever she could.

It wasn't the first time he'd been hit with a disruptor - their mission to rescue Captain T'Pol from the clutches of the Arena on Tellar Prime came to mind - but the moment they locked eyes, she realized this was different. He was in shock, his face drained of color, and he seemed to momentarily forget where he was before she seized him by the elbow and dragged him up the staircase.

Alira had no idea how much time they had left, but she was sure she lost almost a full minute trying to get her office door to accept her biometric credentials. Her palms were sweating, her hands shaking, and the ship was threatening to fly apart at any moment. They were taking on enemy fire, she was sure of it, and not for the first time she desperately wished she knew what the hell was going on around them.

Her crewmen made it through the hatch first; there was no time to block the door, so she listened to the enemy thrash against it, stubbornly refusing her husband's gentlemanly offer to let her go first and waiting for the last possible second to clamber onto the desk.

In her distant memory, she recalled holding onto him as he dangled out into the hallway of an underground bunker while Xantoras soldiers approached from all sides. It was somewhat prophetic, because almost immediately she felt a pair of strong hands latch onto her ankles and threaten to pull her to her doom.

Somewhere, someone was screaming, and she was positive it was a string of her officers as they clung onto one another and fought against the superior strength of the Vulcan-Romulan hybrids below them. She felt a pop and a surge of pain in her hip, and then she was free, yanked through the opening so hard her head struck against the wall.

Almost immediately after the hatch was closed, a deafening hissing sound alerted them to the draining of the atmosphere. The floor of the maintenance hatch was frigid, almost painfully cold to the touch, and even though everything within her screamed to keep moving, she hesitated, flopping over onto her back and inhaling raggedly in sharp, audible gasps.

Just as it had before, his fingers sought her pulse point, and though they were both bruised and broken, it was a steady reminder that they were both alive.

The moment they began taking on Coalition weapons fire, Rachel knew they were in for it.

While the four horsemen of the oncoming Romulan apocalypse attending to their duties, she remained within the inner sanctum, having crawled the length of the section within air ventilation shafts to peer out onto what could only be described as a throne room.

It was incredibly telling that the Praetor was kept off the bridge; rather than seeing the destruction firsthand, he relayed his orders over the comm, perched on an ornately carved armchair surrounded by tables laden with PADDs and visual displays. No less than a dozen guards stood around the chamber, armed to the teeth, solid and immovable.

The sights on the disruptor pistol T'Leikha lent her were tiny; even though she was a trained sharpshooter, there was no way she could make her mark from ten meters away, between metal grates and with the hull shaking so hard she feared her insides might be liquefied.

"Their reinforcements have arrived," Solan reported gravely, as if that wasn't abundantly obvious.

D'Deridex struck his fist on the table, then leaned over the speaker, closer and closer until his intent could not be mistaken. "They didn't appear on long-range sensors until they were a half-light year away."

"A function of their deflective shielding, or…"

"You've got a mole in your ranks, Chairman. A spy." He trailed off, hacking into his sleeve, then croaked his way through the rest of his warning: "Look within your household before you start giving these humans any credit."

T'Leikha cut in, her tone softer and more gentler than she'd ever heard. "They outnumber us two to one. We didn't anticipate these odds. A retreat would be prudent if we want to…"

"Never! The Star Empire never retreats and it never surrenders!"

"Sir…"

"We maintain our position until our scouts return. As you said, we must have our prize!"

"But our troops on the Enterprise have already been…" On the other end of the line, Solan was swiftly silenced, and then the connection was cut, descending the room into silence.

There was a prescient pause, and she began to work open the grate in preparation to slide down to the floor. Somewhere nearby, she heard footsteps, and then the hatch slid open, admitting none other than their Denobulan guest.

"Hello there!" He cried happily, propping his hands on his hips and sizing up the guards which were rapidly closing in on him. "Far be it for me to question the orders of the illustrious Praetor, but from what I've seen on short-range sensors, we might want to adjust our heading by…"

"Leave," the nearest soldier demanded, jabbing the barrel of his rifle into his stomach. Nieron smiled, holding up his hands in surrender, and started to turn.

At the last possible second, he seized the weapon aimed at him, yanked it out of his hands, and whipped him across the face. There was a near deafening clatter as multiple safeties were snapped loose, but he managed to incapacitate several of them before they could even fire. Clearly, he'd somehow shifted into vaporize mode, because each vanished in a flash of emerald light, leaving just a carbon-black smear across the deck plating behind.

Rachel took advantage of the chaos, shimmying down to the ground and shuffling out of his line of sight. Naturally, she'd heard of the Infantry kill squads, even run afoul of them several times, but nothing could have prepared her for the deadly efficiency with which he dropped the hybrid soldiers. Nieron kept his arms tucked in, center of gravity high, dodging weapons fire with practiced ease. At one point, he snapped the neck of his last soldier and threw him across the table towards the Praetor, whom he approached with unyielding malice.

He hadn't armed himself before he sat down. That was his mistake.

All the same, Rachel wasn't about to allow him to take her prize, so she surged forward, raising her pistol and stepping out of the shadows. He faltered, and his gaze ripped through her subconscious through the depths of her very soul. She supposed it wasn't dissimilar to how she appeared in that moment, fraught and emotionally troubled, wild with the burden of responsibility. At the spot where her uniform met her neck, she felt a sharp pain and a rush of warmth, and realized she'd managed to nick the skin during her struggle out of the maintenance hatch. Even from a distance, she knew he saw it, knew he recognized that her blood was not the green of a Vulcan or Romulan, but a brilliant ruby red.

"Section 31," he growled.

Their disruptor beams managed to make contact with the Praetor at the exact same time, and even though she knew he was dead almost instantly, Rachel shifted into a higher power band, just to make sure. Nieron took one step towards her before launching himself at her. They fell into a screaming and thrashing heap, hurriedly losing hold of their weapons and tearing at each other with their bare hands.

A punch to the gut, a swipe at his eyes - she was suddenly enraged, helpless to remedy it but determined to claw her way out of the hole she had dug for herself. Her life, she was entirely sure now, had been wasted, squandered, and she was doomed to suffer the consequences.

The thought that he was apparently so optimistic about his future was enough to make her blood boil.

"She's never going to take you back, you…" His hand wrapped around her neck, and she leaned back to wrap her legs around his waist, jerking violently to one side in an attempt to gain the upper hand. "She's with the humans. She married one, and she's happy. Can you say the same?"

He screamed, making another wild grab for her, curling his fingers into her jacket and thoroughly cutting off her air supply. In spite of this, she laughed, rolling off of him and crawling towards her weapon, barely startling as he seized her by the ankles and dragged her backwards. "You've spent twenty years of your life like this, and for what? Once you leave here, you'll have nothing, and all of this time will have been wasted!"

Nieron didn't know, couldn't know, just how those remarks were truly aimed inward. At that instant, she understood that the outcome of their encounter didn't matter, that she was entirely resigned to her fate, whatever that may be.

The hatch slid open once again, and the chamber was soon flooded with MACOs, shouting and demanding they get down on the ground. A tall, willowy brunette took the lead, sliding her stun baton out of her tactical belt and extending it high overhead as the electricity arced and flashed.

After so long of being among hybrids and Romulans and half-dead Betazoids, the appearance of Sergeant Amanda Cole was a welcome sight. Rachel briefly considered whipping off her mask and throwing herself at her mercy, but scarcely had the chance.

Apparently, the presence of a singular Denobulan biosign had been too tempting for them to ignore.

"Tell us where we can find Chairman Solan," she demanded, weaving her fingers through Nieron's ponytail and lifting him off the ground. He thrashed until he tore out of her grasp, leaving great clumps of hair behind, and reached for her anew. "Stop! We're trying to help you! Just tell us where he is and we'll…"

It all happened much too fast for her to react. She had no idea where he got the knife, but she certainly felt it when it sank into her chest, twisting and turning until his outstretched fist was covered in her blood. With her dying breath, she attempted to choke out her own name, the real one, and wasn't sure she got it out.

The end was nothing like she anticipated. Her vision blurred and then darkened, and then she relaxed into it, allowing the tides of eternity to envelop her soul and carry her at last towards an everlasting peace.

Mere meters from her, Amanda's expression shifted in horror and in realization as blood spilled out onto the floor. Nieron made a move towards her, but she stunned him first, then bent down to lift him over her shoulder. As an afterthought, she dragged a finger through the growing red bloom and swiped it across her uniform, then staggered towards the others.

"You're coming with us," she said to no one in particular, and stormed into the hallway.

Within minutes of arriving at Vorkado, Erika was flooded with emotion, ghostly afterimages and disembodied voices that froze her resolve and stole her breath away.

We're picking up unusual readings in the dilithium matrix.

You can't take it with you. Any of it.

I'd say it's a miracle, but I know you better than that.

The staff psychiatrist at Starbase 1 warned this might happen. She'd been having nightmares, along with the rest of the survivors of the attack on Columbia, but this was the first time it had invaded her waking hours. Her navigator ducked and weaved through the birds-of-prey surrounding them, and her tactical officer kept firing off photonic torpedoes, but they all seemed to be moving in slow motion as she waged war with her past.

Commander Mbatha reached and seized her hand, right by her side as he had always been. His expression remained impassive, but his intent was obvious; time seemed to freeze and then speed up, and a second later, she rocketed out of her seat, approaching the viewscreen.

"Anything from the Enterprise?"

"NX-12 is dead in the water. The Kriosian flagship is running rescue efforts." Sure enough, as they banked hard to one side, she caught a glimpse of its massive, shimmering purple form, dwarfing the fractured hull in an attempt to stay within transporter range. A semicircle of Tellarite battlecruisers provided cover, though they were gradually being backed into a corner with little hope of escape.

At that moment, she and her partner in crime seemed to have the exact same thought.

"Undali to Boadicea."

"I see it, Shran. Move your people into position, and let the Tellarites know." She nodded towards the tactical console and was met with a swift nod. Fingers flying over the keys, he began releasing decoy beacons as they hit their arc and rocketed over the plane of the battlefield, dipping into an ever-constricting spiral until they were right where they wanted the enemy to be.

And fortunately - mercifully - they took the bait.

In a modified zipper, the Coalition forces moved in, forcing them into a jumbled formation completely devoid of coherence. Enterprise began to drift towards them, and she knew they had regained control. All the same, she was the one who gave the command, leaning over the speaker and shouting: "Light 'em up!"

The resulting deployment of nuclear warheads was deafening, even over subspace, even at a distance. They exploded in a burst of red haze and mushroom clouds, and they waited until their sensors were sure to be thoroughly scrambled before activating the beacons, surrounding them on all sides by false impulse signatures.

Several bolted off in search of their next target, colliding with one another or else blanketing their own in friendly fire. One modified warbird couldn't turn out fast enough and struck another head on, and the blast from the ensuing warp core implosion was enough to knock her off her feet.

When she finally managed to right herself, a vast majority of the Romulan fleet lay in ruin. Doubtless they had suffered heavy losses of their own, but she couldn't deny the personal fulfillment she felt in that moment.

The Boadicea rocked and rumbled as they navigated each shockwave, but she brought her fist down on the navigational console and let loose a strangulated cry of victory, of relief, of emotion so long kept below the surface.

Erika returned to her chair and quickly found her composure. Took a deep breath. And kept moving forward.

The atmosphere on the bridge of the flagship of Logistics Command was tense, frigid, and airless.

T'Leikha watched from a distance as their fleet smoldered and burst apart, and was seized by rage, disbelieving that they'd fallen for a dirty Coalition trick again, but knowing that none of this would have happened if D'Deridex had listened to her advice the first time.

Without preamble, she seized a PADD from atop the nearest station and pitched it at the viewscreen, causing it to fracture and warp in a small, localized area. The picture flickered, but remained coherent, and she whirled on Admiral Valdore, expecting to find him just as furious.

His expression was nothing if not stricken. Though most of his face was obscured, she could see it in his eyes, in the way he maintained vice-like grip on his headset.

"Our scouts on the Maelstrom are dead, and they've been captured aboard Enterprise."

She didn't have to ask about the rest of their ventures. She already knew what the answer would be.

"And?" There had to be more bad news - it never came in just twos.

From the back of the room, the hatch opened and Chairman Solan lumbered in, struggling to catch his breath. He tossed his disruptor rifle to one side and gestured for unseen back up in the corridor, revealing several agents of the Tal Shiar, carrying two bruised, bloodied, and unconscious Starfleet MACOs between them.

T'Uerell was going to be pleased.

"They tried to capture me," he crowed, the pride in his voice palpable. "They failed, but…"

"But what?"

"They took the Denobulan with them. And the Praetor…"

The next few seconds seemed to go on for eternity. T'Leikha closed the distance, coming to well within his personal space, and dared him to finish his sentence.

"He's dead. And I regret to inform you that your little assistant was a human all along." Seeming to sense her doubts, he offered her the use of his holocamera, and she studied the crumpled form of Sarva, lying prone in a pool of red blood. She must have been using a subdermal mobile emitter to disguise her biosign, and though the thought that she managed to trick her for over a year was infuriating, she felt relieved knowing that she'd followed her orders after all.

In the end, their goals were very much the same.

Somewhere behind her, she heard Admiral Valdore take one step towards her, then another. She turned in profile just in time to see him salute and dip his head towards the ground, and she suppressed a private thrill knowing that at long last she'd subjugated the leader of their armed forces, this mammoth of a man so much older and more experienced than she.

"What are your orders, Madam Praetor?"

It was a title she'd deserved for years, decades, and it was a title she would keep until an election could be conducted through the Senate. If she proved herself in the next few months, she might be allowed to keep her post.

At the very least, she didn't intend to give it up without a fight.

"Full retreat. Take us back to Gamma Hydra. I doubt they're going to follow."

The helmsman reacted instantaneously, and ever so slowly, she approached the throne of D'Deridex, the one he would still be occupying if he was even half the warrior he was as a young man. The armrests seemed to be perfectly contoured to her elbows and wrists, and she delicately crossed her legs at the ankle, letting her skirt fall in an ephemeral tumble around her knees. Tomorrow, she would see to it that she was fitted to a grander costume, a uniform befitting of her new station, but today, there was so much work left to be done.

"Bring me that man that Sarva arrived with. He's assigned to the telepresence chamber. Von, isn't it?" The briefest glance towards Solan confirmed that was the case. "He's going to answer for this."

If he wanted to live, that is. At the very least, she intended to make him bleed.

On the Maelstrom, Trip watched the Romulan fleet make an about-face and zip off into the unknown, fully intending to pursue them but finding them woefully unequipped to do so.

"Atmosphere on D Deck has been restored. All armory and engineering hands are clear to return to their posts," Ethan advised, and Hoshi turned back towards her console to type out the message.

He'd seen enough battles to determine that this one had been a complete disaster. Their casualties across the fleet numbered in the thousands, and he'd personally seen several Daedalus-class supports and Andorian interceptors go up in flames with the knowledge that they couldn't do anything, that a separate war was being fought below decks. Julia was standing guard over the center console, wrapping her arm around it to shield it from his view, and it was all he could do to nudge her hand away and be faced with the inevitable.

Seven crewmen were dead, three in engineering and four in the corridors as they ran for their lives to the evacuation point. Not to mention the dozens of hybrid marauders killed whenever they jettisoned all available oxygen out into space - already, his head was swimming thinking about the military funerals, the autopsies, the days of investigation that lay ahead of them.

The fact that his best friend lay bleeding out and fighting for his life in sickbay back on the Enterprise certainly didn't do anything to bolster his optimism. Already, he was attempting to find an excuse to go over there, to assess his condition, and to comfort T'Pol however he could, but for the life of him couldn't think of one that was good enough to tear him away from his crew.

Behind him, the turbolift doors slid open, and he glanced up just in time to see the Reeds stagger out into view. Both still in pajamas, they were thoroughly covered in blood and smoke and shrapnel and heaven knew what else. For one long moment, neither said anything, leaning against one another for support as they fought to catch their breath.

It was then he noticed that Malcolm was holding onto his side for dear life, and the terrified look in his eye told him everything he needed to know. Swiftly, he rose to intercept them, saying, "It's nice of you two to finally…"

"No time," Alira ground out, and began to limp across the deck plating as best she could with glass shards sticking out of her feet. Her beeline to the tactical station was interrupted by Julia, who wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her slide on top of the railing, if only to prevent her from tracking blood all over the floor.

"It's over," she said with as much calm as she could muster. As if in a daze, Alira began to produce stun grenades out of her pockets and her sweatshirt, passing them into her waiting hands one by one. "We're a little banged up, but we're alive."

"There's a few crewmen in engineering. We think they…"

"We know," Julia interrupted gently, then leaned down to retrieve the PADD in her chair. It contained an extremely abbreviated summary of Sergeant Cole's exploits aboard the Romulan ship, several points of which were sure to be of interest to her. There truly was no right way to break the news, so she decided to rip off the bandage all at once. "This is the results of a DNA analysis that Phlox completed just a few minutes ago. They think they know what happened to Lieutenant Garcia."

"What?" Malcolm's question was hushed and strangulated, and almost entirely rhetorical. He wasn't bleeding, but his heart was pounding and he was sweating profusely. Trip held pressure on his wound, just in case.

"And they took a prisoner. He wouldn't tell them who he was, but they compared a hair sample to the Denobulan database, and…"

She continued, but as soon as Alira read the name listed there, time seemed to dilate and stop entirely. Memories, long since forgotten or suppressed, flooded to the forefront of her consciousness, and it was as if the entire universe compressed and collapsed on top of her.

The PADD tumbled out of her hand and fell to the floor, sounding like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.

End of Episode Twelve

Next time on Enterprise…

Episode Thirteen: Through Heaven's Eyes

Gravely wounded in the Battle of Vorkado, Archer is given the opportunity to alter one pivotal moment in his life. The Reeds contend with an unwelcome guest.