Interregnum

Twin suns burned brightly over the alien plains of Threllvia IV.

The stars, brilliant furnaces of the faintest hues of yellow, hung well above the horizon, having only begun their decline beyond the distant mountain peaks. Their rays ordinarily baked the grassy expanses with an enveloping warmth, allowing the steppe to thrive under the softened blue skies. But today, a thickened haze of dust floated in the air, like a storm cloud thickening, bringing the pregnant tension of a dry, still day.

The Romulan Star Empire, the shadowy foe who, willing to yield no more encroachments, had launched an onslaught across the stars, surging from its cloaked sphere to take system after system, chasing the nascent Earth-led coalition clear back to their home systems. Under the fierce, unrelenting assault, worlds were scorched and left uninhabitable as the banner of warfare and annihilation advanced across the quadrant.

In the midst of the..., the Romulans ground their talons into the Andorian colony of Threllvia IV. Predominantly an agricultural settlement, with only a small network of villages and towns dotting the endless grasslands, the colony was ill-defended, and the outlying districts fell back into the solitary main city. The ferocious tenacity of the Romulan grounds troops, strange, scaled creatures with a vampirish look, quickly tightened the noose while sleek raptors flew overhead, turning the fertile plains into dusty wastes. The dust was everywhere, obscuring the once-blue heavens, reducing existence to little more than a hand before one's eyes.

With little option, as his forces faltered and fell back, Commodore Archer could only dispatch a solitary starship to help with the frantic evacuation of the colonists. By the time Captain Tucker arrived, the "held" territory was little less than a square kilometer, centered around a hardened dirt field that served as an evac zone. Suborbital transports flew in, loaded, and took off with astonishing haste, trying to move the last of the shrinking number of civilians to the overhead starships before the final perimeter of ground defenses gave way.

On one such transport, hovering a half-meter above the barren ground, "Trip" Tucker hung half-out of the hatch, pulling refugees up the landing ramp and pushing them inward, forcing bodies into bodies as he used every last iota of space the shuttle could offer; across from him, his first officer did the same, giving little thought to gentleness or comfort. Instead, Travis Mayweather joined his captain in compressing the fleeing Andorians into the bay, hoping that the burdened craft would still be able to take off and achieve orbit.

As Trip dangled out the rear of the craft, a pause ensued in the rush of beings, and Trip glanced inward, noting that there was scarcely room for himself and Travis to pack in. Nonetheless, he returned his gaze outward, eyes squinted against the dust, trying to discern any last humanoid shapes that he could usher into the waiting confines of the shuttle. He was only dimly aware of the crush of noise beyond, the heavy roar of thrusters, the boom of distant explosions, the sharp cracking sound of sub-orbital fighters streaking overhead as the colony defenders sought to keep the raptors from shooting down the laboring evacuation shuttles.

In the reddened dust, Trip's eyes could make out shadows of wavering forms, some coalescing towards him as they ran to the last transport in panic, others running across the flattened terrain, spitting out piercing streams of high-power phased energy at the outer margins of the zone, desperately fighting to hold off the final crush of Romulan troops pouring over the perimeter.

His nerves pressed to their limits, his senses stretched to the breaking point by the din of battle, Trip focused with his eyes, trying to peer into the flying grit, aware that his time had already expired. His shuttle would be the last to depart, and his pilot had already told the captain twice that they needed to thread the rapidly-closing aerial lane into orbit, but Trip was insistent on waiting for one last person.

For a moment, the earthen flakes cleared, and from the recesses came a human, running as fast as his cargo would allow him. Dark of hair, with a stylish goatee, he was carrying a bloodied Andorian child in his arms, and Trip fervently waved him forward. As he neared, the captain reached out, taking the young charge from his officer's arms and passing the child on to one of the refugees in the rear of the shuttle. The Andoran chan, speaking no words in the heavy percussion of combat, grabbed the young child and folded it inward, to the deeper embrace of the refugees within.

"Malcolm!" Trip shouted, his voice barely audible. "Get in!" With no seconds to waste, Trip reached out a hand, intending to grab his friend and bodily haul Malcolm Reed into the shuttle; but a moment of confusion warred within, Trip's senses confusing him. It was as if Malcolm had taken a step back, off the hatchway ramp, away from the scarce safety of the craft.

"Malcolm! What are you doing?" Trip hollered, wondering if Malcolm had heard him. "Get in!" Unable to reach the other officer, Trip was dangling as far forward as possible, clinging onto the side of the hatchway with one hand and the other stretched out to grab Malcolm.

As if in slow motion, Trip watched as Malcolm shook his head. "I can't do it, Captain!" he answered, yelling back to be heard. The words moved sluggishly across Trip's mind, their import struggling to sink in. "Take off without me!"

"Are you crazy, Malcolm?" Trip called back, waving frantically for Malcolm to come aboard.

In the distant background, Trip could hear the voice of the pilot shouting at him. "We have to take off now, Captain!" Hutch bellowed, barely suppressing his desperation.

Malcolm gave a short, darting glance over his shoulder, into the shades of battle. "I have to stay, Captain!" he repeated, turning back to face Archer. He pointed into the thickening body of dirt starting to swirl around his face. "The Romulans have broken the perimeter!"

"Then get on the damn shuttle, Malcolm!" Trip exclaimed, uncertain why Malcolm was hesitating, but knowing that he could not depart without his friend. "That's an order, Commander!"

A faint trace of a smile cracked Malcolm's lips. "You'll have to court-martial me then, Captain!" he answered. But his next words were deadly earnest. "If the Romulans capture the ground cannon—" Malcolm broke off, unwilling to say the words, but both men knew the truth: if the Romulans captured the ground cannon around the evac field, they would pluck the departing shuttle out of the sky.

"It's now or never, Captain!" Hutch broke in over the intercom, unable to conceal the pleading urgency in his tone.

"Damnit, Malcolm!" Trip cried out, his voice growing in anguish. "I'm not leaving without you!"

Malcolm took another step back from the shuttle, and in the recesses behind Trip's awareness, he heard Travis barking out "GO! GO! GO!" Without a second's pause, the craft began to move forward and upward, the hatch starting to lift up.

Trip watched with the throes of agony as Malcolm, growing smaller, lifted his rifle over his head in salute; and holding for just a moment, he fixed the rifle to his shoulder and spun around, charging into the enveloping cloak of swirling dust. Unable to look away, Trip's eyes continued to peer into the clouds, even as they receded below him; aware of little else, he pleaded for one last sight of his friend, but Malcolm was gone, never to be seen, never to be recovered.

The ground defenders successfully held the cannons until the shuttle was clear.