"Shield status," Captain Charel demands, his fists still clenching the armrests of his chair for support after the particularly violent rocking of the ship.
Without so much as looking up from his tactical display, Lt. Commander Hawk reports, "Holding at 32." While he speaks, an enemy ship finally crosses into the port phaser arc, exactly what he'd been waiting for. At his command, the just recharged phaser bank empties its payload, scorching a hole in the attacking bioship. "Direct hit to enemy vessel. Forward weapon systems disabled," his voice booms out over the alert klaxon.
"Helm, alter course 12 degrees to starboard. Don't let them flank us," the captain orders, checking the sensor map displayed on the console of his chair. The viewscreen only allows him to see one area of the battle, but his console provides a general map showing the movements of all ships in the area in relation to his own.
"Aye, sir," Ensign D'drel acknowledges calmly, dancing her nimble fingers over the display to execute her captain's orders. Once the command is executed, she takes advantage of the second between orders to brush a displaced strand of hair back behind the point of her right ear. Though others may not share an appreciation for her particular heritage, the traditional Romulan hair styling lends itself much more easily to repair than most others.
Blinking her eyes open, Counselor Vanarrah recenters her mind on the current situation. The movement draws the captain's eyes to her, seated at his left. His expectant gaze asks the question his lips hesitate to voice, already fairly certain of the answer. Still, she speaks aloud her report for the sake of clarity. "I can't influence them, captain," her soft melody sings out, making the bad news have a slightly duller edge.
"Keep trying, counselor," he orders, turning his focus back to the viewscreen just in time to watch a bioship sail past as a phaser blast chases after it. "What's the status of the Malinche?"
Ducking somewhat off to his right to escape the smoke coming from a ruptured panel on the wall to his left, Lt. Derbin reports from the ops console, "Their shields are down, multiple hull breaches. I'm reading fluctuations in their primary power net."
Clenching his dark fist over his mouth, he manages to cover a cough aroused by the increasing smoke assailing his nostrils. Most of the other bridge officers aren't affected so easily by such common place discomforts, but they've also spent more time at their posts. Up until last month, he hadn't even sat at the console during an actual battle. War necessitates adaptation.
"Ensign, new heading," the captain orders, expanding his personal map to include the damaged friendly starship. "Take us right into their heart, full impulse. Commander, don't let those phasers idle."
The soft beeping of display panels as his crew jump to their work is all the acknowledgement he requires. Each member knows exactly what must be done, knows that if any one of them lags or hesitates the ship might not survive. Their vessel, the mighty warship USS Phoenix, normally could easily smash four bioships without much hassle, but the beating just taken prior to the engagement and the constant dwindling of supplies has left it in less than optimal condition. Still, the sleek vessel charges into the midst of the enemy, maneuvering rapidly to dodge incoming weapons' fire at the same time that it unleashes a massive barrage of its own.
Desperately, the enemy ships try to evade the angered charge. Nearly matching the Phoenix's maneuverability, two of the vessels break off heading dorsal while another moves to port. All three manage to evade the direct assault, but none fully escape the defender's charge as orange and red bursts of energy tear into their greenish hulls. Had they remained in the path of the torpedoes fired from the warship, none of them would have survived.
A final enemy ship remains on course towards the battered Malinche, preparing to make another sweep of the already burnt hull with its forward weapons. Without needing the captain's orders, Ensign D'drel keeps the ship directly on the enemy's tail, providing Lt. Cmdr. Hawk with a perfect shot at the attacker. Multiple bursts of orange pulse energy cross the gap between the hunting ship and its pursuer, pock-marking the slender hull of the bioship, but not destroying it.
"Plasma torpedoes, fire," Capt. Charel orders, watching intently as the forward enemy weapon begins to glow a yellowish-green, an unmistakable indication that it prepares to fire on the helpless Malinche.
"Firing," Hawk complies, booming his answer out through the bridge. Despite their respective stations, his voice tends to carry a more commanding force than that of the captain's. In times of conflict, the captain manages to retain a trace of compassion and humility, a style which makes his orders more comforting to the newer officers while also refraining from alienating the more experienced older officers.
From the under side of the vessel's saucer section, five bolts of neon green energy rocket forth in rapid succession, one after the other, on a direct course for the enemy ship. In less than a second, the first of the five impacts the dorsal fin of the enemy, blasting a chunk of the hull adrift into space. The remaining four follow suit, tearing right through the enemy craft's starboard neck strut. Under the command of Ensign D'drel, the Phoenix breaks off its pursuit and pulls up hard as the bow of the enemy ship tears itself away from the body, causing an explosive fireball to consume the entire craft.
"Enemy vessel destroyed," Hawk reports.
"Does the Malinche still have propulsion?"
"No, sir," Lt. Derbin answers.
Even with the protection of the Phoenix, the chances of a crippled ship surviving the duration of a full-on conflict are minimal. Extending his own ship's already weakened shields around the much larger vessel wouldn't absorb more than a few enemy shots before leaving both vessels at the enemies' mercy. If the Malinche is to survive, it will have to be removed from the battlefield by some means, but the bioships won't let either of the two combatants withdraw. He needs to find a way to get that ship to safety.
Hoping to hear good news, Capt. Charel orders, "Status of enemy ships."
"Lead enemy has lost shields," Derbin reports, refusing to allow another cough as he analyzes the information on his console, "port enemy at 32 shields and starboard at 12."
"Put us right on the lead ship's tail. Concentrate all fire on that target. I want it gone now," Charel orders, cautiously optimistic about a new plan taking shape.
Doing her best to match maneuvers, the ensign frowns slightly. "They're trying to evade," she reports unhappily, adjusting course again in an attempt to counter the enemy's erratic movements.
"Match their moves. Close to within 500 meters," the captain orders. "Standby to release EM screen."
Another rocking of the ship, stronger than the normal jostle of enemy weapons' fire, precedes an announcement from the helmswoman. "The other ships are dogging us, captain."
Carefully noting and somewhat dismissing this information amid further trembling prompted by enemy blasts, the captain responds, "Aft weapons only fire on the other two. Maintain pursuit and concentrate available fire on the target. Release EM screen on my mark. Ensign, prepare for a warp speed jump."
"Captain, the lead ship's hull is going critical," Lt. Cmdr. Hawk reports, anticipating the captain's plan. After following Charel into battle so many times, he's gained an understanding of how the captain's mind works. Filling in as first officer over the past year, working so closely beside his childhood friend, hasn't hurt their connection either.
"Release EM screen," comes the predicted order, quickly executed by the lieutenant at ops. "Lt. Keel, prepare to lock tractor beam on the Malinche," he adds, addressing the officer stationed to the right of the command center of the beleaguered bridge.
"Understood," the man confirms, executing the necessary tasks to comply with the order.
Like a squid releasing ink, the Phoenix discharges continual bursts of powerful electromagnetic interference from the rims of the saucer and the underside of the guards just above the hull-integrated engines as it closes on the enemy vessel. While the starship itself remains unaffected, the interference clouding around the Phoenix and in its wake effectively hides the ship from the enemies' sensors. The enemy ships can still randomly fire into the expanding cloud, but only by the cloud's movement can they guess at the position of their target.
A few more direct hits from the weapons—formidable even in their depleted state—barraging the enemy bioship and numerous small fires begin bursting out into space from inside the hull. Both Derbin and the counselor share a slight smile of relief as they watch the enemy blow itself apart from inside, knowing that half of the attacking enemy force has been neutralized, but the captain can't permit himself to be distracted by a small moment of victory.
"Stop EM screen," the captain orders quickly. In rapid succession, he fires off the keys to his plan, knowing that his crew will process the orders meant for them without the need to waste time addressing each individual by name. "Full about. Warp burst directly at the Malinche, don't even wait to clear the EM cloud. Reconfigure emitters to create a wormhole large enough for both ships. Prepare to deploy a Genesis Torpedo."
The last part of his order catches the crew by surprise, causing a momentary ripple of concern as they go about executing his commands. Only Vanarrah dares to make eye contact with the captain even as the view on the screen reflects the abrupt, 180 degree turn of the vessel.
"Inside a planetary system, captain?" she asks, softening her voice to prevent it seeming like a challenge to his authority. Even her direct gaze she softens, blinking her lashes to show that she does not wish to distract him with a battle of wills during conflict.
Her response had been anticipated, all of their responses, but he doesn't have time to debate the finer points of his plan. In hindsight, he might think of a better option he overlooks now, but that doesn't help in the moment. Addressing her comment, and the unspoken concern of the rest of the crew, he responds simply, "If those ships survive there may not be a planetary system left. Prepare a wormhole course to take us a safe distance from the blast."
In the moments it takes for the vessel to complete its turn and the jump to warp speed, not a member of the bridge crew utters another word. They've been in this situation before many times, awaiting the signal from their fairly young captain to execute a daring and risky maneuver most more seasoned officers would probably never conceive of, yet his bold strategies have time and again met with success. As so often before, timing will be crucial to the success of such a dangerous plan. Orders must come without any delay. A word or sound could mask a critical command, or distract someone at a key moment.
As the viewscreen fills with the blurring of space associated with the approach of warp speed, the captain orders, "Prepare to lock tractor beam."
The engines of the warship roar to life, catapulting the ship in less than a second back along its previous course to a position just above the battered Malinche. Neither of the two enemy ships yet registers what has happened, still firing near the head of the leftover EM cloud in hopes of hitting the predator lurking within. Just as the captain had planned.
Each member of the crew knows the plan now, beginning to execute their role before the ship has decelerated. Use the EM screen to confuse the enemy for a few seconds, prevent them from seeing the actual movements of the Phoenix just long enough to grab the Malinche, drop a Genesis Torpedo, and run like hell. A good plan, but a moment's hesitation will ensure either that they get caught in the blast as well or the bioships have enough warning to escape and come back in a few seconds to resume the attack.
"Tractor beam, now," Capt. Charel orders once the stars on the viewscreen have returned to tiny points of light instead of streaming lines.
"Tractor beam locked," Keel replies, making sure that the energy beam has been securely fastened to the destitute craft.
All the captain was waiting to hear. Speaking so quickly he nearly trips over his own words, he barks out, "Fire torpedo. Helm, get us out of here NOW."
Hawk acknowledges first as an expanding circle of interchanging blue and pinkish energy swirls forms on the viewscreen. "Torpedo away."
"Entering wormhole," D'drel announces as the ship moves forward, pulling its charge along with it, into the stable portion of white light in the center of the swirling energy clouds. For a brief moment, the vastness of space disappears, replaced by a mass of pale blue washing over the two ships. The battle, the angst of being under continual assault, washes away into the calming reassurance of the soft blue tunnel carrying the two weary ships to safety.
But just as abruptly as its peaceful reassurance came, the welcoming tunnel yields its contents back into the darkness of space. This time, however, the viewscreen offers a welcoming view of a Federation starbase.
Before allowing himself a sigh of relief, Capt. Charel calls out, "Status," giving his officers a chilling reminder that the battle ends only if the plan worked.
"Detonation confirmed," Lt. Cmdr. Hawk reports, predictably still as alert as when the ship were shaking from enemy weapons. "System sensors indicate that the bioships did not escape prior to explosion."
"If they did, we'll know in a second," Charel comments, sitting a bit too far forward in his chair. Turning to his left, he asks, "Do you sense anything?"
Glancing first to the viewscreen, then back to her expectant captain, Counselor Vanarrah reports cautiously, "No," with a gentle shake of her head.
"Sensors detect no enemy ships, no singularities," Lt. Derbin adds, checking his console for confirmation of the counselor's optimistic statement.
A hushed silence falls over the bridge crew, everyone waiting for a sign that their enemy somehow managed to survive. Given the interference generated by the massive detonation of a Genesis Torpedo, sensor readings will not be available for several minutes, long after the ships would resume their attack if they managed to survive. Confirmation of their enemies' destruction would ease the conscience of everyone refusing to breath on the bridge, but that is a luxury far too long in coming.
The silence breaks as an alert click comes from Lt. Keel's post, drawing all eyes to him. "Captain, reports coming in from various outposts. Neptune reports increasing gravimetric shearing coming from the detonation. They're requesting assistance."
Another blinking light catches his eye, drawing his attention away from the general broadcasts. "Captain, incoming hail from the starbase. Audio only."
"Put it through," Charel orders, easing some of the tension in his muscles as he settles himself against the back of his command chair.
Over the speakers of the bridge comes a crackling, semi-broken greeting, though whether the distortion is due to damage in the communications systems of the starbase or the Phoenix isn't readily apparent. Most likely both. "What's your status, Phoenix?"
Taking the lead, Charel answers, "We have the Malinche in tow and are not picking up any additional enemy ships. Can you confirm?"
"Confirmed, Phoenix," the distorted voice answers all too slowly.
At last, even the captain allows himself to exhale. In the back of the bridge, several officers indulge in the desire to raise a slight cheer, knowing that the long war they've fought has finally come to an end. Instantaneously, the pensive bridge becomes the center of merriment, ecstatic relief at the hard-won "victory" pouring forth; hardly something the captain would scold his crew for indulging in.
When the cheers die back down and everyone at last has a new breath in their lungs, Charel proceeds to communicate, "We've taken some heavy damage and our supplies are nearly exhausted. Request permission to dock for repairs and resupply."
"Permission granted. We'll see what we can scrounge up for you," the starbase replies.
"Thank you. Phoenix out," Charel responds. Just prior to collapsing back into his chair for a much needed fresh breath himself, he adds, "Ensign, turn over helm control to the starbase main computer." Finished at last, he allows himself to lean his head back against the chair and close his eyes just for a moment. The relief flooding out from the rest of the crew, the knowledge that finally they can lay down their arms, gives him a smile as he notes the rise and fall of his own chest as the exhaustion begins to take over for the adrenaline. Perhaps Starfleet will allow him to sleep for a week or so before forcing him to give a debriefing, but in all likelihood he'll be lucky to convince them to wait an hour for his report.
"One more thing, Phoenix," comes the unexpected crackle of the starbase, snapping the captain's head back up to attention.
"Yes?" he asks.
"Welcome home."