The second their latest passenger materialised fully, Worf knew. Despite the terrible injuries written upon him, despite the swollen face, broken nose, the bruising, he knew in his soul exactly who was now crumpled, and almost unrecognisable, on the floor of the shuttle.
He found himself unable to take his eyes of the sorry state of the man before him. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the Ensign exclaim, immediately followed by a tell-tale wobble in her voice, "My god…"
He shook his head once and turned to her, "Don't give in to your emotions Ensign, we have a job to do. This man must be repatriated to Federation space, a not inconsiderable challenge. We need to stay focused."
She sniffed, then visibly pulled herself together, standing taller for just a second. "Sir, yes Sir."
"I will return to the cockpit, you must tend to his immediate needs. There have been reports of rogue fighters in this region."
"Sir." She said, acknowledging her instruction and setting to work right away. Worf helped her lift the man onto a bunk, placing his hand on the man's chest for just a second before he returned to pilot the shuttle, calling behind him, "Our journey will be a little over seventy-two hours, please do the best you can for him."
He sat heavily and simultaneously tabbed at the controls and in a second, the shuttle had launched into warp. The faster they got away, the better. While they were within range of Qo-noS, they had a modicum of back-up. Nevertheless, the Federation livery adorning their shuttle was never going to help. There were too many factions out here that stood to gain a lot from hijacking them.
The time passed horribly slowly, and horribly quickly. Worf endured moments of boredom well-matched with moments of intense action. He'd shaken a number of scout ships off their tail, and slept only for a few hours. He and the Ensign were only able to take some down time to sleep, and grab a quick bite. Concentrated moments of emergency downtime designed to restore them to full Fleet order while maintaining a waking watch. He'd checked on their passenger intermittently, satisfying himself that the man was still breathing; all he could really hope for until they arrived in Federation space. To his credit, their passenger behaved himself, never breaking the sedation, and somehow managing to maintain his condition, as poor as it was, at least he didn't get any sicker.
After seventy straight hours, the Despentes array, marking the border into Federation space, was finally within sight. They had a few million kilometres to go until they could cross. Safer, but not entirely safe.
Worf was dog-tired but entirely wired by the fight they now found themselves the centre of. On their tail, a fleet of one-man Romulan fighters was doing its best to keep them from their desired destination. This area of space was fast-becoming a no-go zone; rogue traders and independent operatives had the run of it, the Federation too busy elsewhere thanks to the Xhand situation. The shuttle was running all kinds of evasive manoeuvres, its crew of two doing everything they could, through gritted teeth, to keep upright and get to safety.
"The plasma vent is damaged!" shouted the ensign.
"Re-route to the secondary vent."
"Incoming fire, three million kilometres to port."
"Eighty-thousand kilometres to the border." Said the Klingon.
"Damnit! Direct hit to the rear hatch. Initiating flame retardant to rear cabin."
"We must keep our passenger safe Ensign. Please hold the line here. I must go back there and check on him."
"But sir!"
"Do it Ensign." And with that, he left her to hold the fort. He unclipped himself, and struggled to keep his feet under him as he made his way to the rear spraying a canister of retardant as he went. The little shuttle bucked and reared swerving hard to port, then hard to starboard but he kept his feet, and his mind, on his goal.
When Worf finally reached the rear crew quarters, really a tiny space flanked by double bunks on each side with a small table and four chairs in the centre, he pulled back the curtain of his passenger's bunk. The Klingon took a moment to assess the man's condition. The ensign had done her best but he was a mess. Scrawny, badly beaten, a scraggly beard that had grown in unevenly, his hair curling into a knot behind his head. What was left of his coverall was badly torn, its left sleeve missing entirely to reveal a battered and scarred arm, the rest of it was threadbare and ripped. A large gash striped across his belly revealing an infected wound edged with bright red angry flesh. His face revealed the latent pain he must have been in, his mouth was tight, his brow furrowed, a grim expression that spoke volumes despite his sleeping state. At least he was cleaner now. She must have spent an age gently cleansing the filfth that had covered him on arrival.
Worf perched on the edge of the man's bunk bracing himself on the wall of the shuttle, then placed his large hand across the man's chest. The shuttle lurched violently once to port, then seemed to settle into a more predictable pattern.
A chirp on his comm badge sounded, "We have entered Federation Space Sir."
He tapped at his own badge, not taking his eyes off the man for a second, "Acknowledged."
He was moved by the terrible condition of the man, yet glad that time and space had conspired to bring him here, at this moment, and to this shuttle. He whispered quietly, not wishing to disturb the man's peace, "I will get you home. You have my word."
He closed his eyes for a moment, he willed the man to hold on, to keep breathing. They had a matter of minutes before they would be truly safe. Out here on the outer edge, Starfleet was stretched tight, there was very little traffic and plenty of opportunistic testing of boundaries.
"Ensign, send a distress call to the nearest-"
He was interrupted by the Ensign's excited voice, "Sir! The Phoenix is in sight, in range! They are hailing us."
He ran toward the cockpit. He couldn't believe it, they'd made it. The underbelly of the huge Phoenix appeared larger than life at the top of the viewport as it swooped into their position – truly a sight to behold. Sanctuary, safety, order.
"This is Captain Justice Olaweyo of the USS Phoenix, might we be of assistance?"
He stabbed quickly at the comm unit, tried to keep the unexpected thrill and excitement out of his voice. "One medical emergency to transport directly, and request permission to dock."
"Acknowledged. Best speed to bring in the shuttle remotely, stand by to beam out."
He turned back to the crew quarters just in time to see off his passenger as he himself dematerialised.
As they coalesced in the ship's transporter room, they each took a moment, aware that adrenaline was still coursing through their systems.
"That was…" said the ensign, unable to voice her emotions.
He turned to her, facing her directly, "You were a true warrior Ensign. You did good work."
When they turned to the transporter chief, the captain of the Phoenix was waiting for them.
"Ambassador Worf I presume?"
The Klingon and the young ensign straightened up, each smoothing down their filthy uniforms.
"Aye Sir. Thank you."
"No need Ambassador. You have excelled today. Now please, follow me, we have plenty to discuss, and there are plenty of people eager to hear your story."
Worf smiled. They were safe. They'd made it. They had brought Jean-Luc Picard back to safety. He didn't think he had ever felt so proud, or so relieved.
