The surgery, however generous that term was in this moment, was closer to a bloodbath than anything else. Working quickly, and with the enhanced strength of Grigori holding most of the Eksokaisen's blood in, Dash Reinarr had managed to remove the girder and seal the doctor back up in a short few minutes. Of course, that sealing up had required using most of the power in an emergency welder, losing his captain's uniform in order to tie it around her as an improvised wrap, and enduring the absolutely agonizing pain of both of T'Vrias' claws digging into his shoulder and chest. It had, however, gotten the job done, grizzly as it was. Regrettably, the crude nature of the operation also meant that his best asset was now going to be incapacitated for at least another hour. Between the pain of the surgery and the drugs from the hypospray, that hour mark was optimistically short as well. For the moment, though, Dash busied his mind with another task, doing his best to not get caught up in his own self-doubt or the reality of the situation.
With a decoupler clenched between his front teeth and a hyperspanner in his hand, the Captain was hurriedly attempting to reconfigure the wiring pathways in the crew pit. Each successful conversion he'd made had been followed by the failure of at least three other points further down the line, and so far he'd been at the tedious procedure for twenty minutes. Lieutenant Grigori, likewise, was working in the opposite pit, attempting to reroute the phaser bank controls through to one of the lower control panels.
Truly, Dash had to give the Andorian engineers credit. A secondary station to man all the necessary systems onboard a starship, and one that operated independently of the mains, was an ingenious addition- especially to a smaller ship like this. He could only imagine how useful it would be on a larger ship, specifically something like those Constitution beauties that the Starfleet Engineer Corps had started producing. They would definitely need some tweaking, specifically having automatic rerouting routines so that future crews wouldn't have to do what Dash and Grigori were doing manually, but they could be invaluable in a crisis. Being concealed underneath the floorboards to either side of the main command stations on the bridge gave them an ease-of-access that a separated bridge wouldn't have, and they'd provide a fairly good trap if a ship was ever boarded. He could certainly think of more than few Klingon raiders who would've been caught off guard by the surprise appearance of armed officers popping out from the floor.
Speaking of raiders, his mind began to wander to the massive warship sitting just outside the walls. Its imposing, stark black form had haunted them from the viewscreen, lurking just beyond their reach- while they stayed firmly within its grasp. Dash was surprised to see that there didn't appear to be a single light from the Nyos, certain that some part of it had to still be functioning. Despite those thoughts, though, it stayed as silent as ever. In many ways, Dash thought to himself whenever he glanced towards it, that was even more terrifying than if it was unloading its entire arsenal on them.
What made that terror even worse was that he knew, personally, just who was in command of that starship.
Commodore Lynn Croell III, his mentor, a second father, and the man who had promised him everything when he was fresh from the Academy and looking towards the stars. That was ten years ago now, and, in light of the current moment, it seemed as if it was lifetime away. Yet, it seemed that the present was nothing more than a dark reflection of that moment. The powerful, imposing, Commodore Croell, then Captain Croell, standing over the youthful Dash Reinarr, invoking a threatening and commanding presence. One move, one twitch of the wrist, and Reinarr's career would've been shot down in an instant. If they couldn't get the Meridian back online in time, the ending would likely be the same.
Dash Reinarr knew that nobody else could be in the captain's chair, nobody else in the entire galaxy could do what the Commodore was putting into motion. Worse yet, nobody else in the galaxy could succeed at what the Commodore was beginning. And who now stood in his way? The same scared witless protégé who had stood in front of him ten years ago and asked for guidance. Nothing much had changed, it would seem.
Once again, against his will and his hopes, the weight of the galaxy was placed on his shoulders. It wasn't, not really, but as the circuit board fried shut with a puff of smoke, it certainly felt like it.
"Lieutenant, I hope you're having better luck over there," Dash called out, removing the decoupler from his teeth and replacing the chip with a fresh one, "Because I've just about had it with these boards blowing up in my face."
"Aye, Captain, I have mostly reconfigured phaser controls to new inputs. Only question now is whether or not we could jumpstart them from here."
"Yah, I know, I'm working on that part, Maksim," Finally, the fates handed him a small gift and allowed him to finish the connection, and he moved on to routing the helm control through to his chair, "If I can get the helm and engineering mains into the captain's chair, I think I can jumpstart the controls with a tricorder and at least send the signal out for the startup sequence to begin."
"You will have, at most, one shot, sir, are you sure you can do that?"
Dash paused momentarily before answering, staring down at the multicoloured wires and circuit boards, searching for an answer. Truth be told, he'd had his share of one shot chances today. He hadn't signed up to go up against a warship within a month of being back on active duty, he hadn't prepared to face unbeatable odds, and he certainly hadn't expected to be fighting something like the Commodore today. So far, he'd won every single time he'd hedged his bets today, so the odds were currently in his favour. On the other hand, he didn't really have a choice regardless. He was a captain in the Patrol Fleet, and the Patrol Fleet was about the best of the best, being able to perform under pressure and exemplify what the Federation stood for.
Most of the Patrol officers hardly stood out in the record books. Aside from the Helicanus crew, fewer still were even noteworthy compared to their Starfleet counterparts. Perhaps that was due to the sheer amount of interprofessional work that went into being a part of the Patrol Fleet- no one person could take credit alone for anything, it was always a dozen or more people from counselors to captains, engineers to doctors, and from border cutters to medical ships all taking part of the process from contact to conclusion in practically every case. Sometimes all it took was a couple of smooth talkers to de-escalate a situation, other times it took a hardened officer who was ready to go with phasers firing. Most of the time, Dash knew, Patrol officers settled issues with a sympathetic shoulder and opening the path towards a better life. The Klingons had changed that for the past few years, stirring up enough trouble that even the Orions and the pirates got so bold as to fire first and never even think about accepting help from a kindly Fleet officer whose torpedoes had never left their tubes.
More than a few of them had been his friends, after all.
Today had been entirely about hedging his bets and taking one shot chances, and even if he really was too exhausted, too anxious to think about going for one last one, Dash knew he had to at least try. If he really was going to prove to himself that he was worthy of the captaincy, that Morska, and maybe even the rest of his career, had been a lucky shot, then he needed to live up to the Patrol Fleet's lofty standards. Taking one more longshot against the unfathomable was all he had left, really, and he couldn't waste it on self-doubt. Not today.
"Yah, I know, Maksim, and I think I can make it. It'll take longer for the Meridian to come to life from an ice-cold start like this, so we'll have a few tense minutes, but I think I can do it."
With that, the two went back to their work in the silence, and the solemness, of the Meridian's bridge. The hiss of their tools was enough conversation anyways, better for now to steel their minds towards the impending confrontation ahead than to doddle on their mutual, unspoken concerns. The Meridian and her captain had one last dance to take part in- and it was guaranteed to be nowhere near as graceful as her exit from Andoria the previous morning.
It had taken roughly forty-five minutes, and half a dozen more control chips and circuit boards, but they'd managed it. All ship functions had been redirected through to the remaining stations on the bridge, and the Nyos still lay dormant outside. Now, hunkered down next to the captain's chair, Dash and Maksim held their breath and waited.
The lack of any power whatsoever had only been noticeable, at first, by the fact that they'd worked in almost total darkness aside from the emergency flashlights. Now, however, the most prominent characteristic of a ship without power seemed to be the lack of temperature control. They'd both already given up their uniforms to T'Vrias for bandaging, left only with the form-fitting black sweatshirt underneath, which offered about as much protection and comfort as an umbrella in the ocean.
Breathing into his palms and rubbing them together, Dash tried to ward off the worst of the cold. When he'd been down in the crew pit, at least, the tools and the occasional blowing-out of a board had kept him warm. Now, he was down to sheer willpower alone- and when his movements had to be quick and precise, that was being divided up among far too many cognitive tasks.
He glanced to his tactical officer, who held the wires connecting the tricorder to the chair in place, and silently asked for the go-ahead signal.
One nod, and Dash pulsed the tricorder's batteries for all they were worth in one massive shock that all at once overloaded the device and sent a charge out through the wire and into the chair. In that same instant, Dash reached up and smacked his palm down on the control to send the startup signal to the Meridian's core in the engineering deck.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Time would tell whether or not it worked, but there had to be some sound, some feeling, that their command had gone through. Together, the two laid down on the deck and placed their ears down.
One breath.
The thudding in his heart obscured his hearing, and Dash couldn't be certain whether or not he was hearing correctly. Clearly, by the perplexed look on Maksim's face, he wasn't alone in that feeling either.
A minute passes.
Nothing has happened, not even so much as a gentle hum to let them know the computer is reaching out to every appendage in its massive system and telling them to wake up.
Five minutes pass.
A warm wave rolls through the floor, followed almost instantly by the sonorous sound of the generators, temperature controls, bridge systems, and warp core coming back online.
Dash could've probably kissed his tactical officer in that instant, but the energy from the ship has flown through into them and they jump around ecstatically, screaming in their success instead. That success is only magnified as the lights flicker to life and bathe the room in a gentle, albeit stale, white light. Yet, to the two men, the light is good.
Lieutenant Grigori, after their celebration, hopped down into the crew pit and began bringing the tactical systems back up to full steam. Meanwhile, Dash reclaimed his seat and began to delegate where the Meridian's power would be best utilized. He took particular care to keep his eyes focused on his instruments, however, and avoided the grizzly image that still lay, unmoving, near the turbolift.
The Commodore always said it would happen if we didn't do anything, but he always said it would be me instead, Dash thought quietly, I believed him, for so long I wanted to believe him. Bright eyed, shiny, impressionable idiot that I was… Maybe I still am and I just can't admit it.
He briefly glanced to Lieutenant Grigori before continuing his work.
Maybe he still has a point.
From what the Meridian's computer was telling him, it looked like he'd have to give up shields for life support, power the impulse engines at the cost of the active scanners, and favour certain pockets of the ship over others. There were at least two or three dozen choices to be made, and none of them were particularly appealing, but at a glance he felt he could live with most of the automatic decisions the computer was already making for him. It could probably optimize the cards in his hand better than he could anyways.
Letting the computer take over from there left Dash Reinarr with a limited number of tasks that required his attention now, but, with a sparing glimpse out towards the Nyos, the weight in his heart told him what needed him most.
Standing up, Dash walked over to Ensign Marlowe. Moving slowly, he picked up the young boy in his arms and gently cradled him, holding on firmly for fear that the slightest movement may break him further. The once bright boy that he now held in his arms felt heavier than anything else in the galaxy, and, for a long moment, he felt as though he were glued to the spot. Perhaps, if he stood there long enough, he could sink into the floor and be swallowed whole.
Dash Reinarr had seen death enough times to know that it wasn't something to be afraid of, something more akin to a shadow that followed the sentient beings of the galaxy involuntarily. He'd also read enough casualty reports during the war that, even months after, the names flooded by him now. Regardless of whether he knew them or not, their names were burned into his mind's eye. Now, Ensign Mason Marlowe's name was added to that list.
And it was the most painful name of all.
There was so much hope, so much that he could have, no, would have done with his career. The Ensign would've made a fine helmsman on any ship, made any captain or admiral proud, maybe even saved their lives a time or two with his fancy flying. He could have found a nice human partner to see the stars with, settle down with on some colony world, and helped raise a part of the next generation.
What else had Dash Reinarr robbed him of? What more could he have ripped from the galaxy simply by being here?
The list grew and grew, until it towered so high that it blotted out what little brightness had come with his earlier hope until there was nothing left but shards and shadows.
Quietly, and carefully, Dash Reinarr stepped into the turbolift with the Ensign one last time. The funeral would be short, proper, and dignified, and it would have only one attendee.
Captain Dash Reinarr, the man that the bright, quick-handed Ensign Mason Marlowe had given his life to keep alive, would perform the rites and the burial.
If only he knew who he was protecting, perhaps…
The thought was left unfinished, and the turbolift descended with a mournful whirr.