Great rising action sequence... Thanks!! rbs
Starship Reykjavík - Early Warning
- Thread starter Gibraltar
- Start date
Far be it from me to argue with the Reverend Mothers of the Bene Gesserit, but I've always been more of a Tleilaxu guy, myself.
I figure Face Dancers are very nearly Changelings, right? https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct...usg=AOvVaw1QGdzd3hib5GgwKH68xcHm&opi=89978449
Hot damn!
* * *
The streaking star-scape vanished, the rays of light collapsing into single stars to reveal the battered transport Ull’roall being hounded by the strange, beetle-shaped attack ship.
“Fire phasers, hold on torpedoes until the transport is safely out of the detonation envelope,” Trujillo ordered. “Helm, pursuit course. Get on their tail and do your best to stay there.”
As the Jem’Hadar ship flashed past on the main viewer, Trujillo spared a glance toward Chester. “You said they preferred slashing, strafing attacks.”
Chester nodded, very glad the transport was still there. “They’re fast and maneuverable, and they make the most of it–especially when they’re working together.”
Reykjavík held position behind the Jem’Hadar vessel, peppering the smaller ship’s aft shields with orange bursts of stuttering twin-streamed phaser fire. The enemy’s shields held firm against the onslaught, and in response the attack ship launched a brilliant white projectile from an aft-facing launcher that slammed home against Reykjavík’s forward shields with staggering force.
The deck lurched and personnel were thrown forward against their restraints. A chorus of grunts and muttered curses resulted and even Trujillo looked impressed.
Chester glanced up at J’etris, who said, “The modifications to the shields are fully effective.”
Glal blanched. “That was effective? Felt like we got hit with an asteroid!”
J’etris grinned. “Yes, but we’re still here.”
“Forward shields holding at seventy-nine percent, Captain,” Jarrod advised, silently alarmed at the amount of shield degradation from a single impact.
The attack ship pulled relative-upward and vanished from the viewscreen in a maneuver Reykjavík couldn’t hope to follow.
Naifeh struggled at the helm to maintain an approximate trailing position as the ships looped over. “I’m losing her, sir!”
“Reinforcing aft and dorsal shields,” said J’etris. “They’ll come down on top of us and target the nacelles. The center of their ventral hull is a weak point if we can punch through their shields.” She was already targeting torpedoes to do just that, and as soon as the Jem’Hadar ship dropped down to begin its run, she fired.
“Do it,” Trujillo confirmed the order, pulling her swing-arm console up and into her lap from the side of her chair.
Reykjavík loosed a salvo of six torpedoes from her three forward-facing launchers, which arced hard over, cutting into the attack ship’s enviable turn radius. The vessel suddenly juked hard to port, then back to starboard before flipping over and diving relative to the course of the incoming ordnance.
“Mãe de deus!” DeSilva exclaimed without meaning to do so.
Only the last of the six torpedoes managed a proximity detonation, exploding just close enough to impact the smaller craft’s ventral shields as it pulled away.
“That was… impressive,” Trujillo allowed grudgingly. She referenced her laptop console before ordering, “Helm, hard about to zero-two-zero-mark-three-five-zero. J’etris, that should give you an aft torpedo angle on them.”
“Continuing phaser fire with all facing banks as they transit around our target perimeter, sir,” Jarrod called out. “Multiple hits, but no shield penetration as yet.”
“And this is after they’ve taken all those hits from Greyhound,” Glal noted dourly.
“And they’re more maneuverable,” said Chester. “We’re not going to make a lot of progress until we deal with that.” She called up a map of the sector on her console, looking for better terrain that might restrict the Jem’Hadar’s movements. The results were not promising.
J’etris let out a growl of frustration as the attack ship eluded her next spread of torpedoes.
Reykjavík’s phasers gamely blazed away at the darting attack ship, which continually rolled back and forth to absorb the impacts on different quarters and thereby prevented any specific shield grid from being whittled down to the point of collapse.
Naifeh, used to having an advantage in maneuverability due to Reykjavík’s overpowered impulse engines, struggled to keep pace with the Jem’Hadar and keep the starship’s most potent weapons systems aligned with the smaller ship.
Another improbable maneuver brought the attack ship relative nose-down towards Reykjavík’s dorsal perspective, and the attacker sent three seething, bluish poleron beams crashing against the starship’s shields.
Reykjavík bucked wildly, thrown momentarily off course and sent into a lateral spin as Naifeh fought to regain control.
Jarrod was thrown back against his support frame, grunting as the whip-sawing jolt snapped his head back and threatened whiplash should he survive this encounter.
Trujillo looked from Glal to Chester, her expression pinched. “This isn’t working. Ideas, people.”
Glal looked flummoxed, which in Trujillo’s opinion was a bad omen.
“Mines?” J’etris offered. “If we start kicking mines out aft of us, they’ll have to start altering their trajectory to avoid them.”
Chester nodded. “We’ll have to control how they come to us. The easiest way I can see to do that is to play possum, which should draw them in close for an efficient kill. But we’d better be pretty sure of getting them when we do it, because they won’t fall for it twice.”
“Their shields aren’t nearly depleted enough yet,” DeSilva called back from her post at Ops.
“And that’s not changing soon,” grumbled J’etris.
Chester glanced at the chart on her console again. “There’s a nearby system we might be able to use, but it would require we leave the transport.” She glanced at Trujillo. “I don’t think that’s an option, sir.”
“It’s not,” Trujillo confirmed. “With their firepower, they could have finished off that transport long before we arrived. They’re using it as bait. If we run, hoping they’ll follow, they’ll destroy the transport before pursuing us.” She turned to J’etris. “Start laying mines behind us at random intervals. Gravitic sensitivity with thruster capabilities. Program them to detonate only in the vicinity of the attack ship.”
“Yes sir,” said Jetris. She got to work.
Another strafing run, this time from their port-quarter, slammed into the shields with a jackhammer blow. The engineering station on the upper bridge level exploded, flaying the occupant of that seat with plexipolymer shrapnel that caused the woman at that post to gasp and then slump against her safety restraints. Additional, albeit less lethal detritus rained down throughout the rest of the bridge.
“Port shields down to twenty-eight percent; moderate hull buckling port side, primary hull,” DeSilva called out over a cacophony of alarms.
A fusillade from Reykjavík as the Jem’Hadar raced past her bow resulted in a prolonged phaser barrage and two photon hits out of a volley of six, thanks to Jarrod and J’etris’ expert coordination.
Glal freed himself from his restraints long enough to move to the side of the stricken petty officer at the Engineering station, checking for a pulse. He closed his eyes for a moment and looked to Trujillo, shaking his head before retreating to his post.
Chester and J’etris shared a look, J’etris openly concerned. There had already been far too many deaths, and no way of knowing the impact on the timeline. They had to end this, and quickly.
Trujillo absorbed the death of her crewmember, adding it to the tally of those aboard the destroyed freighter, the damaged transport, and the doomed crew of Greyhound, none of whom would have died in the ‘original’ iteration of this timeline. She clung to the illusory control she wielded over this situation, damning herself for failing when it really counted. So many battles behind her, so much experience, and yet none of it was helping in this most desperate of circumstances.
“Voli-Vox!” Glal blurted suddenly.
Trujillo looked askance at her XO, wondering if in the heat of the moment he’d slid off the proverbial rails. “The Tellarite game?”
He nodded vigorously. “Exactly!”
“I don’t see how lassoing a kivinch from a chariot has anythi–” Trujillo stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening. “Of course…”
She dropped her eyes to her laptop interface, typing madly at the controls. “Commander Chester, please take control of our primary tractor beam emitter from your station. The next time that beetle comes in range, we’re going to lower our shields and snare her. The tractor beam itself should prematurely detonate or throw off anything they send back towards us long enough for us to bracket their ship with torpedo spreads.”
“Should?” Garrett gawped from the Science station.
“They just hit one of our mines, sir,” DeSilva alerted. “They’re adjusting the trajectory of their attack run.”
“What kind of forces can our inertial dampeners compensate for?” Chester asked, transferring control. “This won’t do anyone any good if we get ourselves turned into paste.”
“Engineering,” Trujillo called, “all auxiliary power to inertial dampeners. We’re about to try something reckless and I don’t want us turned into Salsa Roja.”
“On it, Captain,” Kura-Ka answered with all the resignation of a man marching to the gallows.
“And make sure everyone is strapped in,” said Chester, her eyes on her display, fingers hovering over the controls. “All right. One Nantucket sleigh ride, coming right up.”
The attack ship circled around, dipping in for another pass. Chester waited. The moment before it came within range she called, “Lower shields!” to Jarrod and pounced.
The tractor beam flashed out, catching the Jem’Hadar in the forward ventral plating, where the ‘thorax’ of the beetle it mimicked would have been. It bucked, pitching up hard and to starboard, and this time, they followed.
The jolt threw Chester hard against the restraint harness, and she was suddenly very glad of the archaic safety measure. Without it, she would have gone flying. As it was, keeping hold of them was a hell of a job as they tried everything in the book to shake Reykjavík off. Chester grinned, wide and predatory. Let them try. It was beyond time to squash this bug.
Trujillo grunted at the jolt and the disconcerting sense of acceleration bleeding through the dampeners. “Fish on!” She called over her shoulder to the tactical officers flanking her. “Kill their engines!”
“With pleasure, sir,” said J’etris.
A flight of torpedoes raced ahead towards the wildly slaloming attack ship, gripped tightly in the cruiser’s tractor beam. Its engine nacelles were free from the beam’s grasp and vulnerable to the multiple impacts of the missiles in concert with Jarrod’s raking phaser fire.
“That’s it!” Trujillo crowed uncharacteristically. “Pour it on!”
A Jem’Hadar torpedo launched back towards them corkscrewed madly away, its targeting sensors scrambled by the tractor’s energies. An accompanying poleron blast, however, found its mark and lanced into the unshielded rim of Reykjavík’s saucer, blasting through several compartments to explode deep in the saucer’s interior.
Reykjavík shuddered, alarms wailed, and the bridge lighting flickered as the console now reconfigured for engineering functions became a riot of flashing red indicators.
An unmanned station next to Garrett’s science board crackled and sparked and the young officer drew her hands back just in time to avoid severe burns from arcing streamers of electrical current sizzling across her own console’s surface.
The chaos on the bridge was so distracting that Trujillo nearly missed the sight of the Jem’Hadar ship’s starboard nacelle exploding just as Reykjavík’s tractor emitter burned out.
“We’ve lost the tractor beam!” Chester announced. She looked up at the viewer and the Jem’Hadar limpingly trying to right itself, trailing atmosphere and plasma. There was vicious satisfaction in her voice as she added, “But it looks like they’re hurting a lot more.”
“Raise shields, all weapons continuous fire. Let’s finish this!” Trujillo growled, leaning as far forward as her restraints would allow with her fist clenched.
More torpedoes slammed home into the primary superstructure of the attack ship as rippling phaser fire scored back and forth across its hull. The ship slowly moved to come about just as its port nacelle was blasted free from its pylon to spin away on a random trajectory.
“Their shields are failing!” DeSilva blurted, heedless of bridge decorum now.
Naifeh piloted Reykjavík in a makeshift orbit, circling the Jem’Hadar vessel while keeping the cruiser bows-on to the attack ship as the starship worked to exhaust its torpedo stores and phaser energy.
“By the Great Hoof, what does it take to kill one of these things?” Glal exclaimed, dumbfounded at the smaller vessel’s resilience.
“A hell of a lot,” said Chester, “but we’re getting there.”
A final, blinding explosion heralded the end of the Jem’Hadar ship, the blast’s wavefront crashing against Reykjavík’s flagging shields and causing the deck beneath Trujillo’s feet to shudder yet again.
The captain sagged briefly in her chair, exhausted by the fight which had lasted mere minutes. She gave herself until the count of ten to tap her reserves, then straightened and released her safety restraints before standing.
“What’s our situation?”
DeSilva turned in her seat to address her captain. “Damage report, sir. Explosive decompression in several sections on Decks four, five, and six. Pressure doors and forcefields are in place and holding. Fire suppression systems have been activated and damage control teams are responding. Sickbay reports injuries and fatalities, but no firm numbers as yet.”
Chester ducked her head, using the excuse of unfastening her harness to hide her unhappiness at that; out of the corner of her eye she caught J’etris casting a look of transparent relief at Garrett, and hoped no one else was going to read too much into that.
Trujillo nodded wordlessly at this and took a moment to take measure of the bridge. She turned back towards the viewscreen, addressing Naifeh at the helm. “Get us back to the transport, best possible impulse speed.” She then looked to Glal and Chester, “Make preparations to render aid to the passengers and crew of Ull’roall.” Trujillo turned to Jarrod and J’etris as they unfastened their leg and waist harnesses. “Make sure every bit of that ship is either completely destroyed or beamed into our shuttlebay for return to Bedivere. When we’re done here, as far as history will be concerned, this never happened. We’ll simply have hunted down a particularly well-armed brigand, whomever Command wants to pin this on.”
Chester nodded her agreement and relief. There was going to be a lot more work, but at least the immediate nightmare was now a spreading cloud of wreckage. It was a potent reminder not to take their present technologies too much for granted.
Trujillo yearned for the seclusion of her ready room so that she could find her emotional equilibrium in private. She had been found wanting in this scenario, and only the sage counsel of their temporally displaced counterparts and her executive officer had secured victory. It had been a humbling experience for her, a reminder that no matter how good you were, there was always someone out there who was better.
She resumed her place in the captain’s chair, accessed her laptop interface, and began taking stock of her ship’s condition.
* * *
The streaking star-scape vanished, the rays of light collapsing into single stars to reveal the battered transport Ull’roall being hounded by the strange, beetle-shaped attack ship.
“Fire phasers, hold on torpedoes until the transport is safely out of the detonation envelope,” Trujillo ordered. “Helm, pursuit course. Get on their tail and do your best to stay there.”
As the Jem’Hadar ship flashed past on the main viewer, Trujillo spared a glance toward Chester. “You said they preferred slashing, strafing attacks.”
Chester nodded, very glad the transport was still there. “They’re fast and maneuverable, and they make the most of it–especially when they’re working together.”
Reykjavík held position behind the Jem’Hadar vessel, peppering the smaller ship’s aft shields with orange bursts of stuttering twin-streamed phaser fire. The enemy’s shields held firm against the onslaught, and in response the attack ship launched a brilliant white projectile from an aft-facing launcher that slammed home against Reykjavík’s forward shields with staggering force.
The deck lurched and personnel were thrown forward against their restraints. A chorus of grunts and muttered curses resulted and even Trujillo looked impressed.
Chester glanced up at J’etris, who said, “The modifications to the shields are fully effective.”
Glal blanched. “That was effective? Felt like we got hit with an asteroid!”
J’etris grinned. “Yes, but we’re still here.”
“Forward shields holding at seventy-nine percent, Captain,” Jarrod advised, silently alarmed at the amount of shield degradation from a single impact.
The attack ship pulled relative-upward and vanished from the viewscreen in a maneuver Reykjavík couldn’t hope to follow.
Naifeh struggled at the helm to maintain an approximate trailing position as the ships looped over. “I’m losing her, sir!”
“Reinforcing aft and dorsal shields,” said J’etris. “They’ll come down on top of us and target the nacelles. The center of their ventral hull is a weak point if we can punch through their shields.” She was already targeting torpedoes to do just that, and as soon as the Jem’Hadar ship dropped down to begin its run, she fired.
“Do it,” Trujillo confirmed the order, pulling her swing-arm console up and into her lap from the side of her chair.
Reykjavík loosed a salvo of six torpedoes from her three forward-facing launchers, which arced hard over, cutting into the attack ship’s enviable turn radius. The vessel suddenly juked hard to port, then back to starboard before flipping over and diving relative to the course of the incoming ordnance.
“Mãe de deus!” DeSilva exclaimed without meaning to do so.
Only the last of the six torpedoes managed a proximity detonation, exploding just close enough to impact the smaller craft’s ventral shields as it pulled away.
“That was… impressive,” Trujillo allowed grudgingly. She referenced her laptop console before ordering, “Helm, hard about to zero-two-zero-mark-three-five-zero. J’etris, that should give you an aft torpedo angle on them.”
“Continuing phaser fire with all facing banks as they transit around our target perimeter, sir,” Jarrod called out. “Multiple hits, but no shield penetration as yet.”
“And this is after they’ve taken all those hits from Greyhound,” Glal noted dourly.
“And they’re more maneuverable,” said Chester. “We’re not going to make a lot of progress until we deal with that.” She called up a map of the sector on her console, looking for better terrain that might restrict the Jem’Hadar’s movements. The results were not promising.
J’etris let out a growl of frustration as the attack ship eluded her next spread of torpedoes.
Reykjavík’s phasers gamely blazed away at the darting attack ship, which continually rolled back and forth to absorb the impacts on different quarters and thereby prevented any specific shield grid from being whittled down to the point of collapse.
Naifeh, used to having an advantage in maneuverability due to Reykjavík’s overpowered impulse engines, struggled to keep pace with the Jem’Hadar and keep the starship’s most potent weapons systems aligned with the smaller ship.
Another improbable maneuver brought the attack ship relative nose-down towards Reykjavík’s dorsal perspective, and the attacker sent three seething, bluish poleron beams crashing against the starship’s shields.
Reykjavík bucked wildly, thrown momentarily off course and sent into a lateral spin as Naifeh fought to regain control.
Jarrod was thrown back against his support frame, grunting as the whip-sawing jolt snapped his head back and threatened whiplash should he survive this encounter.
Trujillo looked from Glal to Chester, her expression pinched. “This isn’t working. Ideas, people.”
Glal looked flummoxed, which in Trujillo’s opinion was a bad omen.
“Mines?” J’etris offered. “If we start kicking mines out aft of us, they’ll have to start altering their trajectory to avoid them.”
Chester nodded. “We’ll have to control how they come to us. The easiest way I can see to do that is to play possum, which should draw them in close for an efficient kill. But we’d better be pretty sure of getting them when we do it, because they won’t fall for it twice.”
“Their shields aren’t nearly depleted enough yet,” DeSilva called back from her post at Ops.
“And that’s not changing soon,” grumbled J’etris.
Chester glanced at the chart on her console again. “There’s a nearby system we might be able to use, but it would require we leave the transport.” She glanced at Trujillo. “I don’t think that’s an option, sir.”
“It’s not,” Trujillo confirmed. “With their firepower, they could have finished off that transport long before we arrived. They’re using it as bait. If we run, hoping they’ll follow, they’ll destroy the transport before pursuing us.” She turned to J’etris. “Start laying mines behind us at random intervals. Gravitic sensitivity with thruster capabilities. Program them to detonate only in the vicinity of the attack ship.”
“Yes sir,” said Jetris. She got to work.
Another strafing run, this time from their port-quarter, slammed into the shields with a jackhammer blow. The engineering station on the upper bridge level exploded, flaying the occupant of that seat with plexipolymer shrapnel that caused the woman at that post to gasp and then slump against her safety restraints. Additional, albeit less lethal detritus rained down throughout the rest of the bridge.
“Port shields down to twenty-eight percent; moderate hull buckling port side, primary hull,” DeSilva called out over a cacophony of alarms.
A fusillade from Reykjavík as the Jem’Hadar raced past her bow resulted in a prolonged phaser barrage and two photon hits out of a volley of six, thanks to Jarrod and J’etris’ expert coordination.
Glal freed himself from his restraints long enough to move to the side of the stricken petty officer at the Engineering station, checking for a pulse. He closed his eyes for a moment and looked to Trujillo, shaking his head before retreating to his post.
Chester and J’etris shared a look, J’etris openly concerned. There had already been far too many deaths, and no way of knowing the impact on the timeline. They had to end this, and quickly.
Trujillo absorbed the death of her crewmember, adding it to the tally of those aboard the destroyed freighter, the damaged transport, and the doomed crew of Greyhound, none of whom would have died in the ‘original’ iteration of this timeline. She clung to the illusory control she wielded over this situation, damning herself for failing when it really counted. So many battles behind her, so much experience, and yet none of it was helping in this most desperate of circumstances.
“Voli-Vox!” Glal blurted suddenly.
Trujillo looked askance at her XO, wondering if in the heat of the moment he’d slid off the proverbial rails. “The Tellarite game?”
He nodded vigorously. “Exactly!”
“I don’t see how lassoing a kivinch from a chariot has anythi–” Trujillo stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening. “Of course…”
She dropped her eyes to her laptop interface, typing madly at the controls. “Commander Chester, please take control of our primary tractor beam emitter from your station. The next time that beetle comes in range, we’re going to lower our shields and snare her. The tractor beam itself should prematurely detonate or throw off anything they send back towards us long enough for us to bracket their ship with torpedo spreads.”
“Should?” Garrett gawped from the Science station.
“They just hit one of our mines, sir,” DeSilva alerted. “They’re adjusting the trajectory of their attack run.”
“What kind of forces can our inertial dampeners compensate for?” Chester asked, transferring control. “This won’t do anyone any good if we get ourselves turned into paste.”
“Engineering,” Trujillo called, “all auxiliary power to inertial dampeners. We’re about to try something reckless and I don’t want us turned into Salsa Roja.”
“On it, Captain,” Kura-Ka answered with all the resignation of a man marching to the gallows.
“And make sure everyone is strapped in,” said Chester, her eyes on her display, fingers hovering over the controls. “All right. One Nantucket sleigh ride, coming right up.”
The attack ship circled around, dipping in for another pass. Chester waited. The moment before it came within range she called, “Lower shields!” to Jarrod and pounced.
The tractor beam flashed out, catching the Jem’Hadar in the forward ventral plating, where the ‘thorax’ of the beetle it mimicked would have been. It bucked, pitching up hard and to starboard, and this time, they followed.
The jolt threw Chester hard against the restraint harness, and she was suddenly very glad of the archaic safety measure. Without it, she would have gone flying. As it was, keeping hold of them was a hell of a job as they tried everything in the book to shake Reykjavík off. Chester grinned, wide and predatory. Let them try. It was beyond time to squash this bug.
Trujillo grunted at the jolt and the disconcerting sense of acceleration bleeding through the dampeners. “Fish on!” She called over her shoulder to the tactical officers flanking her. “Kill their engines!”
“With pleasure, sir,” said J’etris.
A flight of torpedoes raced ahead towards the wildly slaloming attack ship, gripped tightly in the cruiser’s tractor beam. Its engine nacelles were free from the beam’s grasp and vulnerable to the multiple impacts of the missiles in concert with Jarrod’s raking phaser fire.
“That’s it!” Trujillo crowed uncharacteristically. “Pour it on!”
A Jem’Hadar torpedo launched back towards them corkscrewed madly away, its targeting sensors scrambled by the tractor’s energies. An accompanying poleron blast, however, found its mark and lanced into the unshielded rim of Reykjavík’s saucer, blasting through several compartments to explode deep in the saucer’s interior.
Reykjavík shuddered, alarms wailed, and the bridge lighting flickered as the console now reconfigured for engineering functions became a riot of flashing red indicators.
An unmanned station next to Garrett’s science board crackled and sparked and the young officer drew her hands back just in time to avoid severe burns from arcing streamers of electrical current sizzling across her own console’s surface.
The chaos on the bridge was so distracting that Trujillo nearly missed the sight of the Jem’Hadar ship’s starboard nacelle exploding just as Reykjavík’s tractor emitter burned out.
“We’ve lost the tractor beam!” Chester announced. She looked up at the viewer and the Jem’Hadar limpingly trying to right itself, trailing atmosphere and plasma. There was vicious satisfaction in her voice as she added, “But it looks like they’re hurting a lot more.”
“Raise shields, all weapons continuous fire. Let’s finish this!” Trujillo growled, leaning as far forward as her restraints would allow with her fist clenched.
More torpedoes slammed home into the primary superstructure of the attack ship as rippling phaser fire scored back and forth across its hull. The ship slowly moved to come about just as its port nacelle was blasted free from its pylon to spin away on a random trajectory.
“Their shields are failing!” DeSilva blurted, heedless of bridge decorum now.
Naifeh piloted Reykjavík in a makeshift orbit, circling the Jem’Hadar vessel while keeping the cruiser bows-on to the attack ship as the starship worked to exhaust its torpedo stores and phaser energy.
“By the Great Hoof, what does it take to kill one of these things?” Glal exclaimed, dumbfounded at the smaller vessel’s resilience.
“A hell of a lot,” said Chester, “but we’re getting there.”
A final, blinding explosion heralded the end of the Jem’Hadar ship, the blast’s wavefront crashing against Reykjavík’s flagging shields and causing the deck beneath Trujillo’s feet to shudder yet again.
The captain sagged briefly in her chair, exhausted by the fight which had lasted mere minutes. She gave herself until the count of ten to tap her reserves, then straightened and released her safety restraints before standing.
“What’s our situation?”
DeSilva turned in her seat to address her captain. “Damage report, sir. Explosive decompression in several sections on Decks four, five, and six. Pressure doors and forcefields are in place and holding. Fire suppression systems have been activated and damage control teams are responding. Sickbay reports injuries and fatalities, but no firm numbers as yet.”
Chester ducked her head, using the excuse of unfastening her harness to hide her unhappiness at that; out of the corner of her eye she caught J’etris casting a look of transparent relief at Garrett, and hoped no one else was going to read too much into that.
Trujillo nodded wordlessly at this and took a moment to take measure of the bridge. She turned back towards the viewscreen, addressing Naifeh at the helm. “Get us back to the transport, best possible impulse speed.” She then looked to Glal and Chester, “Make preparations to render aid to the passengers and crew of Ull’roall.” Trujillo turned to Jarrod and J’etris as they unfastened their leg and waist harnesses. “Make sure every bit of that ship is either completely destroyed or beamed into our shuttlebay for return to Bedivere. When we’re done here, as far as history will be concerned, this never happened. We’ll simply have hunted down a particularly well-armed brigand, whomever Command wants to pin this on.”
Chester nodded her agreement and relief. There was going to be a lot more work, but at least the immediate nightmare was now a spreading cloud of wreckage. It was a potent reminder not to take their present technologies too much for granted.
Trujillo yearned for the seclusion of her ready room so that she could find her emotional equilibrium in private. She had been found wanting in this scenario, and only the sage counsel of their temporally displaced counterparts and her executive officer had secured victory. It had been a humbling experience for her, a reminder that no matter how good you were, there was always someone out there who was better.
She resumed her place in the captain’s chair, accessed her laptop interface, and began taking stock of her ship’s condition.
* * *
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Well, don't pin it on me. Fortitude wasn't even in the same sector. Just kidding. I'm enjoying this story and the time travel. The characters are well-written and your world-building, as RBS calls it, is spot-on. It's better than my own in my mind. Keep up the great work, Gibraltar!
* * *
Twenty-three flag-draped photon torpedo tubes rested atop support platforms at equidistant intervals throughout Reykjavík’s shuttle bay. The makeshift caskets were arrayed behind the captain’s lectern, each one illuminated by a cone of light projected from overhead. Flags and ship’s standards were carried by the members of honor guard; the flag of the Federation, that of Starfleet Command, and Reykjavík’s sigil all held aloft.
A call on the bosun’s whistle brought the crew to attention.
The service began, as they nearly always did, with the traditional words.
“We are gathered here today to pay final respects to our honored dead,” Trujillo said, her voice carefully controlled. “We have lost twenty-three members of our crew in addition to the seventy-two souls aboard the stalwart Border Service cutter Greyhound.
“The sacrifices of our fallen brethren are not in vain, as our efforts saved the lives of hundreds of civilians, perhaps more, placed in mortal danger by the depredations of a merciless enemy. Each of those who lay down their lives in defense of their fellow sentients did so knowing full well what was being asked of them.”
Trujillo had given this kind of eulogy more times than she cared to remember, but never for so many. She was justifiably proud of the fact that despite Reykjavík’s typical high-risk mission profile, the numbers of personnel lost under her command were surprisingly few. Not this time. This battle had cost them dearly, and Reykjavík’s sacrifice was nothing compared with that of Greyhound, whose entire crew had given their last full measure.
She gave each of their fallen comrades from Reykjavík their due, and then gave a more general testament to the captain and crew of Greyhound, none of whom she had known.
The service concluded with Chief Petty Officer Fraser playing the funerary dirge Going Home on the bagpipes to the accompaniment of Lt. Commander Kura-Ka playing the harp-like Zaranite ketuska. The pairing shouldn’t have worked, but somehow the harmonic dissonance between the instruments made the song even more stirring, a haunting lament.
Glal called the crew to attention, and then dismissed them so that the personnel could say their goodbyes individually.
He glanced up as Trujillo was deactivating her data-slate and collecting herself. “Nicely done, sir.”
Trujillo stepped down off the dais, nodding to Glal. “Thank you, Commander.”
The pair walked over to where the senior officers had gathered, joined by Chester and J’etris. Chester had her hands tightly clasped behind her, grim lines around her mouth and grief in her eyes. J’etris, next to her, was looking with equal grimness at the line of caskets.
“This shouldn’t have been their war,” said Chester quietly. “But this may have been one of its most important battles–even if we don’t get to tell anyone what really happened.”
“They came here looking to kill and to destroy,” Trujillo answered, “and it was our duty to stop them. This isn’t on you, either. This was a freak accident, a bizarre confluence of events that brought all of you here. Without your help it would have been impossible to stop them without far greater loss of life than we ultimately suffered.”
Chester’s look turned a little wry. “That could describe this whole war–a series of ugly freak events. I’m glad we were able to rescue something from it, and that we could be of assistance. That doesn’t make me regret it any less.”
Trujillo appeared thoughtful. “Nor I, Commander. Nonetheless, I’m grateful that it was your ship that survived the battle and the cross-temporal event, and that your captain selected you and Lieutenant J’etris to accompany us. Seeing that fifty years hence Starfleet is turning out officers of your caliber gives me hope for the future.”
That made Chester flush pink from chin to hairline. “Thank you, sir. That means a great deal.” She glanced at J’etris, whose reaction was limited to an expression of contained satisfaction. “To both of us.”
Glal addressed Trujillo. “We’re about fifteen minutes out from Bedivere and the debris field, sir.”
The captain favored their guests with a small smile. “Here’s hoping they’ve been able to repair much of the damage in your absence so that Captain Steenburg can get you home.” Her expression tightened with the realization of what they would be sent back to. “Not that we’re in any hurry to see you go, of course.”
“Tempting,” said J’etris, a little wistfully, “but we do have a job to get back to.”
“That you do,” Trujillo agreed soberly. She looked to Glal. “Commander, please make arrangements with Bedivere to retrieve their personnel and to collect the Jem’Hadar wreckage we managed to take aboard.”
“Aye, sir,” the XO affirmed smartly.
* * *
The Bedivere was indeed mostly repaired and moving under her own power, holding a safe distance out from the debris field. Captain Steenburg even looked as if she might have slept sometime in the last twenty-six hours. “Captain Trujillo,” she said, evidently relieved, “I take it from your return you were able to hunt down our stray. Though perhaps I should be offering you our repair crews now?”
Trujillo inclined her head from her seat on the bridge, the command center still showing visible signs of damage from the battle. “We’re patched up for the time being, Captain, though I’m certain there’s a dry-dock berth in our near future. The offer is appreciated, nonetheless.” She checked some figures on her armrest interface before adding, “We have wreckage from the Jem’Hadar fighter aboard, awaiting transport to your cargo bay. All the Jem’Hadar bodies and biological tissue were annihilated in the final explosion of their ship, so there are no remains to transfer over.”
“Happy to help any way we can,” Steenburg said, “and thank you–we’re standing by to receive them. I’d like to extend an invitation to you and your senior staff to join us for a drink or three. I suspect we’re in enough trouble with DTI that one after-battle party more or less won’t make much of a difference.”
Chester passed a hand over her face, clearly torn between horror and amusement.
Glal lowered his head, courting defeat at the hands of his captain’s taste for post-battle revels.
“Come now, Glal. You can’t object to a wake for those lost aboard our ships, can you? We fight and we drink. This is what we do,” Trujillo chided him.
“We are going to be in so much trouble,” muttered Chester.
A crewman stepped forward, handing two small wooden boxes to Trujillo, who thanked the young petty officer before turning to Chester and J’etris. “But first, a little memento of your time with us aboard Reykjavík.”
* * *
The Bedivere’s lounge had not fared well in the fight, but the wreckage had been cleared away, at least one of the replicators was working, and if there were still scorched patches on the floor, everyone present was pretty accustomed to the smell of burnt carpet by now. The drinks cabinet had indeed survived the attack, including some of Steenburg’s younger brother’s home-brewed mead. “Special occasions only,” she said, opening a bottle and offering it around. “He’s been sending it with me my entire career–at least he’s gotten better at making it.”
“It packs a punch,” Chester said by way of warning.
“Duly noted, Commander,” Glal said, pouring a round for the assembled officers.
Trujillo held up her glass in a toast. “To absent friends and comrades, fallen in the line of duty. May we always hold their honor sacred, and make them proud in the land of the living until we are reunited in Valhalla…” she shot a pointed look to J’etris, “...or Sto-vo-kor.”
J’etris returned the look with a grin.
Steenburg held up her glass as well. “May we remember and uphold that for which they gave their all, and defend it with similar courage.”
“Here, here!” Trujillo agreed. “Salud.”
They drank, and the toasts continued in multiple tongues from many worlds.
Then the stories began, the kind that became bigger with each retelling.
Trujillo poured the potent mead from the decanter into the glass with unsteady hands. “So, I told them that I’d informed their House of what they’d done, and unbeknownst to me, his father was only a figurehead. The Lord’s wife apparently held all the real political power in the family, wielded through her husband’s voice on the High Council.” Trujillo paused to take a sip of the bracing golden liquid, savoring its sweetness. “So, this Klingon warrior drops his blade, sinks to his knees and wails, “You told my mother?”
J’etris cackled. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we have a run-in with my extended family. I usually have to settle for breaking something over my cousins’ heads.”
Steenburg, mid-sip, made a face that illustrated how well previous encounters had gone.
“Nothing like family,” Trujillo chuckled.
“California hippies and traditionalist Klingons.” It was J’etris’s turn to make a face. “It’s a match made in hell.”
Trujillo shook her head, almost drunk enough to titter. “Birkenstocks and bat’leths, who would have guessed?”
“Oh yes. My mothers were very serious about making sure I stayed connected to my culture.”
Glal nodded sagely, raising his glass to emphasize the point. “Traditions are important. I’m not calling the Federation a Homo Sapiens-only-club by any stretch, but it would be quite easy to become subsumed by the all-pervasive human mega-culture. Your food, your holidays, even your music… it’s everywhere.”
Trujillo gave her XO an exaggerated side-eye. “My goodness but you’re cranky all of the sudden. Do it. Tell me to get off your lawn.”
“Bah!” Glal waved her away drunkenly, prompting laughter from the others. He sat down next to Chester, fixing a squinty, watery gaze on her.
“Be careful when you get home,” he told her. “I can’t imagine fighting a fleet of those things, let alone whatever they use for capital ships.”
“Believe me,” said Chester, with feeling, “you don’t want to see them. The fleet or the capital ships.” She took another swallow of her drink, glancing around the room. “We’ll be careful. As much as one can, in war.”
He nodded slowly. “I almost wish we were going in your place. We old soldiers are built for this, molded by decades of conflict. You were explorers, scientists, and diplomats thrown into a grist mill.” He glanced down into his now empty glass. “I guess we’re all old soldiers now.”
Chester huffed a laugh. “I’d try to tell you it’s not as bad as all that, but I’m not that good a liar. It’s not that we haven’t had horrors lurking around our borders in the past–it’s just they haven’t been the whole job before. Any advice from an experienced XO to a much less experienced one?”
“Help your captain see what she’s not apt to. All of us have blind spots, and an exec's job is to help the captain see what they might not otherwise. Be the Yin to her Yang, to use a human aphorism. And always be ready to step into her shoes at a moment’s notice, because you’ll never know when that moment’s going to arrive.”
He stared at Trujillo, who was now sitting at a table near the bar in quiet discussion with Captain Steenburg. “I’ll retire long before she promotes, I think. I don’t know what she’ll do without me…”
Chester looked down at her drink, swirling it gently. “Retirement isn’t a bad way to lose an XO,” she said quietly. “It’ll be all right. Though as I’m only three months into the position, I might not be the best one to talk–I remain unendingly grateful that Commander Faisal left notes. He’d been working with the Captain for more than ten years.”
Glal smiled a fatherly smile. “You’ll be great at it. You already are.”
* * *
By the bar, Steenburg eyed the conversation between their respective executive officers and said, “I suspect I’m going to be saying thank you very frequently to you, Captain. You saved our bacon, finished the job we couldn’t, and I think working with you has done my XO a world of good.”
Trujillo sipped at her drink and nodded. “You fought them so hard you got thrown back in time, Captain. That’s a burden I’ve not experienced. You also gave us everything we needed to stop the threat by entrusting me with two of your officers.” She nodded towards Chester. “Diane’s good, better than she knows. Still inexperienced, but war has a way of accelerating that learning curve. She’ll make a formidable commanding officer one day. She’s certainly got a wider range of skills than I do to call upon. Chester’s going to be the kind of captain you can send on any mission profile, not just chasing pirates around and bopping them on the head.”
Steenburg nodded her vehement agreement. “She’s good at that, too. The trouble is keeping her from going and doing it personally–but I don’t know a single good captain without that problem. That’s why the universe gave us XOs.”
“I’ll drink to that, Captain,” Trujillo acknowledged with a laugh, raising her glass.
* * *
Twenty-three flag-draped photon torpedo tubes rested atop support platforms at equidistant intervals throughout Reykjavík’s shuttle bay. The makeshift caskets were arrayed behind the captain’s lectern, each one illuminated by a cone of light projected from overhead. Flags and ship’s standards were carried by the members of honor guard; the flag of the Federation, that of Starfleet Command, and Reykjavík’s sigil all held aloft.
A call on the bosun’s whistle brought the crew to attention.
The service began, as they nearly always did, with the traditional words.
“We are gathered here today to pay final respects to our honored dead,” Trujillo said, her voice carefully controlled. “We have lost twenty-three members of our crew in addition to the seventy-two souls aboard the stalwart Border Service cutter Greyhound.
“The sacrifices of our fallen brethren are not in vain, as our efforts saved the lives of hundreds of civilians, perhaps more, placed in mortal danger by the depredations of a merciless enemy. Each of those who lay down their lives in defense of their fellow sentients did so knowing full well what was being asked of them.”
Trujillo had given this kind of eulogy more times than she cared to remember, but never for so many. She was justifiably proud of the fact that despite Reykjavík’s typical high-risk mission profile, the numbers of personnel lost under her command were surprisingly few. Not this time. This battle had cost them dearly, and Reykjavík’s sacrifice was nothing compared with that of Greyhound, whose entire crew had given their last full measure.
She gave each of their fallen comrades from Reykjavík their due, and then gave a more general testament to the captain and crew of Greyhound, none of whom she had known.
The service concluded with Chief Petty Officer Fraser playing the funerary dirge Going Home on the bagpipes to the accompaniment of Lt. Commander Kura-Ka playing the harp-like Zaranite ketuska. The pairing shouldn’t have worked, but somehow the harmonic dissonance between the instruments made the song even more stirring, a haunting lament.
Glal called the crew to attention, and then dismissed them so that the personnel could say their goodbyes individually.
He glanced up as Trujillo was deactivating her data-slate and collecting herself. “Nicely done, sir.”
Trujillo stepped down off the dais, nodding to Glal. “Thank you, Commander.”
The pair walked over to where the senior officers had gathered, joined by Chester and J’etris. Chester had her hands tightly clasped behind her, grim lines around her mouth and grief in her eyes. J’etris, next to her, was looking with equal grimness at the line of caskets.
“This shouldn’t have been their war,” said Chester quietly. “But this may have been one of its most important battles–even if we don’t get to tell anyone what really happened.”
“They came here looking to kill and to destroy,” Trujillo answered, “and it was our duty to stop them. This isn’t on you, either. This was a freak accident, a bizarre confluence of events that brought all of you here. Without your help it would have been impossible to stop them without far greater loss of life than we ultimately suffered.”
Chester’s look turned a little wry. “That could describe this whole war–a series of ugly freak events. I’m glad we were able to rescue something from it, and that we could be of assistance. That doesn’t make me regret it any less.”
Trujillo appeared thoughtful. “Nor I, Commander. Nonetheless, I’m grateful that it was your ship that survived the battle and the cross-temporal event, and that your captain selected you and Lieutenant J’etris to accompany us. Seeing that fifty years hence Starfleet is turning out officers of your caliber gives me hope for the future.”
That made Chester flush pink from chin to hairline. “Thank you, sir. That means a great deal.” She glanced at J’etris, whose reaction was limited to an expression of contained satisfaction. “To both of us.”
Glal addressed Trujillo. “We’re about fifteen minutes out from Bedivere and the debris field, sir.”
The captain favored their guests with a small smile. “Here’s hoping they’ve been able to repair much of the damage in your absence so that Captain Steenburg can get you home.” Her expression tightened with the realization of what they would be sent back to. “Not that we’re in any hurry to see you go, of course.”
“Tempting,” said J’etris, a little wistfully, “but we do have a job to get back to.”
“That you do,” Trujillo agreed soberly. She looked to Glal. “Commander, please make arrangements with Bedivere to retrieve their personnel and to collect the Jem’Hadar wreckage we managed to take aboard.”
“Aye, sir,” the XO affirmed smartly.
* * *
The Bedivere was indeed mostly repaired and moving under her own power, holding a safe distance out from the debris field. Captain Steenburg even looked as if she might have slept sometime in the last twenty-six hours. “Captain Trujillo,” she said, evidently relieved, “I take it from your return you were able to hunt down our stray. Though perhaps I should be offering you our repair crews now?”
Trujillo inclined her head from her seat on the bridge, the command center still showing visible signs of damage from the battle. “We’re patched up for the time being, Captain, though I’m certain there’s a dry-dock berth in our near future. The offer is appreciated, nonetheless.” She checked some figures on her armrest interface before adding, “We have wreckage from the Jem’Hadar fighter aboard, awaiting transport to your cargo bay. All the Jem’Hadar bodies and biological tissue were annihilated in the final explosion of their ship, so there are no remains to transfer over.”
“Happy to help any way we can,” Steenburg said, “and thank you–we’re standing by to receive them. I’d like to extend an invitation to you and your senior staff to join us for a drink or three. I suspect we’re in enough trouble with DTI that one after-battle party more or less won’t make much of a difference.”
Chester passed a hand over her face, clearly torn between horror and amusement.
Glal lowered his head, courting defeat at the hands of his captain’s taste for post-battle revels.
“Come now, Glal. You can’t object to a wake for those lost aboard our ships, can you? We fight and we drink. This is what we do,” Trujillo chided him.
“We are going to be in so much trouble,” muttered Chester.
A crewman stepped forward, handing two small wooden boxes to Trujillo, who thanked the young petty officer before turning to Chester and J’etris. “But first, a little memento of your time with us aboard Reykjavík.”
* * *
The Bedivere’s lounge had not fared well in the fight, but the wreckage had been cleared away, at least one of the replicators was working, and if there were still scorched patches on the floor, everyone present was pretty accustomed to the smell of burnt carpet by now. The drinks cabinet had indeed survived the attack, including some of Steenburg’s younger brother’s home-brewed mead. “Special occasions only,” she said, opening a bottle and offering it around. “He’s been sending it with me my entire career–at least he’s gotten better at making it.”
“It packs a punch,” Chester said by way of warning.
“Duly noted, Commander,” Glal said, pouring a round for the assembled officers.
Trujillo held up her glass in a toast. “To absent friends and comrades, fallen in the line of duty. May we always hold their honor sacred, and make them proud in the land of the living until we are reunited in Valhalla…” she shot a pointed look to J’etris, “...or Sto-vo-kor.”
J’etris returned the look with a grin.
Steenburg held up her glass as well. “May we remember and uphold that for which they gave their all, and defend it with similar courage.”
“Here, here!” Trujillo agreed. “Salud.”
They drank, and the toasts continued in multiple tongues from many worlds.
Then the stories began, the kind that became bigger with each retelling.
Trujillo poured the potent mead from the decanter into the glass with unsteady hands. “So, I told them that I’d informed their House of what they’d done, and unbeknownst to me, his father was only a figurehead. The Lord’s wife apparently held all the real political power in the family, wielded through her husband’s voice on the High Council.” Trujillo paused to take a sip of the bracing golden liquid, savoring its sweetness. “So, this Klingon warrior drops his blade, sinks to his knees and wails, “You told my mother?”
J’etris cackled. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we have a run-in with my extended family. I usually have to settle for breaking something over my cousins’ heads.”
Steenburg, mid-sip, made a face that illustrated how well previous encounters had gone.
“Nothing like family,” Trujillo chuckled.
“California hippies and traditionalist Klingons.” It was J’etris’s turn to make a face. “It’s a match made in hell.”
Trujillo shook her head, almost drunk enough to titter. “Birkenstocks and bat’leths, who would have guessed?”
“Oh yes. My mothers were very serious about making sure I stayed connected to my culture.”
Glal nodded sagely, raising his glass to emphasize the point. “Traditions are important. I’m not calling the Federation a Homo Sapiens-only-club by any stretch, but it would be quite easy to become subsumed by the all-pervasive human mega-culture. Your food, your holidays, even your music… it’s everywhere.”
Trujillo gave her XO an exaggerated side-eye. “My goodness but you’re cranky all of the sudden. Do it. Tell me to get off your lawn.”
“Bah!” Glal waved her away drunkenly, prompting laughter from the others. He sat down next to Chester, fixing a squinty, watery gaze on her.
“Be careful when you get home,” he told her. “I can’t imagine fighting a fleet of those things, let alone whatever they use for capital ships.”
“Believe me,” said Chester, with feeling, “you don’t want to see them. The fleet or the capital ships.” She took another swallow of her drink, glancing around the room. “We’ll be careful. As much as one can, in war.”
He nodded slowly. “I almost wish we were going in your place. We old soldiers are built for this, molded by decades of conflict. You were explorers, scientists, and diplomats thrown into a grist mill.” He glanced down into his now empty glass. “I guess we’re all old soldiers now.”
Chester huffed a laugh. “I’d try to tell you it’s not as bad as all that, but I’m not that good a liar. It’s not that we haven’t had horrors lurking around our borders in the past–it’s just they haven’t been the whole job before. Any advice from an experienced XO to a much less experienced one?”
“Help your captain see what she’s not apt to. All of us have blind spots, and an exec's job is to help the captain see what they might not otherwise. Be the Yin to her Yang, to use a human aphorism. And always be ready to step into her shoes at a moment’s notice, because you’ll never know when that moment’s going to arrive.”
He stared at Trujillo, who was now sitting at a table near the bar in quiet discussion with Captain Steenburg. “I’ll retire long before she promotes, I think. I don’t know what she’ll do without me…”
Chester looked down at her drink, swirling it gently. “Retirement isn’t a bad way to lose an XO,” she said quietly. “It’ll be all right. Though as I’m only three months into the position, I might not be the best one to talk–I remain unendingly grateful that Commander Faisal left notes. He’d been working with the Captain for more than ten years.”
Glal smiled a fatherly smile. “You’ll be great at it. You already are.”
* * *
By the bar, Steenburg eyed the conversation between their respective executive officers and said, “I suspect I’m going to be saying thank you very frequently to you, Captain. You saved our bacon, finished the job we couldn’t, and I think working with you has done my XO a world of good.”
Trujillo sipped at her drink and nodded. “You fought them so hard you got thrown back in time, Captain. That’s a burden I’ve not experienced. You also gave us everything we needed to stop the threat by entrusting me with two of your officers.” She nodded towards Chester. “Diane’s good, better than she knows. Still inexperienced, but war has a way of accelerating that learning curve. She’ll make a formidable commanding officer one day. She’s certainly got a wider range of skills than I do to call upon. Chester’s going to be the kind of captain you can send on any mission profile, not just chasing pirates around and bopping them on the head.”
Steenburg nodded her vehement agreement. “She’s good at that, too. The trouble is keeping her from going and doing it personally–but I don’t know a single good captain without that problem. That’s why the universe gave us XOs.”
“I’ll drink to that, Captain,” Trujillo acknowledged with a laugh, raising her glass.
* * *
YEAH, so....
Seems like the crew of Reykjavík isn't getting a fair shake. I mean, having to fight enemies from the future? Not very sporting. But it's a testimony to their courage and resilience also.
I agree with others who favor the no-nonsense approach the crews have taken towards the situation. I mean, even in the early 24th century, Starfleet taught something about temporal incursions, right?
But I have the feeling that cancelling one rogue Jem'Hadar fighter won't end the troubles of either crew.
Looking forward to more shenanigans!
Seems like the crew of Reykjavík isn't getting a fair shake. I mean, having to fight enemies from the future? Not very sporting. But it's a testimony to their courage and resilience also.
I agree with others who favor the no-nonsense approach the crews have taken towards the situation. I mean, even in the early 24th century, Starfleet taught something about temporal incursions, right?
But I have the feeling that cancelling one rogue Jem'Hadar fighter won't end the troubles of either crew.
Looking forward to more shenanigans!
I love your stories, @Gibraltar. Always fantastic from start to finish, though I'm hoping this one has a little coda yet 
@Gibraltar's stories are some of the best that I've ever read. Basically, anyone from United Trek is a great author.
Sweet wrap! Thanks!! rbs
* * *
“You think they got home in one piece, sir?” Glal asked in the confines of Trujillo’s ready room.
“I hope so. We saw them slingshot around that star and vanish in an eddy of chroniton radiation. I have to believe that they got back to their temporal point of origin,” Trujillo said.
“I wish we could know how their war ended,” he said, issuing a gloomy sigh.
Trujillo nodded. “Fifty years or thereabouts until the entire quadrant is fighting for its collective life. I’ve been banging the drum for Starfleet to engage in more weapons and shield research for nearly ten years, and now I’m going to have to shut my mouth lest Temporal Investigations accuse me of trying to alter the future.”
Glal snorted derisively. “Who cares what they think?”
“According to Captain Steenburg, sometime between now and then DTI gets some teeth.”
“Ooooooh,” Glal waggled his thick fingers on both hands dramatically, “scientists and bureaucrats with teeth! So intimidating!”
“The captain seemed suitably concerned, so I’m going to take her word for it,” Trujillo countered. “Even in our time a critical report filed by one of their agents could cause trouble for an officer without sufficient patronage or political cover.
“The next few weeks will be difficult. While the ship’s under repair, we’re all going to be interrogated by Temporal Investigations personnel. Every detail of our encounter will be dissected and analyzed. Not talking about it with each other after such a grilling will be the hardest part.”
She looked pointedly across the desk at her XO. “Which means, my friend, that after this conversation concludes, we never talk about this again. Not in private, not over drinks in some quiet corner of a bar on Argelia. Never again.” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an order. This never happened. Are we clear?”
“As Arcadian crystal, Captain,” he replied.
Trujillo poured a measure of Don Julio for each of them, pushing Glal’s glass across the desk to him. She raised her own. “To the brave crew of the starship Bedivere, most of whom have yet to be born.”
They drank to that, and true to their word, they never spoke of it again.
* * *
The war was over. It had ended a little over a year after the Bedivere returned to its own time. And it had exacted a heavy price.
What was left of the Bedivere was spread out over the Deep Space Nine wardroom table. There wasn’t much, just the few personal effects rescue teams had managed to salvage from the wreckage still on Cardassia. They were saying they’d try to salvage more, but the stubbornly smoldering fires throughout the ship’s carcass made that incredibly unlikely.
Chester looked down at the scant detritus, shoulders hunched. She was still moving slowly, courtesy of the extensive surgeries that had rebuilt her abdomen from the equally extensive damage a Jem’Hadar knife had done. She was still waiting on the last of a series of reconstructive surgeries that would allow what remained of her optic nerve to accept an artificial eye. In the meantime, she’d been running into things a lot. J’etris had taken to walking on her right side, covering her blind spot, without a word. Chester was grateful, but she hated needing it in equal measure.
There were a hundred and thirty seven survivors of the destruction of the Bedivere, of a crew of seven hundred fifty, and the majority of them had died in the first forty minutes after Chester had taken command. She’d been told by enough people that it was a miracle there had been any survivors at all, with a crew trapped aboard a crashing starship; she was heartily sick of it. It was like they expected her to simply accept having lost so many.
There were a lot of things here that would never be claimed. Chester reached out to run careful fingers over the battered remains of a pot from one of Captain Steenburg’s orchids, minus the plant that had occupied it, then lifted it. She’d get it back to Steenburg’s brother.
“Diane,” said J’etris, and Chester turned around, then turned a little further to compensate for her eye, finding J’etris with a cup in her hands. It took her a moment to recognise it. J’etris put it into her outstretched hand, and she turned it carefully to find the engraving intact: U.S.S. REYKJAVÍK NCC-3109. ‘First to Advance, Last to Retreat.’
The wooden box Captain Trujillo had presented it to her in had of course been obliterated–but the duranium coffee mug had hardly a scratch.
Chester weighed it in her hand, sniffed, using the back of her sleeve to wipe at her face. “Of course,” she said. “Of course this survived.” She gave J’etris a damp, wobbly smile. “I don’t know why I even bother to be surprised.”
“Do you think it will help you with your decision?” J’etris asked, her voice quiet.
Chester tucked the orchid pot under her elbow and turned the mug over in her hands. “I certainly know what she would say,” she said. “They’re offering me a state-of-the-art warship. I don’t want to be a soldier. I think–I mean, I hope–that’s not what Starfleet needs right now. Admiral Ross says he wants people to bring us back from our military role, but…”
“You think it is far too likely you’ll be pulled back into that role,” said J’etris.
Chester bobbed her head in a small, unhappy nod. “I’m good at it. Starfleet is very good at using your strengths.”
J’etris gave her a long thoughtful look. “I don’t think I have ever met a single person who’s succeeded at using any strength of yours that you weren’t fully willing to give them. And war is hardly the only thing you’re good at. In fact, it might be the least helpful of your current skills just now.”
“And leaving for the Diplomatic Corps right now would feel like running away,” said Chester quietly, still rolling the mug over and over in her hands. “I’m no good at that. And it doesn’t seem right. Not after…” She stopped, staring at the engraving again. The quiet hum of station systems filled the air; there were very few survivors still on their feet, and for the moment they had the room almost to themselves. The officer logging visitors and activity was politely ignoring them, likely inured to such conversations. The Bedivere was hardly the only ship lost.
“I’d always assumed it was one of grandmama’s friends who sponsored my application to the Academy,” Chester said, after a long while. “A retired Admiral taking an interest in me? It seemed like the only reasonable explanation. Grandmother’s network is expansive.”
J’etris looked down at the mug, up at her friend’s face with burgeoning suspicion. “What exactly was this retired Admiral’s name?”
Chester looked up at her, the corner of her mouth turning up–the closest to a smile she’d gotten in weeks. “Admiral Nandi Trujillo.”
Her attention returned to the mug in her hands. “I think I’m just realizing how much that is to live up to,” she said softly. “I guess I’d better get started.”
* * *
END
“You think they got home in one piece, sir?” Glal asked in the confines of Trujillo’s ready room.
“I hope so. We saw them slingshot around that star and vanish in an eddy of chroniton radiation. I have to believe that they got back to their temporal point of origin,” Trujillo said.
“I wish we could know how their war ended,” he said, issuing a gloomy sigh.
Trujillo nodded. “Fifty years or thereabouts until the entire quadrant is fighting for its collective life. I’ve been banging the drum for Starfleet to engage in more weapons and shield research for nearly ten years, and now I’m going to have to shut my mouth lest Temporal Investigations accuse me of trying to alter the future.”
Glal snorted derisively. “Who cares what they think?”
“According to Captain Steenburg, sometime between now and then DTI gets some teeth.”
“Ooooooh,” Glal waggled his thick fingers on both hands dramatically, “scientists and bureaucrats with teeth! So intimidating!”
“The captain seemed suitably concerned, so I’m going to take her word for it,” Trujillo countered. “Even in our time a critical report filed by one of their agents could cause trouble for an officer without sufficient patronage or political cover.
“The next few weeks will be difficult. While the ship’s under repair, we’re all going to be interrogated by Temporal Investigations personnel. Every detail of our encounter will be dissected and analyzed. Not talking about it with each other after such a grilling will be the hardest part.”
She looked pointedly across the desk at her XO. “Which means, my friend, that after this conversation concludes, we never talk about this again. Not in private, not over drinks in some quiet corner of a bar on Argelia. Never again.” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an order. This never happened. Are we clear?”
“As Arcadian crystal, Captain,” he replied.
Trujillo poured a measure of Don Julio for each of them, pushing Glal’s glass across the desk to him. She raised her own. “To the brave crew of the starship Bedivere, most of whom have yet to be born.”
They drank to that, and true to their word, they never spoke of it again.
* * *
The war was over. It had ended a little over a year after the Bedivere returned to its own time. And it had exacted a heavy price.
What was left of the Bedivere was spread out over the Deep Space Nine wardroom table. There wasn’t much, just the few personal effects rescue teams had managed to salvage from the wreckage still on Cardassia. They were saying they’d try to salvage more, but the stubbornly smoldering fires throughout the ship’s carcass made that incredibly unlikely.
Chester looked down at the scant detritus, shoulders hunched. She was still moving slowly, courtesy of the extensive surgeries that had rebuilt her abdomen from the equally extensive damage a Jem’Hadar knife had done. She was still waiting on the last of a series of reconstructive surgeries that would allow what remained of her optic nerve to accept an artificial eye. In the meantime, she’d been running into things a lot. J’etris had taken to walking on her right side, covering her blind spot, without a word. Chester was grateful, but she hated needing it in equal measure.
There were a hundred and thirty seven survivors of the destruction of the Bedivere, of a crew of seven hundred fifty, and the majority of them had died in the first forty minutes after Chester had taken command. She’d been told by enough people that it was a miracle there had been any survivors at all, with a crew trapped aboard a crashing starship; she was heartily sick of it. It was like they expected her to simply accept having lost so many.
There were a lot of things here that would never be claimed. Chester reached out to run careful fingers over the battered remains of a pot from one of Captain Steenburg’s orchids, minus the plant that had occupied it, then lifted it. She’d get it back to Steenburg’s brother.
“Diane,” said J’etris, and Chester turned around, then turned a little further to compensate for her eye, finding J’etris with a cup in her hands. It took her a moment to recognise it. J’etris put it into her outstretched hand, and she turned it carefully to find the engraving intact: U.S.S. REYKJAVÍK NCC-3109. ‘First to Advance, Last to Retreat.’
The wooden box Captain Trujillo had presented it to her in had of course been obliterated–but the duranium coffee mug had hardly a scratch.
Chester weighed it in her hand, sniffed, using the back of her sleeve to wipe at her face. “Of course,” she said. “Of course this survived.” She gave J’etris a damp, wobbly smile. “I don’t know why I even bother to be surprised.”
“Do you think it will help you with your decision?” J’etris asked, her voice quiet.
Chester tucked the orchid pot under her elbow and turned the mug over in her hands. “I certainly know what she would say,” she said. “They’re offering me a state-of-the-art warship. I don’t want to be a soldier. I think–I mean, I hope–that’s not what Starfleet needs right now. Admiral Ross says he wants people to bring us back from our military role, but…”
“You think it is far too likely you’ll be pulled back into that role,” said J’etris.
Chester bobbed her head in a small, unhappy nod. “I’m good at it. Starfleet is very good at using your strengths.”
J’etris gave her a long thoughtful look. “I don’t think I have ever met a single person who’s succeeded at using any strength of yours that you weren’t fully willing to give them. And war is hardly the only thing you’re good at. In fact, it might be the least helpful of your current skills just now.”
“And leaving for the Diplomatic Corps right now would feel like running away,” said Chester quietly, still rolling the mug over and over in her hands. “I’m no good at that. And it doesn’t seem right. Not after…” She stopped, staring at the engraving again. The quiet hum of station systems filled the air; there were very few survivors still on their feet, and for the moment they had the room almost to themselves. The officer logging visitors and activity was politely ignoring them, likely inured to such conversations. The Bedivere was hardly the only ship lost.
“I’d always assumed it was one of grandmama’s friends who sponsored my application to the Academy,” Chester said, after a long while. “A retired Admiral taking an interest in me? It seemed like the only reasonable explanation. Grandmother’s network is expansive.”
J’etris looked down at the mug, up at her friend’s face with burgeoning suspicion. “What exactly was this retired Admiral’s name?”
Chester looked up at her, the corner of her mouth turning up–the closest to a smile she’d gotten in weeks. “Admiral Nandi Trujillo.”
Her attention returned to the mug in her hands. “I think I’m just realizing how much that is to live up to,” she said softly. “I guess I’d better get started.”
* * *
END
A fitting conclusion. Well done. I enjoyed the whole story very much.
A fun little time travel trope...
As Douglas Adams stated, the primary damage caused by time travel is to the English language, which had will be found to will have needed at least 27 additional verb tenses in addition to the familiar 9 (past, present, future, past perfect, etc.)
However the future perfect tense was abandoned as time travel had will made it clear that it isn't.
Thanks!! rbs
As Douglas Adams stated, the primary damage caused by time travel is to the English language, which had will be found to will have needed at least 27 additional verb tenses in addition to the familiar 9 (past, present, future, past perfect, etc.)
However the future perfect tense was abandoned as time travel had will made it clear that it isn't.
Thanks!! rbs
Great ending! I wouldn't mind seeing Diane Chester and J'etris in some future series of your, @Gibraltar. Keep up with the amazing work, please!
Most excellent.
To those lost in war and peace, past, present, and future.
May their memories be a blessing.
May their memories be a blessing.
Well, those two characters belong to SevereAnnoyance, and you can read up on their Interpreter series (including those characters) at Ad Astra.
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That was a very intriguing and satisfying - if sad - conclusion to a fascinating tale. One question, if I may: was the last scene set up by something in a story by SeverAnnoyance. The events it follows were unexpectedly - at least to me - catastrophic, especially given all they'd already been through in the earlier scenes of this story. Thanks, as always, for another enjoyable tale.
Yes, the fate of USS Bedivere and her crew is a fixed event in SevereAnnoyance's series, a tragic post-script to the Dominion War, but one that has a strong formative influence on soon-to-be Captain Chester.
It's just a jump to the left...
I'm a big time travel nerd which means I'm fussy about how it's done. Executing the concept in the right way isn't easy in the trek universe, as TT is usually reduced to a commonplace, pedestrian affair. So, my hat's off to you for making it fun and interesting again.
Interesting that the slingshot effect was used here. I wonder just how common that knowledge is among Starfleet?
Keep your stories coming, buddy!
