Stardate 79627.2
They came for him in his dreams, as they were often wont to do.
They were in the Sickbay, the purgatory his subconscious seemed unable to escape. Again, he was subjected to the agonizing realization of just how far the captain would go… had gone already.
Over two decades of psychotherapy had been unable to quench the nightmares entirely, so profound was the trauma he’d endured.
The towering, muscular Bolian, the gentle giant, lay atop the biobed mutilated and enslaved by Borg implants. An acknowledged pacifist who had steadfastly refused to take part in the captain’s macabre vision, he had been forced to do the man’s bidding anyway. Compliance was not optional.
That had been the day he’d decided. As a Starfleet officer he could countenance no more. He and some of the others had commandeered a shuttle and fled, out into the unexplored reaches of an alien galaxy.
He had naively believed he had left the last of the horrors behind him on that ship of the damned. Had he known what atrocities awaited him in the savage garden of the Large Magellanic Cloud, he might well have remained behind, consequences be damned.
The ship’s intercom jolted him from the nightmare just seconds before he would have begun screaming. That’s how he usually woke from this particular abeyant terror.
“Bridge to the captain. We’ve received a distress call from a Corvallen passenger ship in an adjoining sector. They appear to be under attack from Romulan vessels, affiliation unknown.”
He rolled onto his side, then sat up with a groan, levering his legs over the edge of the bed. “Understood,” he said heavily, his voice thick with sleep. “Set intercept course and engage at max speed. I’ll be topside presently.”
He reached out a hand to wake her, only to find that side of the bed empty and cold to the touch.
She’s a thousand light-years away now, he reminded himself, his heart racing with an inexplicable rush of adrenaline. He forced himself to his feet before his maudlin thoughts could immobilize him.
He was in and out of the sonic shower in under thirty seconds, taking less than a minute to don his uniform jumpsuit. He ran a brush through his hair, which only now in his forty-fifth year was starting to grey, albeit unevenly. He checked the proper placement of his combadge and his four rank pips and found them acceptable. Having decided that he was sufficiently presentable to resume shipboard duty, Brett Lightner stepped out of his quarters.
* * *
Captain Lightner entered onto the bridge, the turbolift doors opening to a soft susurration of voices in overlapping conversations. He immediately assessed the mood of the bridge crew, finding them calm but focused. The forward viewscreen showed the expected warping starfield as he made his way to the center seat.
The bridge was dimly lit, red tell-tails engaged to signify red-alert status. The relative darkness served to enhance the brightness of the consoles and holographic interfaces at the various workstations.
The ship’s XO, the ascetic Jürgen Wilt, avoided the captain’s chair at every opportunity. The man stubbornly remained in his own seat to the captain’s immediate right. Lightner seated himself next to him.
“What have we got, Jürgen?”
The interminably reserved Wilt recited, “Corvallen ship, the Invoxsim. Federation-flagged, registry out of Minos Korva. Registered flight plan indicates she’s carrying four-hundred forty passengers and a crew of seventy-nine, bound for Regulus. They sent an initial distress call saying they’d been attacked by two Romulan T’Liss-class warbirds and that they were trying to make it to the Etroth Nebula to seek shelter.”
“ETA to intercept?”
“Thirty-seven minutes at warp nine-point-nine-nine-three, sir.”
Lightner frowned, rubbing his chin. “You mentioned something about no ID’s on the ships?”
“Correct, Captain. The Corvallens said neither of the ships had visible livery, so we’re unable to determine which faction they might belong to.”
From the arch console behind the two, the cybernetic Tactical Officer 1971 offered, “The T’Liss-class cruiser is a recent design, Captain, and is used by both the Romulan Free State and the New Rihann faction. There have also been reports of several of this class ship having been sold to non-affiliated insurgent groups within the Romulan zone of influence.”
Lightner cast a glance over his shoulder, “So, it could basically be just about anybody?”
The cyborg half-smirked, replying in his digitized voice, “Yes, sir.”
Lightner cocked his head in an oh-well gesture and turned back to face the viewscreen. “Open a channel to the Corvallen ship.”
“Aye, sir. Channel open.”
“This is Captain Brett Lightner of the Federation starship Gibraltar. We have received your distress call and are en route to render assistance. What is your current situation?”
The viewscreen flared to life, displaying the juddering image of a vaguely reptilian-looking Corvallen female in a battered, smoke-filled command center.
“Captain, we remain under attack by two Romulan ships. They’ve nearly neutralized our shielding, and our propulsion systems are heavily damaged. They’ve opened communications with us just long enough to demand we turn over one of our passengers, a Romulan national. There’s little chance of our reaching the nebula now, given the dama—”
The image froze, oscillated and then winked out, replaced by the rushing starfield.
“Rina, what was that?” Lightner asked the Operations officer.
Lieutenant Rina Wójcik, a spritely female with long auburn hair tied into a single braid, looked back from her station near the front of the bridge. “Transmission jammed at the source, Captain.”
Lightner closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Open a channel in the clear, directed towards those coordinates.”
He stood as Wójcik acknowledged the order.
“Romulan vessels, this is the Federation starship Gibraltar. We are on our way to your location. You have attacked a vessel in Federation space in violation of treaty. You will stand down and discontinue your attack, or we will take steps to neutralize your ships upon our arrival. If you do not reply within thirty-seconds, I will take that as a refusal to comply with my directives, and I will respond accordingly.”
He signaled for Wójcik to terminate the transmission and turned to face his executive officer. “Thoughts?”
The diminutive Commander Wilt frowned. “This appears to be another example of inter-factional strife among the Romulans. The person aboard the Corvallen ship they’re after is probably related to a faction warlord, or some other Romulan power broker. They’ll likely have snatched the target and have cloaked and be well away by the time we arrive, sir.”
Lightner nodded grudging assent, “That’s a possibility.” He looked over Wilt’s head to where 1971 sat behind the horseshoe Tactical station. “Seventy-One, how will we fare against two T’Liss-class ships?”
1971’s eyes flickered as he completed a series of calculations. “We would likely sustain mild-to-moderate damage, sir, in a worst-case engagement. However, all things being equal, a Ross-class starship is more than a match for two vessels of that design.”
“Still, if it comes to a fight I’d rather ensure we had the advantage,” Lightner allowed. “Any other starships in the area responding to this distress call?”
“Rustazh and Allegiant, but they’re both over three hours away, sir.”
“It’s up to us, then.”
“Their thirty seconds are up, sir,” Wójcik noted.
Lightner glanced at the ship’s chronometer, now set to count down their ETA, a trick he’d picked up from his time as a young helmsman. “I’m going to go report this to Command. If this is the Free State or one of the other major factions, this could create diplomatic waves. Best to keep Starfleet in the loop.”
As Lightner stepped through the doors to his ready room, Lieutenant Wójcik cast a look back at Commander Wilt. Though the man met her gaze unflinchingly, he nodded almost imperceptibly. He shifted his eyes in silent rebuke, and she turned back to her station.
Her message had been clear.
Do you think he’s up for this?
* * *
They came for him in his dreams, as they were often wont to do.
They were in the Sickbay, the purgatory his subconscious seemed unable to escape. Again, he was subjected to the agonizing realization of just how far the captain would go… had gone already.
Over two decades of psychotherapy had been unable to quench the nightmares entirely, so profound was the trauma he’d endured.
The towering, muscular Bolian, the gentle giant, lay atop the biobed mutilated and enslaved by Borg implants. An acknowledged pacifist who had steadfastly refused to take part in the captain’s macabre vision, he had been forced to do the man’s bidding anyway. Compliance was not optional.
That had been the day he’d decided. As a Starfleet officer he could countenance no more. He and some of the others had commandeered a shuttle and fled, out into the unexplored reaches of an alien galaxy.
He had naively believed he had left the last of the horrors behind him on that ship of the damned. Had he known what atrocities awaited him in the savage garden of the Large Magellanic Cloud, he might well have remained behind, consequences be damned.
The ship’s intercom jolted him from the nightmare just seconds before he would have begun screaming. That’s how he usually woke from this particular abeyant terror.
“Bridge to the captain. We’ve received a distress call from a Corvallen passenger ship in an adjoining sector. They appear to be under attack from Romulan vessels, affiliation unknown.”
He rolled onto his side, then sat up with a groan, levering his legs over the edge of the bed. “Understood,” he said heavily, his voice thick with sleep. “Set intercept course and engage at max speed. I’ll be topside presently.”
He reached out a hand to wake her, only to find that side of the bed empty and cold to the touch.
She’s a thousand light-years away now, he reminded himself, his heart racing with an inexplicable rush of adrenaline. He forced himself to his feet before his maudlin thoughts could immobilize him.
He was in and out of the sonic shower in under thirty seconds, taking less than a minute to don his uniform jumpsuit. He ran a brush through his hair, which only now in his forty-fifth year was starting to grey, albeit unevenly. He checked the proper placement of his combadge and his four rank pips and found them acceptable. Having decided that he was sufficiently presentable to resume shipboard duty, Brett Lightner stepped out of his quarters.
* * *
Captain Lightner entered onto the bridge, the turbolift doors opening to a soft susurration of voices in overlapping conversations. He immediately assessed the mood of the bridge crew, finding them calm but focused. The forward viewscreen showed the expected warping starfield as he made his way to the center seat.
The bridge was dimly lit, red tell-tails engaged to signify red-alert status. The relative darkness served to enhance the brightness of the consoles and holographic interfaces at the various workstations.
The ship’s XO, the ascetic Jürgen Wilt, avoided the captain’s chair at every opportunity. The man stubbornly remained in his own seat to the captain’s immediate right. Lightner seated himself next to him.
“What have we got, Jürgen?”
The interminably reserved Wilt recited, “Corvallen ship, the Invoxsim. Federation-flagged, registry out of Minos Korva. Registered flight plan indicates she’s carrying four-hundred forty passengers and a crew of seventy-nine, bound for Regulus. They sent an initial distress call saying they’d been attacked by two Romulan T’Liss-class warbirds and that they were trying to make it to the Etroth Nebula to seek shelter.”
“ETA to intercept?”
“Thirty-seven minutes at warp nine-point-nine-nine-three, sir.”
Lightner frowned, rubbing his chin. “You mentioned something about no ID’s on the ships?”
“Correct, Captain. The Corvallens said neither of the ships had visible livery, so we’re unable to determine which faction they might belong to.”
From the arch console behind the two, the cybernetic Tactical Officer 1971 offered, “The T’Liss-class cruiser is a recent design, Captain, and is used by both the Romulan Free State and the New Rihann faction. There have also been reports of several of this class ship having been sold to non-affiliated insurgent groups within the Romulan zone of influence.”
Lightner cast a glance over his shoulder, “So, it could basically be just about anybody?”
The cyborg half-smirked, replying in his digitized voice, “Yes, sir.”
Lightner cocked his head in an oh-well gesture and turned back to face the viewscreen. “Open a channel to the Corvallen ship.”
“Aye, sir. Channel open.”
“This is Captain Brett Lightner of the Federation starship Gibraltar. We have received your distress call and are en route to render assistance. What is your current situation?”
The viewscreen flared to life, displaying the juddering image of a vaguely reptilian-looking Corvallen female in a battered, smoke-filled command center.
“Captain, we remain under attack by two Romulan ships. They’ve nearly neutralized our shielding, and our propulsion systems are heavily damaged. They’ve opened communications with us just long enough to demand we turn over one of our passengers, a Romulan national. There’s little chance of our reaching the nebula now, given the dama—”
The image froze, oscillated and then winked out, replaced by the rushing starfield.
“Rina, what was that?” Lightner asked the Operations officer.
Lieutenant Rina Wójcik, a spritely female with long auburn hair tied into a single braid, looked back from her station near the front of the bridge. “Transmission jammed at the source, Captain.”
Lightner closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Open a channel in the clear, directed towards those coordinates.”
He stood as Wójcik acknowledged the order.
“Romulan vessels, this is the Federation starship Gibraltar. We are on our way to your location. You have attacked a vessel in Federation space in violation of treaty. You will stand down and discontinue your attack, or we will take steps to neutralize your ships upon our arrival. If you do not reply within thirty-seconds, I will take that as a refusal to comply with my directives, and I will respond accordingly.”
He signaled for Wójcik to terminate the transmission and turned to face his executive officer. “Thoughts?”
The diminutive Commander Wilt frowned. “This appears to be another example of inter-factional strife among the Romulans. The person aboard the Corvallen ship they’re after is probably related to a faction warlord, or some other Romulan power broker. They’ll likely have snatched the target and have cloaked and be well away by the time we arrive, sir.”
Lightner nodded grudging assent, “That’s a possibility.” He looked over Wilt’s head to where 1971 sat behind the horseshoe Tactical station. “Seventy-One, how will we fare against two T’Liss-class ships?”
1971’s eyes flickered as he completed a series of calculations. “We would likely sustain mild-to-moderate damage, sir, in a worst-case engagement. However, all things being equal, a Ross-class starship is more than a match for two vessels of that design.”
“Still, if it comes to a fight I’d rather ensure we had the advantage,” Lightner allowed. “Any other starships in the area responding to this distress call?”
“Rustazh and Allegiant, but they’re both over three hours away, sir.”
“It’s up to us, then.”
“Their thirty seconds are up, sir,” Wójcik noted.
Lightner glanced at the ship’s chronometer, now set to count down their ETA, a trick he’d picked up from his time as a young helmsman. “I’m going to go report this to Command. If this is the Free State or one of the other major factions, this could create diplomatic waves. Best to keep Starfleet in the loop.”
As Lightner stepped through the doors to his ready room, Lieutenant Wójcik cast a look back at Commander Wilt. Though the man met her gaze unflinchingly, he nodded almost imperceptibly. He shifted his eyes in silent rebuke, and she turned back to her station.
Her message had been clear.
Do you think he’s up for this?
* * *
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