Author’s Note: This short story is set in February 2385, approximately six months before the events of Star Trek: The Fall: Revelation and Dust. As the pilot for Star Trek: Cerulean remains a work-in-progress, feel free to think of this as a sort of prequel to those events.
As she sat in the pilot’s seat of the shuttlecraft Holyfield, Karen Snow couldn’t help but grin at the irony of her situation. I’ve always been a terrible chess player, she mused, which is probably why the captain chose me to be his pawn against the Breen. The Starfleet officer entered a series of commands on the console in front of her, which prompted a warning from the shuttle’s onboard computer: “Venting warp plasma is not recommended.”
“Disengage safety protocols. Authorization: Snow-35-Lamba-Phi.”
“Safety protocols disengaged. Venting warp plasma.”
Brushing a lock of dark blonde hair behind her right ear, Snow leaned away from the computer console. Moments later, she felt a slight vibration aft of the vessel’s cockpit, followed by the familiar hiss of escaping gas. This shouldn’t take long, she thought.
Whereas other commanders may have been reluctant to send a senior officer on a dangerous assignment, Captain Clark Terrell had no compunction about allowing Lieutenant Commander Snow to risk both her life and one the Cerulean’s shuttles in order to draw the Breen out of hiding—precisely because the risk to the science officer was small with the Cerulean only a short distance away, the vessel safely ensconced inside a nebula, and because the science officer was an accomplished shuttle pilot. Although not as skilled as Terrell himself—the captain having spent the bulk of his time as a junior officer piloting starships and shuttlecraft of varying shapes and sizes—Snow was more than capable of maneuvering a Type-11 shuttle in a combat situation, and was also the only member of his crew familiar with Breen ship capabilities.
Terrell stood aft of the bridge’s command well and watched the proceedings with aplomb, content to allow his executive officer, Commander Michael Flasch, to direct any and all preparations for the upcoming gambit. In contrast to many of his peers, the captain preferred to speak or issue orders only when necessary, as he believed said commands would carry greater weight with and urgency among his officers. That he adhered to such a philosophy didn’t mean that Terrell wasn’t given to offering advice or to quietly pointing out potential mistakes by his bridge crew. Stepping toward the auxiliary tactical station, Terrell drew the attention of the female Bajoran working there—an ensign named Thenn Salista. “Ensign, can you tell me our compliment of photon torpedoes?”
The younger officer blinked in surprise. “Sir?”
“How many torpedoes is this vessel carrying?”
Thenn furrowed her brow, momentarily lost in thought. “Well,” she began, “I know we normally carry as many as two-hundred-fifty, with a maximum capacity of four hundred.”
Terrell nodded, his expression betraying his mild amusement at her predicament. “That’s very good, Ensign, but it’s also not what I asked you. Do you know how many we have right now?”
Thenn shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I’ll have to…”
Terrell cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. Lieutenant Sran told me ten minutes ago.” He held up a finger. “But make sure that you know, because you may not always have the benefit of another officer’s knowledge when the ship’s blowing up around you.”
Thenn could offer only an expression of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I understand.”
The captain nodded and continued his explanation, his voice both soft and gentle. “I watched you work for about ninety seconds before I got your attention, Ensign. You’ve checked and rechecked the ship’s shield configuration several times since I’ve been watching you, which is exactly what the officer assigned to this station is supposed to do. Lieutenant Sran is responsible for ensuring that our phaser banks and torpedo launchers are loaded for bear. But suppose the lieutenant were injured in the upcoming confrontation. Then you’d be responsible for the weapons until another officer could take over his station. Imagine trying to do that without knowing your ship’s weapon status.”
The ensign nodded. “I think I understand now, Captain. I’ll make sure I check everything from now on.”
Terrell smiled as he began to walk away. “Very good, Ensign. Carry on.” His stride betraying both the confidence and self-assurance of an experienced master mariner, Terrell stepped into the command well, where Commander Flasch greeted him.
“All decks report ready,” the commander began, “and our long-range sensors have detected an approaching Breen ship. It’s difficult to tell at this range, but its energy readings appear to match those of the vessel that attacked our colonies.”
“Have they seen our shuttle?”
Flasch shook his head. “No clue. But it does appear as though their ship suffered damage in the earlier attacks. They’re traveling at low-warp, which suggests that they’re having engine trouble.”
Terrell smirked. “Does Karen have a copy of those logs?”
“Not yet.”
“Send one over. We don’t want her to outrun the Breen before we have a chance to catch them.”
Commander Snow finished her perusal of the sensor logs she’d received from Lieutenant Sran, and was not surprised to find that they were virtually identical to the readings she herself had taken only a few minutes prior to the receipt of the Romulan security chief’s care package. Although her shuttle was currently configured for silent running—until she actually needed to run—the science officer had programmed the craft for periodic sensor sweeps, both to draw the Breen’s attention and to assess their vessel’s status as the Federation’s adversary from the Typhon Pact drew closer.
Only three days earlier, Starfleet had received word that the Breen had attacked multiple Federation colonies adjacent to their territory; the attacks had come as a surprise to Starfleet. The Breen’s peers within the Typhon Pact—the Romulans, Gorn, Tholians and Kinshaya—had denied any knowledge of their colleagues’ actions. Romulan Praetor Gell Kamemor had publicly condemned the attacks and apologized on behalf of the Typhon Pact. In spite of the ongoing Cold War dynamic between the Pact and the Federation, neither party had shown interest in ramping up hostilities following the tumultuous events of recent years—including the destruction of Deep Space 9 and the closure of the wormhole; however, the Breen appeared to have an agenda of their own, as evidenced by the actions of a single rogue ship—a vessel the Cerulean had been assigned to track down before any more colonies were ravaged by Breen disruptors.
As a scientist, Snow preferred devoting her time and energy to exploration and discovery as opposed to chasing after extra-terrestrial vigilantes. But with the Cerulean assigned to patrol duty for the time being—and her application for a temporary consulting position with the Federation Department of Temporal Investigations apparently trapped in some admiralty underling’s spam folder—the astrophysicist welcomed the diversion afforded her by hunting down the Breen and giving them a swift kick in the ass.
The chiming of her console drew the commander’s attention. Checking an adjacent monitor, Snow quickly surmised that the Breen were within range of the shuttle’s short-range sensors and closing fast. Toggling a series of switches, she began to bring the shuttle’s engines and weapons out of standby mode; although her shuttle was to appear damaged, she didn’t want to risk getting captured or blown to bits once the Breen realized they’d been had—which wouldn’t be long now that they were in-system and in the process of dropping out of warp.
Now seated in the captain’s chair, Terrell folded his arms in his lap and watched the forward viewscreen, on which was displayed a tactical projection of the Holyfield’s position and that of the approaching Breen warship. His voice loud enough to be heard by the entire bridge, the captain stirred his ship and crew to action: “Red alert!”
Amid the seemingly infinite pinpricks of light that constituted outer space, two objects slowly resolved into the characteristic hull designs of a Federation shuttlecraft and a Breen warship—as the smaller of the two vessels streaked toward a nearby Mutara-class nebula, its movements quick and precise as it evaded barrage after barrage of disruptor fire from its assailant.
Karen Snow’s normally comely features distorted into a gargoyle-like scowl as she felt the shuttle’s deckplates rumble beneath her, courtesy of another weapons’ volley. I hate chess, she thought, gripping the armrest of her chair with her left hand in order to avoid face-planting against her console, across which several indicator lights angrily flashed in response to the repeated impacts against the vessel’s shields, which were operating at only thirty percent capacity. As the nebula grew larger in the shuttle’s forward viewport, Snow’s eyes began searching the vicinity for any sign of the Akira-class cruiser she called home, as if the use of her finely-honed human senses would reveal its presence faster than the Holyfield’s computerized external sensors. Moments later, she got her wish.
The Cerulean emerged from the nebula as if struck by a cattle prod, its unique hull design giving it an almost predator-like appearance, as three of its one-hundred-seventy-five photon torpedoes streaked toward the oncoming Breen warship.
Captain Terrell ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper beard, his eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold on the viewscreen in front of him. Tossing a look over his shoulder at the science station—which was presently occupied by a young Andorian officer—Terrell called out, “What’s the Holyfield’s position, Mister th’Shan?”
Juren th’Shan right antenna twitched as he responded, “She’s holding position at the edge of the nebula and is outside the Breen ship’s weapons’ range.”
Terrell nodded as the deck rumbled beneath him. Commander Flasch’s voice followed th’Shan’s. “Damage control teams, deck nine, on the double!”
Sran’s voice followed the executive officer’s. “Captain,” he said. “The Breen ship has lost power to its forward disruptor array, and their warp drive is offline.”
“Tractor beam?” asked Flasch.
Sran grimaced. “They’re maneuvering too quickly to establish a lock.”
Terrell arched an eyebrow, his gaze finding Flasch’s. “Ideas, Commander?”
Flasch grinned. “Recommend we take out their primary impulse drive. They’ll be easier to reel in once they stop wiggling.”
“I like the way you think, Commander. Target and fire at your discretion.”
Snow watched as the Breen ship’s running lights dimmed, the hulking vessel now little more than several thousand tons of tactically inert metal. The intraship comm system activated just as the Cerulean caught the disabled frigate in its tractor beam.
“Cerulean to Holyfield. Respond please.”
“This is Holyfield. That’s a mighty big fish you’ve got there, Commander.”
“We were thinking the same thing over here. Would you like to join us?”
“I’d be happy to, Commander. Holyfield out.”
*****
Snow descended the shuttle’s boarding ramp to find Terrell waiting for her, his right hand extended in greeting. “Nice work out there,” he said. “You must make appetizing bait.”
As the duo strode toward the nearest turbolift, Terrell gave Snow a recap of both the battle and current events. “Sran is aboard the Breen ship with several security detachments. Dr. Branson offered to send medical teams but was refused.”
“Any idea what the Breen are up to, sir?”
Terrell shook his head. “No. I’m surprised they didn’t object to us boarding their ship.”
Snow cracked a smile. “It would be neat to study one of those up-close. Somebody at Starfleet R&D just got lucky.”
The officers boarded a waiting turbolift as Terrell answered, “So did we, it looks like. Starfleet’s issuing commendations for the entire crew, its thanks for capturing the Breen ship.”
“Two colonies too late,” Snow offered, feeling the lift rise beneath her feet.
“That’s what I said.”
“What’s our next assignment supposed to be?”
“We’re back to patrol duty for the time being. I talked with Admiral Akaar about your application.”
“And?”
“He’s promised to look into it. You should hear something in about four weeks.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I’m being ignored,” Snow quipped, suddenly feeling the lift stop.
Terrell laughed. “Not by me, you’re not.” Nodding toward the door, he added, “I believe this is your floor, Commander.”
Snow stepped off the turbolift and bade her commanding officer goodbye. “Good night, Captain.”
“Get some rest, Karen. You earned it.”
Snow watched the lift’s doors close before starting for her quarters, satisfied with the day’s events. The mission was a success, and it looked as though she’d get a chance to work with the DTI after all. Maybe playing chess isn’t so bad, she thought.
As she sat in the pilot’s seat of the shuttlecraft Holyfield, Karen Snow couldn’t help but grin at the irony of her situation. I’ve always been a terrible chess player, she mused, which is probably why the captain chose me to be his pawn against the Breen. The Starfleet officer entered a series of commands on the console in front of her, which prompted a warning from the shuttle’s onboard computer: “Venting warp plasma is not recommended.”
“Disengage safety protocols. Authorization: Snow-35-Lamba-Phi.”
“Safety protocols disengaged. Venting warp plasma.”
Brushing a lock of dark blonde hair behind her right ear, Snow leaned away from the computer console. Moments later, she felt a slight vibration aft of the vessel’s cockpit, followed by the familiar hiss of escaping gas. This shouldn’t take long, she thought.
*****
Terrell stood aft of the bridge’s command well and watched the proceedings with aplomb, content to allow his executive officer, Commander Michael Flasch, to direct any and all preparations for the upcoming gambit. In contrast to many of his peers, the captain preferred to speak or issue orders only when necessary, as he believed said commands would carry greater weight with and urgency among his officers. That he adhered to such a philosophy didn’t mean that Terrell wasn’t given to offering advice or to quietly pointing out potential mistakes by his bridge crew. Stepping toward the auxiliary tactical station, Terrell drew the attention of the female Bajoran working there—an ensign named Thenn Salista. “Ensign, can you tell me our compliment of photon torpedoes?”
The younger officer blinked in surprise. “Sir?”
“How many torpedoes is this vessel carrying?”
Thenn furrowed her brow, momentarily lost in thought. “Well,” she began, “I know we normally carry as many as two-hundred-fifty, with a maximum capacity of four hundred.”
Terrell nodded, his expression betraying his mild amusement at her predicament. “That’s very good, Ensign, but it’s also not what I asked you. Do you know how many we have right now?”
Thenn shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I’ll have to…”
Terrell cut her off. “Don’t worry about it. Lieutenant Sran told me ten minutes ago.” He held up a finger. “But make sure that you know, because you may not always have the benefit of another officer’s knowledge when the ship’s blowing up around you.”
Thenn could offer only an expression of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I understand.”
The captain nodded and continued his explanation, his voice both soft and gentle. “I watched you work for about ninety seconds before I got your attention, Ensign. You’ve checked and rechecked the ship’s shield configuration several times since I’ve been watching you, which is exactly what the officer assigned to this station is supposed to do. Lieutenant Sran is responsible for ensuring that our phaser banks and torpedo launchers are loaded for bear. But suppose the lieutenant were injured in the upcoming confrontation. Then you’d be responsible for the weapons until another officer could take over his station. Imagine trying to do that without knowing your ship’s weapon status.”
The ensign nodded. “I think I understand now, Captain. I’ll make sure I check everything from now on.”
Terrell smiled as he began to walk away. “Very good, Ensign. Carry on.” His stride betraying both the confidence and self-assurance of an experienced master mariner, Terrell stepped into the command well, where Commander Flasch greeted him.
“All decks report ready,” the commander began, “and our long-range sensors have detected an approaching Breen ship. It’s difficult to tell at this range, but its energy readings appear to match those of the vessel that attacked our colonies.”
“Have they seen our shuttle?”
Flasch shook his head. “No clue. But it does appear as though their ship suffered damage in the earlier attacks. They’re traveling at low-warp, which suggests that they’re having engine trouble.”
Terrell smirked. “Does Karen have a copy of those logs?”
“Not yet.”
“Send one over. We don’t want her to outrun the Breen before we have a chance to catch them.”
*****
Only three days earlier, Starfleet had received word that the Breen had attacked multiple Federation colonies adjacent to their territory; the attacks had come as a surprise to Starfleet. The Breen’s peers within the Typhon Pact—the Romulans, Gorn, Tholians and Kinshaya—had denied any knowledge of their colleagues’ actions. Romulan Praetor Gell Kamemor had publicly condemned the attacks and apologized on behalf of the Typhon Pact. In spite of the ongoing Cold War dynamic between the Pact and the Federation, neither party had shown interest in ramping up hostilities following the tumultuous events of recent years—including the destruction of Deep Space 9 and the closure of the wormhole; however, the Breen appeared to have an agenda of their own, as evidenced by the actions of a single rogue ship—a vessel the Cerulean had been assigned to track down before any more colonies were ravaged by Breen disruptors.
As a scientist, Snow preferred devoting her time and energy to exploration and discovery as opposed to chasing after extra-terrestrial vigilantes. But with the Cerulean assigned to patrol duty for the time being—and her application for a temporary consulting position with the Federation Department of Temporal Investigations apparently trapped in some admiralty underling’s spam folder—the astrophysicist welcomed the diversion afforded her by hunting down the Breen and giving them a swift kick in the ass.
The chiming of her console drew the commander’s attention. Checking an adjacent monitor, Snow quickly surmised that the Breen were within range of the shuttle’s short-range sensors and closing fast. Toggling a series of switches, she began to bring the shuttle’s engines and weapons out of standby mode; although her shuttle was to appear damaged, she didn’t want to risk getting captured or blown to bits once the Breen realized they’d been had—which wouldn’t be long now that they were in-system and in the process of dropping out of warp.
*****
*****
Amid the seemingly infinite pinpricks of light that constituted outer space, two objects slowly resolved into the characteristic hull designs of a Federation shuttlecraft and a Breen warship—as the smaller of the two vessels streaked toward a nearby Mutara-class nebula, its movements quick and precise as it evaded barrage after barrage of disruptor fire from its assailant.
Karen Snow’s normally comely features distorted into a gargoyle-like scowl as she felt the shuttle’s deckplates rumble beneath her, courtesy of another weapons’ volley. I hate chess, she thought, gripping the armrest of her chair with her left hand in order to avoid face-planting against her console, across which several indicator lights angrily flashed in response to the repeated impacts against the vessel’s shields, which were operating at only thirty percent capacity. As the nebula grew larger in the shuttle’s forward viewport, Snow’s eyes began searching the vicinity for any sign of the Akira-class cruiser she called home, as if the use of her finely-honed human senses would reveal its presence faster than the Holyfield’s computerized external sensors. Moments later, she got her wish.
*****
Captain Terrell ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper beard, his eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold on the viewscreen in front of him. Tossing a look over his shoulder at the science station—which was presently occupied by a young Andorian officer—Terrell called out, “What’s the Holyfield’s position, Mister th’Shan?”
Juren th’Shan right antenna twitched as he responded, “She’s holding position at the edge of the nebula and is outside the Breen ship’s weapons’ range.”
Terrell nodded as the deck rumbled beneath him. Commander Flasch’s voice followed th’Shan’s. “Damage control teams, deck nine, on the double!”
Sran’s voice followed the executive officer’s. “Captain,” he said. “The Breen ship has lost power to its forward disruptor array, and their warp drive is offline.”
“Tractor beam?” asked Flasch.
Sran grimaced. “They’re maneuvering too quickly to establish a lock.”
Terrell arched an eyebrow, his gaze finding Flasch’s. “Ideas, Commander?”
Flasch grinned. “Recommend we take out their primary impulse drive. They’ll be easier to reel in once they stop wiggling.”
“I like the way you think, Commander. Target and fire at your discretion.”
*****
Snow watched as the Breen ship’s running lights dimmed, the hulking vessel now little more than several thousand tons of tactically inert metal. The intraship comm system activated just as the Cerulean caught the disabled frigate in its tractor beam.
“Cerulean to Holyfield. Respond please.”
“This is Holyfield. That’s a mighty big fish you’ve got there, Commander.”
“We were thinking the same thing over here. Would you like to join us?”
“I’d be happy to, Commander. Holyfield out.”
*****
Snow descended the shuttle’s boarding ramp to find Terrell waiting for her, his right hand extended in greeting. “Nice work out there,” he said. “You must make appetizing bait.”
As the duo strode toward the nearest turbolift, Terrell gave Snow a recap of both the battle and current events. “Sran is aboard the Breen ship with several security detachments. Dr. Branson offered to send medical teams but was refused.”
“Any idea what the Breen are up to, sir?”
Terrell shook his head. “No. I’m surprised they didn’t object to us boarding their ship.”
Snow cracked a smile. “It would be neat to study one of those up-close. Somebody at Starfleet R&D just got lucky.”
The officers boarded a waiting turbolift as Terrell answered, “So did we, it looks like. Starfleet’s issuing commendations for the entire crew, its thanks for capturing the Breen ship.”
“Two colonies too late,” Snow offered, feeling the lift rise beneath her feet.
“That’s what I said.”
“What’s our next assignment supposed to be?”
“We’re back to patrol duty for the time being. I talked with Admiral Akaar about your application.”
“And?”
“He’s promised to look into it. You should hear something in about four weeks.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I’m being ignored,” Snow quipped, suddenly feeling the lift stop.
Terrell laughed. “Not by me, you’re not.” Nodding toward the door, he added, “I believe this is your floor, Commander.”
Snow stepped off the turbolift and bade her commanding officer goodbye. “Good night, Captain.”
“Get some rest, Karen. You earned it.”
Snow watched the lift’s doors close before starting for her quarters, satisfied with the day’s events. The mission was a success, and it looked as though she’d get a chance to work with the DTI after all. Maybe playing chess isn’t so bad, she thought.
