Star Trek: Fallen Heroes
- Thread starter Alexbright99
- Start date
Well, the adventures of the good news parade wouldn't make a very interesting story 
Fallen Heroes - chapter 5a
“Time is running out, Captain,” Ensign Surtak says with the composure of a true Vulcan.
An armada of hostile vessels fills the Achilles’ holographic viewscreen, thereby covering a significant portion of the bridge. It’s as if you can reach up and pluck them from the stars. A few years ago, that’s exactly what Commander Tony Blue would have done, each warship a speck of dust compared to his infinite powers as a Q. Now, he only has a tactical station to work with. “The enemy will be within weapons range in twenty seconds.”
Captain Rinckes stares at the viewscreen, his mind undoubtedly racing, weighing all possible actions and their prospective outcomes.
“The Orwell and Chekov have undocked from the starbase,” Lieutenant Baxter says.
“Total evacuation is 82 percent complete,” Surtak says.
Tony sets his jaw. “Ensign, we’re talking about people. Don’t give us percentages, give us numbers.”
“That won’t be necessary, Commander,” Rinckes says, chin held high, chest thrust forward. “Abort evacuation. Get us out of here, Baxter, and signal the others to do the same.”
“Sir,” Tony protests. “Several of our ships haven’t been able to undock yet. There must be a way to buy them time. Or, at the very least, let us complete our own evacuation responsibilities.”
“Well done, Tony,” Rinckes says without any trace of emotion. “You’re a fine first officer, performing your duty, adhering to protocol. Well done. Baxter, engage warp drive.”
Baxter already has a new course laid in and executes the command without hesitation. There’s a faint shudder as the ship hits warp speed, and the starbase and its ominous backdrop stay in view while the Achilles accelerates to well over 3000 times the speed of light. Star Scream, Nova, Arancibia, Orwell, and Checkov, in addition to numerous shuttlecraft and other warp-capable vessels, follow suit and try to keep up.
“It’s not just my duty,” Tony says fiercely. “It’s our duty to save as many as we can.” One could hear a pin drop as his stunned coworkers wait for the captain’s reply. The holographic representation of Starbase 43 about to be ripped apart by ravening warships adds even more pressure to the conversation.
“Your objection is noted,” Rinckes says as he sits back down.
Tony wants to continue his appeal, but it’s no use pressing the matter. In all honesty, he can’t think of any alternative strategy that might save the people trapped on Starbase 43. However, that does not exonerate anyone from giving up so damn fast.
On screen, Starbase 43 fires phasers, mile-long beams of red-hot energy making their way to the enemy fleet. Tony considers it a futile attempt at self-defense against such an overwhelming force, mentally drawing a somber parallel with Dad lifting his arms to protect himself from a collapsing building.
The crew watches quietly as the first enemy vessels unleash phaser fire and torpedoes at the starbase. Surreal as it may be, the S’Prenn, their former allies, join in on the attack, no holds barred, deepening their betrayal with every merciless weapon strike. One brave Norway-class starship, the Peninsula, undocks from Starbase 43, only to get blown out of the stars in a heartbeat. Hundreds of lives snuffed out in an instant. The fleet barely slows down while carrying out its bombardment. Even though the holographic starbase is shrinking as the distance increases, Tony can see its hull blacken. One by one, its phaser arrays are quenched until it is rendered helpless, but that doesn’t satisfy the fleet’s appetite. They want to see it burn.
“Viewer off,” Rinckes says. The buckling starbase and its attackers disappear, replaced by the bulkhead they obscured.
Seconds, maybe minutes, pass by while much remains unspoken. Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow re-enters the bridge and walks toward the tactical station, which is still being manned by Tony, who makes no effort to move over. In fact, he hardly notices her presence. “Commander, if I may,” she says with a hint of politeness. Evidently, the tacit friction on the bridge has mellowed her for now.
Tony ignores her because he has finally gathered the courage to ask, “Ensign Surtak, how many did we leave behind?” He glances at his captain to see if he’s going to object, but Rinckes does not grant him a response.
As if he has been expecting the question, Surtak has his answer ready. “Nineteen thousand two hundred fifteen.”
Tony clasps the sides of his station. “We left nineteen thousand two hundred fifteen officers and civilians behind?” He keeps repeating those numbers as if they were a mantra. When Rinckes looks at Tony through the corner of his eye, Tony meets his gaze and summons a wry smile. “That has to be a new personal record.”
The captain’s stare doesn’t change one bit. Better yet, nobody on the bridge dares to make a sound. Tony suspects he has crossed the line. His bravado slips and shatters as he awaits the captain’s reaction.
The captain pushes off against his chair and starts toward the tactical station while maintaining eye contact—an action so sudden it prompts Lt. Cmdr. Crow to postpone her attempts to retake tactical and she steps aside.
Rinckes halts a foot away from his young XO and towers over him. “How many people did you leave behind when you fled Earth?” Tony cannot answer that question, prolonging the uneasy situation, so the captain speaks for him. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. There’s nothing we could’ve done. Accept it. Move on.”
“Yes, sir,” Tony somehow manages to say.
At last, the captain walks off. “You have the bridge, Commander Blue,” he says as he retreats to his ready room. The sharp tension on the bridge dissipates like a sigh of relief, leaving silence in its wake.
* * *
Klingon space, USS Achilles – May 7, 2382 – Stardate 59346.1
Worn but functional would be the best way to describe the century-old Klingon outpost the Achilles is orbiting. Federation and Klingon shuttles are flying to and fro, transporting countless officers and civilians brought here by dozens of starships, which are either in synchronous orbit or in ever-changing formation as new arrivals trickle through the ranks.
Stood by the window, Tony spectates from his and Emily’s quarters with wavering attention. Emily breaks him from his trance by saying something nonessential, grateful as he may be for the intermission. “It was nice of the Klingons to welcome us and our refugees into their territory,” she says, placing two cups of tea on the table by the couch.
“It would be nicer if they helped us fight back,” Tony says, lacking his wife’s casualness. “I always thought they were warriors, driven by honor, yet they claim this is not their war.”
“It isn’t.” Emily sits down on the couch and invites him to do the same.
Tony reluctantly accepts her invitation. “And it won’t be if they persist in their stiff-necked mentality.”
“At least be glad we finally have access to our quarters,” Emily says, trying to change the subject—without any result, because Tony is still gazing out the window, albeit from the couch now.
He shakes his head. “The Altonoids concentrate exclusively on Federation space; they steer clear of the Romulan, Tholian, and Klingon borders. There’s no clear motive for their actions. It’s as if they’ve merely got a score to settle. And now we have indisputable evidence that the S’Prenn are aiding them… Frankly, we’re at a loss.”
Emily doesn’t offer a reply. There’s nothing left to say about their enemies and allies. It is the way it is.
Tony gives up staring at the Klingon outpost and takes a good look at his wife. He has been so preoccupied with this war and being second in command of a Federation flagship once again that he has given her little consideration. “So how have you been holding up?” he asks, ashamed for not asking this earlier.
“Busy,” she says with a tired smile. “Having to control over three thousand scared people with a security staff of sixty-five was harrowing. I don’t know how we managed to do as well as we did. And you?”
“Busy,” Tony says, without the smile. “I can barely keep track of the days. The minute I start thinking about anything other than the present, I automatically arrive back in San Francisco at the sight of my father buried underneath the rubble.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a brewing headache. “We haven’t even had the chance to mourn his death. I haven’t seen you crying. I haven’t cried.”
Emily caresses his hands. “All of this goes beyond you and me. We have lost so many friends, but we’re not alone in our grief. Almost everyone here has lost close relatives. You don’t see any of our colleagues mourning. They’re too busy doing their jobs, because that is what we’re left with. We are little cogs in a giant machine. If we give in to our pain, if we cave in and stop doing what we must, the machine will stop, and we will fall. Humanity would be lost.”
“What’s in that tea of yours?” Tony remarks dryly.
“Truth serum, I guess.”
After chuckling at Emily’s astute reply, Tony sips his tea and—for the first time since they’ve moved in—allows himself to take in his surroundings. Dominated by tan colors, officers’ quarters aboard the Achilles are remarkably luxurious and roomy. The many ornaments and comfy furniture complete the feeling of a home away from home. In all fairness, he misses their bungalow, and he is convinced his wife does too.
Apparently, the truth serum is still in effect, because Emily says, “Did you hear about Commander Crow?”
“Yes, I heard she smiled today,” Tony deadpans. “They had to rush her to sickbay, but the doctor said it was unlikely to ever happen again.”
“Very funny.” Emily gives him a soft slap on the chest. “I’m being serious here.”
“Sorry. What about Commander Crow?”
“I recently found out her husband has been missing in action since the onset of the war. She used to be a lot more sociable, but his MIA status has embittered her.”
“Is that so?”
“It made me think about us. Rumor has it this ship and its crew will be sent back to the front.”
“It’s in the cards,” Tony admits. “But until it’s official, it’s nothing but a rumor.”
“A persistent one. It’s just… It made me think…”
“…about the possibility to resign our commissions and stay out of harm’s way.”
“Not very heroic of us, is it?” Emily says with a sweet but somewhat abashed smile.
“Who ever said we were heroes?” Tony stands up abruptly and starts pacing the room. “We’ve proven our tenacity, no question about that. And yet…” He halts near a framed holophoto to stare at the holographic image of his late father. “The thought has occurred to me more than once these days.” He turns to Emily. “We have a decision to make.”
* * *
Captain Stephan Rinckes is sitting in his ready room, catching up with the latest logs and developments while pondering their implications, when the door chimes. “Enter,” he says, using a perfect mixture of authority and volume.
Commander Tony Blue walks in, greets him with a nod, and sits down opposite the captain’s desk. “You’ve asked for my presence.” To his credit, Tony figured out a couple of days ago that the best way to initiate a conversation with the captain is by being the first to speak.
“It’s hardly news anymore,” Rinckes says, absorbed by the info on his translucent desktop screen. “We’re being sent back to Federation space.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Mind you, this isn’t some heroic endeavor to battle a few Altonoids and recapture bits and pieces of our territory. Take a look at this.” He throws his first officer a PADD. “The S’Prenn did more than just strengthen the Altonoids’ numbers. What you’re reading is the report on the technology used during the attack on Earth.”
Tony sums up what he reads. “Disabling Earth’s planetary shield grid; dampening sensors, communications, and transporters; upgraded weaponry, cloaking devices, and propulsion—it’s all traceable to the S’Prenn.”
“Correct.”
Before Tony can continue, the captain does it for him. “You want to know why? Why have the S’Prenn, once the Altonoids’ most powerful nemesis and our strongest ally, betrayed us, even though the Altonoids represent everything they do not?”
Tony fidgets with the edges of the PADD. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“That’s what we’re all thinking.” Rinckes heaves a weighty sigh. “So we’re being sent back to Federation space, not to be heroes, not to be liberators, but to find answers.”
Tony leans forward, anticipating this briefing’s next subject.
Rinckes cuts to the heart of the matter. “A couple of officers have petitioned for a transfer. I can’t blame them. The mission we’re about to embark on will not be without its risks.” He pauses to goad the commander into replying, with no immediate result. “Given the extreme circumstances, most of them must have concluded—”
“Don’t expect a transfer request from me and Emily. We’ve vowed to serve Starfleet to the best of our abilities, and this is a call to action we cannot ignore. For better or worse, we’re in this together.”
Rinckes did not foresee such a determined answer from the young man in front of him. For a moment, they share a glance of mutual understanding. They’re both going to fight for their cause, wherever it may take them. “Very well,” he says. “We depart tomorrow at noon. That will be all.”
“Understood, sir.”
Rinckes watches his first officer leave and keeps staring at the doors long after they have closed. After a while, his eyes are drawn to the nearby window, to the view of the stars. He recognizes several of them as belonging to Federation space. Disguised as the hallmark of serenity, they hold so many tragedies, so much beauty and emptiness, so much destruction.
And for some unfathomable reason, the captain believes with absolute certainty that his fate lies hidden among those stars, and those stars alone.
“Time is running out, Captain,” Ensign Surtak says with the composure of a true Vulcan.
An armada of hostile vessels fills the Achilles’ holographic viewscreen, thereby covering a significant portion of the bridge. It’s as if you can reach up and pluck them from the stars. A few years ago, that’s exactly what Commander Tony Blue would have done, each warship a speck of dust compared to his infinite powers as a Q. Now, he only has a tactical station to work with. “The enemy will be within weapons range in twenty seconds.”
Captain Rinckes stares at the viewscreen, his mind undoubtedly racing, weighing all possible actions and their prospective outcomes.
“The Orwell and Chekov have undocked from the starbase,” Lieutenant Baxter says.
“Total evacuation is 82 percent complete,” Surtak says.
Tony sets his jaw. “Ensign, we’re talking about people. Don’t give us percentages, give us numbers.”
“That won’t be necessary, Commander,” Rinckes says, chin held high, chest thrust forward. “Abort evacuation. Get us out of here, Baxter, and signal the others to do the same.”
“Sir,” Tony protests. “Several of our ships haven’t been able to undock yet. There must be a way to buy them time. Or, at the very least, let us complete our own evacuation responsibilities.”
“Well done, Tony,” Rinckes says without any trace of emotion. “You’re a fine first officer, performing your duty, adhering to protocol. Well done. Baxter, engage warp drive.”
Baxter already has a new course laid in and executes the command without hesitation. There’s a faint shudder as the ship hits warp speed, and the starbase and its ominous backdrop stay in view while the Achilles accelerates to well over 3000 times the speed of light. Star Scream, Nova, Arancibia, Orwell, and Checkov, in addition to numerous shuttlecraft and other warp-capable vessels, follow suit and try to keep up.
“It’s not just my duty,” Tony says fiercely. “It’s our duty to save as many as we can.” One could hear a pin drop as his stunned coworkers wait for the captain’s reply. The holographic representation of Starbase 43 about to be ripped apart by ravening warships adds even more pressure to the conversation.
“Your objection is noted,” Rinckes says as he sits back down.
Tony wants to continue his appeal, but it’s no use pressing the matter. In all honesty, he can’t think of any alternative strategy that might save the people trapped on Starbase 43. However, that does not exonerate anyone from giving up so damn fast.
On screen, Starbase 43 fires phasers, mile-long beams of red-hot energy making their way to the enemy fleet. Tony considers it a futile attempt at self-defense against such an overwhelming force, mentally drawing a somber parallel with Dad lifting his arms to protect himself from a collapsing building.
The crew watches quietly as the first enemy vessels unleash phaser fire and torpedoes at the starbase. Surreal as it may be, the S’Prenn, their former allies, join in on the attack, no holds barred, deepening their betrayal with every merciless weapon strike. One brave Norway-class starship, the Peninsula, undocks from Starbase 43, only to get blown out of the stars in a heartbeat. Hundreds of lives snuffed out in an instant. The fleet barely slows down while carrying out its bombardment. Even though the holographic starbase is shrinking as the distance increases, Tony can see its hull blacken. One by one, its phaser arrays are quenched until it is rendered helpless, but that doesn’t satisfy the fleet’s appetite. They want to see it burn.
“Viewer off,” Rinckes says. The buckling starbase and its attackers disappear, replaced by the bulkhead they obscured.
Seconds, maybe minutes, pass by while much remains unspoken. Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow re-enters the bridge and walks toward the tactical station, which is still being manned by Tony, who makes no effort to move over. In fact, he hardly notices her presence. “Commander, if I may,” she says with a hint of politeness. Evidently, the tacit friction on the bridge has mellowed her for now.
Tony ignores her because he has finally gathered the courage to ask, “Ensign Surtak, how many did we leave behind?” He glances at his captain to see if he’s going to object, but Rinckes does not grant him a response.
As if he has been expecting the question, Surtak has his answer ready. “Nineteen thousand two hundred fifteen.”
Tony clasps the sides of his station. “We left nineteen thousand two hundred fifteen officers and civilians behind?” He keeps repeating those numbers as if they were a mantra. When Rinckes looks at Tony through the corner of his eye, Tony meets his gaze and summons a wry smile. “That has to be a new personal record.”
The captain’s stare doesn’t change one bit. Better yet, nobody on the bridge dares to make a sound. Tony suspects he has crossed the line. His bravado slips and shatters as he awaits the captain’s reaction.
The captain pushes off against his chair and starts toward the tactical station while maintaining eye contact—an action so sudden it prompts Lt. Cmdr. Crow to postpone her attempts to retake tactical and she steps aside.
Rinckes halts a foot away from his young XO and towers over him. “How many people did you leave behind when you fled Earth?” Tony cannot answer that question, prolonging the uneasy situation, so the captain speaks for him. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. There’s nothing we could’ve done. Accept it. Move on.”
“Yes, sir,” Tony somehow manages to say.
At last, the captain walks off. “You have the bridge, Commander Blue,” he says as he retreats to his ready room. The sharp tension on the bridge dissipates like a sigh of relief, leaving silence in its wake.
* * *
Klingon space, USS Achilles – May 7, 2382 – Stardate 59346.1
Worn but functional would be the best way to describe the century-old Klingon outpost the Achilles is orbiting. Federation and Klingon shuttles are flying to and fro, transporting countless officers and civilians brought here by dozens of starships, which are either in synchronous orbit or in ever-changing formation as new arrivals trickle through the ranks.
Stood by the window, Tony spectates from his and Emily’s quarters with wavering attention. Emily breaks him from his trance by saying something nonessential, grateful as he may be for the intermission. “It was nice of the Klingons to welcome us and our refugees into their territory,” she says, placing two cups of tea on the table by the couch.
“It would be nicer if they helped us fight back,” Tony says, lacking his wife’s casualness. “I always thought they were warriors, driven by honor, yet they claim this is not their war.”
“It isn’t.” Emily sits down on the couch and invites him to do the same.
Tony reluctantly accepts her invitation. “And it won’t be if they persist in their stiff-necked mentality.”
“At least be glad we finally have access to our quarters,” Emily says, trying to change the subject—without any result, because Tony is still gazing out the window, albeit from the couch now.
He shakes his head. “The Altonoids concentrate exclusively on Federation space; they steer clear of the Romulan, Tholian, and Klingon borders. There’s no clear motive for their actions. It’s as if they’ve merely got a score to settle. And now we have indisputable evidence that the S’Prenn are aiding them… Frankly, we’re at a loss.”
Emily doesn’t offer a reply. There’s nothing left to say about their enemies and allies. It is the way it is.
Tony gives up staring at the Klingon outpost and takes a good look at his wife. He has been so preoccupied with this war and being second in command of a Federation flagship once again that he has given her little consideration. “So how have you been holding up?” he asks, ashamed for not asking this earlier.
“Busy,” she says with a tired smile. “Having to control over three thousand scared people with a security staff of sixty-five was harrowing. I don’t know how we managed to do as well as we did. And you?”
“Busy,” Tony says, without the smile. “I can barely keep track of the days. The minute I start thinking about anything other than the present, I automatically arrive back in San Francisco at the sight of my father buried underneath the rubble.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a brewing headache. “We haven’t even had the chance to mourn his death. I haven’t seen you crying. I haven’t cried.”
Emily caresses his hands. “All of this goes beyond you and me. We have lost so many friends, but we’re not alone in our grief. Almost everyone here has lost close relatives. You don’t see any of our colleagues mourning. They’re too busy doing their jobs, because that is what we’re left with. We are little cogs in a giant machine. If we give in to our pain, if we cave in and stop doing what we must, the machine will stop, and we will fall. Humanity would be lost.”
“What’s in that tea of yours?” Tony remarks dryly.
“Truth serum, I guess.”
After chuckling at Emily’s astute reply, Tony sips his tea and—for the first time since they’ve moved in—allows himself to take in his surroundings. Dominated by tan colors, officers’ quarters aboard the Achilles are remarkably luxurious and roomy. The many ornaments and comfy furniture complete the feeling of a home away from home. In all fairness, he misses their bungalow, and he is convinced his wife does too.
Apparently, the truth serum is still in effect, because Emily says, “Did you hear about Commander Crow?”
“Yes, I heard she smiled today,” Tony deadpans. “They had to rush her to sickbay, but the doctor said it was unlikely to ever happen again.”
“Very funny.” Emily gives him a soft slap on the chest. “I’m being serious here.”
“Sorry. What about Commander Crow?”
“I recently found out her husband has been missing in action since the onset of the war. She used to be a lot more sociable, but his MIA status has embittered her.”
“Is that so?”
“It made me think about us. Rumor has it this ship and its crew will be sent back to the front.”
“It’s in the cards,” Tony admits. “But until it’s official, it’s nothing but a rumor.”
“A persistent one. It’s just… It made me think…”
“…about the possibility to resign our commissions and stay out of harm’s way.”
“Not very heroic of us, is it?” Emily says with a sweet but somewhat abashed smile.
“Who ever said we were heroes?” Tony stands up abruptly and starts pacing the room. “We’ve proven our tenacity, no question about that. And yet…” He halts near a framed holophoto to stare at the holographic image of his late father. “The thought has occurred to me more than once these days.” He turns to Emily. “We have a decision to make.”
* * *
Captain Stephan Rinckes is sitting in his ready room, catching up with the latest logs and developments while pondering their implications, when the door chimes. “Enter,” he says, using a perfect mixture of authority and volume.
Commander Tony Blue walks in, greets him with a nod, and sits down opposite the captain’s desk. “You’ve asked for my presence.” To his credit, Tony figured out a couple of days ago that the best way to initiate a conversation with the captain is by being the first to speak.
“It’s hardly news anymore,” Rinckes says, absorbed by the info on his translucent desktop screen. “We’re being sent back to Federation space.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Mind you, this isn’t some heroic endeavor to battle a few Altonoids and recapture bits and pieces of our territory. Take a look at this.” He throws his first officer a PADD. “The S’Prenn did more than just strengthen the Altonoids’ numbers. What you’re reading is the report on the technology used during the attack on Earth.”
Tony sums up what he reads. “Disabling Earth’s planetary shield grid; dampening sensors, communications, and transporters; upgraded weaponry, cloaking devices, and propulsion—it’s all traceable to the S’Prenn.”
“Correct.”
Before Tony can continue, the captain does it for him. “You want to know why? Why have the S’Prenn, once the Altonoids’ most powerful nemesis and our strongest ally, betrayed us, even though the Altonoids represent everything they do not?”
Tony fidgets with the edges of the PADD. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“That’s what we’re all thinking.” Rinckes heaves a weighty sigh. “So we’re being sent back to Federation space, not to be heroes, not to be liberators, but to find answers.”
Tony leans forward, anticipating this briefing’s next subject.
Rinckes cuts to the heart of the matter. “A couple of officers have petitioned for a transfer. I can’t blame them. The mission we’re about to embark on will not be without its risks.” He pauses to goad the commander into replying, with no immediate result. “Given the extreme circumstances, most of them must have concluded—”
“Don’t expect a transfer request from me and Emily. We’ve vowed to serve Starfleet to the best of our abilities, and this is a call to action we cannot ignore. For better or worse, we’re in this together.”
Rinckes did not foresee such a determined answer from the young man in front of him. For a moment, they share a glance of mutual understanding. They’re both going to fight for their cause, wherever it may take them. “Very well,” he says. “We depart tomorrow at noon. That will be all.”
“Understood, sir.”
Rinckes watches his first officer leave and keeps staring at the doors long after they have closed. After a while, his eyes are drawn to the nearby window, to the view of the stars. He recognizes several of them as belonging to Federation space. Disguised as the hallmark of serenity, they hold so many tragedies, so much beauty and emptiness, so much destruction.
And for some unfathomable reason, the captain believes with absolute certainty that his fate lies hidden among those stars, and those stars alone.
Fallen Heroes - chapter 5b
In former Federation space, USS Achilles – June 14, 2386 – Stardate 63450.5
The lone window flaunts numerous constellations, and Captain Stephan Rinckes pensively studies their patterns and brilliance from the comfort of his desk chair. The captain’s dark blond hair is graying, the lines in his hawkish face have deepened, but other than that, his appearance hasn’t changed since he first took command of this ship. His ready room, like the rest of the Achilles, isn’t as pristine as it was when this clandestine operation began, courtesy of several unavoidable skirmishes with the Altonoids. Soon, the battered Achilles will hit high warp and head for its next destination and the perils it contains.
“Captain’s log, stardate 63450.5.” He rubs his temples and tries to collect his thoughts despite his fatigue. “We’re en route to the Nedron system in hopes of finding another piece of the puzzle that might explain why the S’Prenn are cooperating with the Alto Empire. I remain grateful for the Klingons outfitting the Achilles with a cloaking device; without it, we would never have made it this far. Our current journey has proven hazardous even by our standards. Today we barely evaded another enemy fleet. Our sensors picked them up at the last minute. It’s hard to believe this whole region of space once belonged to us, because we are finding less and less indication of a prior Federation presence.”
A tranquil minute drifts by as Rinckes listens to the soothing drone of a starship in motion. He cannot for the life of him recall the last time he slept; by force of habit, he has been working nonstop for days on end. “Captain’s log, supplemental. We’ve been hiding, searching, wandering from planet to planet, chasing caches of information, and following up on every shred of intel for four years. Where is the backup we were promised? The Achilles could use a major overhaul, and the crew is in dire need of R&R. We never expected this mission to take this long, and the setbacks are beginning to outweigh—” With a shudder, the captain realizes the view outside has been engulfed by the total blackness of space.
There are no stars outside.
Rinckes freezes up, yet he’s starting to perspire. He gets up from his desk and walks toward the window to take in the surreal, ink-black darkness. Something is amiss, but he cannot dare name it. The dark threatens to hypnotize him, to suck him in, and he forces himself to turn away. The lights in his office have dimmed to the lowest setting, rendering it near impossible to see anything, so he grabs the phaser rifle that has materialized on his desk and switches on its flashlight.
His breath bursting in and out, the captain exits his office and enters a familiar set of corridors, lit solely by blinking red alert panels. After a few paces, the ready room behind him vanishes into thin air, taking everything reminding him of reality with it.
He is roaming the desolate innards of Station A-12, his sweaty hands clasping the phaser rifle as he progresses through murky hallways, feeling as if a thousand disembodied souls are watching him. From the brink of oblivion, a distorted figure whisks by. “Stop!” Rinckes hears himself shout while trying to track the specter with his rifle. His voice echoes into the void. Defying his instincts, and not by his own volition, Rinckes chases after this apparition.
After rounding the sixth consecutive right-hand corner, the captain stops dead in his tracks. The corridor is littered with Starfleet uniform-wearing corpses—some of them flat on the carpet, others leaning against the bulkheads like marionettes long since abandoned by their puppet master. With apprehension as his sole companion, Rinckes shines the rifle’s flashlight at each slain officer he encounters. Their faces are pale, their eyes milky and devoid of pupils. It forms an eerie scene, and each corpse he inspects adds fuel to the lonely fire that burns within him.
Rinckes aims his light at the end of the corridor, where an isolated corpse lies on its back. With irrational carefulness, Rinckes inches toward it. The red alert panels short out, leaving the rifle’s flashlight as his sole light source even though it’s dwindling, succumbing to the darkness. He keeps it fixed on the dead officer—a woman. Her blonde hair obscure her face. The captain crouches beside her and tries to dismiss the sensation of being stalked by an unstoppable murderer hiding in his peripheral vision. The air is warm, on the verge of smothering him.
Gently, Rinckes pushes aside her clammy locks of hair to reveal her identity. “Melanie,” he says. She’s pallid, like the others, and her eyes are closed, complementing her peaceful death mask. “Melanie!” He has been frightened ever since the stars disappeared, but now he’s beginning to panic. Fear, mixed with pain and despair, dictates his every thought, his every move. He grabs her by the shoulders and starts shaking her in an effort to wake her up, but she remains lifeless…
Then, without warning, Melanie opens her eyes in a furious stare directed straight at him.
Unable to withhold a muffled scream, Rinckes awakens from his nightmare. His skin is sweaty, his heart is thumping a wild rhythm, and his lungs are doing backflips to keep up. He looks around, bewildered, and notices he’s sitting in his ready room with the lights dimmed. The window that heralded his nightmare displays streaks of stardust, indicating the Achilles is at warp.
The doors across the room swish open and a shadowy figure enters.
Rinckes backs up in his chair, prepared to defend himself. “Who are you?”
The figure halts. “Lieutenant Ernest Baxter, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. The door was unlocked, and you—”
“Why are the lights off?” Rinckes asks, still disoriented and confused.
Baxter, featureless in the artificial dusk, briefly hesitates before saying, “We are in silent mode, Captain. Standard procedure when travelling under cloak. Are you all right, sir?”
“What is it you wanted to say?” Rinckes asks while regaining his composure, downplaying his embarrassment by ignoring it altogether.
“We’ve evaded another squadron of Altonoid vessels. We will arrive in the Nedron system in nineteen hours.”
“Another squadron? Unusual activity for this area,” Rinckes says, more to himself than to Baxter. “Maybe the intelligence reports we acquired are correct.”
“Let’s hope so.”
The shadowy figure leaves and Rinckes is alone once again. Stacks of PADDs holding relevant files beckon him to go back to work, seducing him with the promise of hidden clues. He picks one up and begins reading, only to throw it back on the pile moments later. Outside, iridescent shafts of stardust rush by, consoling him in hypnotic monotony, keeping the darkness at bay.
* * *
Commander Tony Blue picks a biobed and hops onto it. The Achilles’ main sickbay is dimly lit—a telltale sign of the cloaking device’s activated state.
Doctor Chris Kingsley emerges from his office and marches over to him. “I regret to inform you there’s no cure for ugliness.”
“Very funny, Doctor.” Tony still finds it hard to believe that, of all people, this particular chief medical officer doubles as counselor for the duration of this mission, but the crew has learned to roll with this sarcastic individual’s punches. “You know I’m not a big fan of these pre-mission checkups. I mean, if I believe there’s something wrong with me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Maybe that’s because there’s always something wrong with you,” Kingsley says. “Granted, you’ve taken an impressive amount of beating during your current human stint, but medically speaking you should be able to jump and frisk around like a little schoolgirl.”
Tony lets him rant. It’s best not to interrupt the doctor when caught in a new variant of his infamous monologues. He means well; he just loves the sound of his voice.
“Somehow, and I think it’s out of spite, you manage to keep limping. Honestly, I’m done rearranging your bones and muscles. I’m done polishing old phaser scars. I’m done running laps with you in holographic recreations of Olympic stadiums.”
“Doctor…” Tony says, successfully hiding his amusement, “shut up and fire up the bloody biobed.” He is grateful to be one of the two persons allowed to issue orders to the chief medical officer.
Kingsley has another trick up his sleeve. “I could make this examination last hours, days if necessary,” he says with a slightly unhinged grin. “I could even declare you unfit for duty.”
Tony decides to give up and stay silent. Surprisingly enough, it works.
Assisted by the biobed’s sensors, the doctor conducts the examination by waving a medical tricorder over his patient and—as the good Doctor Kingsley is wont to do—by assuming a severe aspect while studying the data, as if he has found a horrible affliction, only to shrug it off and continue the checkup. Sometimes, it makes Tony wish for another doctor. Any doctor, really. Even a farsighted, one-armed Klingon with psychopathic tendencies would do.
Kingsley glances at the biobed’s readouts. “You’re completely healthy, as you should be at twenty-four years of age. You are hereby officially cleared to set foot on Nedron Eight. Please try not to limp too much during the away mission. I understand you think the crew will respect you for it, being a fallen hero and such, but I can assure you it won’t do any good.”
Tony refrains from replying. He’d better not encourage him.
“Fine. The limp joke has worn out its welcome,” Kingsley says as he tosses his tricorder aside. “Just make sure you don’t get any other medical ailments, missing limbs, or whatever I can make fun of, okay?”
Struggle as he might, Tony cannot stifle a brief chuckle. “Is this your way of telling me to be careful?”
“Um… Yes.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint you.” Tony gets up and heads for the exit, the limp in his walk slight but noticeable.
* * *
Nedron System, USS Achilles – June 15, 2386 – Stardate 63452.7
Dimmed lights suffuse every corner of this starship with a sense of gloom one never quite grows accustomed to. Captain Rinckes sits behind his desk in his ready room, using his personal access console to review earlier investigations regarding the S’Prenn’s influence on the war. Some of these reports go back as far as the last time the Achilles visited the Nedron system—six years ago—under the command of the late Admiral Harriman.
“You might have been closer to a solution than you could have imagined,” Rinckes says to a picture of Harriman on one of the reports.
His lowly lit monitor highlights several related subjects. Rinckes scrolls through the list, and his heart skips a beat when he spots the subject “Station A-12 Debacle.” He selects it, causing images and a brief summary of events to fill the screen. From the short table of participating ships, he selects the USS Sundance and summons images and specs of the Prometheus-class vessel. After selecting “crew” and the stardate on which the Sundance was lost, he is confronted with a photo of his younger counterpart. Its caption reads:
Captain Stephan Rinckes – Captain – b. 2334
At the click of a button, the next crewmember appears. He can’t bear to look at the profile picture, even though it holds no secrets from him. Every time he closes his eyes, every time his thoughts stray, he sees it, an image more vivid than life itself. It is welded into his memory. As a result, he can only bring himself to glimpse at its immutable caption.
Commander Melanie Simons – First Officer – b. 2351 d. 2380
Quickly, before he might change his mind, he selects “next.” And again, and again. Every entry of every member of the Sundance’s crew, except his own, ends with d. 2380, a total of 173 Starfleet officers. Most of them he knew personally, and all of them were once his responsibility.
He arrives at his own picture once more and stops pressing the “next” button, aware of what’s hiding behind it.
The intercom signal chimes to offer reprieve from his somber musings. “Bridge to Captain Rinckes. We have arrived at Nedron Eight.” The lighting automatically increases to normal levels, further prompting the captain to action. He wants to shut off his computer and—whether by accident or on purpose—clicks “next” instead. The screen shows a youthful, blonde commander smiling prettily at the camera.
Commander Melanie Simons – First Officer – b. 2351 d. 2380
Rinckes reaches out and briefly caresses her face. All he feels is the cold tripolymer display beneath his fingertips. Without a change in his blank expression, he rises from his desk and leaves the room.
In former Federation space, USS Achilles – June 14, 2386 – Stardate 63450.5
The lone window flaunts numerous constellations, and Captain Stephan Rinckes pensively studies their patterns and brilliance from the comfort of his desk chair. The captain’s dark blond hair is graying, the lines in his hawkish face have deepened, but other than that, his appearance hasn’t changed since he first took command of this ship. His ready room, like the rest of the Achilles, isn’t as pristine as it was when this clandestine operation began, courtesy of several unavoidable skirmishes with the Altonoids. Soon, the battered Achilles will hit high warp and head for its next destination and the perils it contains.
“Captain’s log, stardate 63450.5.” He rubs his temples and tries to collect his thoughts despite his fatigue. “We’re en route to the Nedron system in hopes of finding another piece of the puzzle that might explain why the S’Prenn are cooperating with the Alto Empire. I remain grateful for the Klingons outfitting the Achilles with a cloaking device; without it, we would never have made it this far. Our current journey has proven hazardous even by our standards. Today we barely evaded another enemy fleet. Our sensors picked them up at the last minute. It’s hard to believe this whole region of space once belonged to us, because we are finding less and less indication of a prior Federation presence.”
A tranquil minute drifts by as Rinckes listens to the soothing drone of a starship in motion. He cannot for the life of him recall the last time he slept; by force of habit, he has been working nonstop for days on end. “Captain’s log, supplemental. We’ve been hiding, searching, wandering from planet to planet, chasing caches of information, and following up on every shred of intel for four years. Where is the backup we were promised? The Achilles could use a major overhaul, and the crew is in dire need of R&R. We never expected this mission to take this long, and the setbacks are beginning to outweigh—” With a shudder, the captain realizes the view outside has been engulfed by the total blackness of space.
There are no stars outside.
Rinckes freezes up, yet he’s starting to perspire. He gets up from his desk and walks toward the window to take in the surreal, ink-black darkness. Something is amiss, but he cannot dare name it. The dark threatens to hypnotize him, to suck him in, and he forces himself to turn away. The lights in his office have dimmed to the lowest setting, rendering it near impossible to see anything, so he grabs the phaser rifle that has materialized on his desk and switches on its flashlight.
His breath bursting in and out, the captain exits his office and enters a familiar set of corridors, lit solely by blinking red alert panels. After a few paces, the ready room behind him vanishes into thin air, taking everything reminding him of reality with it.
He is roaming the desolate innards of Station A-12, his sweaty hands clasping the phaser rifle as he progresses through murky hallways, feeling as if a thousand disembodied souls are watching him. From the brink of oblivion, a distorted figure whisks by. “Stop!” Rinckes hears himself shout while trying to track the specter with his rifle. His voice echoes into the void. Defying his instincts, and not by his own volition, Rinckes chases after this apparition.
After rounding the sixth consecutive right-hand corner, the captain stops dead in his tracks. The corridor is littered with Starfleet uniform-wearing corpses—some of them flat on the carpet, others leaning against the bulkheads like marionettes long since abandoned by their puppet master. With apprehension as his sole companion, Rinckes shines the rifle’s flashlight at each slain officer he encounters. Their faces are pale, their eyes milky and devoid of pupils. It forms an eerie scene, and each corpse he inspects adds fuel to the lonely fire that burns within him.
Rinckes aims his light at the end of the corridor, where an isolated corpse lies on its back. With irrational carefulness, Rinckes inches toward it. The red alert panels short out, leaving the rifle’s flashlight as his sole light source even though it’s dwindling, succumbing to the darkness. He keeps it fixed on the dead officer—a woman. Her blonde hair obscure her face. The captain crouches beside her and tries to dismiss the sensation of being stalked by an unstoppable murderer hiding in his peripheral vision. The air is warm, on the verge of smothering him.
Gently, Rinckes pushes aside her clammy locks of hair to reveal her identity. “Melanie,” he says. She’s pallid, like the others, and her eyes are closed, complementing her peaceful death mask. “Melanie!” He has been frightened ever since the stars disappeared, but now he’s beginning to panic. Fear, mixed with pain and despair, dictates his every thought, his every move. He grabs her by the shoulders and starts shaking her in an effort to wake her up, but she remains lifeless…
Then, without warning, Melanie opens her eyes in a furious stare directed straight at him.
Unable to withhold a muffled scream, Rinckes awakens from his nightmare. His skin is sweaty, his heart is thumping a wild rhythm, and his lungs are doing backflips to keep up. He looks around, bewildered, and notices he’s sitting in his ready room with the lights dimmed. The window that heralded his nightmare displays streaks of stardust, indicating the Achilles is at warp.
The doors across the room swish open and a shadowy figure enters.
Rinckes backs up in his chair, prepared to defend himself. “Who are you?”
The figure halts. “Lieutenant Ernest Baxter, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. The door was unlocked, and you—”
“Why are the lights off?” Rinckes asks, still disoriented and confused.
Baxter, featureless in the artificial dusk, briefly hesitates before saying, “We are in silent mode, Captain. Standard procedure when travelling under cloak. Are you all right, sir?”
“What is it you wanted to say?” Rinckes asks while regaining his composure, downplaying his embarrassment by ignoring it altogether.
“We’ve evaded another squadron of Altonoid vessels. We will arrive in the Nedron system in nineteen hours.”
“Another squadron? Unusual activity for this area,” Rinckes says, more to himself than to Baxter. “Maybe the intelligence reports we acquired are correct.”
“Let’s hope so.”
The shadowy figure leaves and Rinckes is alone once again. Stacks of PADDs holding relevant files beckon him to go back to work, seducing him with the promise of hidden clues. He picks one up and begins reading, only to throw it back on the pile moments later. Outside, iridescent shafts of stardust rush by, consoling him in hypnotic monotony, keeping the darkness at bay.
* * *
Commander Tony Blue picks a biobed and hops onto it. The Achilles’ main sickbay is dimly lit—a telltale sign of the cloaking device’s activated state.
Doctor Chris Kingsley emerges from his office and marches over to him. “I regret to inform you there’s no cure for ugliness.”
“Very funny, Doctor.” Tony still finds it hard to believe that, of all people, this particular chief medical officer doubles as counselor for the duration of this mission, but the crew has learned to roll with this sarcastic individual’s punches. “You know I’m not a big fan of these pre-mission checkups. I mean, if I believe there’s something wrong with me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Maybe that’s because there’s always something wrong with you,” Kingsley says. “Granted, you’ve taken an impressive amount of beating during your current human stint, but medically speaking you should be able to jump and frisk around like a little schoolgirl.”
Tony lets him rant. It’s best not to interrupt the doctor when caught in a new variant of his infamous monologues. He means well; he just loves the sound of his voice.
“Somehow, and I think it’s out of spite, you manage to keep limping. Honestly, I’m done rearranging your bones and muscles. I’m done polishing old phaser scars. I’m done running laps with you in holographic recreations of Olympic stadiums.”
“Doctor…” Tony says, successfully hiding his amusement, “shut up and fire up the bloody biobed.” He is grateful to be one of the two persons allowed to issue orders to the chief medical officer.
Kingsley has another trick up his sleeve. “I could make this examination last hours, days if necessary,” he says with a slightly unhinged grin. “I could even declare you unfit for duty.”
Tony decides to give up and stay silent. Surprisingly enough, it works.
Assisted by the biobed’s sensors, the doctor conducts the examination by waving a medical tricorder over his patient and—as the good Doctor Kingsley is wont to do—by assuming a severe aspect while studying the data, as if he has found a horrible affliction, only to shrug it off and continue the checkup. Sometimes, it makes Tony wish for another doctor. Any doctor, really. Even a farsighted, one-armed Klingon with psychopathic tendencies would do.
Kingsley glances at the biobed’s readouts. “You’re completely healthy, as you should be at twenty-four years of age. You are hereby officially cleared to set foot on Nedron Eight. Please try not to limp too much during the away mission. I understand you think the crew will respect you for it, being a fallen hero and such, but I can assure you it won’t do any good.”
Tony refrains from replying. He’d better not encourage him.
“Fine. The limp joke has worn out its welcome,” Kingsley says as he tosses his tricorder aside. “Just make sure you don’t get any other medical ailments, missing limbs, or whatever I can make fun of, okay?”
Struggle as he might, Tony cannot stifle a brief chuckle. “Is this your way of telling me to be careful?”
“Um… Yes.”
“I’ll try not to disappoint you.” Tony gets up and heads for the exit, the limp in his walk slight but noticeable.
* * *
Nedron System, USS Achilles – June 15, 2386 – Stardate 63452.7
Dimmed lights suffuse every corner of this starship with a sense of gloom one never quite grows accustomed to. Captain Rinckes sits behind his desk in his ready room, using his personal access console to review earlier investigations regarding the S’Prenn’s influence on the war. Some of these reports go back as far as the last time the Achilles visited the Nedron system—six years ago—under the command of the late Admiral Harriman.
“You might have been closer to a solution than you could have imagined,” Rinckes says to a picture of Harriman on one of the reports.
His lowly lit monitor highlights several related subjects. Rinckes scrolls through the list, and his heart skips a beat when he spots the subject “Station A-12 Debacle.” He selects it, causing images and a brief summary of events to fill the screen. From the short table of participating ships, he selects the USS Sundance and summons images and specs of the Prometheus-class vessel. After selecting “crew” and the stardate on which the Sundance was lost, he is confronted with a photo of his younger counterpart. Its caption reads:
Captain Stephan Rinckes – Captain – b. 2334
At the click of a button, the next crewmember appears. He can’t bear to look at the profile picture, even though it holds no secrets from him. Every time he closes his eyes, every time his thoughts stray, he sees it, an image more vivid than life itself. It is welded into his memory. As a result, he can only bring himself to glimpse at its immutable caption.
Commander Melanie Simons – First Officer – b. 2351 d. 2380
Quickly, before he might change his mind, he selects “next.” And again, and again. Every entry of every member of the Sundance’s crew, except his own, ends with d. 2380, a total of 173 Starfleet officers. Most of them he knew personally, and all of them were once his responsibility.
He arrives at his own picture once more and stops pressing the “next” button, aware of what’s hiding behind it.
The intercom signal chimes to offer reprieve from his somber musings. “Bridge to Captain Rinckes. We have arrived at Nedron Eight.” The lighting automatically increases to normal levels, further prompting the captain to action. He wants to shut off his computer and—whether by accident or on purpose—clicks “next” instead. The screen shows a youthful, blonde commander smiling prettily at the camera.
Commander Melanie Simons – First Officer – b. 2351 d. 2380
Rinckes reaches out and briefly caresses her face. All he feels is the cold tripolymer display beneath his fingertips. Without a change in his blank expression, he rises from his desk and leaves the room.
So okay, I have to admit the time jump was a little jarring. I had to go back and re-read the headers afterwards to make sure I knew where or when we were.
But I'm not taking away anything from this story, just caught me by surprise, is all. Clearly a lot of things happened in the last few years, least of which is that Blue and the doctor became frenemies. Wonder what else has changed.
But I'm not taking away anything from this story, just caught me by surprise, is all. Clearly a lot of things happened in the last few years, least of which is that Blue and the doctor became frenemies. Wonder what else has changed.
I probably should have added a little header reading "fours years later." That would've made it clearer. In the Word and PDF versions, I've reserved a horizontal line for the few time jumps in this story.
As always, thank you for providing feedback, CeJay!
As always, thank you for providing feedback, CeJay!
Fallen Heroes - chapter 5c
“Sorry, guys,” Tony Blue says, hobbling into transporter room 2 in an environmental suit, which consists of relatively tight-fitting, white fabric and an upper-body shell resting on a maroon vest. This bulky shell has an integrated helmet with a sizeable, transparent faceplate, which, in Tony’s view, has been specifically designed to exhibit how queasy you become in zero-G.
The other six away team members, also in their EV suits, are waiting for him on the transporter platform. Their hefty magnetic boots are the only reason they’re not tapping their feet.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m late,” Tony says. “I had a little trouble suiting up.”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Emily Blue scoffs. “He can never dress himself properly without my assistance.”
“You sure it’s airtight?” Chief of Security Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs teases.
“Don’t worry, I carry extra sealant,” Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell says, his cockney accent contributing to his wit. The dark-skinned chief engineer never shies away from an opportunity to poke well-intended fun at his fellow shipmates.
With as much elegance as possible while wearing a space suit and having a limp, Tony steps onto the transporter platform. “We look like a bunch of Michelin men,” he says to the man standing beside him, who turns out to be none other than Lieutenant Junior Grade Surtak, the ship’s ops officer.
The Vulcan arches an eyebrow. “I do not understand the reference, Commander.”
“Who invited him along?” Tony says, facing the others.
“I did, sir,” Lt. Gibbs says with admirable patience, “because you specifically asked me—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tony waves him off. Apart from Tony, Emily, Gibbs, Terrell, and Surtak, there are two other crewmembers present on the platform. “You two,” he says to them. “What are your names and ranks?”
“Ensign Ted Barton.”
“Ensign Josh Donahue.”
“Good,” Tony says. “I hereby doubled your chances of survival. You can thank me later.”
The ensigns exchange puzzled looks.
Tony presses one of the colorful buttons on his space suit, opening a comm channel with an audible chirp. “Commander Blue to the bridge. We’re all set here.”
“Good. Get underway,” Captain Rinckes replies. “Bridge out.”
“And good luck, valued crewmembers,” Emily adds with a small heap of sarcasm.
“Transporter chief,” Tony says to the ensign manning the transporter controls. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man says.
“Ready ready?” Tony asks.
“Sir…”
“I’m-not-going-to-mess-up-again-and-transport-you-into-the-one-lake-on-the-bloody-planet ready?”
“Sir, that happened only once,” the ensign says sheepishly.
Judging by the ensuing laughter, nobody has forgotten about that incident yet.
“All right,” Tony says, lifting a hand to signal his team to stop laughing, without much success. “Ensign, take us down.” He half-expects the transporter chief to take out his phaser and start gunning down everyone, but by some miracle the chief understands it correctly, and soon the away team dissipates in several blue transporter beams.
* * *
“Commander Blue and his team have been transported to Nedron Eight,” Lt. Baxter says from his station.
Captain Rinckes acknowledges the helmsman’s report with a quick nod. Here on the bridge, the many battles have left their permanent mark as well, but all stations remain operational. On the viewscreen, the Garcon Nebula lies in the distance, stunning in its lilac and blue grandeur. The graveyard of ships created by the Battle of Nedron must still be there, even though the Altonoids have probably stripped the derelicts of all valuable technology and scoured their databases for every usable fragment of information.
“Odd,” Doctor Kingsley says, seated on the second officer’s chair, to the captain’s left, studying his computer terminal’s data—or lack of it. “I’m reading no bio-signs.”
“That’s not surprising,” Lt. Kels says, her matter-of-factly tone belying the bad news she is sharing. “The Garcon Nebula tends to interfere with short and long range sensors. That, combined with the planet’s volatile atmosphere, could hinder communications, so they’re carrying pattern enhancers, which they will have to set up manually. They’ll likely need them to beam back, too.”
“And nobody told me this, because…?”
None of the bridge officers feels inclined to answer right away. Lt. Baxter breaks the silence. “Because reading their bio-signs isn’t going to help much when they’re being mauled by a ten-foot Nedronian cave dweller.”
“Well put, Lieutenant,” Lt. Kels says.
Dr. Kingsley is not amused. “So all we have to do is wait?” he asks. It winds up being a rhetorical question.
* * *
Nedron Eight isn’t your typical holiday destination. The terrain is rugged, volcanic, and features man-high vegetation stretched out in random contortions, as if drawn by a mirror universe Dr. Seuss. The sky is red and foggy, and the landscape’s aesthetics are dreary in every direction, from lava streams strangling the hillsides to blackened trees branching out like skeletal husks. The most fun you can have here is by taking off your environmental suit. You’d suffocate, burn, and get poisoned—in any particular order.
“God, I miss Risa,” Lt. Cmdr. Terrell quips.
“God, I miss Earth,” Ensign Donahue says.
“These are the coordinates,” Lt. Surtak says clinically, having activated the tricorder he detached from his suit.
“Okay, guys, this is the place,” Tony says. “Stay alert. Report anything of interest.”
They look around, seeing different variations of depressing scenery. The officers spread out, reluctantly so, but Tony sticks with his wife.
“Not a great place for a family picnic, huh?” Emily says.
“We’ve had worse outings,” Tony responds with a slightly forced giggle. Their attempt at lightening the mood is thwarted by the inescapable uneasiness this planet radiates. “Gibbs, any hostile activity yet?” Their in-suit communication systems allow them to talk with each other, even when they’re outside visual range. It also gives their voices a metallic quality, compounding the suit wearer’s sense of isolation.
“No hostiles,” Lt. Gibbs says. “As far as I can tell, there’s no wildlife, and I’m not detecting any life signs other than our own.”
“And yet,” Tony says, “I have the feeling we are being shadowed.” Out of the blue, someone taps him on the arm, causing him to leap into the air higher than you would think possible in such a heavy space suit.
“That would be me, sir,” Gibbs says, sporting a grin almost too wide to fit within his suit’s faceplate. “Nice jump.”
“Just carry on,” Tony grumbles.
After six minutes of their collective fruitless wandering, Emily speaks up. “It’s hard to be sure with this much interference, but there might be a structure over there, made from materials not indigenous to this planet.” Immersed in her tricorder’s readings, she heads onward.
“Team, this is Commander Blue. We might be on to something. Gather at our location.” He and Gibbs follow Emily into a patch of bleak shrubbery. All of a sudden, Emily stumbles and vanishes from sight within milliseconds. Tony’s skin crawls and his stomach tightens. Trailed by Gibbs, he rushes toward her last whereabouts, shouting his wife’s name.
“Everything all right there?” Terrell asks over the comm.
Tony doesn’t reply. He arrives at a precarious hole in the ground, about five feet in diameter, containing nothing but unending darkness, and kneels next to it. “Emily! Are you there?”
“Raising your voice is unnecessary, Commander,” Surtak says. “Our suits’ communication systems relay our messages regardless. Furthermore, we will reach your position in approximately ten seconds.”
Gibbs gives Tony a worried look. Normally, the commander would’ve verbalized his deep-felt sentiments concerning Vulcans, but all he does now is search for any indication of his spouse’s well-being, repeating the same words over and over. “Can you hear me, Emily? Are you there?”
Terrell, Surtak, and the two ensigns join them. “Is Lieutenant Blue all right?” Ensign Barton asks, medical kit in hand. No one has an answer ready.
Surtak hovers his tricorder over the opening. “The shaft does not appear to have been forged by nature. In fact, I have reason to believe we are standing atop a large metal platform, which is covered in soil.”
“Very interesting, Lieutenant,” Barton says politely, “but are you reading any life signs?”
“If there are, I cannot discern them at present.” Captivated by his tricorder’s output, he continues, “This shaft is at least twenty meters deep and opens up into a vast area. I surmise we are on the roof of a very large chamber—a storage room, perhaps.”
Tony straightens up. “I’m going in,” he says. “And you’re all coming with me.”
“No problem,” Gibbs says, snapping to action. “Everyone, activate your magnetic boots and follow me. The first steps are going to be difficult, so watch yourself.”
“May I point out we should not forget our mission,” Surtak says.
“I don’t know, Mr. Surtak,” Terrell says with a teasing smirk. “An artificial shaft in the middle of a deserted planet. If that’s not a clue, then what is?”
“In my opinion, it would be inadvisable to…” Surtak stops mid-sentence upon realizing Tony and Gibbs have already disappeared from sight.
Tony lets his magnetic boots do what their name suggests. Like the security chief predicted, the first few steps into the abyss are tricky, and Tony fights to maintain equilibrium despite gravity tugging at him from unusual directions. Having Gibbs by his side is reassuring, and soon his other colleagues join them.
Together, the six officers tramp the ceiling upside down—an unnerving experience. In the gloom, it’s impossible to determine the size and purpose of this seemingly boundless place. Fog leaking through the hatch, claiming the chamber as its own, doesn’t help visibility either. The SIMs beacons—or flashlights, if you will—strapped to their wrists only shine so far.
Finally, they encounter the nearest wall and start traversing the vertical plane, for all the difference it makes in this disorienting journey. All is quiet apart from their clanging footsteps and Tony’s repeated attempts to contact his wife. “Emily, I know you’re there. We’re coming for you. Don’t worry.” His tone is soft and gentle. Even if his comforting messages won’t reach her, they do strengthen his resolve to rescue her.
* * *
Lieutenant Emily Blue has no idea where she is, her surroundings a starless night. She cannot move. Throbbing pain besets her spine and limbs. She appears to be lying on her back, resting on an uneven surface, but it feels like a vague dream conjured up by a stranger. Despite her best efforts, she cannot remember what circumstances brought her here. She’d panic if she were lucid enough. Someone is calling her name from beyond the haze, but it’s too faint, drowned out by distorted thoughts. Darkness envelopes her, singing her to sleep. She doesn’t have to get up; that won’t do her much good. She might as well lie here and drift back into unconsciousness.
There’s that voice again, calling for her, but it’s distant and slipping away.
“Sorry, guys,” Tony Blue says, hobbling into transporter room 2 in an environmental suit, which consists of relatively tight-fitting, white fabric and an upper-body shell resting on a maroon vest. This bulky shell has an integrated helmet with a sizeable, transparent faceplate, which, in Tony’s view, has been specifically designed to exhibit how queasy you become in zero-G.
The other six away team members, also in their EV suits, are waiting for him on the transporter platform. Their hefty magnetic boots are the only reason they’re not tapping their feet.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m late,” Tony says. “I had a little trouble suiting up.”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Emily Blue scoffs. “He can never dress himself properly without my assistance.”
“You sure it’s airtight?” Chief of Security Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs teases.
“Don’t worry, I carry extra sealant,” Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell says, his cockney accent contributing to his wit. The dark-skinned chief engineer never shies away from an opportunity to poke well-intended fun at his fellow shipmates.
With as much elegance as possible while wearing a space suit and having a limp, Tony steps onto the transporter platform. “We look like a bunch of Michelin men,” he says to the man standing beside him, who turns out to be none other than Lieutenant Junior Grade Surtak, the ship’s ops officer.
The Vulcan arches an eyebrow. “I do not understand the reference, Commander.”
“Who invited him along?” Tony says, facing the others.
“I did, sir,” Lt. Gibbs says with admirable patience, “because you specifically asked me—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tony waves him off. Apart from Tony, Emily, Gibbs, Terrell, and Surtak, there are two other crewmembers present on the platform. “You two,” he says to them. “What are your names and ranks?”
“Ensign Ted Barton.”
“Ensign Josh Donahue.”
“Good,” Tony says. “I hereby doubled your chances of survival. You can thank me later.”
The ensigns exchange puzzled looks.
Tony presses one of the colorful buttons on his space suit, opening a comm channel with an audible chirp. “Commander Blue to the bridge. We’re all set here.”
“Good. Get underway,” Captain Rinckes replies. “Bridge out.”
“And good luck, valued crewmembers,” Emily adds with a small heap of sarcasm.
“Transporter chief,” Tony says to the ensign manning the transporter controls. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man says.
“Ready ready?” Tony asks.
“Sir…”
“I’m-not-going-to-mess-up-again-and-transport-you-into-the-one-lake-on-the-bloody-planet ready?”
“Sir, that happened only once,” the ensign says sheepishly.
Judging by the ensuing laughter, nobody has forgotten about that incident yet.
“All right,” Tony says, lifting a hand to signal his team to stop laughing, without much success. “Ensign, take us down.” He half-expects the transporter chief to take out his phaser and start gunning down everyone, but by some miracle the chief understands it correctly, and soon the away team dissipates in several blue transporter beams.
* * *
“Commander Blue and his team have been transported to Nedron Eight,” Lt. Baxter says from his station.
Captain Rinckes acknowledges the helmsman’s report with a quick nod. Here on the bridge, the many battles have left their permanent mark as well, but all stations remain operational. On the viewscreen, the Garcon Nebula lies in the distance, stunning in its lilac and blue grandeur. The graveyard of ships created by the Battle of Nedron must still be there, even though the Altonoids have probably stripped the derelicts of all valuable technology and scoured their databases for every usable fragment of information.
“Odd,” Doctor Kingsley says, seated on the second officer’s chair, to the captain’s left, studying his computer terminal’s data—or lack of it. “I’m reading no bio-signs.”
“That’s not surprising,” Lt. Kels says, her matter-of-factly tone belying the bad news she is sharing. “The Garcon Nebula tends to interfere with short and long range sensors. That, combined with the planet’s volatile atmosphere, could hinder communications, so they’re carrying pattern enhancers, which they will have to set up manually. They’ll likely need them to beam back, too.”
“And nobody told me this, because…?”
None of the bridge officers feels inclined to answer right away. Lt. Baxter breaks the silence. “Because reading their bio-signs isn’t going to help much when they’re being mauled by a ten-foot Nedronian cave dweller.”
“Well put, Lieutenant,” Lt. Kels says.
Dr. Kingsley is not amused. “So all we have to do is wait?” he asks. It winds up being a rhetorical question.
* * *
Nedron Eight isn’t your typical holiday destination. The terrain is rugged, volcanic, and features man-high vegetation stretched out in random contortions, as if drawn by a mirror universe Dr. Seuss. The sky is red and foggy, and the landscape’s aesthetics are dreary in every direction, from lava streams strangling the hillsides to blackened trees branching out like skeletal husks. The most fun you can have here is by taking off your environmental suit. You’d suffocate, burn, and get poisoned—in any particular order.
“God, I miss Risa,” Lt. Cmdr. Terrell quips.
“God, I miss Earth,” Ensign Donahue says.
“These are the coordinates,” Lt. Surtak says clinically, having activated the tricorder he detached from his suit.
“Okay, guys, this is the place,” Tony says. “Stay alert. Report anything of interest.”
They look around, seeing different variations of depressing scenery. The officers spread out, reluctantly so, but Tony sticks with his wife.
“Not a great place for a family picnic, huh?” Emily says.
“We’ve had worse outings,” Tony responds with a slightly forced giggle. Their attempt at lightening the mood is thwarted by the inescapable uneasiness this planet radiates. “Gibbs, any hostile activity yet?” Their in-suit communication systems allow them to talk with each other, even when they’re outside visual range. It also gives their voices a metallic quality, compounding the suit wearer’s sense of isolation.
“No hostiles,” Lt. Gibbs says. “As far as I can tell, there’s no wildlife, and I’m not detecting any life signs other than our own.”
“And yet,” Tony says, “I have the feeling we are being shadowed.” Out of the blue, someone taps him on the arm, causing him to leap into the air higher than you would think possible in such a heavy space suit.
“That would be me, sir,” Gibbs says, sporting a grin almost too wide to fit within his suit’s faceplate. “Nice jump.”
“Just carry on,” Tony grumbles.
After six minutes of their collective fruitless wandering, Emily speaks up. “It’s hard to be sure with this much interference, but there might be a structure over there, made from materials not indigenous to this planet.” Immersed in her tricorder’s readings, she heads onward.
“Team, this is Commander Blue. We might be on to something. Gather at our location.” He and Gibbs follow Emily into a patch of bleak shrubbery. All of a sudden, Emily stumbles and vanishes from sight within milliseconds. Tony’s skin crawls and his stomach tightens. Trailed by Gibbs, he rushes toward her last whereabouts, shouting his wife’s name.
“Everything all right there?” Terrell asks over the comm.
Tony doesn’t reply. He arrives at a precarious hole in the ground, about five feet in diameter, containing nothing but unending darkness, and kneels next to it. “Emily! Are you there?”
“Raising your voice is unnecessary, Commander,” Surtak says. “Our suits’ communication systems relay our messages regardless. Furthermore, we will reach your position in approximately ten seconds.”
Gibbs gives Tony a worried look. Normally, the commander would’ve verbalized his deep-felt sentiments concerning Vulcans, but all he does now is search for any indication of his spouse’s well-being, repeating the same words over and over. “Can you hear me, Emily? Are you there?”
Terrell, Surtak, and the two ensigns join them. “Is Lieutenant Blue all right?” Ensign Barton asks, medical kit in hand. No one has an answer ready.
Surtak hovers his tricorder over the opening. “The shaft does not appear to have been forged by nature. In fact, I have reason to believe we are standing atop a large metal platform, which is covered in soil.”
“Very interesting, Lieutenant,” Barton says politely, “but are you reading any life signs?”
“If there are, I cannot discern them at present.” Captivated by his tricorder’s output, he continues, “This shaft is at least twenty meters deep and opens up into a vast area. I surmise we are on the roof of a very large chamber—a storage room, perhaps.”
Tony straightens up. “I’m going in,” he says. “And you’re all coming with me.”
“No problem,” Gibbs says, snapping to action. “Everyone, activate your magnetic boots and follow me. The first steps are going to be difficult, so watch yourself.”
“May I point out we should not forget our mission,” Surtak says.
“I don’t know, Mr. Surtak,” Terrell says with a teasing smirk. “An artificial shaft in the middle of a deserted planet. If that’s not a clue, then what is?”
“In my opinion, it would be inadvisable to…” Surtak stops mid-sentence upon realizing Tony and Gibbs have already disappeared from sight.
Tony lets his magnetic boots do what their name suggests. Like the security chief predicted, the first few steps into the abyss are tricky, and Tony fights to maintain equilibrium despite gravity tugging at him from unusual directions. Having Gibbs by his side is reassuring, and soon his other colleagues join them.
Together, the six officers tramp the ceiling upside down—an unnerving experience. In the gloom, it’s impossible to determine the size and purpose of this seemingly boundless place. Fog leaking through the hatch, claiming the chamber as its own, doesn’t help visibility either. The SIMs beacons—or flashlights, if you will—strapped to their wrists only shine so far.
Finally, they encounter the nearest wall and start traversing the vertical plane, for all the difference it makes in this disorienting journey. All is quiet apart from their clanging footsteps and Tony’s repeated attempts to contact his wife. “Emily, I know you’re there. We’re coming for you. Don’t worry.” His tone is soft and gentle. Even if his comforting messages won’t reach her, they do strengthen his resolve to rescue her.
* * *
Lieutenant Emily Blue has no idea where she is, her surroundings a starless night. She cannot move. Throbbing pain besets her spine and limbs. She appears to be lying on her back, resting on an uneven surface, but it feels like a vague dream conjured up by a stranger. Despite her best efforts, she cannot remember what circumstances brought her here. She’d panic if she were lucid enough. Someone is calling her name from beyond the haze, but it’s too faint, drowned out by distorted thoughts. Darkness envelopes her, singing her to sleep. She doesn’t have to get up; that won’t do her much good. She might as well lie here and drift back into unconsciousness.
There’s that voice again, calling for her, but it’s distant and slipping away.
Fallen Heroes - chapter 5d
The six officers have to climb over scattered crates and containers from which unidentifiable content has spilled out in threads of grime, forming artificial dunes on a dusty floor. With the team’s magnetic boots, it’s easier to negotiate these obstacles, but it slows their progress nonetheless.
“Assuming Lieutenant Blue fell straight down, she should be nearby,” Lieutenant Surtak says, the only composed person here. This storage room from hell combined with the uncertainty of Emily’s fate is enough to make everybody else skittish.
Clambering through the field of smashed crates, Tony keeps talking to Emily in a soft, detached voice, contributing to the eeriness of the situation.
“I am reading a life sign,” Surtak says, to his colleagues’ relief. “Straight ahead.”
“Ready phasers. It could be a hostile contact,” Lieutenant Gibbs says.
Tony stops his one-sided conversation with Emily and looks straight through the security chief. After a few seconds of indecision, the commander nods his approval and unclips his handphaser from its holster on his EV suit. Emotions may run high, but he cannot afford to lower his guard in enemy territory.
“There she is! We’ve found her!” Ensign Donahue shouts. Six beams of light converge on a white space suit between a pair of broken crates.
“She is alive but wounded,” Surtak says as the group hurries over to her.
Tony is the first to get to her, and he crouches beside his wife. “Emily, I’m here,” he says, but she does not respond.
With the quiet precision of a Starfleet medic, Ensign Ted Barton hunkers down on the other side, opens his medkit, and begins scanning her with his medical tricorder.
“Wake up, Emily. You’re safe now,” Tony says in the same calm tone he has been using for the past few minutes.
“Commander,” Barton says after finishing his quick examination. “Sir!”
“Yes, Ensign?”
“The crates and her suit have broken her fall for the most part. She has sustained minor injuries to her head, limbs, and spine, but nothing life-threatening. She’s going to be all right.”
“That’s good to hear,” Tony says, voicing everybody’s thoughts.
“I could start treatment here, but I’d prefer to take her to sickbay.”
Lieutenant Commander Terrell chimes in. “We’ll have to set up the pattern enhancers if we want to beam her to the Achilles.”
“What’s going on?” Emily says, much to everyone’s surprise. Tony immediately embraces her. Not a very bright idea, considering her aches and bruises, so he backs down and rests her in his arms instead. “What did I miss?” she asks drowsily.
“Nothing really,” Tony says, unable to suppress a smile. “You just took a shortcut. We had to take the long way round.”
“Oh,” she says. The simplicity of her reply makes Tony chuckle.
“I hate to break up the tender moment,” Gibbs says, “but we have to keep moving. Ensign Barton, is Emily’s condition stable?”
“It is, sir.”
“Commander Blue, don’t get me wrong, but the sooner we complete our assignment, the better. Ensign Barton can stay with her, and we will pick them up on our way back.”
Tony knows Gibbs is right. With the team’s medic tending to Emily’s wounds, it’s time for them to move on. “I understand, Lieutenant,” he says, still cradling his wife. “You proceed with the mission; I think I’ll stay too.” Emily tries to sit up, but her struggles yield only a pained grimace. “Careful, don’t move. I’m here with you.”
“Sir, I understand why you’d rather stay,” Gibbs says as he crouches down and rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder, coaxing the commander to snap out of his overprotective state. “Emily’s in good hands. We’ll come back for them once we’re done.” He scoots closer. “Sir, you have more experience with the Altonoids than any of us do, and I don’t have to remind you of the importance of this mission.”
The security chief’s reasoning may be solid, but Tony remains unconvinced.
“It’s okay, Tony. I’ll be fine,” Emily says with a masterful combination of stubbornness and sweetness that never fails to bypass his defenses. “I’m usually the one looking after you, remember?”
“It’s your call, Commander,” Gibbs says.
Tony lets out an exaggerated breath. “Oh, all right. Don’t you all get all puppy-eyed on me. Just give me a sec.”
“No problem,” Gibbs says, and he stands up to join the others.
Tony turns to his wife. “Okay, you stay here and be nice to Ensign Barton.”
“I’ll do my best,” Emily says in a mock-serious tone.
“And you, Ensign,” Tony says. “Ted, take good care of her.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Or else I’ll drop you off at the nearest Altonoid melee weapon party.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gift-wrapped.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. We understand each other.”
“Commander, we need to get going,” Gibbs says. The other three members of the away team have already become contours in the chamber’s mist.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Tony says to Barton and Emily.
Emily smiles. “We won’t.” And with that, Tony rises to his feet and accompanies Gibbs into the unknown.
* * *
“We’ve reached an exit,” Ensign Donahue says. Tony, Terrell, Gibbs, and Surtak convene at his location and spot a vast metal door, camouflaged in the murk. They’ve been trudging for a while now, navigating a maze of darkness and broken crates, scouring the walls for a way out. Tony for one is relieved, although what lies hidden behind the door probably won’t justify that feeling.
“It is locked,” Surtak says.
Nobody knows how to respond, except for maybe a concealed “duh,” given the fact that this massive door looks like it can only be opened with a volley of quantum torpedoes.
“That’s where I come in,” Terrell says, ever the optimist. The others take a respectful step back and let the British chief engineer do what he does best: fixing stuff. With a modicum of effort and through the magic of a jerry-rigged energy cell, Terrell persuades the big door to open, revealing a twisted corridor as hazy and endless as the storage room. A faraway metal screech, amplified by the hopefully empty hallway, echoes its welcome.
“Keep your phasers ready,” Gibbs says with a relatable hint of peril.
Surtak, however, is calm as always. “It is doubtful we will encounter living beings beyond this doorway.” Unlike his colleagues, he hasn’t armed himself yet. Fearlessly, the Vulcan crosses the threshold with his tricorder held out in front of him, as if he’s taking a quiet stroll in a friend’s backyard and not entering a nightmarish corridor. The other officers have no choice but to follow.
Tony cannot decide whether he finds Surtak’s approach brave or careless—stoic would probably be the correct term.
“I believe I have collected sufficient data to confirm we are aboard a crashed Attack-class Altonoid vessel,” Surtak says, causing a fit of surprised mutterings among the other members of the away team. “I suggest we head over to the computer core control room, where we can attempt to access the main computer.”
“I’m impressed, Lieutenant,” Gibbs says. The others agree in silence.
Flanked by Gibbs and Terrell, Surtak takes point. Tony and Donahue bring up the rear. Light beams emanating from their SIMs beacons hit either the bulkheads or the enclosing walls of fog. The big cargo bay door has already disappeared in the mist. It’s as if this corridor has no beginning or end. It makes Tony miss the safety of the Achilles. It makes him miss his wife. “Emily, can you hear us?” No reply.
“Out of range, Commander,” Terrell says. “The door probably closed behind us, too.”
Just as Tony concludes this couldn’t get much spookier, they encounter a molding Altonoid corpse lying casually on the floor. Their beacons are drawn to it, and they stop and stare for a while. Mummified by the planet’s unforgiving atmosphere, its mouth retracted in a soundless scream, it has become hideous and grotesque.
“He is dead,” Surtak says.
Tony sinks his upper teeth into his lower lip to keep from laughing and asks, “Sure you don’t want to check his pulse?”
“Yeah,” Terrell says with an ear-to-ear grin. “I mean, if there’s anything we can do for him, we shouldn’t hesitate.”
“That’s Starfleet for you. Always here to help,” Gibbs says with an equally broad smile.
“I find these so-called jokes at the expense of a deceased individual distasteful,” Surtak says. “According to my readings, the Altonoid has been dead for two years, providing us a reliable indication of when this vessel crashed.”
“Such a buzzkill,” Tony mumbles to himself before addressing his team. “Show’s over. Let’s get going. And Surtak, be sure to warn us when you encounter any living Altonoids.”
“I will, sir,” Surtak says as he continues into the darkness. The others go with him, leaving the Altonoid to rest in peace.
* * *
The bridge crew of the Achilles has been trying to ascertain the away team’s status, but they have very little to go on. That goes double for the chief medical officer, Doctor Kingsley. “I don’t like to be kept out of the loop like this. We haven’t heard anything from them since the mission began.”
“No news could be good news, Doctor,” Lieutenant Commander Crow says, aiming to silence the doctor. He has been grouching ever since he arrived on the bridge.
“Really? That’s all you have to offer?” Kingsley stands up to make room for his wild gestures. “Right this instant, they could be celebrating the unearthing of an artifact that unravels the mysteries of the universe, or they could be stuck in some native monster’s digestive tract.”
“Our most recent scans of the surface prove there are no creatures in their vicinity,” Lieutenant Kels says, helping Crow in her brave but futile quest to shut the doctor up.
“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Kingsley says. “Exactly how accurate are the sensors when it comes to scanning a planet with so much natural interference?”
Kels deflects his probing question. “I’m sure Commander Blue has everything under control.”
“I may certainly hope so.”
“Sir, are you suggesting the away team isn’t capable of performing its duties?”
Kingsley lifts his palms. “I’m not suggesting anything of the kind.” He decides to procure the captain’s support. “Captain, what do you think? Are my worries justified?” That last question is spoken as if there’s only one possible answer.
However, Captain Rinckes doesn’t appear to be following the conversation, nor does he show any willingness to participate. He’s watching the viewscreen, studying it. The view of Nedron Eight with the impressive Garcon Nebula as its backdrop hasn’t changed in the past half-hour. Yet, a glimmer of alarm in the captain’s gaze brings the entire argument to a halt.
“Something’s off,” the captain grumbles. “We’re not alone. Scan the system without revealing our position. Use low-frequency scan pulses.”
The crew complies straightaway. “Nothing out of the ordinary on sensors,” Kels says. “I could divert a smidgeon of extra power to the sensor arrays.”
“Don’t. Just stay alert,” Rinckes says without breaking off his concentrated stare.
“Even if there’s someone out there, they won’t detect us,” Crow says in another attempt to ease the tension. “Our cloaking device is running at full efficiency.”
“I know,” Rinckes says in a manner that doesn’t soothe anyone’s nerves.
An opening comm channel announces itself. Lieutenant Baxter sighs in relief. “Sir, it’s the away team,” he says. “Relaying communication to the bridge.”
“Finally,” Kingsley says, falling back into his chair.
* * *
Tony, Terrell, Gibbs, Surtak, and Donahue are standing in a modestly sized room that’s equipped with wall-mounted computer interfaces gathering dust in serene inactivity. Other than that, it’s remarkably empty, save for the six upright pattern enhancers that have been strategically placed and calibrated to perfection. Those enhancers cast a shimmery blue light against the bulkheads, giving the computer room the aspect of an aquarium.
“What’s your status?” they hear their captain say.
“We have found the wreckage of a crashed Attack-class Altonoid vessel,” Tony replies, “the UEA Atlunte. We’re currently in the secondary computer core room. Commander Terrell is busting his hump to get the main computer up and running.” Terrell quickly flashes him a smile while typing commands into a badly lit wall panel. “He’s making excellent progress.”
As if on cue, all interfaces switch on in quick succession, their green hues clashing with the pattern enhancers’ blue, rippling light.
“Nice work, Jon,” Gibbs says as he gives the chief engineer a friendly knock on the helmet. “Let’s figure out what this rusty old flea trap can tell us.”
“If we upload its database to the Achilles,” Surtak says, “it will give us the opportunity to review all files without the delay of an on-site selection.”
“Feasible and wise, Mr. Surtak,” Terrell says.
“This is good news,” Rinckes says in a tone implying the opposite. “Set up an independent uplink in coordination with Lieutenant Baxter and send us the data.”
“You’ll find the information more than useful, Captain,” Terrell says, almost sounding giddy. Tony can’t help but admire the chief engineer’s unwavering enthusiasm. “I’m receiving Baxter’s signal. Uploading database… now.” The blue lights on top of the six enhancers begin to flash in unison, signaling the transfer has begun.
* * *
A status bar on Baxter’s helm station indicates a steady stream of valuable intel is being downloaded fast. Captain Rinckes keeps track of its progress from his seat in the center of the bridge by shooting glances over the helmsman’s shoulder.
“What’s the condition of the away team, Commander?” Doctor Kingsley asks, no doubt glad to be able to ask this question at last. “Everybody all right?”
“Emily was the first to discover the wreckage, but she got wounded in the process,” Tony says. That’s not the end of his story, but Lieutenant Baxter has to cut it short.
“Sir, I’m receiving a distress call.”
“A distress call?” Rinckes spares his helmsman a look. “From where?”
Baxter scowls at his controls, as if they’re somehow to blame. “From the location of the away team!”
Rinckes’ narrow eyes grow wide, and he rises from his seat.
“Captain,” Terrell says, higher pitched than normal. “It’s the Atlunte. Its main computer must have detected the ability to send out subspace signals. It has—”
“—sent out a distress call,” Rinckes grunts. “Is the database upload complete?”
“Yes, sir. Shutting down main computer.”
“We’re packing up, Captain,” Tony adds.
The captain resumes his piercing stare directed at the viewscreen. During Kingsley’s complaining, he picked up on the subliminal visual imperfections of at least one cloaking device, whether through instinct or experience. Far off in the distance, validating his suspicions, two Altonoid battlecruisers uncloak, two enormous floating caskets offsetting the Garcon Nebula’s beauty. They’re heading straight for the Achilles.
“Two Massal-class vessels closing in,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says. “But we’re cloaked. We’re invisible to them, right?”
“They know exactly where we are,” the captain says with paradoxical calmness, born of professionalism. “Commander Blue, prepare your team for transport. We’re leaving.”
“Sir.” The sudden anguish in Tony’s voice is unsettling. “We had to leave Lieutenant Blue and Ensign Barton behind in the cargo bay. We need at least ten minutes to reach them and use the enhancers to beam them to…” Tony can’t finish his sentence. It’s as if he sees what Rinckes is seeing: two Massal-class battleships with superior firepower on a merciless intercept course.
They don’t have ten minutes.
The six officers have to climb over scattered crates and containers from which unidentifiable content has spilled out in threads of grime, forming artificial dunes on a dusty floor. With the team’s magnetic boots, it’s easier to negotiate these obstacles, but it slows their progress nonetheless.
“Assuming Lieutenant Blue fell straight down, she should be nearby,” Lieutenant Surtak says, the only composed person here. This storage room from hell combined with the uncertainty of Emily’s fate is enough to make everybody else skittish.
Clambering through the field of smashed crates, Tony keeps talking to Emily in a soft, detached voice, contributing to the eeriness of the situation.
“I am reading a life sign,” Surtak says, to his colleagues’ relief. “Straight ahead.”
“Ready phasers. It could be a hostile contact,” Lieutenant Gibbs says.
Tony stops his one-sided conversation with Emily and looks straight through the security chief. After a few seconds of indecision, the commander nods his approval and unclips his handphaser from its holster on his EV suit. Emotions may run high, but he cannot afford to lower his guard in enemy territory.
“There she is! We’ve found her!” Ensign Donahue shouts. Six beams of light converge on a white space suit between a pair of broken crates.
“She is alive but wounded,” Surtak says as the group hurries over to her.
Tony is the first to get to her, and he crouches beside his wife. “Emily, I’m here,” he says, but she does not respond.
With the quiet precision of a Starfleet medic, Ensign Ted Barton hunkers down on the other side, opens his medkit, and begins scanning her with his medical tricorder.
“Wake up, Emily. You’re safe now,” Tony says in the same calm tone he has been using for the past few minutes.
“Commander,” Barton says after finishing his quick examination. “Sir!”
“Yes, Ensign?”
“The crates and her suit have broken her fall for the most part. She has sustained minor injuries to her head, limbs, and spine, but nothing life-threatening. She’s going to be all right.”
“That’s good to hear,” Tony says, voicing everybody’s thoughts.
“I could start treatment here, but I’d prefer to take her to sickbay.”
Lieutenant Commander Terrell chimes in. “We’ll have to set up the pattern enhancers if we want to beam her to the Achilles.”
“What’s going on?” Emily says, much to everyone’s surprise. Tony immediately embraces her. Not a very bright idea, considering her aches and bruises, so he backs down and rests her in his arms instead. “What did I miss?” she asks drowsily.
“Nothing really,” Tony says, unable to suppress a smile. “You just took a shortcut. We had to take the long way round.”
“Oh,” she says. The simplicity of her reply makes Tony chuckle.
“I hate to break up the tender moment,” Gibbs says, “but we have to keep moving. Ensign Barton, is Emily’s condition stable?”
“It is, sir.”
“Commander Blue, don’t get me wrong, but the sooner we complete our assignment, the better. Ensign Barton can stay with her, and we will pick them up on our way back.”
Tony knows Gibbs is right. With the team’s medic tending to Emily’s wounds, it’s time for them to move on. “I understand, Lieutenant,” he says, still cradling his wife. “You proceed with the mission; I think I’ll stay too.” Emily tries to sit up, but her struggles yield only a pained grimace. “Careful, don’t move. I’m here with you.”
“Sir, I understand why you’d rather stay,” Gibbs says as he crouches down and rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder, coaxing the commander to snap out of his overprotective state. “Emily’s in good hands. We’ll come back for them once we’re done.” He scoots closer. “Sir, you have more experience with the Altonoids than any of us do, and I don’t have to remind you of the importance of this mission.”
The security chief’s reasoning may be solid, but Tony remains unconvinced.
“It’s okay, Tony. I’ll be fine,” Emily says with a masterful combination of stubbornness and sweetness that never fails to bypass his defenses. “I’m usually the one looking after you, remember?”
“It’s your call, Commander,” Gibbs says.
Tony lets out an exaggerated breath. “Oh, all right. Don’t you all get all puppy-eyed on me. Just give me a sec.”
“No problem,” Gibbs says, and he stands up to join the others.
Tony turns to his wife. “Okay, you stay here and be nice to Ensign Barton.”
“I’ll do my best,” Emily says in a mock-serious tone.
“And you, Ensign,” Tony says. “Ted, take good care of her.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Or else I’ll drop you off at the nearest Altonoid melee weapon party.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gift-wrapped.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. We understand each other.”
“Commander, we need to get going,” Gibbs says. The other three members of the away team have already become contours in the chamber’s mist.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Tony says to Barton and Emily.
Emily smiles. “We won’t.” And with that, Tony rises to his feet and accompanies Gibbs into the unknown.
* * *
“We’ve reached an exit,” Ensign Donahue says. Tony, Terrell, Gibbs, and Surtak convene at his location and spot a vast metal door, camouflaged in the murk. They’ve been trudging for a while now, navigating a maze of darkness and broken crates, scouring the walls for a way out. Tony for one is relieved, although what lies hidden behind the door probably won’t justify that feeling.
“It is locked,” Surtak says.
Nobody knows how to respond, except for maybe a concealed “duh,” given the fact that this massive door looks like it can only be opened with a volley of quantum torpedoes.
“That’s where I come in,” Terrell says, ever the optimist. The others take a respectful step back and let the British chief engineer do what he does best: fixing stuff. With a modicum of effort and through the magic of a jerry-rigged energy cell, Terrell persuades the big door to open, revealing a twisted corridor as hazy and endless as the storage room. A faraway metal screech, amplified by the hopefully empty hallway, echoes its welcome.
“Keep your phasers ready,” Gibbs says with a relatable hint of peril.
Surtak, however, is calm as always. “It is doubtful we will encounter living beings beyond this doorway.” Unlike his colleagues, he hasn’t armed himself yet. Fearlessly, the Vulcan crosses the threshold with his tricorder held out in front of him, as if he’s taking a quiet stroll in a friend’s backyard and not entering a nightmarish corridor. The other officers have no choice but to follow.
Tony cannot decide whether he finds Surtak’s approach brave or careless—stoic would probably be the correct term.
“I believe I have collected sufficient data to confirm we are aboard a crashed Attack-class Altonoid vessel,” Surtak says, causing a fit of surprised mutterings among the other members of the away team. “I suggest we head over to the computer core control room, where we can attempt to access the main computer.”
“I’m impressed, Lieutenant,” Gibbs says. The others agree in silence.
Flanked by Gibbs and Terrell, Surtak takes point. Tony and Donahue bring up the rear. Light beams emanating from their SIMs beacons hit either the bulkheads or the enclosing walls of fog. The big cargo bay door has already disappeared in the mist. It’s as if this corridor has no beginning or end. It makes Tony miss the safety of the Achilles. It makes him miss his wife. “Emily, can you hear us?” No reply.
“Out of range, Commander,” Terrell says. “The door probably closed behind us, too.”
Just as Tony concludes this couldn’t get much spookier, they encounter a molding Altonoid corpse lying casually on the floor. Their beacons are drawn to it, and they stop and stare for a while. Mummified by the planet’s unforgiving atmosphere, its mouth retracted in a soundless scream, it has become hideous and grotesque.
“He is dead,” Surtak says.
Tony sinks his upper teeth into his lower lip to keep from laughing and asks, “Sure you don’t want to check his pulse?”
“Yeah,” Terrell says with an ear-to-ear grin. “I mean, if there’s anything we can do for him, we shouldn’t hesitate.”
“That’s Starfleet for you. Always here to help,” Gibbs says with an equally broad smile.
“I find these so-called jokes at the expense of a deceased individual distasteful,” Surtak says. “According to my readings, the Altonoid has been dead for two years, providing us a reliable indication of when this vessel crashed.”
“Such a buzzkill,” Tony mumbles to himself before addressing his team. “Show’s over. Let’s get going. And Surtak, be sure to warn us when you encounter any living Altonoids.”
“I will, sir,” Surtak says as he continues into the darkness. The others go with him, leaving the Altonoid to rest in peace.
* * *
The bridge crew of the Achilles has been trying to ascertain the away team’s status, but they have very little to go on. That goes double for the chief medical officer, Doctor Kingsley. “I don’t like to be kept out of the loop like this. We haven’t heard anything from them since the mission began.”
“No news could be good news, Doctor,” Lieutenant Commander Crow says, aiming to silence the doctor. He has been grouching ever since he arrived on the bridge.
“Really? That’s all you have to offer?” Kingsley stands up to make room for his wild gestures. “Right this instant, they could be celebrating the unearthing of an artifact that unravels the mysteries of the universe, or they could be stuck in some native monster’s digestive tract.”
“Our most recent scans of the surface prove there are no creatures in their vicinity,” Lieutenant Kels says, helping Crow in her brave but futile quest to shut the doctor up.
“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Kingsley says. “Exactly how accurate are the sensors when it comes to scanning a planet with so much natural interference?”
Kels deflects his probing question. “I’m sure Commander Blue has everything under control.”
“I may certainly hope so.”
“Sir, are you suggesting the away team isn’t capable of performing its duties?”
Kingsley lifts his palms. “I’m not suggesting anything of the kind.” He decides to procure the captain’s support. “Captain, what do you think? Are my worries justified?” That last question is spoken as if there’s only one possible answer.
However, Captain Rinckes doesn’t appear to be following the conversation, nor does he show any willingness to participate. He’s watching the viewscreen, studying it. The view of Nedron Eight with the impressive Garcon Nebula as its backdrop hasn’t changed in the past half-hour. Yet, a glimmer of alarm in the captain’s gaze brings the entire argument to a halt.
“Something’s off,” the captain grumbles. “We’re not alone. Scan the system without revealing our position. Use low-frequency scan pulses.”
The crew complies straightaway. “Nothing out of the ordinary on sensors,” Kels says. “I could divert a smidgeon of extra power to the sensor arrays.”
“Don’t. Just stay alert,” Rinckes says without breaking off his concentrated stare.
“Even if there’s someone out there, they won’t detect us,” Crow says in another attempt to ease the tension. “Our cloaking device is running at full efficiency.”
“I know,” Rinckes says in a manner that doesn’t soothe anyone’s nerves.
An opening comm channel announces itself. Lieutenant Baxter sighs in relief. “Sir, it’s the away team,” he says. “Relaying communication to the bridge.”
“Finally,” Kingsley says, falling back into his chair.
* * *
Tony, Terrell, Gibbs, Surtak, and Donahue are standing in a modestly sized room that’s equipped with wall-mounted computer interfaces gathering dust in serene inactivity. Other than that, it’s remarkably empty, save for the six upright pattern enhancers that have been strategically placed and calibrated to perfection. Those enhancers cast a shimmery blue light against the bulkheads, giving the computer room the aspect of an aquarium.
“What’s your status?” they hear their captain say.
“We have found the wreckage of a crashed Attack-class Altonoid vessel,” Tony replies, “the UEA Atlunte. We’re currently in the secondary computer core room. Commander Terrell is busting his hump to get the main computer up and running.” Terrell quickly flashes him a smile while typing commands into a badly lit wall panel. “He’s making excellent progress.”
As if on cue, all interfaces switch on in quick succession, their green hues clashing with the pattern enhancers’ blue, rippling light.
“Nice work, Jon,” Gibbs says as he gives the chief engineer a friendly knock on the helmet. “Let’s figure out what this rusty old flea trap can tell us.”
“If we upload its database to the Achilles,” Surtak says, “it will give us the opportunity to review all files without the delay of an on-site selection.”
“Feasible and wise, Mr. Surtak,” Terrell says.
“This is good news,” Rinckes says in a tone implying the opposite. “Set up an independent uplink in coordination with Lieutenant Baxter and send us the data.”
“You’ll find the information more than useful, Captain,” Terrell says, almost sounding giddy. Tony can’t help but admire the chief engineer’s unwavering enthusiasm. “I’m receiving Baxter’s signal. Uploading database… now.” The blue lights on top of the six enhancers begin to flash in unison, signaling the transfer has begun.
* * *
A status bar on Baxter’s helm station indicates a steady stream of valuable intel is being downloaded fast. Captain Rinckes keeps track of its progress from his seat in the center of the bridge by shooting glances over the helmsman’s shoulder.
“What’s the condition of the away team, Commander?” Doctor Kingsley asks, no doubt glad to be able to ask this question at last. “Everybody all right?”
“Emily was the first to discover the wreckage, but she got wounded in the process,” Tony says. That’s not the end of his story, but Lieutenant Baxter has to cut it short.
“Sir, I’m receiving a distress call.”
“A distress call?” Rinckes spares his helmsman a look. “From where?”
Baxter scowls at his controls, as if they’re somehow to blame. “From the location of the away team!”
Rinckes’ narrow eyes grow wide, and he rises from his seat.
“Captain,” Terrell says, higher pitched than normal. “It’s the Atlunte. Its main computer must have detected the ability to send out subspace signals. It has—”
“—sent out a distress call,” Rinckes grunts. “Is the database upload complete?”
“Yes, sir. Shutting down main computer.”
“We’re packing up, Captain,” Tony adds.
The captain resumes his piercing stare directed at the viewscreen. During Kingsley’s complaining, he picked up on the subliminal visual imperfections of at least one cloaking device, whether through instinct or experience. Far off in the distance, validating his suspicions, two Altonoid battlecruisers uncloak, two enormous floating caskets offsetting the Garcon Nebula’s beauty. They’re heading straight for the Achilles.
“Two Massal-class vessels closing in,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says. “But we’re cloaked. We’re invisible to them, right?”
“They know exactly where we are,” the captain says with paradoxical calmness, born of professionalism. “Commander Blue, prepare your team for transport. We’re leaving.”
“Sir.” The sudden anguish in Tony’s voice is unsettling. “We had to leave Lieutenant Blue and Ensign Barton behind in the cargo bay. We need at least ten minutes to reach them and use the enhancers to beam them to…” Tony can’t finish his sentence. It’s as if he sees what Rinckes is seeing: two Massal-class battleships with superior firepower on a merciless intercept course.
They don’t have ten minutes.
Fallen Heroes - chapter 6a
“I recommend evasive maneuvers,” Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow says from her tactical station.
Captain Stephan Rinckes, his feet planted on the floor in the center of the bridge, stares at the two approaching Altonoid warships. The distress call sent out by the wreckage buried under the planet’s surface must have transmitted the Achilles’ location. He fears that, this up close and personal, their cloak won’t fool the Altonoids. “Baxter, break orbit.”
“Captain, you’ve got to let me get Emily,” Commander Tony Blue says, disrupting the captain’s focus. The Achilles is breaking orbit and the Altonoids seem to be adjusting their course accordingly. “I’ll have the rest of the away team ready for beamup. I’ll—”
“Commander, this is not the time.” Rinckes straightens his uniform jacket. “Baxter, set heading 014 mark 182, quarter impulse. Crow, keep tabs on those Altonoids.”
The obligatory “aye sirs” are drowned out by Tony’s pleading. “…to get them here, but I can do it. I know it’s asking a lot, but the Achilles is strong enough to withstand a few—”
“Tony, not now!” Rinckes snaps. The abrupt silence on the other end of the comm channel is deafening. The bridge crewmembers pause their work briefly, trying and failing to appear unruffled by this outburst. Even Doctor Kingsley refrains from commenting, although the look he gives his captain speaks volumes. Their opinions of him be damned; ensuring the safety of the ship takes precedence, no matter what.
“Captain,” Erin Crow says, urgency tarnishing her regular air of detachment. “The Altonoids have once again adjusted their course to match ours.”
Rinckes meets her gaze, realizing the implication of what she has said. “Red alert! Drop cloak and raise shields! All hands to battle stations!”
Red alert panels flash to life and start blinking as the warning claxon primes the crew for battle.
* * *
In the computer room of the crashed Altonoid vessel, the away team’s environmental suits keep at bay the unbreathable air, which is heavy with gloom and tension. Lieutenant Commander Terrell, assisted by Ensign Donahue, is checking the six upright pattern enhancers to ensure the Achilles can beam him and his squad mates up. The security chief, Lieutenant Gibbs, is casting worried looks at Tony, who’s pacing back and forth while fruitlessly attempting to re-establish communication with the bridge. Lieutenant Surtak is quietly awaiting what’s to come.
“Commander Blue to Achilles.” Despite his suit’s internal climate control, sweat pools on Tony’s forehead and smudges his faceplate. “Dammit, Captain! What the bloody hell is going on up there?” He kicks a nearby computer terminal in frustration—a rather pointless thing to do, especially while wearing an EV suit. He huffs and faces the security chief. “I’m going back for them.”
“I’m coming with you,” Gibbs says in a reassuring tone. “But we’ll need these enhancers. Terrell, Surtak, and Donahue must be beamed to the ship first.”
“I’ll go ahead,” Tony says. “Catch up with me once you’re done here. We have to hurry.” He is about to start toward the exit when the Achilles contacts them.
“Achilles to the away team.” It’s difficult to hear over the din of ship-to-ship combat, but Tony can make out it’s the captain. After another audible explosion, Rinckes addresses his bridge crew first. “Evasive maneuver Delta. Keep lining up the pulse phaser cannons. Don’t worry about overheating them. Just keep 'em firing. Commander Blue, are you still in the computer room?”
“Affirmative. Terrell, Surtak, and Donahue are ready for beamup. Gibbs and I will proceed to the cargo bay and retrieve—”
“Like hell you are. We’ll open up an EM window in our shields to beam you up, and then we’re out of here. I know this means leaving Lieutenant Blue and Ensign Barton behind, but we cannot hold position. You’ve seen the increased activity in this region. Enemy reinforcements are not in short supply.”
Tony wants to protest, but the captain has resumed yelling orders at his bridge crew. Dizzy in spite of the rigidity of his suit, he looks at his four colleagues, who mirror his helplessness. No, this cannot be the end of it. “Captain,” he says. Rinckes does not respond. “Captain!”
“Regrettable as they are,” Surtak says coolly, “our orders are clear, Commander.”
“Yes, they are.” Tony curls his upper lip into a sneer. “I’m going anyway. Jeremy, are you with me on this one?”
Before Gibbs can react, Rinckes addresses them again, sounding unperturbed by Tony’s disobedience. “What do you think you’re doing, Commander?” It’s as if he’d been expecting to have to say this. “We’re beaming you up.” A thunderclap of enemy fire rumbles the bridge in the background. “—run out of time.”
“Captain!” Tony shouts. “Emily’s trapped in the cargo bay. There must be something we can do!”
“No, Commander, there isn’t. Baxter, initiate transport.”
“Wait! Please!” The jumbled noise of a bridge under attack has disappeared. The comm channel is closed. Shoulders sagged in defeat, Tony stands there, giving Gibbs a look he won’t soon forget—a look of unfiltered anguish.
As the computer room dissolves to be replaced by a shaking transporter room, Tony balls his hands into fists.
* * *
With a series of violent sparks, the second officer’s console gives up altogether and goes dark, providing further ammunition for Doctor Kingsley’s disgruntled mutterings, which Captain Rinckes blocks out. The bridge is rocking violently, and its crew has to put in extra effort to keep from being torn from their posts. Somehow, Rinckes stays on his feet, issuing orders with levelheaded competence. He knows they cannot afford to overstay their welcome. With no backup or repair facilities to fall back on, every enemy phaser strike and torpedo impact carries the risk of crippling the Achilles, stranding her indefinitely, condemning those aboard to die in the vacuum of space.
“Shields down to 53 percent,” Ensign Robert Dolphin, manning the engineering station, reports. “I’m detecting minor hull breaches on the upper decks. Main power is draining. Switching to auxiliary power.”
“What about the away team?” Rinckes asks as a nearby EPS conduit ruptures and starts billowing smoke.
Lieutenant Ernest Baxter accesses the corresponding data on his console. “Blue, Terrell, Gibbs, Surtak, and Donahue are now on board.”
“As soon as there’s an opening, get us out of here. Maximum warp.”
Baxter’s fingers race the controls he mastered years ago. “I believe I’ve found one.” The two large Altonoid vessels roll out of view by virtue of his piloting skills.
Blood rushes to the captain’s limbs, as if he is fighting the enemy in person. If only. “Crow, fire dorsal torpedo cannons, as many as you can without blowing ourselves to kingdom come. Let’s make sure they won’t follow us.”
* * *
Outside, the Achilles lets loose with her impressive dorsal weaponry, hitting the warships dead-on. The grid of torpedo launchers atop the Achilles launch smaller photon torpedoes than normal launchers do, but their greater numbers render them lethal nonetheless. The majority of these packets of intense and destructive energy disperse in the Altonoids’ shields and wear out their defensive capabilities, allowing others to sneak through and wreak havoc.
However, the attack serves primarily as a distraction for the giant Massal-class vessels; it’s nothing they can’t shrug off. The vehement Altonoids respond with enough phaser fire and torpedo volleys to bid the Achilles a scorching farewell. Then, the lone Federation vessel engages her warp engines and propels herself out of the area.
* * *
The bridge rattles as the ship accelerates, settling under duress after having taken yet another beating. “Are they chasing us?” Rinckes asks.
“Negative, sir,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says.
Rinckes sits down in his chair. “Re-engage cloaking device and take us to yellow alert. Baxter, navigate us to a safer destination and make our flight path as erratic as you deem fit. Ensign Dolphin, damage report.” The alert indicators go from red to yellow, but because the Achilles is travelling under cloak, the standard lighting doesn’t come on, masking the additional damage the Altonoids inflicted in their brief but brutal assault.
“Auxiliary power is holding,” Ensign Dolphin says. “Many of our dorsal torpedo launchers are overheated. In fact, all weapons require an extensive cooling-down period. Our cloaking device is functioning but not at optimum efficiency. Shields were down to 38 percent before we switched them off. Decks 3 to 5 have suffered hull breaches, but emergency force fields are…” The ensign doesn’t finish his sentence, because he finds himself upstaged by the hum of an active transporter beam.
* * *
Commander Tony Blue materializes in front of the engineering station and hands his EV suit’s helmet over to Ensign Dolphin, who is nothing short of perplexed. The bridge goes dead quiet, save for the occasional bleeps and hisses of respectively functioning and broken equipment.
Tony has to reach from deep within his psyche to summon the inner calm to stay articulate. “We have to go back.”
Captain Rinckes heaves a troubled sigh. “Commander…”
“We have to go back,” Tony repeats, but this time the sentence is a plea directed at the entire bridge crew.
Lieutenants Gibbs and Surtak, also in their EV suits sans helmet, step out of the turbolift and remain in the back of the bridge to watch the situation unfold.
Tony eyes his crewmates one by one, hoping to find allies for his cause.
“Ensign Dolphin was sharing his detailed damage report,” Rinckes says. “With our weapons overheated and our cloaking device in need of repair, we’re in no condition—”
“We can do it, sir,” Tony says, grasping at straws. “The Achilles is a fine ship. We can head back, stall the Altonoids for a few minutes, and retrieve Emily and Barton. Right, guys?”
The silence is heartrending.
Tony takes a couple of steps toward the captain. In his current state, this could be perceived as threatening, unintentional as it may be. It forces the bridge crew to stop ignoring his presence, however.
This includes Doctor Kingsley, who can no longer be a passive spectator. “What you’re asking… It cannot happen. I’m so sorry.”
“Come on, Doctor,” Tony says, shambling toward the center of the bridge. “We’re talking about Emily. Emily.” A bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Despite his struggle to stay poised, a few tears fight their way to the surface. “Please, Captain.”
“Harsh as it may be,” Rinckes says, tensing up as his first officer closes in, “you willingly signed up for this mission. So did your wife. She knew the risks.”
“Sir, not like this.” Tony ceases his intimidating approach. His throat is sore from suppressing despair, and he wonders how long he can keep from breaking down. The viewscreen shows their escape from the Nedron system, how they’re flying away from Emily at many times the speed of light. “Lieutenant Baxter.” He clears his throat and wipes his tears. “Turn the ship around and set course for Nedron Eight.”
Baxter freezes up, awaiting the captain’s response.
“Belay that!” Rinckes says, which gains him his first officer’s renewed attention.
“We’re talking about Emily,” Tony says.
Rinckes grits his teeth. “You don’t have to remind me, Commander.”
Dr. Kingsley makes a valiant effort to represent the voice of reason. “Tony, we have quite possibly found the very answers we’ve been pursuing these past four years. We can’t afford to lose that in a last-ditch battle for the lives of two crewmembers. A botched rescue attempt could kill us all and prevent the valuable intel we’ve found from ever reaching the Federation. Ted and Emily wouldn’t want that. Am I… making sense to you?”
“Lieutenant Baxter,” Tony says as tears reemerge. “Ernest. I know it’s asking too much, but… please turn the ship around.”
Baxter fixes his gaze on his helm station, even if it were solely because it wounds him to see Tony like this.
Rinckes springs up from his seat. “You’re out of line, Commander.”
Tony bites his lip and faces his captain. His mind is racing, his heart burning to a cinder. He instills his voice with every scrap of volume he can muster, sounding feeble regardless. “Is there anyone who’ll help me? Anyone who thinks we shouldn’t desert our colleagues?”
“This has gone far enough,” Rinckes says, his composure belied by the faint cording of his neck muscles.
Dr. Kingsley stands up too, concerned and ready to intervene. “Captain, he’s upset. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I know damn well what I’m saying,” Tony yells, causing one of his tears to tremble loose and fall to the floor. “I’m asking if anyone here has the gumption to help liberate our friends from certain death. The Altonoids don’t take prisoners, they shoot on sight! Ted and Emily don’t have a prayer of surviving.” Defying a wave of tiredness, he continues, “So ask yourselves what you would want if you were down there, in a dark cargo bay of a wrecked enemy vessel soon to be swarming with Altonoids. Would you like to be abandoned to your fate? Ask yourselves that!” He is on the verge of hyperventilating, and his aching ribs compete for dominance with the painful lump he’s trying to swallow.
“The commander has a point,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says, surprising everyone, including herself, and causing the bridge crew to murmur.
Lieutenant Kels, who has spent the entire debate conveying pity with her sapphire eyes, finally gathers the courage to say, “We should at least consider the idea.”
“Quiet! All of you,” Rinckes bellows, silencing the brewing commotion. “Commander Blue,” he continues, speaking with indisputable clarity. “This has gone too far. I must ask you to leave the bridge at once. I am deeply sorry for your loss, but as Doctor Kingsley explained, I cannot condone a rescue mission, not in our current shape, not with this much at stake.”
“We can do this,” Tony says, his confidence no doubt contrasting with his runny nose and puffy face. “We can pull this off.” Not alone in this belief, he senses how his colleagues are starting to change their mind, how they might be willing to put their lives on the line once more to save two friends in need.
The moment does not last. “I’m not going to ask you again,” the captain says in a tone that effectively subverts the frail enthusiasm that was building up. No one offers any further opposition.
Tony is defeated. There is nothing he can do. It is over.
With the lucidity one obtains upon waking from a bad dream, it dawns on him there is indeed one option left. Attached to his suit, his handphaser demands to be used. If the captain cannot be persuaded by appealing to his humanity…
As if controlled by an external power, he slowly reaches for the phaser, even when his common sense shouts that drawing a weapon against his superior is a heinous offense. Unfortunately, its shouting isn’t anywhere near loud enough to drown out the crying of his heart—a heart refusing to live without Emily.
Rinckes’ shaking his head in disbelief barely registers with Tony as his gloved fingertips tap the phaser’s grip. It would take half a second to remove it from its holster and aim it at his captain. It’s probably still on the stun setting, and that’s okay. He’d only have to incapacitate him, find out which crewmembers will support him, and… Lieutenant Gibbs has grabbed a phaser of his own and he aims it at Tony from the back of the bridge, prepared to defend his captain. With a wagging index finger, Rinckes signals him to stand down, and the security chief lowers his phaser after a few seconds of indecision. The captain has guts, that’s for sure.
“So my first officer is going to shoot me?”
Tears and sweat further reduce Tony’s vision to a blur. Only now does he notice he has actually grabbed his handphaser and he is pointing it at the captain, who appears fearless, convinced that the young commander won’t push the trigger button. Well he’s in for a shock. But then, Tony becomes aware of Dr. Kingsley, standing at the edge of his despair-induced tunnel vision, and sees him lower his head and close his eyes, having lost faith in the commander, resigning to bitter disappointment instead.
It’s enough to bring Tony back to the real world. “What the hell am I doing?”
“You’re threatening your captain with a phaser,” Rinckes explains sternly.
A beat of hesitation. Nobody so much as breathes.
“Put down the phaser, Tony.”
Tony looks around, sees his colleagues, his friends, and realizes he is making a fool of himself. Gradually, he allows the phaser—his last hope of saving Emily—to slip from his grasp. It hits the carpet with a thud, and the commander collects whatever strength is left in him to hurry past the captain, past the doctor, past Gibbs, and into the turbolift, where he collapses on the floor just before the doors shield him from his colleagues’ prying eyes. As he begins to weep, the doors open once more, and Dr. Kingsley rushes in to kneel beside him. The doctor wraps an arm around his shoulder and starts expressing words of consolation that become increasingly distant like the planet that has ensnared Emily.
* * *
While the turbolift carries Tony and the doctor away, the bridge crew is left to ponder the jarring events that took place in rapid succession.
Captain Rinckes notes his subordinates are avoiding his gaze. Stunned beyond measure, nobody has the nerve to speak up. And yet, by definition they all do, in unison, weighing and judging his actions. He has made the correct choice, hasn’t he? This is what’s required of him, isn’t it? No, there is not a shred of doubt within him. “You have the bridge, Crow,” he says in a flat monotone as he walks off without acknowledging the emotions haunting them.
Forcing himself to keep his gait steady and decisive, he marches into his ready room and heads for the window. The doors close behind him and offer him the mercy of cutting him off from the bridge. Resting his forehead in the crook of his arm, he leans against the cold viewport and finds little comfort in the familiar streaks of stardust grazing the hull in endless tedium.
It doesn’t take long before he detects a dissonant image floating among the iridescent stripes indicative of warp travel. It’s the reflection of his desktop monitor, which is portraying the same image it did when he neglected to switch it off.
Separated by inches of transparent aluminum and an arm’s length of optical illusion, Commander Melanie Simons smiles at him, forever out of reach.
“I recommend evasive maneuvers,” Lieutenant Commander Erin Crow says from her tactical station.
Captain Stephan Rinckes, his feet planted on the floor in the center of the bridge, stares at the two approaching Altonoid warships. The distress call sent out by the wreckage buried under the planet’s surface must have transmitted the Achilles’ location. He fears that, this up close and personal, their cloak won’t fool the Altonoids. “Baxter, break orbit.”
“Captain, you’ve got to let me get Emily,” Commander Tony Blue says, disrupting the captain’s focus. The Achilles is breaking orbit and the Altonoids seem to be adjusting their course accordingly. “I’ll have the rest of the away team ready for beamup. I’ll—”
“Commander, this is not the time.” Rinckes straightens his uniform jacket. “Baxter, set heading 014 mark 182, quarter impulse. Crow, keep tabs on those Altonoids.”
The obligatory “aye sirs” are drowned out by Tony’s pleading. “…to get them here, but I can do it. I know it’s asking a lot, but the Achilles is strong enough to withstand a few—”
“Tony, not now!” Rinckes snaps. The abrupt silence on the other end of the comm channel is deafening. The bridge crewmembers pause their work briefly, trying and failing to appear unruffled by this outburst. Even Doctor Kingsley refrains from commenting, although the look he gives his captain speaks volumes. Their opinions of him be damned; ensuring the safety of the ship takes precedence, no matter what.
“Captain,” Erin Crow says, urgency tarnishing her regular air of detachment. “The Altonoids have once again adjusted their course to match ours.”
Rinckes meets her gaze, realizing the implication of what she has said. “Red alert! Drop cloak and raise shields! All hands to battle stations!”
Red alert panels flash to life and start blinking as the warning claxon primes the crew for battle.
* * *
In the computer room of the crashed Altonoid vessel, the away team’s environmental suits keep at bay the unbreathable air, which is heavy with gloom and tension. Lieutenant Commander Terrell, assisted by Ensign Donahue, is checking the six upright pattern enhancers to ensure the Achilles can beam him and his squad mates up. The security chief, Lieutenant Gibbs, is casting worried looks at Tony, who’s pacing back and forth while fruitlessly attempting to re-establish communication with the bridge. Lieutenant Surtak is quietly awaiting what’s to come.
“Commander Blue to Achilles.” Despite his suit’s internal climate control, sweat pools on Tony’s forehead and smudges his faceplate. “Dammit, Captain! What the bloody hell is going on up there?” He kicks a nearby computer terminal in frustration—a rather pointless thing to do, especially while wearing an EV suit. He huffs and faces the security chief. “I’m going back for them.”
“I’m coming with you,” Gibbs says in a reassuring tone. “But we’ll need these enhancers. Terrell, Surtak, and Donahue must be beamed to the ship first.”
“I’ll go ahead,” Tony says. “Catch up with me once you’re done here. We have to hurry.” He is about to start toward the exit when the Achilles contacts them.
“Achilles to the away team.” It’s difficult to hear over the din of ship-to-ship combat, but Tony can make out it’s the captain. After another audible explosion, Rinckes addresses his bridge crew first. “Evasive maneuver Delta. Keep lining up the pulse phaser cannons. Don’t worry about overheating them. Just keep 'em firing. Commander Blue, are you still in the computer room?”
“Affirmative. Terrell, Surtak, and Donahue are ready for beamup. Gibbs and I will proceed to the cargo bay and retrieve—”
“Like hell you are. We’ll open up an EM window in our shields to beam you up, and then we’re out of here. I know this means leaving Lieutenant Blue and Ensign Barton behind, but we cannot hold position. You’ve seen the increased activity in this region. Enemy reinforcements are not in short supply.”
Tony wants to protest, but the captain has resumed yelling orders at his bridge crew. Dizzy in spite of the rigidity of his suit, he looks at his four colleagues, who mirror his helplessness. No, this cannot be the end of it. “Captain,” he says. Rinckes does not respond. “Captain!”
“Regrettable as they are,” Surtak says coolly, “our orders are clear, Commander.”
“Yes, they are.” Tony curls his upper lip into a sneer. “I’m going anyway. Jeremy, are you with me on this one?”
Before Gibbs can react, Rinckes addresses them again, sounding unperturbed by Tony’s disobedience. “What do you think you’re doing, Commander?” It’s as if he’d been expecting to have to say this. “We’re beaming you up.” A thunderclap of enemy fire rumbles the bridge in the background. “—run out of time.”
“Captain!” Tony shouts. “Emily’s trapped in the cargo bay. There must be something we can do!”
“No, Commander, there isn’t. Baxter, initiate transport.”
“Wait! Please!” The jumbled noise of a bridge under attack has disappeared. The comm channel is closed. Shoulders sagged in defeat, Tony stands there, giving Gibbs a look he won’t soon forget—a look of unfiltered anguish.
As the computer room dissolves to be replaced by a shaking transporter room, Tony balls his hands into fists.
* * *
With a series of violent sparks, the second officer’s console gives up altogether and goes dark, providing further ammunition for Doctor Kingsley’s disgruntled mutterings, which Captain Rinckes blocks out. The bridge is rocking violently, and its crew has to put in extra effort to keep from being torn from their posts. Somehow, Rinckes stays on his feet, issuing orders with levelheaded competence. He knows they cannot afford to overstay their welcome. With no backup or repair facilities to fall back on, every enemy phaser strike and torpedo impact carries the risk of crippling the Achilles, stranding her indefinitely, condemning those aboard to die in the vacuum of space.
“Shields down to 53 percent,” Ensign Robert Dolphin, manning the engineering station, reports. “I’m detecting minor hull breaches on the upper decks. Main power is draining. Switching to auxiliary power.”
“What about the away team?” Rinckes asks as a nearby EPS conduit ruptures and starts billowing smoke.
Lieutenant Ernest Baxter accesses the corresponding data on his console. “Blue, Terrell, Gibbs, Surtak, and Donahue are now on board.”
“As soon as there’s an opening, get us out of here. Maximum warp.”
Baxter’s fingers race the controls he mastered years ago. “I believe I’ve found one.” The two large Altonoid vessels roll out of view by virtue of his piloting skills.
Blood rushes to the captain’s limbs, as if he is fighting the enemy in person. If only. “Crow, fire dorsal torpedo cannons, as many as you can without blowing ourselves to kingdom come. Let’s make sure they won’t follow us.”
* * *
Outside, the Achilles lets loose with her impressive dorsal weaponry, hitting the warships dead-on. The grid of torpedo launchers atop the Achilles launch smaller photon torpedoes than normal launchers do, but their greater numbers render them lethal nonetheless. The majority of these packets of intense and destructive energy disperse in the Altonoids’ shields and wear out their defensive capabilities, allowing others to sneak through and wreak havoc.
However, the attack serves primarily as a distraction for the giant Massal-class vessels; it’s nothing they can’t shrug off. The vehement Altonoids respond with enough phaser fire and torpedo volleys to bid the Achilles a scorching farewell. Then, the lone Federation vessel engages her warp engines and propels herself out of the area.
* * *
The bridge rattles as the ship accelerates, settling under duress after having taken yet another beating. “Are they chasing us?” Rinckes asks.
“Negative, sir,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says.
Rinckes sits down in his chair. “Re-engage cloaking device and take us to yellow alert. Baxter, navigate us to a safer destination and make our flight path as erratic as you deem fit. Ensign Dolphin, damage report.” The alert indicators go from red to yellow, but because the Achilles is travelling under cloak, the standard lighting doesn’t come on, masking the additional damage the Altonoids inflicted in their brief but brutal assault.
“Auxiliary power is holding,” Ensign Dolphin says. “Many of our dorsal torpedo launchers are overheated. In fact, all weapons require an extensive cooling-down period. Our cloaking device is functioning but not at optimum efficiency. Shields were down to 38 percent before we switched them off. Decks 3 to 5 have suffered hull breaches, but emergency force fields are…” The ensign doesn’t finish his sentence, because he finds himself upstaged by the hum of an active transporter beam.
* * *
Commander Tony Blue materializes in front of the engineering station and hands his EV suit’s helmet over to Ensign Dolphin, who is nothing short of perplexed. The bridge goes dead quiet, save for the occasional bleeps and hisses of respectively functioning and broken equipment.
Tony has to reach from deep within his psyche to summon the inner calm to stay articulate. “We have to go back.”
Captain Rinckes heaves a troubled sigh. “Commander…”
“We have to go back,” Tony repeats, but this time the sentence is a plea directed at the entire bridge crew.
Lieutenants Gibbs and Surtak, also in their EV suits sans helmet, step out of the turbolift and remain in the back of the bridge to watch the situation unfold.
Tony eyes his crewmates one by one, hoping to find allies for his cause.
“Ensign Dolphin was sharing his detailed damage report,” Rinckes says. “With our weapons overheated and our cloaking device in need of repair, we’re in no condition—”
“We can do it, sir,” Tony says, grasping at straws. “The Achilles is a fine ship. We can head back, stall the Altonoids for a few minutes, and retrieve Emily and Barton. Right, guys?”
The silence is heartrending.
Tony takes a couple of steps toward the captain. In his current state, this could be perceived as threatening, unintentional as it may be. It forces the bridge crew to stop ignoring his presence, however.
This includes Doctor Kingsley, who can no longer be a passive spectator. “What you’re asking… It cannot happen. I’m so sorry.”
“Come on, Doctor,” Tony says, shambling toward the center of the bridge. “We’re talking about Emily. Emily.” A bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Despite his struggle to stay poised, a few tears fight their way to the surface. “Please, Captain.”
“Harsh as it may be,” Rinckes says, tensing up as his first officer closes in, “you willingly signed up for this mission. So did your wife. She knew the risks.”
“Sir, not like this.” Tony ceases his intimidating approach. His throat is sore from suppressing despair, and he wonders how long he can keep from breaking down. The viewscreen shows their escape from the Nedron system, how they’re flying away from Emily at many times the speed of light. “Lieutenant Baxter.” He clears his throat and wipes his tears. “Turn the ship around and set course for Nedron Eight.”
Baxter freezes up, awaiting the captain’s response.
“Belay that!” Rinckes says, which gains him his first officer’s renewed attention.
“We’re talking about Emily,” Tony says.
Rinckes grits his teeth. “You don’t have to remind me, Commander.”
Dr. Kingsley makes a valiant effort to represent the voice of reason. “Tony, we have quite possibly found the very answers we’ve been pursuing these past four years. We can’t afford to lose that in a last-ditch battle for the lives of two crewmembers. A botched rescue attempt could kill us all and prevent the valuable intel we’ve found from ever reaching the Federation. Ted and Emily wouldn’t want that. Am I… making sense to you?”
“Lieutenant Baxter,” Tony says as tears reemerge. “Ernest. I know it’s asking too much, but… please turn the ship around.”
Baxter fixes his gaze on his helm station, even if it were solely because it wounds him to see Tony like this.
Rinckes springs up from his seat. “You’re out of line, Commander.”
Tony bites his lip and faces his captain. His mind is racing, his heart burning to a cinder. He instills his voice with every scrap of volume he can muster, sounding feeble regardless. “Is there anyone who’ll help me? Anyone who thinks we shouldn’t desert our colleagues?”
“This has gone far enough,” Rinckes says, his composure belied by the faint cording of his neck muscles.
Dr. Kingsley stands up too, concerned and ready to intervene. “Captain, he’s upset. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“I know damn well what I’m saying,” Tony yells, causing one of his tears to tremble loose and fall to the floor. “I’m asking if anyone here has the gumption to help liberate our friends from certain death. The Altonoids don’t take prisoners, they shoot on sight! Ted and Emily don’t have a prayer of surviving.” Defying a wave of tiredness, he continues, “So ask yourselves what you would want if you were down there, in a dark cargo bay of a wrecked enemy vessel soon to be swarming with Altonoids. Would you like to be abandoned to your fate? Ask yourselves that!” He is on the verge of hyperventilating, and his aching ribs compete for dominance with the painful lump he’s trying to swallow.
“The commander has a point,” Lt. Cmdr. Crow says, surprising everyone, including herself, and causing the bridge crew to murmur.
Lieutenant Kels, who has spent the entire debate conveying pity with her sapphire eyes, finally gathers the courage to say, “We should at least consider the idea.”
“Quiet! All of you,” Rinckes bellows, silencing the brewing commotion. “Commander Blue,” he continues, speaking with indisputable clarity. “This has gone too far. I must ask you to leave the bridge at once. I am deeply sorry for your loss, but as Doctor Kingsley explained, I cannot condone a rescue mission, not in our current shape, not with this much at stake.”
“We can do this,” Tony says, his confidence no doubt contrasting with his runny nose and puffy face. “We can pull this off.” Not alone in this belief, he senses how his colleagues are starting to change their mind, how they might be willing to put their lives on the line once more to save two friends in need.
The moment does not last. “I’m not going to ask you again,” the captain says in a tone that effectively subverts the frail enthusiasm that was building up. No one offers any further opposition.
Tony is defeated. There is nothing he can do. It is over.
With the lucidity one obtains upon waking from a bad dream, it dawns on him there is indeed one option left. Attached to his suit, his handphaser demands to be used. If the captain cannot be persuaded by appealing to his humanity…
As if controlled by an external power, he slowly reaches for the phaser, even when his common sense shouts that drawing a weapon against his superior is a heinous offense. Unfortunately, its shouting isn’t anywhere near loud enough to drown out the crying of his heart—a heart refusing to live without Emily.
Rinckes’ shaking his head in disbelief barely registers with Tony as his gloved fingertips tap the phaser’s grip. It would take half a second to remove it from its holster and aim it at his captain. It’s probably still on the stun setting, and that’s okay. He’d only have to incapacitate him, find out which crewmembers will support him, and… Lieutenant Gibbs has grabbed a phaser of his own and he aims it at Tony from the back of the bridge, prepared to defend his captain. With a wagging index finger, Rinckes signals him to stand down, and the security chief lowers his phaser after a few seconds of indecision. The captain has guts, that’s for sure.
“So my first officer is going to shoot me?”
Tears and sweat further reduce Tony’s vision to a blur. Only now does he notice he has actually grabbed his handphaser and he is pointing it at the captain, who appears fearless, convinced that the young commander won’t push the trigger button. Well he’s in for a shock. But then, Tony becomes aware of Dr. Kingsley, standing at the edge of his despair-induced tunnel vision, and sees him lower his head and close his eyes, having lost faith in the commander, resigning to bitter disappointment instead.
It’s enough to bring Tony back to the real world. “What the hell am I doing?”
“You’re threatening your captain with a phaser,” Rinckes explains sternly.
A beat of hesitation. Nobody so much as breathes.
“Put down the phaser, Tony.”
Tony looks around, sees his colleagues, his friends, and realizes he is making a fool of himself. Gradually, he allows the phaser—his last hope of saving Emily—to slip from his grasp. It hits the carpet with a thud, and the commander collects whatever strength is left in him to hurry past the captain, past the doctor, past Gibbs, and into the turbolift, where he collapses on the floor just before the doors shield him from his colleagues’ prying eyes. As he begins to weep, the doors open once more, and Dr. Kingsley rushes in to kneel beside him. The doctor wraps an arm around his shoulder and starts expressing words of consolation that become increasingly distant like the planet that has ensnared Emily.
* * *
While the turbolift carries Tony and the doctor away, the bridge crew is left to ponder the jarring events that took place in rapid succession.
Captain Rinckes notes his subordinates are avoiding his gaze. Stunned beyond measure, nobody has the nerve to speak up. And yet, by definition they all do, in unison, weighing and judging his actions. He has made the correct choice, hasn’t he? This is what’s required of him, isn’t it? No, there is not a shred of doubt within him. “You have the bridge, Crow,” he says in a flat monotone as he walks off without acknowledging the emotions haunting them.
Forcing himself to keep his gait steady and decisive, he marches into his ready room and heads for the window. The doors close behind him and offer him the mercy of cutting him off from the bridge. Resting his forehead in the crook of his arm, he leans against the cold viewport and finds little comfort in the familiar streaks of stardust grazing the hull in endless tedium.
It doesn’t take long before he detects a dissonant image floating among the iridescent stripes indicative of warp travel. It’s the reflection of his desktop monitor, which is portraying the same image it did when he neglected to switch it off.
Separated by inches of transparent aluminum and an arm’s length of optical illusion, Commander Melanie Simons smiles at him, forever out of reach.
Fallen Heroes - chapter 6b
Behind enemy lines, USS Achilles – June 18, 2386 – Stardate 63461.6
I should have done this sooner. Lieutenant Ernest Baxter makes his way through the corridors and chastises himself for not being a better friend. Not knowing what to say is a poor excuse, but it truly is the leading motive for his steering clear of the grief-stricken commander. Shipmates passing by have weathered looks on their faces, matching the hallways’ battle-worn appearance. He has grown accustomed to both.
Posted outside Commander Blue’s quarters, Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs stands motionless and upright like a sculpture guarding a tomb. He could’ve delegated this simple task to any member of his staff, yet the security chief insists on being here whenever his schedule permits. He raises his palms as Baxter approaches. “The commander doesn’t wish to see anyone.”
“I’m here on captain’s orders,” Baxter says. “Besides, I think Tony could use the company. Have you read the message the Altonoids sent out on all channels? Those scumbags had the gall to brag about executing Ensign Barton and Emily.”
A fleeting tinge of sadness crosses Gibbs’ features. “I read it.” He sizes up the chief helmsman. “So, you’re here to drag him upstairs?”
“Pretty much.”
“Go easy on him.” The security chief presses the comm panel on the bulkhead. “Commander, Lieutenant Baxter is here to talk with you.” No reply. Gibbs waits half a minute before pressing the panel again. “Commander, I’m opening the door for him.” He types in his security code and the doors slide open.
Before Baxter can enter, Gibbs blocks his path, chest puffed out, standing so close that his greater height prevents him from making eye contact. “Good luck, Lieutenant. I’m here if you need anything.”
Baxter hesitates. “Um… Thanks.” The security officer steps aside to let him walk into the XO’s quarters.
Once inside, the air is frigid and a shroud of darkness obscures the damage the many battles have caused even here. The last run-in with the Altonoids deepened the Achilles’ hidden scars. There’s a shadow seated by the window, peering through torn sheer curtains, observing the stardust stripes, which cast dappling light on a floor strewn with portraits and cups, vases and books.
By now, Tony must be aware of the helmsman’s presence, but he doesn’t react to Baxter pulling up a chair to join him. The first officer sits stooped forward, his hands groping his knees, his eyes unfocused, his hair a tangle.
“You’ve read the Altonoids’ message,” Baxter concludes.
Tony nods weakly.
“They’re bastards,” Baxter says. “Wait until they discover how much info we gathered on our recon mission. It’ll tell us why and how they managed to recruit the S’Prenn for their needs.”
Tony remains unaffected.
“This is a huge find. It could flip the entire war around.”
The commander doesn’t bother to reply and keeps studying the view.
“Emily died a hero, Tony,” Baxter says, telling it as it is, entwining pride and grief. “A real hero. She gave her life to save countless others. None of us will ever forget the price she and Ensign Barton paid in the name of Starfleet.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Tony says at last, his voice a loud whisper. “She’s a hero. A bloody hero. Isn’t that superb?” He glares at the chief helmsman while the inner strength he must have kept pent up for the last three days returns in full force. “We could’ve procured the information and saved her life. She died a hero, yes, but she didn’t have to die in the first place.”
Baxter doesn’t have an answer ready. He stares into Tony’s sunken eyes, white-red in a ghostly mask.
Tony’s jaw shivers as he tries to stay coherent. “I failed her. She’s dead, Ernest. Can you believe it? Gone. Forever. I will never see her again. Well hurray for the Federation, but I can’t say I give a damn. Nothing could ever replace her.”
Baxter takes a deep breath. “Realistically speaking, what could you have done differently? You gave it your all. Heck, that’s putting it mildly; you pulled a phaser on the captain.”
“Not my smartest move.”
“But a bold one. You remember my reaction when you asked me to go back? I didn’t have the courage.”
Tony takes a moment to ruminate on this. Despite the darkness, his stare softens visibly as he replies, “I do not blame you. You were obeying the captain.”
“Following the regs to the letter isn’t what’s going to get the job done. Our cloaking device is a perfect example of this. Whichever way you put it, using the device the Klingons gave us is a flagrant violation of the Treaty of Algeron. We are doing everything in our power to uncover the S’Prenn’s motives and outwit the Altonoids.”
Tony must be aware of where this is heading; he keeps listening nonetheless.
“Emily and Barton’s sacrifice is part of that equation,” Baxter says, careful not to overplay his hand. “And it sucks, but that’s the way it will go down in the history books. Somehow, and it needn’t be today… but somehow, you’re going to have to come to terms with this.”
“It sounds great in theory, but my pain is far from theoretical. How do I…?”
Fearful as Baxter had been for not knowing what to say, it’s clear to him now. “You’re an asset to this crew. Otherwise, the captain wouldn’t have beamed you back against your will, in essence saving your life. That’s got to be worth something.”
Tony shakes his head.
“If you weren’t valuable, if you weren’t capable of making a difference, he would’ve left you there.”
“Not a terrible alternative,” Tony says with a glimmer of humor that signals Baxter is on the right track.
“Man…” Baxter slumps back in his seat. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now. Please don’t forget there are still people who believe in you, who’d risk their lives for you without a second thought.”
Tony scoffs. “After the stunt I pulled on the bridge? A first officer my age is unprecedented. I always managed to be professional enough to compensate for that ‘handicap.’ But when I grabbed that phaser and aimed it at the captain… I lost my credibility.”
“You may think so.” Baxter leans in and lowers his voice. “Not everyone agrees. If you hadn’t let go of that phaser, you might’ve been our new captain.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. You took a gamble, made choices. You can’t change what happened. You can only determine what you do next. Easy for me to say, I know, but it’s the only way you’ll get through this.” He lets his utterances of impromptu wisdom linger for a while, hoping they’ll benefit his friend somehow. “Are you ready to talk with the captain? Because that is inevitable anyhow.”
Tony spends a handful of seconds in contemplation. “I don’t think I want to.”
Baxter straightens up. “I’ll be honest with you, Tony. He really needs to talk to you. Better yet, he’s waiting for you as we speak. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to test his patience a little. Your well-being is of greater importance, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You might as well get it over with. I’ll ask Gibbs to take you to him, okay?”
With considerable reluctance, Tony rises to his feet and follows the chief helmsman out of the disheveled quarters he has spent the past couple of days in. Lieutenant Gibbs sends the commander right back in with the directive to comb his hair and tidy his uniform, lest he won’t take him anywhere.
Behind enemy lines, USS Achilles – June 18, 2386 – Stardate 63461.6
I should have done this sooner. Lieutenant Ernest Baxter makes his way through the corridors and chastises himself for not being a better friend. Not knowing what to say is a poor excuse, but it truly is the leading motive for his steering clear of the grief-stricken commander. Shipmates passing by have weathered looks on their faces, matching the hallways’ battle-worn appearance. He has grown accustomed to both.
Posted outside Commander Blue’s quarters, Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs stands motionless and upright like a sculpture guarding a tomb. He could’ve delegated this simple task to any member of his staff, yet the security chief insists on being here whenever his schedule permits. He raises his palms as Baxter approaches. “The commander doesn’t wish to see anyone.”
“I’m here on captain’s orders,” Baxter says. “Besides, I think Tony could use the company. Have you read the message the Altonoids sent out on all channels? Those scumbags had the gall to brag about executing Ensign Barton and Emily.”
A fleeting tinge of sadness crosses Gibbs’ features. “I read it.” He sizes up the chief helmsman. “So, you’re here to drag him upstairs?”
“Pretty much.”
“Go easy on him.” The security chief presses the comm panel on the bulkhead. “Commander, Lieutenant Baxter is here to talk with you.” No reply. Gibbs waits half a minute before pressing the panel again. “Commander, I’m opening the door for him.” He types in his security code and the doors slide open.
Before Baxter can enter, Gibbs blocks his path, chest puffed out, standing so close that his greater height prevents him from making eye contact. “Good luck, Lieutenant. I’m here if you need anything.”
Baxter hesitates. “Um… Thanks.” The security officer steps aside to let him walk into the XO’s quarters.
Once inside, the air is frigid and a shroud of darkness obscures the damage the many battles have caused even here. The last run-in with the Altonoids deepened the Achilles’ hidden scars. There’s a shadow seated by the window, peering through torn sheer curtains, observing the stardust stripes, which cast dappling light on a floor strewn with portraits and cups, vases and books.
By now, Tony must be aware of the helmsman’s presence, but he doesn’t react to Baxter pulling up a chair to join him. The first officer sits stooped forward, his hands groping his knees, his eyes unfocused, his hair a tangle.
“You’ve read the Altonoids’ message,” Baxter concludes.
Tony nods weakly.
“They’re bastards,” Baxter says. “Wait until they discover how much info we gathered on our recon mission. It’ll tell us why and how they managed to recruit the S’Prenn for their needs.”
Tony remains unaffected.
“This is a huge find. It could flip the entire war around.”
The commander doesn’t bother to reply and keeps studying the view.
“Emily died a hero, Tony,” Baxter says, telling it as it is, entwining pride and grief. “A real hero. She gave her life to save countless others. None of us will ever forget the price she and Ensign Barton paid in the name of Starfleet.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Tony says at last, his voice a loud whisper. “She’s a hero. A bloody hero. Isn’t that superb?” He glares at the chief helmsman while the inner strength he must have kept pent up for the last three days returns in full force. “We could’ve procured the information and saved her life. She died a hero, yes, but she didn’t have to die in the first place.”
Baxter doesn’t have an answer ready. He stares into Tony’s sunken eyes, white-red in a ghostly mask.
Tony’s jaw shivers as he tries to stay coherent. “I failed her. She’s dead, Ernest. Can you believe it? Gone. Forever. I will never see her again. Well hurray for the Federation, but I can’t say I give a damn. Nothing could ever replace her.”
Baxter takes a deep breath. “Realistically speaking, what could you have done differently? You gave it your all. Heck, that’s putting it mildly; you pulled a phaser on the captain.”
“Not my smartest move.”
“But a bold one. You remember my reaction when you asked me to go back? I didn’t have the courage.”
Tony takes a moment to ruminate on this. Despite the darkness, his stare softens visibly as he replies, “I do not blame you. You were obeying the captain.”
“Following the regs to the letter isn’t what’s going to get the job done. Our cloaking device is a perfect example of this. Whichever way you put it, using the device the Klingons gave us is a flagrant violation of the Treaty of Algeron. We are doing everything in our power to uncover the S’Prenn’s motives and outwit the Altonoids.”
Tony must be aware of where this is heading; he keeps listening nonetheless.
“Emily and Barton’s sacrifice is part of that equation,” Baxter says, careful not to overplay his hand. “And it sucks, but that’s the way it will go down in the history books. Somehow, and it needn’t be today… but somehow, you’re going to have to come to terms with this.”
“It sounds great in theory, but my pain is far from theoretical. How do I…?”
Fearful as Baxter had been for not knowing what to say, it’s clear to him now. “You’re an asset to this crew. Otherwise, the captain wouldn’t have beamed you back against your will, in essence saving your life. That’s got to be worth something.”
Tony shakes his head.
“If you weren’t valuable, if you weren’t capable of making a difference, he would’ve left you there.”
“Not a terrible alternative,” Tony says with a glimmer of humor that signals Baxter is on the right track.
“Man…” Baxter slumps back in his seat. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling right now. Please don’t forget there are still people who believe in you, who’d risk their lives for you without a second thought.”
Tony scoffs. “After the stunt I pulled on the bridge? A first officer my age is unprecedented. I always managed to be professional enough to compensate for that ‘handicap.’ But when I grabbed that phaser and aimed it at the captain… I lost my credibility.”
“You may think so.” Baxter leans in and lowers his voice. “Not everyone agrees. If you hadn’t let go of that phaser, you might’ve been our new captain.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. You took a gamble, made choices. You can’t change what happened. You can only determine what you do next. Easy for me to say, I know, but it’s the only way you’ll get through this.” He lets his utterances of impromptu wisdom linger for a while, hoping they’ll benefit his friend somehow. “Are you ready to talk with the captain? Because that is inevitable anyhow.”
Tony spends a handful of seconds in contemplation. “I don’t think I want to.”
Baxter straightens up. “I’ll be honest with you, Tony. He really needs to talk to you. Better yet, he’s waiting for you as we speak. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to test his patience a little. Your well-being is of greater importance, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You might as well get it over with. I’ll ask Gibbs to take you to him, okay?”
With considerable reluctance, Tony rises to his feet and follows the chief helmsman out of the disheveled quarters he has spent the past couple of days in. Lieutenant Gibbs sends the commander right back in with the directive to comb his hair and tidy his uniform, lest he won’t take him anywhere.
Fallen Heroes - chapter 6c
The bridge lighting is dimmed too, because the Achilles is cloaked and running in silent mode to avoid detection. As soon as the turbolift opens to reveal Lieutenant Gibbs and Commander Blue, the bridge crew goes silent as well.
“This way, Commander,” Gibbs says, escorting Tony to the captain’s ready room.
While trailing the chief of security, Tony senses the crew is watching him. He doesn’t return the favor. He cannot bear to see their faces, which leaves him to guess how they regard him—with anger, disappointment, pity?
Gibbs halts near the entrance and gives him a reassuring smile. Tony enters the ready room, where Captain Rinckes sits at his desk and Doctor Kingsley stands beside him, both wearing grim expressions. Tony takes a seat and waits for the other shoe to drop. The captain glowers at him, eyes narrowed, resembling a bird of prey stalking a mouse.
“How are you feeling, Tony?” Kingsley starts the conversation with a healthy dose of sympathy.
Tony doesn’t respond. What is there to say he hasn’t told Kingsley yet during the doctor’s well-intended but ill-fated attempts at grief counseling?
“We offer you our sincere condolences,” Kingsley says, which became the hollowest of phrases soon after Tony was widowed. “Tell me, do you understand why the captain did what he did?”
With effort, Tony scrounges together a reply. “I understand.” Kingsley wants to build on that, but the young commander continues, “I understand the tactical and strategic arguments. What I don’t understand is the lack of heart involved.”
This hardens the captain’s stare even further.
“We all have hearts, Commander. I checked personally,” Kingsley says, not grinning at his own joke. “Nobody liked abandoning two crewmembers. Ted was a good medic, and Emily…” He presses his lips together and starts over. “Our primary goal, the sole reason we’re out here, is to find out why the S’Prenn have changed sides. You haven’t forgotten this, have you?”
Tony bites his tongue in lieu of saying something impertinent.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Kingsley summons a confident smirk. “Emily’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”
This prompts the captain to speak up at long last, albeit in an uninflected tone. “The data we’ve gathered explains why the S’Prenn have joined Altonoid forces.”
“We’re hurrying back to Klingon space,” Kingsley says with a level of excitement greatly contrasting with the other two officers’ shortage of it. “We decided to tell you in person before we make an official announcement.”
“And to talk about the incident on the bridge,” Rinckes adds.
“Yes,” Kingsley says, grimacing at the interruption. “But I think Tony here wants to know about the S’Prenn. Right?”
“Sure,” Tony says. Last week, the tiniest morsel of intel on the S’Prenn would’ve made him ecstatic, but now… it seems so trivial.
“As it turns out, the consequences of the Station A-12 Debacle are more extensive than we could’ve imagined,” Kingsley says, his upbeat attitude clashing with the subject matter. “The Atlunte’s database wasn’t in tiptop condition, but we’ve pieced together a significant amount of information, including a series of S’Prenn transponder codes that will help us spot and identify their vessels from larger distances.
“We’ve also learned that an unusual nebula has developed near Station A-12. I’ll spare you the scientific details, mainly because we don’t have them, but this nebula is unlike any other. It is artificial, presumably created by an extra-dimensional species. Why it emerged there is anyone’s guess, but the biological substances found within proved to be extremely useful for the Altonoids. You still with me?”
“Go on,” Tony says.
“Thanks to the horrors of genetic meddling, these substances became the, ahem, Achilles heel of the powerful S’Prenn. Initially, the Altonoids tested their new bioweapon on prisoners of war they’d captured during earlier S’Prenn raids. It had a 100 percent efficiency rate at, well, seriously screwing up their mental faculties. Any contaminated S’Prenn became overly susceptible to outside stimuli. In fact, you could indoctrinate them, reprogram them, as it were, to do your bidding.”
Tony ponders the implications this news carries before saying, “This reminds me of the octatium the Altonoids experimented with years ago.”
“Yes, but octatium drove its victims crazy and turned them into vicious killers. This product, however, preserves the S’Prenn’s high intelligence while forcing them into absolute obedience, effectively brainwashing them. The Altonoids infected subject after subject, and before long they had amassed legions of S’Prenn soldiers and ships. As icing on the cake, they acquired in-depth knowledge of sophisticated S’Prenn technology.”
Rinckes cuts in. “That’s exactly why the S’Prenn withdrew from Federation-Altonoid affairs, only to make one hell of a surprise comeback. And it tells us why the Altonoids have become nigh invincible.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Kingsley says. “We’ll report this to the Federation Council. For the first time in four years, my dear Tony, we have options!”
Tony expresses what was tangible from the get-go. “It’s nice to have found the answers, but it changes little. We’re here now, aren’t we? Most of our friends and loved ones are dead, our homeworlds in Altonoid hands, the few survivors exiled to Klingon space.”
Neither the captain nor the doctor have anything to say to that.
Tony rubs the back of his neck, which has started to ache. “Don’t get me wrong. It is good news. But we have already lost too much, in my opinion.”
“It is understandable considering your recent loss—” Kingsley begins.
“It doesn’t bring anyone back.” Tony speaks in the same soft voice he used when reasoning with the Altonoid soldier holding a knife to his throat. “It won’t bring back my father.” Contrary to the doctor, Rinckes evades his gaze. “It won’t bring back Emily.”
“No, it won’t,” Kingsley admits. “But… I cannot stress this enough: her sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”
“Her sacrifice may not have been needed at all,” Tony says, pausing his speech until the captain is man enough to return his piercing stare. “However, I apologize for my conduct on the bridge.”
Rinckes grunts. “You’re damned right about that.” He sucks in a breath and exhales through his teeth. “Believe me when I say I comprehend the emotions involved, but I can’t have one of my men,”—he stands up to emphasize his message—“especially my first officer, exhibiting this kind of behavior, under any circumstances.”
“I hear you, Captain, and I am sorry. I don’t agree with your decision, but I shouldn’t have—”
“Whether or not you agree with me is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is this: Are you fit to perform your duties as first officer of the Achilles?”
Tony lets out a grave sigh and prepares to answer but isn’t given the chance.
“After much deliberation… we have concluded you are not.”
Kingsley nods his approval.
“As of this moment, you are relieved of duty,” Rinckes says, his expression unreadable.
Tony is willing to bet his own expression is far from unreadable. In a verdict one sentence long, his resolve suffers a crippling blow.
“Once we reach friendly territory, you will be court-martialed. Given the mitigating factors, we suspect you’ll be honorably discharged from Starfleet.”
Tony’s face is tingling and he begins to feel light-headed.
“Maybe, once you’ve regained control over your life and you’re ready for action again, reinstatement will be an option.”
“It’s for the best, Tony,” Kingsley says with a friendliness the captain lacks. “This must be the last thing you want to hear, but think it through: you’re going to need time to grieve. We will let you have that.”
“I… I don’t know how to respond to this,” Tony says.
“You don’t have to.”
Tony’s cheeks flush, and his uniform jacket suddenly feels too hot and a few sizes too small. “I don’t think I agree. Starfleet is my life. I have sacrificed absolutely everything for it.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t! You can’t possibly understand what I have given up. Threatening the captain at gunpoint is a serious misdemeanor, but the situation was extreme… You know I’m not like that, normally.”
Kingsley remains unyieldingly polite. “Which is exactly why it would be best for you to take it easy for a while.”
Tony is stumped, to say the least. “I don’t believe you guys.”
Rinckes is eager to put an end to this conversation. “The decision has been made. Your confinement to quarters is hereby cancelled, but with your rank privileges revoked, you will no longer be permitted to visit key areas.”
“We can go over the details later,” Kingsley hastens to add. “We’ll reach Klingon space in a few weeks anyway, so it’s not really that important right now.”
“Mister Blue, you are dismissed,” the captain says and he powers up his computer terminal, which instantly becomes engrossing enough for him to ignore the other two people in the room.
“Let me walk you to your quarters,” Kingsley says. Despite the doctor’s role in this verdict, his aspect is compassionate as he helps Tony to his feet and pats the young man’s upper arms as if he’s fluffing a pillow back into shape.
With legs made of lead, Tony follows the doctor, then halts before reaching the door. “One more thing,” he says, prompting Rinckes to look up from his computer. “Captain Duvivier would’ve gone back.”
Rinckes quickly refocuses on his terminal. That had to hurt. Kingsley cannot suppress a grin as he guides Tony out of the ready room and onto the bridge. Lieutenant Gibbs is waiting outside, poised for wrestling the doctor to the floor should the need arise. Kingsley waves him off and says, “I’ve got it from here.” After seeking approval from Tony through a brief exchange of glances, Gibbs retreats to his security console. The bridge crew has ceased their activities once again to gawk at their former XO, who gives them one last look and a strained smile before he and the doctor make a beeline for the nearest turbolift.
As soon as the turbolift doors have closed, Kingsley loses his cool. “So you’ve finally given him an excuse to dispose of you.” He runs his fingers through his short, red hair. “I had to talk like mad to dissuade him from throwing you in the brig and keeping you there till hell freezes over.”
Tony lets the doctor vent his frustration, and said doctor is more than happy to do so.
“Centuries ago we would’ve had you shot!” Kingsley continues. “The impending court martial won’t be a barrel of fun, but I’ll make sure the record shows you had the presence of mind of a dried-out cauliflower the moment you lifted that phaser.”
Tony leans back and stares at the carpet.
“Of course, your unique reputation will prevent them from making an example out of you. That combined with your sacrifices and losses means you’ll get that honorable discharge. So don’t worry about that, okay?”
The only reply Tony grants him is an absentminded nod.
The bridge lighting is dimmed too, because the Achilles is cloaked and running in silent mode to avoid detection. As soon as the turbolift opens to reveal Lieutenant Gibbs and Commander Blue, the bridge crew goes silent as well.
“This way, Commander,” Gibbs says, escorting Tony to the captain’s ready room.
While trailing the chief of security, Tony senses the crew is watching him. He doesn’t return the favor. He cannot bear to see their faces, which leaves him to guess how they regard him—with anger, disappointment, pity?
Gibbs halts near the entrance and gives him a reassuring smile. Tony enters the ready room, where Captain Rinckes sits at his desk and Doctor Kingsley stands beside him, both wearing grim expressions. Tony takes a seat and waits for the other shoe to drop. The captain glowers at him, eyes narrowed, resembling a bird of prey stalking a mouse.
“How are you feeling, Tony?” Kingsley starts the conversation with a healthy dose of sympathy.
Tony doesn’t respond. What is there to say he hasn’t told Kingsley yet during the doctor’s well-intended but ill-fated attempts at grief counseling?
“We offer you our sincere condolences,” Kingsley says, which became the hollowest of phrases soon after Tony was widowed. “Tell me, do you understand why the captain did what he did?”
With effort, Tony scrounges together a reply. “I understand.” Kingsley wants to build on that, but the young commander continues, “I understand the tactical and strategic arguments. What I don’t understand is the lack of heart involved.”
This hardens the captain’s stare even further.
“We all have hearts, Commander. I checked personally,” Kingsley says, not grinning at his own joke. “Nobody liked abandoning two crewmembers. Ted was a good medic, and Emily…” He presses his lips together and starts over. “Our primary goal, the sole reason we’re out here, is to find out why the S’Prenn have changed sides. You haven’t forgotten this, have you?”
Tony bites his tongue in lieu of saying something impertinent.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Kingsley summons a confident smirk. “Emily’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”
This prompts the captain to speak up at long last, albeit in an uninflected tone. “The data we’ve gathered explains why the S’Prenn have joined Altonoid forces.”
“We’re hurrying back to Klingon space,” Kingsley says with a level of excitement greatly contrasting with the other two officers’ shortage of it. “We decided to tell you in person before we make an official announcement.”
“And to talk about the incident on the bridge,” Rinckes adds.
“Yes,” Kingsley says, grimacing at the interruption. “But I think Tony here wants to know about the S’Prenn. Right?”
“Sure,” Tony says. Last week, the tiniest morsel of intel on the S’Prenn would’ve made him ecstatic, but now… it seems so trivial.
“As it turns out, the consequences of the Station A-12 Debacle are more extensive than we could’ve imagined,” Kingsley says, his upbeat attitude clashing with the subject matter. “The Atlunte’s database wasn’t in tiptop condition, but we’ve pieced together a significant amount of information, including a series of S’Prenn transponder codes that will help us spot and identify their vessels from larger distances.
“We’ve also learned that an unusual nebula has developed near Station A-12. I’ll spare you the scientific details, mainly because we don’t have them, but this nebula is unlike any other. It is artificial, presumably created by an extra-dimensional species. Why it emerged there is anyone’s guess, but the biological substances found within proved to be extremely useful for the Altonoids. You still with me?”
“Go on,” Tony says.
“Thanks to the horrors of genetic meddling, these substances became the, ahem, Achilles heel of the powerful S’Prenn. Initially, the Altonoids tested their new bioweapon on prisoners of war they’d captured during earlier S’Prenn raids. It had a 100 percent efficiency rate at, well, seriously screwing up their mental faculties. Any contaminated S’Prenn became overly susceptible to outside stimuli. In fact, you could indoctrinate them, reprogram them, as it were, to do your bidding.”
Tony ponders the implications this news carries before saying, “This reminds me of the octatium the Altonoids experimented with years ago.”
“Yes, but octatium drove its victims crazy and turned them into vicious killers. This product, however, preserves the S’Prenn’s high intelligence while forcing them into absolute obedience, effectively brainwashing them. The Altonoids infected subject after subject, and before long they had amassed legions of S’Prenn soldiers and ships. As icing on the cake, they acquired in-depth knowledge of sophisticated S’Prenn technology.”
Rinckes cuts in. “That’s exactly why the S’Prenn withdrew from Federation-Altonoid affairs, only to make one hell of a surprise comeback. And it tells us why the Altonoids have become nigh invincible.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Kingsley says. “We’ll report this to the Federation Council. For the first time in four years, my dear Tony, we have options!”
Tony expresses what was tangible from the get-go. “It’s nice to have found the answers, but it changes little. We’re here now, aren’t we? Most of our friends and loved ones are dead, our homeworlds in Altonoid hands, the few survivors exiled to Klingon space.”
Neither the captain nor the doctor have anything to say to that.
Tony rubs the back of his neck, which has started to ache. “Don’t get me wrong. It is good news. But we have already lost too much, in my opinion.”
“It is understandable considering your recent loss—” Kingsley begins.
“It doesn’t bring anyone back.” Tony speaks in the same soft voice he used when reasoning with the Altonoid soldier holding a knife to his throat. “It won’t bring back my father.” Contrary to the doctor, Rinckes evades his gaze. “It won’t bring back Emily.”
“No, it won’t,” Kingsley admits. “But… I cannot stress this enough: her sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”
“Her sacrifice may not have been needed at all,” Tony says, pausing his speech until the captain is man enough to return his piercing stare. “However, I apologize for my conduct on the bridge.”
Rinckes grunts. “You’re damned right about that.” He sucks in a breath and exhales through his teeth. “Believe me when I say I comprehend the emotions involved, but I can’t have one of my men,”—he stands up to emphasize his message—“especially my first officer, exhibiting this kind of behavior, under any circumstances.”
“I hear you, Captain, and I am sorry. I don’t agree with your decision, but I shouldn’t have—”
“Whether or not you agree with me is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is this: Are you fit to perform your duties as first officer of the Achilles?”
Tony lets out a grave sigh and prepares to answer but isn’t given the chance.
“After much deliberation… we have concluded you are not.”
Kingsley nods his approval.
“As of this moment, you are relieved of duty,” Rinckes says, his expression unreadable.
Tony is willing to bet his own expression is far from unreadable. In a verdict one sentence long, his resolve suffers a crippling blow.
“Once we reach friendly territory, you will be court-martialed. Given the mitigating factors, we suspect you’ll be honorably discharged from Starfleet.”
Tony’s face is tingling and he begins to feel light-headed.
“Maybe, once you’ve regained control over your life and you’re ready for action again, reinstatement will be an option.”
“It’s for the best, Tony,” Kingsley says with a friendliness the captain lacks. “This must be the last thing you want to hear, but think it through: you’re going to need time to grieve. We will let you have that.”
“I… I don’t know how to respond to this,” Tony says.
“You don’t have to.”
Tony’s cheeks flush, and his uniform jacket suddenly feels too hot and a few sizes too small. “I don’t think I agree. Starfleet is my life. I have sacrificed absolutely everything for it.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t! You can’t possibly understand what I have given up. Threatening the captain at gunpoint is a serious misdemeanor, but the situation was extreme… You know I’m not like that, normally.”
Kingsley remains unyieldingly polite. “Which is exactly why it would be best for you to take it easy for a while.”
Tony is stumped, to say the least. “I don’t believe you guys.”
Rinckes is eager to put an end to this conversation. “The decision has been made. Your confinement to quarters is hereby cancelled, but with your rank privileges revoked, you will no longer be permitted to visit key areas.”
“We can go over the details later,” Kingsley hastens to add. “We’ll reach Klingon space in a few weeks anyway, so it’s not really that important right now.”
“Mister Blue, you are dismissed,” the captain says and he powers up his computer terminal, which instantly becomes engrossing enough for him to ignore the other two people in the room.
“Let me walk you to your quarters,” Kingsley says. Despite the doctor’s role in this verdict, his aspect is compassionate as he helps Tony to his feet and pats the young man’s upper arms as if he’s fluffing a pillow back into shape.
With legs made of lead, Tony follows the doctor, then halts before reaching the door. “One more thing,” he says, prompting Rinckes to look up from his computer. “Captain Duvivier would’ve gone back.”
Rinckes quickly refocuses on his terminal. That had to hurt. Kingsley cannot suppress a grin as he guides Tony out of the ready room and onto the bridge. Lieutenant Gibbs is waiting outside, poised for wrestling the doctor to the floor should the need arise. Kingsley waves him off and says, “I’ve got it from here.” After seeking approval from Tony through a brief exchange of glances, Gibbs retreats to his security console. The bridge crew has ceased their activities once again to gawk at their former XO, who gives them one last look and a strained smile before he and the doctor make a beeline for the nearest turbolift.
As soon as the turbolift doors have closed, Kingsley loses his cool. “So you’ve finally given him an excuse to dispose of you.” He runs his fingers through his short, red hair. “I had to talk like mad to dissuade him from throwing you in the brig and keeping you there till hell freezes over.”
Tony lets the doctor vent his frustration, and said doctor is more than happy to do so.
“Centuries ago we would’ve had you shot!” Kingsley continues. “The impending court martial won’t be a barrel of fun, but I’ll make sure the record shows you had the presence of mind of a dried-out cauliflower the moment you lifted that phaser.”
Tony leans back and stares at the carpet.
“Of course, your unique reputation will prevent them from making an example out of you. That combined with your sacrifices and losses means you’ll get that honorable discharge. So don’t worry about that, okay?”
The only reply Tony grants him is an absentminded nod.
I'll have to side with Rinckes on this one. In fact, Tony is getting off easy here. As much as I am all for the leave-no-man-behind mentality, sometimes it just doesn't work like that and pointing a weapon at your CO during a crisis is just a big no-no unless he's unfit to command or otherwise compromised.
Curious to see what happens next. I suppose a lot can happen in a few weeks.
Curious to see what happens next. I suppose a lot can happen in a few weeks.
Fallen Heroes - chapter 6d
Near the Klingon border, USS Achilles – June 30, 2386 – Stardate 63493.9
Situated at the bow and sporting a set of windows covering the entire forward bulkhead, the mess hall offers a splendid panorama of whatever spectacle the Achilles is facing. Even though at warp speed all you see is stardust flying by like a hi-res version of an ancient screensaver, it’s encouraging to know that a friendly port lies up ahead. The mess hall itself is modest in its simplicity; it comprises six beige tables with color-matched seats and a couple of wall-mounted replicators.
It’s reasonably quiet, which is why Tony Blue has chosen this late hour to have dinner here. He ignores the few people present, yet he’s aware they’re not ignoring him, halting their chatter whenever his eyes accidentally meet theirs. So he pretends that eating his meal requires his undivided attention. Occasionally, he shoots a glance through the windows. The view from here is usually better than the one from his quarters, which he is allowed to keep for the time being, and he has grown tired of eating alone. However, the stares burning into the part of his collar where his three rank pips used to be make him feel ill at ease.
Someone sits down across his table, and for an instant of foolishness, he feels joy and relief well up as he thinks it’s Emily, followed by disillusionment when it naturally turns out to be someone else. It’s Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs, who has brought a plate of inedible goop. Tony gives him and his questionable choice of nourishment a short look and then continues his meal.
“We’re nearly home,” Gibbs says. “Or at least, what should pass as home.”
Tony’s silence is almost audible.
Giving up is not the chief’s strongest suit. “We’ll be safe there at long last. No more sneaking around, constantly on the lookout, living with the lights dimmed. Maybe we’ll get to spend our R&R on whichever lush planet’s available. It’ll be nice to catch some sunrays.” Tony’s unwillingness to respond stagnates the one-sided conversation, so Gibbs drops his veil of faux optimism and replaces it with sincerity. “I’ve said it before, and I hate to sound like a broken record… but I’m real sorry about what happened.”
“Everybody’s sorry.” Tony takes another bite of pâté, robbed of its taste by his sullen mood.
“I’ve been replaying the events over and over in my head and I realize I haven’t been much help to you. I was the one who convinced you to leave Emily and Barton in the cargo bay. I didn’t protest the captain’s decision to beam us back. I even drew my weapon on you.”
“You did what every good officer would’ve done.” Tony puts down his utensils and meets the blond lieutenant’s gaze. “You wouldn’t be much of a security chief if you had let someone phaser the captain.”
A hint of amusement flickers across the chief’s contrite features. “True. Regardless, I feel responsible for what happened. I want you to know you have my sympathy and my apologies.”
“Thanks, but there’s no need to apologize. You did your job to the best of your abilities and as your former commanding officer I expected nothing less.”
This causes Gibbs to chuckle. “Very true. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you can count on me.”
“Next time you could aim your phaser at the captain instead of me,” Tony says dryly.
Gibbs misses the joke because he’s looking out the window, his brow contorted into a puzzled frown. “We’ve dropped out of warp.” Indeed, the view has changed to a stationary field of stars.
Tony rises to his feet and wants to press his combadge to request clarification from the bridge but realizes in time he doesn’t have that privilege anymore.
Gibbs gets up too, to report to the bridge. “Don’t worry, Commander,” he says, winking at the “commander” part. “We’ll keep you informed.” And with that, the security chief leaves.
After a moment’s hesitation, Tony takes Gibbs’ dinner tray, places it on another table, and returns to his own table to finish his meal.
* * *
“Are you absolutely certain?” Captain Rinckes asks, double-checking his crew’s findings, which are displayed on the armrests of his command chair.
“Yes, sir, beyond a doubt,” the Andorian Lieutenant Kels says. “The border has been hermetically sealed. Nothing can slip through.”
Doctor Kingsley lets out a derisive snort. “We have a cloaking device. I’m sure Jon here has been able to fix it properly.”
Although Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell is concentrating on operating his engineering station, he has been listening to his colleagues. “Our cloak is back to spec, but that Altonoid sensor network is ridiculously sophisticated. It’s truly a work of art, a great mixture of Loïdian and S’Prenn engineering. Remarkable? Yes. Problematic? Also.”
“And they’re proud of it too,” Kels says, feeding commands into her science station. “They’ve made no attempt to hide it.” More and more sequential images of identical sensor arrays pop up on the viewscreen. “They’ve sealed off the entire Altonoid-Klingon border with millions of self-replicating detection sentries. Flying past them will not go unnoticed, and they’re armed to the teeth with S’Prenn weaponry.”
From the corner of his vision, the captain sees Lt. Gibbs enter the bridge. Nobody bothers to acknowledge his presence; they’re too busy dealing with this unwelcome news, as they should be.
“They don’t want anyone to go in or out,” Lt. Baxter says. “The only way to get back to Klingon space is by avoiding this border altogether, but who’s to say the Altonoids haven’t planted these sentries all around?”
Lt. Surtak weighs in with his opinion. “If we crossed through Tholian and Gorn space, for example, the detour would take at least four months, not to mention the extra risk involved.”
Requiring but a few seconds of deliberation, the captain comes up with a feasible plan, and he rises from his chair. “Commander Terrell, prepare a buoy with all the intel we’ve found on the S’Prenn-Altonoid collaboration. Rig the buoy to start transmitting into Klingon space exactly thirty hours from launch and set it to self-destruct when approached by any vessel.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Needless to say it will have to impart its message on all secure Federation and Klingon frequencies. Upon successful transmission, it should self-destruct after one week at most. Starfleet might be able to use it to transmit a reply.”
“Anything else, sir?” Terrell asks as if he prepares buoys with delicate, life-altering information every day between coffee breaks.
“That would be all, Commander,” Rinckes says. “Baxter, as soon as the buoy has been deployed, take us deeper into Altonoid space at maximum warp. As always, ensure our flight path is hard to trace.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Rinckes sits back down, content with his plan. “Seems like our mission hasn’t ended just yet.”
“Trapped behind enemy lines, sir,” Surtak adds.
“That’s a rather ghastly way of putting it,” Terrell says, distracted from his new project, if only for an instant.
“Is it?” Surtak arches an eyebrow and rotates his seat to address the crew. “I did not intend it to be ‘ghastly.’ I am simply stating facts. I do not believe our inability to cross the border is such an unfortunate development. We are fulfilling our mission by relaying our findings to the Federation, and by staying in Altonoid space we have ample opportunity for undertaking new assignments, which may be even more important than the one we have completed. Also, we should not forget we have a number of uninvestigated leads left to explore.”
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant,” Rinckes says. “Terrell, what’s the status of our buoy?”
“You’ll have it in a couple of minutes, sir.”
With that settled, Rinckes presses the comm button on his right armrest. He has never been a fan of speechifying, but it comes with the job. He is yet to come to terms with this particular setback, so this speech will serve to encourage himself as much as the other souls on this vessel. Not a scrap of timidity is allowed to blot his authoritative timbre as he says, “All hands, this is the captain. The Altonoids have sealed the Altonoid-Klingon border. We cannot go through.”
His message can be heard all over the ship, from engineering to the crawlspaces, from the corridors to the crew quarters.
* * *
Tony Blue is still stabbing at his flavorless dinner when the captain’s announcement echoes through the mess hall.
“We’ve earned a substantial amount of shore leave, but we’re not done here yet. Our mission to find out why the S’Prenn have betrayed us has been a complete success, and it is ironclad evidence that this ship and her crew is a force to be reckoned with.
“But as long as the Altonoids occupy our space, there will be no time for us to rest, no time for us to waver. We have been given the opportunity to make a difference once again, and we will grab it with both hands. With our skills, knowledge, and strength, we will head back into Altonoid territory, find a way to undo their hold on the S’Prenn, and turn the tide of this war!”
Shipmates cluster together to discuss this sudden twist of fate. Some of them sound enthusiastic, others uneasy about the prospect of extending their dangerous sojourn in hostile territory. Tony just stares motionlessly at the equally motionless stars. As minutes drift by and his crewmates’ discussions fade into the routine of everyday life, he watches the ship reverse course and accelerate to high warp, turning its back on the prospect of a safe haven.
* * *
Deeper into Altonoid space, USS Achilles – July 8, 2386 – Stardate 63515.6
Captain Stephan Rinckes travels the hallways of the Achilles at a steady pace, his expression blank, as usual. Touring his ship, he instills the same respect as if he were barking orders on the bridge. Crewmembers who happen to pass by greet him immediately, and he returns the courtesy with a faint nod as he presses on.
He reaches his destination and pushes the call button on the LCARS display near the door.
“Who is it?”
“Your captain.” Before long, the entrance whooshes open and Tony Blue appears in the doorway, giving him a level stare. “We need to talk,” Rinckes says. He enters the former XO’s quarters without invitation and notices the familiar marks of battle damage: dark patches smudging the bulkheads like life-sized Rorschach tests, frayed carpet and upholstery, the odd conduit and wiring creeping out from behind cover. Has no part of the ship been spared? Despite these inescapable blemishes, this living area has an orderly appearance, something he had not expected after reading Baxter’s report. Lost in thought, he walks over to the window and halts there. Tony takes refuge on the sofa and quietly waits for the captain to reveal the purpose of his visit.
“You won’t be facing that court martial any time soon,” Rinckes says to the stars. “We have picked up a reply from Starfleet. They have analyzed our data and were most pleased.” He anticipates a response from Tony, but he gets none. “And they have officially sanctioned our endeavor to try and win this war from the inside out.” He faces the reticent young man. “Which means you’re stuck with the Achilles, whether you and I want that or not.”
Rinckes zeroes in on the chair opposite the sofa and seats himself. “After… lengthy talks with Doctor Kingsley, I have made the following decisions regarding our command structure.”
Tony tilts his head. He’s probably wondering why the captain would inform him of this in person.
“Erin Crow is now my new first officer. She has also been given an overdue promotion to the rank of commander. This renders the position of chief tactical officer wide open. A few good officers are available, but the doctor insisted on giving you a second chance.”
This surprises Tony even more. He straightens his back and is all ears.
“Your experience serving aboard starships and at Starfleet HQ as well as dealing with the Altonoids and S’Prenn is invaluable. According to the doctor, it would be foolish not to take advantage of your expertise.”
Tony rubs his chin. “Barely three weeks ago you were determined I wasn’t fit for duty, and now—”
“Now the situation has changed.”
“So… you’re reinstating me as a senior officer?”
“If you think you’re up for it.”
“I am, sir. You know I am.”
“Fine. As of tomorrow morning,”—Rinckes gets up, eager to leave—“you will be Lieutenant Tony Blue, chief tactical officer of the USS Achilles.”
Tony stands up too, albeit slower. “Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” Rinckes says, darkening his tone. “You’re being demoted two whole ranks—a fitting, if not somewhat lenient punishment for your misbehavior. And once we get back, be assured, you will face that court martial.”
“Still, it beats being the only civilian on the ship.”
He takes a step closer to Tony. “If you screw this up, I will have you scrubbing waste reclamation units for the remainder of our mission. Consider yourself very lucky to be given this chance at redemption. Don’t you forget that.”
“I won’t,” Tony replies in a thin voice.
“Good.” Having made his point, Rinckes backs off and draws in a couple of deep breaths. While regaining his composure, he notices a table on which three pictures stand: one of Tony’s father, one of Emily, and one of Tony, his father, and Emily together in a sunny garden. Frozen in a moment of happiness, they all smile at him, unaware of what was to come. Seeing those pictures sends a lone shiver down his spine.
“That was all,” Rinckes says as he hurries for the exit and nearly trips over a chair. “You will receive your duty roster later today.” And with that, he leaves the new chief tactical officer to his musings.
* * *
Behind enemy lines – July 9, 2386 – Stardate 63517.2
Tony Blue shucks his pajamas, folds them, and places them on his neatly made-up bed. After a quick sonic shower, he walks over to the closet and rummages through his collection of uniforms. He chooses one, carries it to his bedroom, and belatedly realizes his mistake. He hangs the old uniform back and selects the freshly replicated one with the golden undershirt and cuff stripes instead of the command division red ones. The shower woke him up all right, but it has been many years since he wore gold—the same department color his wife used to wear.
As he puts on the appropriate uniform, his attention is drawn to the table bearing pictures of himself, Dad, and Emily. He can’t escape the feeling these shadows of the past are watching over him and his efforts to move on with his life, even though the persons represented in those pictures have been wrested from him one way or another.
Solemnly, he opens a cupboard drawer and retrieves a suede case, which contains three rank pips. Tony picks up two of them and attaches them to his collar. He glances at the pictures of his lost family once more and gives them a subdued, loving smile before stepping out of his quarters to report for duty.
* * *
As soon as the turbolift opens its doors, Lieutenant Tony Blue wishes he had taken the next one, because its sole passenger is none other than Commander Erin Crow. It’s too late to double back, so he enters the turbolift and indulges her in an impressive showdown of awkward silence. She’s a couple of inches shorter than him, but in her mind she must be six feet tall. Telepathy is not required to sense how much she enjoys having swapped roles with him.
“Bridge,” Tony says, prompting the turbolift to ascend. Despite his intention to avoid eye contact, he sneaks a peek at the new first officer.
As he suspected, the irony isn’t lost on her, and she flaunts a prideful smirk. “Lieutenant, gold just isn’t your color.”
Tony is sure two hours from now he’ll think of a fantastic retort.
The rest of the turbolift ride is equally unpleasant. Luckily, it’s over quickly and Tony lets his new superior exit the turbolift first. Once she’s out of the way, he enters the bridge with careful reluctance. The command center looks exactly the same as it did three weeks ago, though for some reason he had expected it to have changed during his absence.
Captain Rinckes emerges from his ready room and hesitates when he spots Tony, then greets him with a subtle bow of the head and sits down on the captain’s chair, right next to Commander Crow, who has claimed the XO’s chair.
Other officers welcome Tony to the bridge with nods and genuine smiles, for which he is grateful. He will have to stand for most of his shift—not an easy feat with his old injury, but he’ll manage. He slinks up to his new station behind the second officer’s chair. Its occupant, Doctor Kingsley, is too busy to notice him, which is for the best.
Soon, the novelty of his arrival wears off and everybody focuses on their tasks. He’s glad nobody is paying more than cursory attention to him as he attempts to acclimatize to his new function. With the Achilles’ weaponry and shields at his command, he must—
His tactical station starts beeping like a possessed alarm clock. Thanks to the alert, every person on the bridge gives him a wide-eyed stare and waits for him to react. He accesses his terminal with shaky fingers and interprets its flashing data. “Sensors are picking up a S’Prenn signature. It’s one of their vessels, apparently inoperable.”
“Inoperable?” Captain Rinckes asks.
“We’re too far away to get a better reading, but I can confirm it’s adrift and damaged.”
“It could be a trap,” Cmdr. Crow says, brandishing her trademarked worried scowl. “The Altonoids might have intercepted our transmissions with Starfleet.”
“Or it could be a lucky break,” Dr. Kingsley says.
Lieutenant Kels forces a laugh. “Really? Now you’re the optimist?”
“I’m serious. It could be an excellent opportunity for finding missing pieces of the S’Prenn puzzle. Imagine the dead specimens we could examine.”
“Making it all the more convenient,” Cmdr. Crow says, biting a fingernail, “and too much of a coincidence.”
“So it’s either a trap or a gift,” the doctor summarizes. “It’s up to you, Captain.”
The captain is in no particular rush. When he answers, he speaks with authority. “We’re not out here to cower and hide. Baxter, adjust course and increase speed to warp 8.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Go to yellow alert, but don’t raise the shields, Lieutenant Blue.” The captain shoots him a side-glance. “Not yet.”
“As you wish,” Tony says as the alert panels douse the bridge in a yellow hue.
Captain Rinckes leans forward in his chair and joins the crew in watching the viewscreen as the Achilles alters course. “Let’s see what they’ve got in store for us.”
END OF BOOK 1
Near the Klingon border, USS Achilles – June 30, 2386 – Stardate 63493.9
Situated at the bow and sporting a set of windows covering the entire forward bulkhead, the mess hall offers a splendid panorama of whatever spectacle the Achilles is facing. Even though at warp speed all you see is stardust flying by like a hi-res version of an ancient screensaver, it’s encouraging to know that a friendly port lies up ahead. The mess hall itself is modest in its simplicity; it comprises six beige tables with color-matched seats and a couple of wall-mounted replicators.
It’s reasonably quiet, which is why Tony Blue has chosen this late hour to have dinner here. He ignores the few people present, yet he’s aware they’re not ignoring him, halting their chatter whenever his eyes accidentally meet theirs. So he pretends that eating his meal requires his undivided attention. Occasionally, he shoots a glance through the windows. The view from here is usually better than the one from his quarters, which he is allowed to keep for the time being, and he has grown tired of eating alone. However, the stares burning into the part of his collar where his three rank pips used to be make him feel ill at ease.
Someone sits down across his table, and for an instant of foolishness, he feels joy and relief well up as he thinks it’s Emily, followed by disillusionment when it naturally turns out to be someone else. It’s Lieutenant Jeremy Gibbs, who has brought a plate of inedible goop. Tony gives him and his questionable choice of nourishment a short look and then continues his meal.
“We’re nearly home,” Gibbs says. “Or at least, what should pass as home.”
Tony’s silence is almost audible.
Giving up is not the chief’s strongest suit. “We’ll be safe there at long last. No more sneaking around, constantly on the lookout, living with the lights dimmed. Maybe we’ll get to spend our R&R on whichever lush planet’s available. It’ll be nice to catch some sunrays.” Tony’s unwillingness to respond stagnates the one-sided conversation, so Gibbs drops his veil of faux optimism and replaces it with sincerity. “I’ve said it before, and I hate to sound like a broken record… but I’m real sorry about what happened.”
“Everybody’s sorry.” Tony takes another bite of pâté, robbed of its taste by his sullen mood.
“I’ve been replaying the events over and over in my head and I realize I haven’t been much help to you. I was the one who convinced you to leave Emily and Barton in the cargo bay. I didn’t protest the captain’s decision to beam us back. I even drew my weapon on you.”
“You did what every good officer would’ve done.” Tony puts down his utensils and meets the blond lieutenant’s gaze. “You wouldn’t be much of a security chief if you had let someone phaser the captain.”
A hint of amusement flickers across the chief’s contrite features. “True. Regardless, I feel responsible for what happened. I want you to know you have my sympathy and my apologies.”
“Thanks, but there’s no need to apologize. You did your job to the best of your abilities and as your former commanding officer I expected nothing less.”
This causes Gibbs to chuckle. “Very true. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you can count on me.”
“Next time you could aim your phaser at the captain instead of me,” Tony says dryly.
Gibbs misses the joke because he’s looking out the window, his brow contorted into a puzzled frown. “We’ve dropped out of warp.” Indeed, the view has changed to a stationary field of stars.
Tony rises to his feet and wants to press his combadge to request clarification from the bridge but realizes in time he doesn’t have that privilege anymore.
Gibbs gets up too, to report to the bridge. “Don’t worry, Commander,” he says, winking at the “commander” part. “We’ll keep you informed.” And with that, the security chief leaves.
After a moment’s hesitation, Tony takes Gibbs’ dinner tray, places it on another table, and returns to his own table to finish his meal.
* * *
“Are you absolutely certain?” Captain Rinckes asks, double-checking his crew’s findings, which are displayed on the armrests of his command chair.
“Yes, sir, beyond a doubt,” the Andorian Lieutenant Kels says. “The border has been hermetically sealed. Nothing can slip through.”
Doctor Kingsley lets out a derisive snort. “We have a cloaking device. I’m sure Jon here has been able to fix it properly.”
Although Lieutenant Commander Jon Terrell is concentrating on operating his engineering station, he has been listening to his colleagues. “Our cloak is back to spec, but that Altonoid sensor network is ridiculously sophisticated. It’s truly a work of art, a great mixture of Loïdian and S’Prenn engineering. Remarkable? Yes. Problematic? Also.”
“And they’re proud of it too,” Kels says, feeding commands into her science station. “They’ve made no attempt to hide it.” More and more sequential images of identical sensor arrays pop up on the viewscreen. “They’ve sealed off the entire Altonoid-Klingon border with millions of self-replicating detection sentries. Flying past them will not go unnoticed, and they’re armed to the teeth with S’Prenn weaponry.”
From the corner of his vision, the captain sees Lt. Gibbs enter the bridge. Nobody bothers to acknowledge his presence; they’re too busy dealing with this unwelcome news, as they should be.
“They don’t want anyone to go in or out,” Lt. Baxter says. “The only way to get back to Klingon space is by avoiding this border altogether, but who’s to say the Altonoids haven’t planted these sentries all around?”
Lt. Surtak weighs in with his opinion. “If we crossed through Tholian and Gorn space, for example, the detour would take at least four months, not to mention the extra risk involved.”
Requiring but a few seconds of deliberation, the captain comes up with a feasible plan, and he rises from his chair. “Commander Terrell, prepare a buoy with all the intel we’ve found on the S’Prenn-Altonoid collaboration. Rig the buoy to start transmitting into Klingon space exactly thirty hours from launch and set it to self-destruct when approached by any vessel.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Needless to say it will have to impart its message on all secure Federation and Klingon frequencies. Upon successful transmission, it should self-destruct after one week at most. Starfleet might be able to use it to transmit a reply.”
“Anything else, sir?” Terrell asks as if he prepares buoys with delicate, life-altering information every day between coffee breaks.
“That would be all, Commander,” Rinckes says. “Baxter, as soon as the buoy has been deployed, take us deeper into Altonoid space at maximum warp. As always, ensure our flight path is hard to trace.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Rinckes sits back down, content with his plan. “Seems like our mission hasn’t ended just yet.”
“Trapped behind enemy lines, sir,” Surtak adds.
“That’s a rather ghastly way of putting it,” Terrell says, distracted from his new project, if only for an instant.
“Is it?” Surtak arches an eyebrow and rotates his seat to address the crew. “I did not intend it to be ‘ghastly.’ I am simply stating facts. I do not believe our inability to cross the border is such an unfortunate development. We are fulfilling our mission by relaying our findings to the Federation, and by staying in Altonoid space we have ample opportunity for undertaking new assignments, which may be even more important than the one we have completed. Also, we should not forget we have a number of uninvestigated leads left to explore.”
“That’s the spirit, Lieutenant,” Rinckes says. “Terrell, what’s the status of our buoy?”
“You’ll have it in a couple of minutes, sir.”
With that settled, Rinckes presses the comm button on his right armrest. He has never been a fan of speechifying, but it comes with the job. He is yet to come to terms with this particular setback, so this speech will serve to encourage himself as much as the other souls on this vessel. Not a scrap of timidity is allowed to blot his authoritative timbre as he says, “All hands, this is the captain. The Altonoids have sealed the Altonoid-Klingon border. We cannot go through.”
His message can be heard all over the ship, from engineering to the crawlspaces, from the corridors to the crew quarters.
* * *
Tony Blue is still stabbing at his flavorless dinner when the captain’s announcement echoes through the mess hall.
“We’ve earned a substantial amount of shore leave, but we’re not done here yet. Our mission to find out why the S’Prenn have betrayed us has been a complete success, and it is ironclad evidence that this ship and her crew is a force to be reckoned with.
“But as long as the Altonoids occupy our space, there will be no time for us to rest, no time for us to waver. We have been given the opportunity to make a difference once again, and we will grab it with both hands. With our skills, knowledge, and strength, we will head back into Altonoid territory, find a way to undo their hold on the S’Prenn, and turn the tide of this war!”
Shipmates cluster together to discuss this sudden twist of fate. Some of them sound enthusiastic, others uneasy about the prospect of extending their dangerous sojourn in hostile territory. Tony just stares motionlessly at the equally motionless stars. As minutes drift by and his crewmates’ discussions fade into the routine of everyday life, he watches the ship reverse course and accelerate to high warp, turning its back on the prospect of a safe haven.
* * *
Deeper into Altonoid space, USS Achilles – July 8, 2386 – Stardate 63515.6
Captain Stephan Rinckes travels the hallways of the Achilles at a steady pace, his expression blank, as usual. Touring his ship, he instills the same respect as if he were barking orders on the bridge. Crewmembers who happen to pass by greet him immediately, and he returns the courtesy with a faint nod as he presses on.
He reaches his destination and pushes the call button on the LCARS display near the door.
“Who is it?”
“Your captain.” Before long, the entrance whooshes open and Tony Blue appears in the doorway, giving him a level stare. “We need to talk,” Rinckes says. He enters the former XO’s quarters without invitation and notices the familiar marks of battle damage: dark patches smudging the bulkheads like life-sized Rorschach tests, frayed carpet and upholstery, the odd conduit and wiring creeping out from behind cover. Has no part of the ship been spared? Despite these inescapable blemishes, this living area has an orderly appearance, something he had not expected after reading Baxter’s report. Lost in thought, he walks over to the window and halts there. Tony takes refuge on the sofa and quietly waits for the captain to reveal the purpose of his visit.
“You won’t be facing that court martial any time soon,” Rinckes says to the stars. “We have picked up a reply from Starfleet. They have analyzed our data and were most pleased.” He anticipates a response from Tony, but he gets none. “And they have officially sanctioned our endeavor to try and win this war from the inside out.” He faces the reticent young man. “Which means you’re stuck with the Achilles, whether you and I want that or not.”
Rinckes zeroes in on the chair opposite the sofa and seats himself. “After… lengthy talks with Doctor Kingsley, I have made the following decisions regarding our command structure.”
Tony tilts his head. He’s probably wondering why the captain would inform him of this in person.
“Erin Crow is now my new first officer. She has also been given an overdue promotion to the rank of commander. This renders the position of chief tactical officer wide open. A few good officers are available, but the doctor insisted on giving you a second chance.”
This surprises Tony even more. He straightens his back and is all ears.
“Your experience serving aboard starships and at Starfleet HQ as well as dealing with the Altonoids and S’Prenn is invaluable. According to the doctor, it would be foolish not to take advantage of your expertise.”
Tony rubs his chin. “Barely three weeks ago you were determined I wasn’t fit for duty, and now—”
“Now the situation has changed.”
“So… you’re reinstating me as a senior officer?”
“If you think you’re up for it.”
“I am, sir. You know I am.”
“Fine. As of tomorrow morning,”—Rinckes gets up, eager to leave—“you will be Lieutenant Tony Blue, chief tactical officer of the USS Achilles.”
Tony stands up too, albeit slower. “Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” Rinckes says, darkening his tone. “You’re being demoted two whole ranks—a fitting, if not somewhat lenient punishment for your misbehavior. And once we get back, be assured, you will face that court martial.”
“Still, it beats being the only civilian on the ship.”
He takes a step closer to Tony. “If you screw this up, I will have you scrubbing waste reclamation units for the remainder of our mission. Consider yourself very lucky to be given this chance at redemption. Don’t you forget that.”
“I won’t,” Tony replies in a thin voice.
“Good.” Having made his point, Rinckes backs off and draws in a couple of deep breaths. While regaining his composure, he notices a table on which three pictures stand: one of Tony’s father, one of Emily, and one of Tony, his father, and Emily together in a sunny garden. Frozen in a moment of happiness, they all smile at him, unaware of what was to come. Seeing those pictures sends a lone shiver down his spine.
“That was all,” Rinckes says as he hurries for the exit and nearly trips over a chair. “You will receive your duty roster later today.” And with that, he leaves the new chief tactical officer to his musings.
* * *
Behind enemy lines – July 9, 2386 – Stardate 63517.2
Tony Blue shucks his pajamas, folds them, and places them on his neatly made-up bed. After a quick sonic shower, he walks over to the closet and rummages through his collection of uniforms. He chooses one, carries it to his bedroom, and belatedly realizes his mistake. He hangs the old uniform back and selects the freshly replicated one with the golden undershirt and cuff stripes instead of the command division red ones. The shower woke him up all right, but it has been many years since he wore gold—the same department color his wife used to wear.
As he puts on the appropriate uniform, his attention is drawn to the table bearing pictures of himself, Dad, and Emily. He can’t escape the feeling these shadows of the past are watching over him and his efforts to move on with his life, even though the persons represented in those pictures have been wrested from him one way or another.
Solemnly, he opens a cupboard drawer and retrieves a suede case, which contains three rank pips. Tony picks up two of them and attaches them to his collar. He glances at the pictures of his lost family once more and gives them a subdued, loving smile before stepping out of his quarters to report for duty.
* * *
As soon as the turbolift opens its doors, Lieutenant Tony Blue wishes he had taken the next one, because its sole passenger is none other than Commander Erin Crow. It’s too late to double back, so he enters the turbolift and indulges her in an impressive showdown of awkward silence. She’s a couple of inches shorter than him, but in her mind she must be six feet tall. Telepathy is not required to sense how much she enjoys having swapped roles with him.
“Bridge,” Tony says, prompting the turbolift to ascend. Despite his intention to avoid eye contact, he sneaks a peek at the new first officer.
As he suspected, the irony isn’t lost on her, and she flaunts a prideful smirk. “Lieutenant, gold just isn’t your color.”
Tony is sure two hours from now he’ll think of a fantastic retort.
The rest of the turbolift ride is equally unpleasant. Luckily, it’s over quickly and Tony lets his new superior exit the turbolift first. Once she’s out of the way, he enters the bridge with careful reluctance. The command center looks exactly the same as it did three weeks ago, though for some reason he had expected it to have changed during his absence.
Captain Rinckes emerges from his ready room and hesitates when he spots Tony, then greets him with a subtle bow of the head and sits down on the captain’s chair, right next to Commander Crow, who has claimed the XO’s chair.
Other officers welcome Tony to the bridge with nods and genuine smiles, for which he is grateful. He will have to stand for most of his shift—not an easy feat with his old injury, but he’ll manage. He slinks up to his new station behind the second officer’s chair. Its occupant, Doctor Kingsley, is too busy to notice him, which is for the best.
Soon, the novelty of his arrival wears off and everybody focuses on their tasks. He’s glad nobody is paying more than cursory attention to him as he attempts to acclimatize to his new function. With the Achilles’ weaponry and shields at his command, he must—
His tactical station starts beeping like a possessed alarm clock. Thanks to the alert, every person on the bridge gives him a wide-eyed stare and waits for him to react. He accesses his terminal with shaky fingers and interprets its flashing data. “Sensors are picking up a S’Prenn signature. It’s one of their vessels, apparently inoperable.”
“Inoperable?” Captain Rinckes asks.
“We’re too far away to get a better reading, but I can confirm it’s adrift and damaged.”
“It could be a trap,” Cmdr. Crow says, brandishing her trademarked worried scowl. “The Altonoids might have intercepted our transmissions with Starfleet.”
“Or it could be a lucky break,” Dr. Kingsley says.
Lieutenant Kels forces a laugh. “Really? Now you’re the optimist?”
“I’m serious. It could be an excellent opportunity for finding missing pieces of the S’Prenn puzzle. Imagine the dead specimens we could examine.”
“Making it all the more convenient,” Cmdr. Crow says, biting a fingernail, “and too much of a coincidence.”
“So it’s either a trap or a gift,” the doctor summarizes. “It’s up to you, Captain.”
The captain is in no particular rush. When he answers, he speaks with authority. “We’re not out here to cower and hide. Baxter, adjust course and increase speed to warp 8.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Go to yellow alert, but don’t raise the shields, Lieutenant Blue.” The captain shoots him a side-glance. “Not yet.”
“As you wish,” Tony says as the alert panels douse the bridge in a yellow hue.
Captain Rinckes leans forward in his chair and joins the crew in watching the viewscreen as the Achilles alters course. “Let’s see what they’ve got in store for us.”
END OF BOOK 1
Meaty chapter here to close out what has been a hell of a ride.
For some reason I feel tactical officer is a better fit for Tony than XO. Maybe because we haven't really seen him make a great many command decisions in his stint on the Achilles. Then again, I'm wouldn't be surprised to see him ending up somewhere else entirely. With this story, you just can't really tell.
Looking forward to see where you take this story next.
For some reason I feel tactical officer is a better fit for Tony than XO. Maybe because we haven't really seen him make a great many command decisions in his stint on the Achilles. Then again, I'm wouldn't be surprised to see him ending up somewhere else entirely. With this story, you just can't really tell.
Looking forward to see where you take this story next.
Thank you for reading all the way through and offering your feedback, CeJay!
I also think Tony's new position suits him better than his previous one. He got seriously overpromoted because of his Q background and had to rely on his status and fame to compensate for sometimes shaky leadership skills.
Next up this Friday: the first part of the two-part prologue for book 2, a brief dive into Stephan Rinckes' backstory, taking us back to the 2350s, when spandex one-piece uniforms were all the rage and handphasers looked like dustbusters.
I also think Tony's new position suits him better than his previous one. He got seriously overpromoted because of his Q background and had to rely on his status and fame to compensate for sometimes shaky leadership skills.
Next up this Friday: the first part of the two-part prologue for book 2, a brief dive into Stephan Rinckes' backstory, taking us back to the 2350s, when spandex one-piece uniforms were all the rage and handphasers looked like dustbusters.
Fallen Heroes - Book 2 - Prologue-a
Colony New Hoorn – August 5, 2356 – Stardate 33593.4
Hidden deep within the Beta Quadrant, on the fringe of Federation space, Colony New Hoorn is nothing but a speck of dust on the interstellar map. Finding passage to this backwater colony is challenging, but being a Starfleet officer gives you certain advantages when it comes to arranging transport, no matter your destination. The SS Macon, a cargo ship that can only be described as ancient, has somehow made it to New Hoorn.
Apart from two crewmembers and a cargo hold full of construction material, the Macon carries only one passenger: a twenty-two-year-old ensign wearing a one-piece black-and-gold uniform signifying he’s either an engineer or a security officer—his stern aspect, slicked-back hair, and muscular physique suggest the latter. Ensign Stephan Rinckes’ aquiline face is reflected in one of the cargo ship’s rare portholes as he studies the lush M-Class planet New Hoorn. It has less than 400 inhabitants, and their impact on the planet’s stunning appearance is negligible; the colonists’ settlement itself can’t even be seen from orbit. The sole reason for its low population density is its remote location. By all means, it seems like an even better place to spend one’s well-deserved R&R than Risa.
Ensign Rinckes isn’t here for vacation or to enjoy the unspoiled nature of the paradisiacal New Hoorn. His reasons for visiting this faraway planet are far more serious.
Lost in thought, Rinckes is late to discover he is not alone. “We’re ready to beam you down,” the Macon’s captain, whose name has eluded the young ensign, declares gruffly before hobbling off. They won’t be sending each other greeting cards after this trip; they hardly spoke a word throughout the entire three-week journey. Also, the term captain can be loosely applied to this man. Yes, he’s in charge of the ship, but if you said he was a stowaway who’d recently woken up from an alcohol-assisted slumber behind a crate, nobody would suspect you to be lying.
Annoyed by the captain’s lackluster pace, Rinckes follows him to the Macon’s main cargo area. Once they’ve entered a random cargo bay, the captain summons him to position himself between a dozen crates that are stacked on a circular transporter pad.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Captain “Stowaway” says. “Make sure you’re at the rendezvous point at noon. We won’t wait for you.”
Rinckes mumbles an acknowledgment. Half a minute later, he and the crates around him dissolve in a transporter beam.
* * *
Experienced from its surface, New Hoorn’s majesty is even more tantalizing. Ensign Rinckes evades the surprised looks he garners when emerging from the stack of crates and starts toward the heart of the colony, ignoring the breathtaking scenery. While impressive, the planet’s exotic wildlife, tropical climate, and rich emerald flora do not interest him.
The colony resembles a 19th-century Western town made of modern yet sterile materials instead of wood. Its long central street consists of a moss-green brick road, which seamlessly blends in with the environment. The colonists, who were happily going about their daily lives, stop and stare at the Starfleet officer hurrying toward the colony’s town square.
Once Rinckes has reached the colony’s center, marked by a golden fountain sitting in a patch of grass, commemorating the first starship to arrive here, he makes a beeline for one of the abutting houses. Even though the house Rinckes has set his sights on is identical to all others—simple, yet built to withstand any type of weather—he zeroes in on it with steadfast determination. It’s his journey’s end, the reason he has been travelling for weeks.
He chimes the doorbell. People are gawking at him, which doesn’t keep him from ringing the doorbell again, and again. Before long, he starts knocking on the door—softly at first, but soon enough he’s banging on the door with his fists. His patience threadbare, he peeks in through the front window. The house’s modestly furnished living room appears dusty and deserted. “Anybody in there?” he shouts while tapping the window. “Mom? Dad?” They’re not in. This is what he had feared. If they’re not home… there’s only one other place they could be.
Rinckes approaches a bystander, a young woman, who lowers her gaze and tries to walk off. Unwilling to let her off the hook that easily, he grabs her by the arm and says, “I need you to tell me where the hospital is.”
* * *
As it turns out, New Hoorn’s hospital is located on the outer edge of the colony and offers a spectacular vista of the valley below. Because of its similar construction, one could easily mistake it for another house if it weren’t for its transparent sliding doors featuring Starfleet Medical’s emblem.
Ensign Rinckes rushes in and storms toward the reception desk. The receptionist, a corpulent nurse in her fifties wearing civilian clothing, is startled by the unannounced arrival of a Starfleet security officer and tosses aside a PADD she was reading. Before she can ask anything, Rinckes cuts to the chase. “Alan and Holly Rinckes. Where are they? What’s happened to them?”
She is too perplexed to do anything but stammer unintelligibly.
Rinckes slams his hands onto the desk and leans in on the stuttering nurse. “I have to know if they’re okay. Where can I find them?”
“I’m not… I can’t let you…”
“Please! I’m their son, Stephan.”
Mortified, the nurse shakes her head, all the while shooting nervous glances to her right.
Rinckes looks at where she’s looking. “Will that corridor lead me to them?” The nurse refuses to answer, but he knows he caught her out. “Thanks.” He pushes himself away from the desk and sprints into the corridor.
* * *
Ensign Rinckes kicks open the first door he encounters and enters a small office. Except for a desk, a cabinet, and an ugly painting, it is empty, so he turns back and kicks in the adjacent door, only to find another vacant office. One by one, Rinckes forcefully opens every door in sight while advancing through the corridor, uncovering small offices and storage spaces—all unoccupied.
Having explored the area, revealing nothing to suggest his parents’ presence, he slaps a nearby wall in frustration and stops to get his bearings. Over his heavy panting, he hears muffled sounds of running and shouting coming from a far corner of the building and closing in on his position. Whoever they are, they’re after him.
He swivels around and spots a pair of sliding doors, tucked away at the end of the corridor and mostly obscured from view because their drab color is identical to the surrounding wall. The ensign dashes toward the mysterious entrance. It doesn’t open for him, so he rubs his fingertips against its cold alloy to search for a way in. Without knowing or caring how he did it, the doors open, unveiling a spacious elevator. Not exactly what he expected, but there’s no time to think; rapid footfalls of his pursuers prompt him to jump into the elevator and press a balled fist on the only button there. The doors close and the elevator starts its slow descent.
Save for the gentle hum of a moving elevator, it is remarkably quiet now, and Rinckes cannot hear his chasers anymore. Unable to hold still with so much adrenaline coursing through his veins, he paces back and forth like a caged tiger. Drawing in deep breaths, he suddenly becomes aware of the pervasive chemical odor of antiseptic cleaning products. Before he can ask himself why that is, the elevator comes to a stop and opens its doors, allowing its lighting to shine into a dim chamber. Rinckes shivers, though he’s unsure if that’s because of this place’s low temperature or its ominous aspect—possibly both.
He takes a hesitant step into the chamber, triggering the lights to activate and cast desaturated light into a room barely larger than the offices he rummaged through. There’s a metal table in the back, a freestanding console on the right, and eight metal drawers embedded in the left wall. The elevator doors close behind him as he inches toward the drawers. Six of them have red indicators, presumably to signal their emptiness; two of them are marked by green indicators instead.
It’s as though someone has punched him in the stomach. He has clearly entered the hospital’s morgue, and there are two corpses stored here. “No, please don’t let this be true,” he whispers, and he hurries over to the console. The young ensign is so upset that he hardly notices the morgue’s elevator leaving the floor to bring him his pursuers. Due to his unfamiliarity with the console’s exact functions, it takes him a few seconds to figure out what to do; surfacing tears aren’t helping either. He bites his lower lip and forces himself to stay focused.
After accessing the correct subsystem and typing in the proper commands, the two green-lit drawers slide open, their macabre contents hidden by water vapor hissing out. As the steam dissipates and cold mingles with the smell of death, the cadavers’ outlines sharpen. Rinckes hastens toward the metal slabs and realizes with a shudder that the two corpses are each covered by a greasy Federation flag.
Only two Starfleet officers are stationed at this civilian-operated colony: Alan and Holly Rinckes. As if to protect him from the emotional blow, his mind immediately conjures up alternative explanations. For instance, it might be a local custom to replicate Federation banners for each deceased individual, as a nod to the very organization that enabled this colony’s existence. Perhaps they simply had two Federation flags lying around and saw it fitting to use them here. For the briefest of moments, he almost believes the implausible, if only to nurture false hope just a little longer.
He has to know. With bated breath, he peels away the Federation flag covering the left corpse and reveals a middle-aged man’s scorched face. Burned skin may render identification troublesome, but for Ensign Rinckes there is no doubt about it: these are the remains of Commander Alan Rinckes.
Though this confirms what he had feared ever since his parents dropped off the radar, the consequences of this discovery don’t register with him yet. Dizzy and nauseous, the ensign turns to the other corpse. There’s no escaping the truth; these must be the remains of his mother. He has to make certain, so he reaches to lift the flag… and cannot bring himself to go through with it. As a security officer, he has witnessed tragedy and violent ends to innocent life; he should be used to this, be able to keep functioning under the harshest of circumstances, but he feels as helpless as a frightened child.
Rinckes stands frozen between his parents’ charred remains until his legs buckle and he collapses onto the tile floor. Struggling to find the right words to bid his parents farewell, he cannot say anything coherent. Despite his best intentions and his desire to be strong, he lets the tears flow and cries bitterly.
That’s when the elevator doors open and two men come rushing into the morgue. In reflex, Rinckes springs to his feet and assumes a defensive stance: chin tucked, knees bent, fists raised. The two men stop dead in their tracks, but the confrontation is far from over.
“We’re too late. What do we do about him?” one of the men—a thirty-something, short but thickset nurse—says while cracking his knuckles.
The other man is dark-skinned, an imposing six-and-half-feet tall, presumably in his late fifties, and wearing doctor’s robes. In a commanding voice containing hints of a Central-African accent, he says, “You are not supposed to be here, Ensign.”
Rinckes quickly wipes his tears and sizes up his opponents. The nurse could easily double as a nightclub bouncer, and the doctor is muscular enough to barely fit into his robes. They have him cornered, but Rinckes is not giving up without a fight. In spite of the more primal parts of his brain running the show, he manages to ask, “What have you done to my parents?” Without waiting for an answer, he lunges for the doctor.
The nurse tries to intervene, but Rinckes uses the nurse’s weight and momentum against him by grabbing his arm and giving his shins a swift kick, causing the nurse to lose his footing and crash headfirst into one of the closed metal drawers.
Before Rinckes can follow up, the rounded tip of a hypospray injects something into his neck. Within seconds, everything goes blurry and fades to black as his limp body sags to the floor.
Colony New Hoorn – August 5, 2356 – Stardate 33593.4
Hidden deep within the Beta Quadrant, on the fringe of Federation space, Colony New Hoorn is nothing but a speck of dust on the interstellar map. Finding passage to this backwater colony is challenging, but being a Starfleet officer gives you certain advantages when it comes to arranging transport, no matter your destination. The SS Macon, a cargo ship that can only be described as ancient, has somehow made it to New Hoorn.
Apart from two crewmembers and a cargo hold full of construction material, the Macon carries only one passenger: a twenty-two-year-old ensign wearing a one-piece black-and-gold uniform signifying he’s either an engineer or a security officer—his stern aspect, slicked-back hair, and muscular physique suggest the latter. Ensign Stephan Rinckes’ aquiline face is reflected in one of the cargo ship’s rare portholes as he studies the lush M-Class planet New Hoorn. It has less than 400 inhabitants, and their impact on the planet’s stunning appearance is negligible; the colonists’ settlement itself can’t even be seen from orbit. The sole reason for its low population density is its remote location. By all means, it seems like an even better place to spend one’s well-deserved R&R than Risa.
Ensign Rinckes isn’t here for vacation or to enjoy the unspoiled nature of the paradisiacal New Hoorn. His reasons for visiting this faraway planet are far more serious.
Lost in thought, Rinckes is late to discover he is not alone. “We’re ready to beam you down,” the Macon’s captain, whose name has eluded the young ensign, declares gruffly before hobbling off. They won’t be sending each other greeting cards after this trip; they hardly spoke a word throughout the entire three-week journey. Also, the term captain can be loosely applied to this man. Yes, he’s in charge of the ship, but if you said he was a stowaway who’d recently woken up from an alcohol-assisted slumber behind a crate, nobody would suspect you to be lying.
Annoyed by the captain’s lackluster pace, Rinckes follows him to the Macon’s main cargo area. Once they’ve entered a random cargo bay, the captain summons him to position himself between a dozen crates that are stacked on a circular transporter pad.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Captain “Stowaway” says. “Make sure you’re at the rendezvous point at noon. We won’t wait for you.”
Rinckes mumbles an acknowledgment. Half a minute later, he and the crates around him dissolve in a transporter beam.
* * *
Experienced from its surface, New Hoorn’s majesty is even more tantalizing. Ensign Rinckes evades the surprised looks he garners when emerging from the stack of crates and starts toward the heart of the colony, ignoring the breathtaking scenery. While impressive, the planet’s exotic wildlife, tropical climate, and rich emerald flora do not interest him.
The colony resembles a 19th-century Western town made of modern yet sterile materials instead of wood. Its long central street consists of a moss-green brick road, which seamlessly blends in with the environment. The colonists, who were happily going about their daily lives, stop and stare at the Starfleet officer hurrying toward the colony’s town square.
Once Rinckes has reached the colony’s center, marked by a golden fountain sitting in a patch of grass, commemorating the first starship to arrive here, he makes a beeline for one of the abutting houses. Even though the house Rinckes has set his sights on is identical to all others—simple, yet built to withstand any type of weather—he zeroes in on it with steadfast determination. It’s his journey’s end, the reason he has been travelling for weeks.
He chimes the doorbell. People are gawking at him, which doesn’t keep him from ringing the doorbell again, and again. Before long, he starts knocking on the door—softly at first, but soon enough he’s banging on the door with his fists. His patience threadbare, he peeks in through the front window. The house’s modestly furnished living room appears dusty and deserted. “Anybody in there?” he shouts while tapping the window. “Mom? Dad?” They’re not in. This is what he had feared. If they’re not home… there’s only one other place they could be.
Rinckes approaches a bystander, a young woman, who lowers her gaze and tries to walk off. Unwilling to let her off the hook that easily, he grabs her by the arm and says, “I need you to tell me where the hospital is.”
* * *
As it turns out, New Hoorn’s hospital is located on the outer edge of the colony and offers a spectacular vista of the valley below. Because of its similar construction, one could easily mistake it for another house if it weren’t for its transparent sliding doors featuring Starfleet Medical’s emblem.
Ensign Rinckes rushes in and storms toward the reception desk. The receptionist, a corpulent nurse in her fifties wearing civilian clothing, is startled by the unannounced arrival of a Starfleet security officer and tosses aside a PADD she was reading. Before she can ask anything, Rinckes cuts to the chase. “Alan and Holly Rinckes. Where are they? What’s happened to them?”
She is too perplexed to do anything but stammer unintelligibly.
Rinckes slams his hands onto the desk and leans in on the stuttering nurse. “I have to know if they’re okay. Where can I find them?”
“I’m not… I can’t let you…”
“Please! I’m their son, Stephan.”
Mortified, the nurse shakes her head, all the while shooting nervous glances to her right.
Rinckes looks at where she’s looking. “Will that corridor lead me to them?” The nurse refuses to answer, but he knows he caught her out. “Thanks.” He pushes himself away from the desk and sprints into the corridor.
* * *
Ensign Rinckes kicks open the first door he encounters and enters a small office. Except for a desk, a cabinet, and an ugly painting, it is empty, so he turns back and kicks in the adjacent door, only to find another vacant office. One by one, Rinckes forcefully opens every door in sight while advancing through the corridor, uncovering small offices and storage spaces—all unoccupied.
Having explored the area, revealing nothing to suggest his parents’ presence, he slaps a nearby wall in frustration and stops to get his bearings. Over his heavy panting, he hears muffled sounds of running and shouting coming from a far corner of the building and closing in on his position. Whoever they are, they’re after him.
He swivels around and spots a pair of sliding doors, tucked away at the end of the corridor and mostly obscured from view because their drab color is identical to the surrounding wall. The ensign dashes toward the mysterious entrance. It doesn’t open for him, so he rubs his fingertips against its cold alloy to search for a way in. Without knowing or caring how he did it, the doors open, unveiling a spacious elevator. Not exactly what he expected, but there’s no time to think; rapid footfalls of his pursuers prompt him to jump into the elevator and press a balled fist on the only button there. The doors close and the elevator starts its slow descent.
Save for the gentle hum of a moving elevator, it is remarkably quiet now, and Rinckes cannot hear his chasers anymore. Unable to hold still with so much adrenaline coursing through his veins, he paces back and forth like a caged tiger. Drawing in deep breaths, he suddenly becomes aware of the pervasive chemical odor of antiseptic cleaning products. Before he can ask himself why that is, the elevator comes to a stop and opens its doors, allowing its lighting to shine into a dim chamber. Rinckes shivers, though he’s unsure if that’s because of this place’s low temperature or its ominous aspect—possibly both.
He takes a hesitant step into the chamber, triggering the lights to activate and cast desaturated light into a room barely larger than the offices he rummaged through. There’s a metal table in the back, a freestanding console on the right, and eight metal drawers embedded in the left wall. The elevator doors close behind him as he inches toward the drawers. Six of them have red indicators, presumably to signal their emptiness; two of them are marked by green indicators instead.
It’s as though someone has punched him in the stomach. He has clearly entered the hospital’s morgue, and there are two corpses stored here. “No, please don’t let this be true,” he whispers, and he hurries over to the console. The young ensign is so upset that he hardly notices the morgue’s elevator leaving the floor to bring him his pursuers. Due to his unfamiliarity with the console’s exact functions, it takes him a few seconds to figure out what to do; surfacing tears aren’t helping either. He bites his lower lip and forces himself to stay focused.
After accessing the correct subsystem and typing in the proper commands, the two green-lit drawers slide open, their macabre contents hidden by water vapor hissing out. As the steam dissipates and cold mingles with the smell of death, the cadavers’ outlines sharpen. Rinckes hastens toward the metal slabs and realizes with a shudder that the two corpses are each covered by a greasy Federation flag.
Only two Starfleet officers are stationed at this civilian-operated colony: Alan and Holly Rinckes. As if to protect him from the emotional blow, his mind immediately conjures up alternative explanations. For instance, it might be a local custom to replicate Federation banners for each deceased individual, as a nod to the very organization that enabled this colony’s existence. Perhaps they simply had two Federation flags lying around and saw it fitting to use them here. For the briefest of moments, he almost believes the implausible, if only to nurture false hope just a little longer.
He has to know. With bated breath, he peels away the Federation flag covering the left corpse and reveals a middle-aged man’s scorched face. Burned skin may render identification troublesome, but for Ensign Rinckes there is no doubt about it: these are the remains of Commander Alan Rinckes.
Though this confirms what he had feared ever since his parents dropped off the radar, the consequences of this discovery don’t register with him yet. Dizzy and nauseous, the ensign turns to the other corpse. There’s no escaping the truth; these must be the remains of his mother. He has to make certain, so he reaches to lift the flag… and cannot bring himself to go through with it. As a security officer, he has witnessed tragedy and violent ends to innocent life; he should be used to this, be able to keep functioning under the harshest of circumstances, but he feels as helpless as a frightened child.
Rinckes stands frozen between his parents’ charred remains until his legs buckle and he collapses onto the tile floor. Struggling to find the right words to bid his parents farewell, he cannot say anything coherent. Despite his best intentions and his desire to be strong, he lets the tears flow and cries bitterly.
That’s when the elevator doors open and two men come rushing into the morgue. In reflex, Rinckes springs to his feet and assumes a defensive stance: chin tucked, knees bent, fists raised. The two men stop dead in their tracks, but the confrontation is far from over.
“We’re too late. What do we do about him?” one of the men—a thirty-something, short but thickset nurse—says while cracking his knuckles.
The other man is dark-skinned, an imposing six-and-half-feet tall, presumably in his late fifties, and wearing doctor’s robes. In a commanding voice containing hints of a Central-African accent, he says, “You are not supposed to be here, Ensign.”
Rinckes quickly wipes his tears and sizes up his opponents. The nurse could easily double as a nightclub bouncer, and the doctor is muscular enough to barely fit into his robes. They have him cornered, but Rinckes is not giving up without a fight. In spite of the more primal parts of his brain running the show, he manages to ask, “What have you done to my parents?” Without waiting for an answer, he lunges for the doctor.
The nurse tries to intervene, but Rinckes uses the nurse’s weight and momentum against him by grabbing his arm and giving his shins a swift kick, causing the nurse to lose his footing and crash headfirst into one of the closed metal drawers.
Before Rinckes can follow up, the rounded tip of a hypospray injects something into his neck. Within seconds, everything goes blurry and fades to black as his limp body sags to the floor.
Fallen Heroes - Book 2 - Prologue-b
Paralyzed from the neck down. When Ensign Rinckes regains consciousness, all he can do is open his eyes. Straining to lift his numb extremities yields no results other than accelerating the heartbeat thrashing in his ears. With great effort, Rinckes turns his head to the right and sees he’s trapped in a room taking up the hospital’s entire top floor, which is bathing in daylight because of its plentiful windows.
Gradually, his vision rids itself of its haziness, and he counts over a dozen biobeds, all empty except two: the one he is in and another one occupied by a motionless senior. Before Rinckes can begin to comprehend the situation or panic about his quadriplegic state, someone speaks up from his left. “He’s awake.”
“Thank you, Michael,” a familiar voice with a slight African accent says.
Rinckes carefully tilts his head toward Michael and recognizes him as the nurse he fought in the morgue. Now, he is pressing an ice pack against his swollen nose while glaring at his attacker. Rinckes rotates his head to the right, braves the ensuing discomfort, and notices the doctor has pulled up a chair to watch his captive. In a fruitless bid to get up and escape, the ensign reattempts to control his arms and legs, but he can’t even wag a finger.
“I had to sedate you,” the doctor says.
Rinckes’ vocal cords are cracked leather. “I can’t move.”
“A side-effect of hastily administered sedation. It will wear off on its own.” He grabs a medkit and digs through its contents. “I can speed up the process, but we’ll need your full cooperation.” He glances past Rinckes, and then smirks at him. “And we don’t want you to attack us again, please.”
When Rinckes offers no response, the doctor clears his throat and says, “My name is Doctor Jim Onyiego. I knew your parents well, considered them friends. They have lived here for three years and they mean a lot to our community. They are…” He sighs ruefully. “They were good people.”
Though Rinckes is relieved the doctor and his assistant appear to be benevolent, this is the first time someone verbally acknowledges his parents’ death. Wanting to hear the doctor out motivates him to practice emotional restraint, yet he cannot prevent his eyes from going moist.
Apparently, Dr. Onyiego picks up on this, because he rests a hand on Rinckes’ shoulder and says with disarming sincerity, “I am deeply sorry for your loss. I have to ask, though. How did you know your parents were in trouble?”
While this might be a subtle interrogation attempt, this information is by no means classified, so Rinckes explains as eloquently as his sedation permits, “They used to send me a video message every first Wednesday of the month. Nothing spectacular, really, just their method of staying in touch. I always replied with a message of my own. Without fail, this went on for years—until last month. I immediately knew something was wrong.” He meets the doctor’s gaze. “They didn’t respond to any of my subspace messages. I tried reaching them for days.”
“So you used your Starfleet connections to travel all the way over here.”
Rinckes nods. “Please tell me what happened.”
Instead of granting the ensign’s request, Dr. Onyiego grabs a hypospray from his medkit and presses it against Rinckes’ neck.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry. It’s a mild stimulant. It will get you back on your feet in a few minutes at most.”
Rinckes sighs in relief.
The doctor puts the hypospray away, folds his hands, and leans forward. “The technical details elude me, but the colony’s geothermal power plant had destabilized, which, if left unchecked, would’ve destroyed the colony in a catastrophic earthquake.”
Rinckes can guess where this is going. Alan and Holly Rinckes worked at the geothermal plant. It was their project, their dream to adjust existing geothermal technology to subdue New Hoorn’s volatile tectonic conditions. Where many had failed, they had succeeded, together, in making an entire planet suitable for colonization.
“When the automatic evacuation order was given, Alan and Holly remained at their post while all other personnel fled to the evac shuttles. Your parents refused to abandon us and managed to stabilize the plant—an impressive feat, given the buildup of heat and radiation.” Dr. Onyiego’s voice breaks and he needs a moment to compose himself. “I was called to the scene. I had to wait for the intense heat and contaminated air to vent from the control room. When the computer allowed me to enter…” The doctor shakes his head. “There was nothing I could do. They had already expired.” On the verge of tears, the doctor gives Rinckes a plaintive look. “I’m sorry, Ensign. I’m deeply sorry.”
Despite the urge to cry and kick and scream, and much to his own surprise, Rinckes stays calm and says, “It’s okay, Doctor. You did all you could.” A handful of seconds pass, steeped in mournful silence, as the horrible situation sinks in and leads him to ask, “Why wasn’t I allowed to know?”
Dr. Onyiego lets out a deep breath. “We were going to tell you, but you beat us to it.” He leans in on Rinckes again and says in a confidential tone, “Nobody outside the colony was supposed to know about the incident yet.”
Rinckes lifts an eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“This is a remote colony, funded and operated by civilians. Horrible as it may sound, we cannot afford bad publicity tarnishing our reputation.”
This hits a nerve, and Rinckes gathers enough strength to sit up carefully. “Wait a minute. That’s the reason?”
“Yes. We were uncertain how to solve this conundrum. Of course we were going to inform you as soon as possible. We just… panicked. I’m really sorry you had to find out like this.”
Rinckes wants nothing more than to scold the doctor, and justifiably so, but he decides to hold off—for now.
“Think of it this way,” Dr. Onyiego says, and he rises from his chair. “Yes, we’re going to have to cover up what happened here.” He starts walking back and forth, making deliberate gestures to get his point across. “And that is unfair, I agree. But if this gets out, there’s a good chance this colony is finished—done for. It will be stripped of its assets and everyone will be forced to leave.” He stops pacing and faces Rinckes. “I don’t have to tell you how much New Hoorn meant to your parents. We don’t want their life’s work to have been in vain.”
Before Rinckes has a chance to speak his mind, the doctor grins and says, “Come here.” He helps the unsteady ensign to his feet and guides him to a set of windows providing an idyllic view of leafy trees and strips of houses under a clear blue sky. “We’re already screening exceptionally gifted engineers to continue Alan and Holly’s dream. The colony shall live on, and we’re counting on substantial growth. One day, thousands of people will enjoy living on this beautiful planet—all thanks to your parents’ sacrifice.”
At a loss for words, Rinckes stares ahead.
Dr. Onyiego smiles and puts his arm around Rinckes’ shoulder. “Your parents have saved three hundred and seventy-eight lives, including mine! They were heroes, Ensign. Don’t ever forget that.”
The doctor’s rousing speech notwithstanding, Rinckes’ conflicting emotions cause his stomach to ache. Part of him is undeniably proud of his parents; they died protecting what they believed in, and there is a certain nobility to that. But one simple fact remains: he just wants his mom and dad back. There will be no more monthly video messages, no more well-intentioned but ill-advised dating suggestions, no more friendly debates on which equipment to use on fishing trips, no more proverbial safe haven to return to when life’s struggles threaten to overpower him. The people in the streets—among them a group of farmers having an animated discussion, a family of five strolling down the road, and a young girl playing by the fountain—all owe their lives to Alan and Holly Rinckes. They were heroes.
* * *
USS Saratoga – December 18, 2356 – Stardate 33961.9
It has been a strenuous day. Ensign Stephan Rinckes is returning to his quarters aboard the Saratoga, traversing corridors of the Miranda-class vessel that are as good as empty, which is fine because Rinckes isn’t in a talkative mood. Pulling double shifts to fill in for a sick crewmate has tired him. At least his superiors are happy with his accomplishments. If he can maintain his excellent track record, he’ll be a lieutenant by the end of next year. Rinckes has always been a striver, fully devoted to his responsibilities, but ever since his parents died he has acquired a singular focus on his tasks as a Starfleet officer. It helps dispel a gradually subsiding pain, and his revitalized work ethic is doing wonders for his career. Yet, he often catches himself reliving his tragic visit to New Hoorn.
After finding out about his parents’ fate and talking with Dr. Onyiego, he had wandered around in a daze, taking in the marvels of the planet while trying to avoid the colonists, who looked away whenever he would accidentally lock eyes with them. He didn’t want anything to do with them, to be honest. They were alive because his parents weren’t, and that was that. Rinckes hadn’t even gone through the trouble of searching for a place to spend the night; he had simply fallen asleep in a meadow on the outskirts of town. Upon waking, he had ambled over to the rendezvous point in a stunned state to remain there until the Macon was due for departure. He had silently observed the colonists preparing new stacks of crates for off-world transport. As agreed, the Macon had beamed him up at noon. Its crew hadn’t asked him about his one-day visit and he hadn’t bothered telling them. In fact, he didn’t tell anyone about what happened and simply got back to his duties, which he performed so well that he was awarded the position of junior security officer aboard the Saratoga—his first starship assignment. Life went on, and as the days progressed, he began to feel more and more at home on this old but sturdy ship.
Ensign Rinckes has arrived at his quarters. Since he is a low-ranking officer and the Saratoga is modestly sized compared to modern vessels, his quarters are cramped, containing only a bunk bed, a chair, and a wall-mounted terminal. Still, he is fortunate to have quarters of his own; most of his colleagues have to share. He seats himself and accesses his terminal to skim through a batch of security reports, groaning softly when he sees tomorrow’s duty roster has paired him with Ensign Wixor. The Bolian has a knack for talking non-stop and the stamina to do so for hours on end. Well, at least Wixor is kindhearted, and Rinckes has learned to tolerate his presence.
Once he has finished studying the reports, he selects the news feed out of habit and scrolls down a list of headlines. Something in the bottom right corner draws his attention, a news item that will be overlooked by many: New Hoorn Colony Annihilated By Raiders. He spends five seconds blinking at the screen. Then he extends a trembling finger to select the item and begins reading.
“Five days ago, an overwhelming pirate force raided Colony New Hoorn. Within a few hours, they laid waste to every building, stole everything of value, and killed all colonists. Not even the hospital was spared in this brutal assault. There were 435 people living in New Hoorn. No survivors have been reported. An investigation is underway to track and identify the pirates culpable for this massacre, but this will prove difficult, considering the lack of Federation presence and interest in this isolated area. With the colony’s inhabitants dead and its resources taken, it is unlikely New Hoorn will be recolonized in the near future.”
He closes the news item and turns his back to the terminal. Though he fixes his glassy stare on his bunk bed, the room keeps spinning while dozens of thoughts race through his head. As he sits there in his cramped quarters, motionlessly, for what seems like hours, and the initial shock yields to contemplation, he comes to realize there is but one possible conclusion: his parents gave their lives to save hundreds, but all they did was delay the inevitable. To make matters worse, since the colony’s population had grown in the intervening months, their noble sacrifice indirectly caused more deaths. And now there is nothing left of New Hoorn, nothing left of their legacy. A few hours was all it took to erase it from the universe, to be forgotten indefinitely.
Rinckes waits for the tears to come, but they don’t. There’s no point in crying. Tomorrow he will report for duty and put up with Ensign Wixor’s happy banter, and the universe will go on like it always has—cold and indifferent.
Paralyzed from the neck down. When Ensign Rinckes regains consciousness, all he can do is open his eyes. Straining to lift his numb extremities yields no results other than accelerating the heartbeat thrashing in his ears. With great effort, Rinckes turns his head to the right and sees he’s trapped in a room taking up the hospital’s entire top floor, which is bathing in daylight because of its plentiful windows.
Gradually, his vision rids itself of its haziness, and he counts over a dozen biobeds, all empty except two: the one he is in and another one occupied by a motionless senior. Before Rinckes can begin to comprehend the situation or panic about his quadriplegic state, someone speaks up from his left. “He’s awake.”
“Thank you, Michael,” a familiar voice with a slight African accent says.
Rinckes carefully tilts his head toward Michael and recognizes him as the nurse he fought in the morgue. Now, he is pressing an ice pack against his swollen nose while glaring at his attacker. Rinckes rotates his head to the right, braves the ensuing discomfort, and notices the doctor has pulled up a chair to watch his captive. In a fruitless bid to get up and escape, the ensign reattempts to control his arms and legs, but he can’t even wag a finger.
“I had to sedate you,” the doctor says.
Rinckes’ vocal cords are cracked leather. “I can’t move.”
“A side-effect of hastily administered sedation. It will wear off on its own.” He grabs a medkit and digs through its contents. “I can speed up the process, but we’ll need your full cooperation.” He glances past Rinckes, and then smirks at him. “And we don’t want you to attack us again, please.”
When Rinckes offers no response, the doctor clears his throat and says, “My name is Doctor Jim Onyiego. I knew your parents well, considered them friends. They have lived here for three years and they mean a lot to our community. They are…” He sighs ruefully. “They were good people.”
Though Rinckes is relieved the doctor and his assistant appear to be benevolent, this is the first time someone verbally acknowledges his parents’ death. Wanting to hear the doctor out motivates him to practice emotional restraint, yet he cannot prevent his eyes from going moist.
Apparently, Dr. Onyiego picks up on this, because he rests a hand on Rinckes’ shoulder and says with disarming sincerity, “I am deeply sorry for your loss. I have to ask, though. How did you know your parents were in trouble?”
While this might be a subtle interrogation attempt, this information is by no means classified, so Rinckes explains as eloquently as his sedation permits, “They used to send me a video message every first Wednesday of the month. Nothing spectacular, really, just their method of staying in touch. I always replied with a message of my own. Without fail, this went on for years—until last month. I immediately knew something was wrong.” He meets the doctor’s gaze. “They didn’t respond to any of my subspace messages. I tried reaching them for days.”
“So you used your Starfleet connections to travel all the way over here.”
Rinckes nods. “Please tell me what happened.”
Instead of granting the ensign’s request, Dr. Onyiego grabs a hypospray from his medkit and presses it against Rinckes’ neck.
“W-what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry. It’s a mild stimulant. It will get you back on your feet in a few minutes at most.”
Rinckes sighs in relief.
The doctor puts the hypospray away, folds his hands, and leans forward. “The technical details elude me, but the colony’s geothermal power plant had destabilized, which, if left unchecked, would’ve destroyed the colony in a catastrophic earthquake.”
Rinckes can guess where this is going. Alan and Holly Rinckes worked at the geothermal plant. It was their project, their dream to adjust existing geothermal technology to subdue New Hoorn’s volatile tectonic conditions. Where many had failed, they had succeeded, together, in making an entire planet suitable for colonization.
“When the automatic evacuation order was given, Alan and Holly remained at their post while all other personnel fled to the evac shuttles. Your parents refused to abandon us and managed to stabilize the plant—an impressive feat, given the buildup of heat and radiation.” Dr. Onyiego’s voice breaks and he needs a moment to compose himself. “I was called to the scene. I had to wait for the intense heat and contaminated air to vent from the control room. When the computer allowed me to enter…” The doctor shakes his head. “There was nothing I could do. They had already expired.” On the verge of tears, the doctor gives Rinckes a plaintive look. “I’m sorry, Ensign. I’m deeply sorry.”
Despite the urge to cry and kick and scream, and much to his own surprise, Rinckes stays calm and says, “It’s okay, Doctor. You did all you could.” A handful of seconds pass, steeped in mournful silence, as the horrible situation sinks in and leads him to ask, “Why wasn’t I allowed to know?”
Dr. Onyiego lets out a deep breath. “We were going to tell you, but you beat us to it.” He leans in on Rinckes again and says in a confidential tone, “Nobody outside the colony was supposed to know about the incident yet.”
Rinckes lifts an eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“This is a remote colony, funded and operated by civilians. Horrible as it may sound, we cannot afford bad publicity tarnishing our reputation.”
This hits a nerve, and Rinckes gathers enough strength to sit up carefully. “Wait a minute. That’s the reason?”
“Yes. We were uncertain how to solve this conundrum. Of course we were going to inform you as soon as possible. We just… panicked. I’m really sorry you had to find out like this.”
Rinckes wants nothing more than to scold the doctor, and justifiably so, but he decides to hold off—for now.
“Think of it this way,” Dr. Onyiego says, and he rises from his chair. “Yes, we’re going to have to cover up what happened here.” He starts walking back and forth, making deliberate gestures to get his point across. “And that is unfair, I agree. But if this gets out, there’s a good chance this colony is finished—done for. It will be stripped of its assets and everyone will be forced to leave.” He stops pacing and faces Rinckes. “I don’t have to tell you how much New Hoorn meant to your parents. We don’t want their life’s work to have been in vain.”
Before Rinckes has a chance to speak his mind, the doctor grins and says, “Come here.” He helps the unsteady ensign to his feet and guides him to a set of windows providing an idyllic view of leafy trees and strips of houses under a clear blue sky. “We’re already screening exceptionally gifted engineers to continue Alan and Holly’s dream. The colony shall live on, and we’re counting on substantial growth. One day, thousands of people will enjoy living on this beautiful planet—all thanks to your parents’ sacrifice.”
At a loss for words, Rinckes stares ahead.
Dr. Onyiego smiles and puts his arm around Rinckes’ shoulder. “Your parents have saved three hundred and seventy-eight lives, including mine! They were heroes, Ensign. Don’t ever forget that.”
The doctor’s rousing speech notwithstanding, Rinckes’ conflicting emotions cause his stomach to ache. Part of him is undeniably proud of his parents; they died protecting what they believed in, and there is a certain nobility to that. But one simple fact remains: he just wants his mom and dad back. There will be no more monthly video messages, no more well-intentioned but ill-advised dating suggestions, no more friendly debates on which equipment to use on fishing trips, no more proverbial safe haven to return to when life’s struggles threaten to overpower him. The people in the streets—among them a group of farmers having an animated discussion, a family of five strolling down the road, and a young girl playing by the fountain—all owe their lives to Alan and Holly Rinckes. They were heroes.
* * *
USS Saratoga – December 18, 2356 – Stardate 33961.9
It has been a strenuous day. Ensign Stephan Rinckes is returning to his quarters aboard the Saratoga, traversing corridors of the Miranda-class vessel that are as good as empty, which is fine because Rinckes isn’t in a talkative mood. Pulling double shifts to fill in for a sick crewmate has tired him. At least his superiors are happy with his accomplishments. If he can maintain his excellent track record, he’ll be a lieutenant by the end of next year. Rinckes has always been a striver, fully devoted to his responsibilities, but ever since his parents died he has acquired a singular focus on his tasks as a Starfleet officer. It helps dispel a gradually subsiding pain, and his revitalized work ethic is doing wonders for his career. Yet, he often catches himself reliving his tragic visit to New Hoorn.
After finding out about his parents’ fate and talking with Dr. Onyiego, he had wandered around in a daze, taking in the marvels of the planet while trying to avoid the colonists, who looked away whenever he would accidentally lock eyes with them. He didn’t want anything to do with them, to be honest. They were alive because his parents weren’t, and that was that. Rinckes hadn’t even gone through the trouble of searching for a place to spend the night; he had simply fallen asleep in a meadow on the outskirts of town. Upon waking, he had ambled over to the rendezvous point in a stunned state to remain there until the Macon was due for departure. He had silently observed the colonists preparing new stacks of crates for off-world transport. As agreed, the Macon had beamed him up at noon. Its crew hadn’t asked him about his one-day visit and he hadn’t bothered telling them. In fact, he didn’t tell anyone about what happened and simply got back to his duties, which he performed so well that he was awarded the position of junior security officer aboard the Saratoga—his first starship assignment. Life went on, and as the days progressed, he began to feel more and more at home on this old but sturdy ship.
Ensign Rinckes has arrived at his quarters. Since he is a low-ranking officer and the Saratoga is modestly sized compared to modern vessels, his quarters are cramped, containing only a bunk bed, a chair, and a wall-mounted terminal. Still, he is fortunate to have quarters of his own; most of his colleagues have to share. He seats himself and accesses his terminal to skim through a batch of security reports, groaning softly when he sees tomorrow’s duty roster has paired him with Ensign Wixor. The Bolian has a knack for talking non-stop and the stamina to do so for hours on end. Well, at least Wixor is kindhearted, and Rinckes has learned to tolerate his presence.
Once he has finished studying the reports, he selects the news feed out of habit and scrolls down a list of headlines. Something in the bottom right corner draws his attention, a news item that will be overlooked by many: New Hoorn Colony Annihilated By Raiders. He spends five seconds blinking at the screen. Then he extends a trembling finger to select the item and begins reading.
“Five days ago, an overwhelming pirate force raided Colony New Hoorn. Within a few hours, they laid waste to every building, stole everything of value, and killed all colonists. Not even the hospital was spared in this brutal assault. There were 435 people living in New Hoorn. No survivors have been reported. An investigation is underway to track and identify the pirates culpable for this massacre, but this will prove difficult, considering the lack of Federation presence and interest in this isolated area. With the colony’s inhabitants dead and its resources taken, it is unlikely New Hoorn will be recolonized in the near future.”
He closes the news item and turns his back to the terminal. Though he fixes his glassy stare on his bunk bed, the room keeps spinning while dozens of thoughts race through his head. As he sits there in his cramped quarters, motionlessly, for what seems like hours, and the initial shock yields to contemplation, he comes to realize there is but one possible conclusion: his parents gave their lives to save hundreds, but all they did was delay the inevitable. To make matters worse, since the colony’s population had grown in the intervening months, their noble sacrifice indirectly caused more deaths. And now there is nothing left of New Hoorn, nothing left of their legacy. A few hours was all it took to erase it from the universe, to be forgotten indefinitely.
Rinckes waits for the tears to come, but they don’t. There’s no point in crying. Tomorrow he will report for duty and put up with Ensign Wixor’s happy banter, and the universe will go on like it always has—cold and indifferent.
Brrr, feels like the temperature just dropped a few degrees up in here.
Dealing with tragedy is tough and it certainly can re-shape a person's life and entire outlook. No doubt this is one of those moments which defined Rinckes. No wonder he becomes such a grumpy captain in later years. And, if I'm not mistaken, more bad news are in store for him in the future.
Dealing with tragedy is tough and it certainly can re-shape a person's life and entire outlook. No doubt this is one of those moments which defined Rinckes. No wonder he becomes such a grumpy captain in later years. And, if I'm not mistaken, more bad news are in store for him in the future.
Similar threads
