Vicious plasma storms roared all around them. The Badlands had claimed many ships over the years, the energies that coalesced and erupted in the area were too unpredictable and most ships were incapable of safely navigating them, so no one went into them unless they had a very good reason—such as the Maquis using them to hide, or criminals smuggling contraband, or starships responding to a weak distress call.
The U.S.S. Orion had been returning from a supply run when she’d picked up the faint signal. Had it been anyone else but extremely diligent Lieutenant Aleksander Jachim, the Chief Operations Officer, monitoring the comm system it was likely the call would’ve gone unheard. Not for the first time, Captain Reihyn was glad to have the younger man on his crew. They had dropped out of warp and, after some doing, managed to establish brief contact with the source of the emergency call.
It was coming from a civilian refugee ship, which had apparently run afoul of a Cardassian patrol craft and been forced to shelter in the plasma storms. Unfortunately, their engines had been overtaxed and they were all but adrift within the Badlands.
As much as Reihyn wanted to help, the Orion would never have survived a trip into the storms, and the nearest ship was the Tecumseh, which was even larger and had less chance of safely getting in and out. They couldn’t just ignore the call for help, so they were going in by shuttle. His plan was to assess their status, look at the damage and make what repairs they could. If the ship could be piloted out of the storms, the Orion could take them under tow to the nearest station, if it couldn’t they would need to be evacuated. From what they’d been told there were less than two hundred aboard, which the Orion could handle with ease.
So now, he sat at the conn of the shuttle Issan being buffeted about like a leaf in the wind, trying to find a single transport in a volatile expanse of space famous for messing with sensors. He kept his eyes fixed on his console, finding the swirling mass of pink and purple energy that filled the viewport to be daunting despite how beautiful it was.
“How we doing, Lieutenant?”
“Shields are holding,” replied Chief Engineer Enan Lanali from the ops station on the opposite side of the cockpit. “Stabilisers are compensating as quickly as they can, but there’s just too much chop for them.”
“Are you’re sensors showing anything?”
“Just the other shuttle, sir.”
He knew had she seen anything then he would be the first to hear about it, but it felt like something captains should keep on top of.
“I’m coming up empty here as well,” he told her. He tapped the communications array. “Issan to N’dira. Anything on your end?”
“No sensor contacts and nothing to report, unless you count what the Doctor’s grumbling,” replied Lieutenant j.g. D’Kehra, his Security Chief (and occasional sex partner) from the other type-seven shuttle.
He smiled, just imagining Doctor Sioll Baxx being unhappy about their current predicament and more than willing to voice his opinion to the other five on the shuttle. For the mission he’d decided on twelve crewmen, including a security team of four, another four engineers, Baxx and a medic, Chief Ramirez and himself. He had considered giving his First Officer, Clarissa DuMont, the mission he had decided to take it upon himself—missing the work of away missions. Though she still seemed reluctant to be in command, she had led successfully operations before, even commanded the ship for three days, when he’d been called into a series of meetings, without any problems.
“Understood, stay sharp. Issan out.”
The cockpit fell quiet as the two officers focused on the job at hand. As they ventured deeper into the Badlands, he grew more aware of the time the Orion was spending sitting so close to the border. The old girl wasn’t rated for combat and, aside from her assignment to Minos Korva, had managed to stay out of the fighting. Her one foray into an active battlefield had shown how ill-prepared she was, so he had left orders for them to immediately withdraw should they detect any hostiles approaching their position.
As the minutes stretched out with nothing appearing on sensors and only a vague heading they’d been able to approximate from the weak signal, which had long since fallen silent, Reihyn had to question at what point did they give up the search. When did he put the lives of his crew ahead of the refugees? They could search the area for days and still never find the transport, even if they passed within twenty thousand kilometres of it—the storm fronts were just so intense they could obscure anything, including the N’dira which was only two hundred meters to port. It was a decision he didn’t want to make, but it was a possibility he may face. For all they knew the Cardassian patrol ship was still searching for them and could’ve finished the job they’d started, or could stumble onto the two shuttles.
He shook his head, trying to clear such negative thoughts from it. Focus on finding these people and then getting home. For a second he paused in his scrutiny of the sensors to wonder when he’d started to call the Orion ‘home’. It was short lasted.
“Issan, I think we have something,” stated D’Kehra over the comm. “The Chief thinks he’s got them ahead, bearing two-one-one-mark-zero-five-seven.”
He ran his own scan along the heading and was greeted with a sensor contact. From what the instruments could determine it was made of Federation standard materials, whilst the profile looked to be that of a Sydney-Class transport—a type of ship popular among civilian agencies.
“Confirmed. Adjust heading, increase to full impulse.”
“Aye sir. ETA will be in six minutes.”
His navigation system showed the same estimate, barring any new plasma wakes or eddies that might hamper their progress. He breathed a sigh of relief, as he wouldn’t have to make the call that ended their search. The first hard job was complete, the second fast approaching.
He glanced at Lanali, about to ask her to open a channel to the transport but stopped when he saw a frown on her usually smooth brow. “Problem Enan?”
She looked up at him then back at her display. “I thought I saw a faint metallic signature to stern, sir. It barely registered for less than a second and vanished again.”
He checked his own screen but saw nothing. “It could have been a piece of debris caught in a field or a sensor ghost.”
Still looking at the sensors the Rigellian-Tomal nodded. “You’re right, sir,” she sounded unconvinced though.
“Try to contact the transport, tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ll keep an eye open, see if anything else shows up.”
“Aye sir.”
* * * * *
The old transport, from the same era as the Orion herself, looked as though she’d been through the wars. Her hull was a mishmash of panels, mostly pale blue, grey and white, though there were a few that looked as though they belonged on a Klingon ship, whilst other sections of her hull were scorched and blackened. Light came from only a few viewports in the forward section, whilst her nacelles and impulse engines were both dark.
Studying the ship, Chief Petty Officer Diego Ramirez felt something wasn’t right. All the civilian organisations he knew of took pride in their ships, keeping them looking as pristine. Whilst the blast patterns could’ve come from the battle with the patrol ship, her hull being in such a state made no sense. There was the possibility that it was privately owned, and that whoever the owner was had taken it upon themselves to rescue refugees—not unheard of, there were two Federation citizens who used their abundant resources to help the civilians caught in the middle of the war. However, they were known to be even more particular about the condition of their ships. Something about this ship reminded him of when he’d been in the Maquis, where they made do with whatever they could scavenge from junkyards.
“Lieutenant,” he began, looking at D’Kehra who manned the conn.
“I feel it too, Chief,” she told him, not taking her eyes off the old ship.
Just as she reached for the comm panel to speak with the Captain in the other shuttle, every sensor in the cockpit sounded.
“Two sensor contacts aft,” he yelled, routing as much power as he could to shields, as he looked at the telemetry that appeared. “Peregrine-Class fighters. It’s an ambush.”
“Break position and scatter!” Reihyn ordered over the comm.
“Hang on!” she called out, slamming the type-seven shuttle hard to port and pushing the engines beyond their tolerance. “Charge phasers.”
“Powering weapons,” he confirmed. He didn’t know just what luck a pair of type-IV phaser banks would have on a Starfleet fighter, but if this was the way he was going out he’d make sure he went down firing.
The communications array burst to life. “Starfleet shuttles please hold your position!” a desperate voice called out, the interference so bad he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “Our ships mean you no harm. We sent them out to make sure you arrived in one piece. Please help us.”
He and D’Kehra shared a suspicious look as the Captain responded.
“This is Captain Reihyn of the U.S.S. Orion. Have your fighters stand down and maybe we can discuss lending you aid.”
Ramirez kept their weapons hot but ran a scan of the two attack craft, ships he’d piloted with the Maquis, so knew what he was looking for. “Sir, neither ship has active weapon signatures or targeting scanners.”
The voice from the transport said as much. “Had we wanted to do you harm, they would’ve had ample opportunity. Please, we don’t want any violence. We have severe damage and injured civilians onboard, we need your help.”
Doctor Baxx stepped into the cockpit from the aft compartment, his wrinkled face scowling as he listened to the open channel.
“For all I know you are carrying dozens of armed soldiers. What assurances do I have that my people will be safe?”
“I know you’re hardly likely to believe anything I tell you, but you have my word that your people will be safe onboard.”
“Standby,” the Captain replied, before a secure link was opened up between both shuttles. “I take it you heard that. Options?”
“Do we have any?” Baxx spoke up. “These people in need of aid and we came out here to help.”
“Captain,” Ramirez added on quickly, “our sensors do show one hundred and seventy-four life-signs aboard, all from Federation worlds. Regardless of who they are or what they did, they were once UFP citizens.”
“So you think they’re Maquis as well.”
“Yes sir. Going by the state of that ship, and the presence of the Peregrine’s.”
“Could this be a trap? Is this a tactic they’ve used?”
“Not in my experience, sir. But things may have changed a lot over the last eighteen months, given all they’ve been through.”
“Understood. We’ll proceed with caution, everyone going in armed—no exceptions!” he added before Baxx could voice his objections.
“Understood,” replied D’Kehra.
The secure channel closed and the broadband signal opened up again. “We will come aboard and assess your situation.”
“Thank you, Captain. Our shuttlebay is ready to receive you.”
* * * * *
Despite the objections of Crewman Anders and Ytog, both of whom held type-III phaser rifles, Reihyn stepped out of the shuttles forward entryway first. He kept his phaser holstered but his hand on the cool handle, just in case. From the other shuttle D’Kehra and Patel were the first on the deck, rifles raised, with Baxx close behind.
The two fighters had come in with them and landed either side, whilst the cavernous bay held two more. As the external doors slowly closed, interior ones opened and two human-looking women entered the bay, heading straight for them. Neither were armed.
As the rest of the shuttle teams emerged, the ventral hatches on the two fighters opened and the pilots climbed out. Reihyn noticed D’Kehra taking in all the details and lower the muzzle of her rifle slightly. He knew she was quick to assess situations, picking out potential dangers almost instantly, so if she sensed no immediate threat it was a good bet they were safe.
He approached the two women, both in simple coveralls and looking exhausted. He assumed one to be the ship’s captain, though couldn’t say which one with any certainty. They stopped a few meters away.
“I’m Captain Reihyn.”
“Captain Greta Kruger,” said the shorter of the two, her blonde hair cut short. “My Ops Manager, Ledana Xelis.” Given the deep black of her eyes, he suspected she was a Betazoid.
“Diego?” a voice called from the portside. He looked over at the other shuttle crew, in particular his Chief of the Boat.
One of the fighter pilots approached the group, a look of amazement on his rugged, scared face. It paled in comparison to the expression on Ramirez’s. At first it looked as though he’d seen a ghost, before relief and joy overcame the shock, stepping closer.
“Cam!”
The two men embraced, all sense of decorum or duty forgotten about. It was a moment that Reihyn wasn’t going to deny them, no doubt the Chief had suspected that all the people he’d known from his days with the Maquis were victims of the Jem’Hadar’s purge of the DMZ. In this war, there had been so few moments of happiness that it was something to be enjoyed for as long as it lasted.
He turned back to Kruger and Xelis, who were also watching the reunion. The civilian Captain raised an eyebrow at him. “I doubt there are many Starfleeters who would welcome Maquis ‘terrorists’ so warmly.”
“I doubt there are many Starfleeters out there who used to be in the Maquis.”
“I’m afraid your man may not find any others be knows—of all those onboard only eight were actively involved with the Maquis. The rest are all former colonists, non-combatants whose homes were obliterated by the Dominion. They have nothing left, nowhere to go. We need to get to safety. Can you help?”
Her words were delivered with such sincerity, such intensity that he couldn’t help but feel misty-eyed. If what Kruger was saying was true, these people were true innocents whose only involvement with the war had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He looked at Lanali, who was also affected by what they’d been told. “Lieutenant, I want a full diagnosis of their systems, ASAP. Find out what’s wrong and see if there’s anything we can do to effect repairs.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
“Ledana will show you to engineering.”
“Come with me,” the Betazoid added.
Lanali called her team together, then followed Xelis out of the hangar. Baxx stepped forward, obviously itching to get to work.
“You said something about injured?”
Kruger nodded then looked at the other civilians in the bay. “Th’Vrey, show the medics to sickbay.”
“You got it. This way,” the Andorian pilot called. Baxx and K3 Brown headed after him, both eager to get to work and help out wherever they could.
“Lieutenant,” he addressed the last officer he had. “Have your team get the supplies off-loaded and distributed to the refugees.”
“Aye sir,” D’Kehra replied, slinging her rifle over her shoulder, before leading the security guards back onto the shuttles.
He looked back at Kruger. “We took what we had space for, it isn’t a lot but what we have is yours.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
“Captain.” Ramirez by his side, trying to look composed once again, though failing miserably. “Orders sir?”
He gave the Chief a faint smile. “Give D’Kehra a hand with the supplies.”
“You too, Barrett,” Kruger said to the fighter jockey.
“Aye sir,” Ramirez replied as Barrett simply nodded.
As they headed for the shuttle, with the other two pilots, he refocused on the civilian captain again. “Why don’t we head to the bridge, I can contact the Orion and can begin preparations for evacuation—should it be needed.”
* * * * *
Lanali whistled as the panel was opened up and she saw just what they were dealing with. Their diagnostics of the transport, which was called Hope, had shown that the battle with the Cardassians had shorted out several EPS junctures throughout the ship. It was this damage that had crippled them, unfortunately it looked far worse than she’d expected.
Today marked the one year anniversary she’d set foot on the Orion, given the daunting task to get the ship to minimal operational standards in just two weeks before she was due to be launched. Though the old Constellation-Class ship hadn’t seen a day of active duty in over fifty years, her troublesome EPS network looked like a child’s ten-piece jigsaw puzzle compared to mess that the transport was in. So many lines were blown or melted, that running a bypass would be impossible—but their own engineer’s had known that already, or else they could’ve gotten the ship to at least limping. This was definitely a far bigger job than she’d expected.
She wished Alek had been there to help, he was better than she was with EPS manifolds. The thought of Lieutenant Jachim brought with it the familiar tingling in her pointed ears and warming of her cheeks. He wasn’t with them, so it fell to her. Luckily, Crewman Torlin was adept with the painstaking work, so they would focus on that, whilst Ellis and de Haan would see to the damage caused to the impulse driver coils. Warp was out of the question, but there was a slim chance for their sublight engines—that way they could at least get clear of the plasma storms. But the ship would have to be evacuated then, as the structural integrity would never hold up to a warp tow, even at just factor one.
“I know, it’s pretty messed up, isn’t it,” admitted the Hope’s Chief Engineer, a Kasheetan called Lokk-Huu. “You Fleeters must be used to something far newer and shinier.”
She smiled at her counterpart. “Actually, the Orion is about the same age as the Hope. She was reactivated a year ago to bolster the ranks.”
“Really?”
“Yup, so I’m used to ships with a few thousand light-years on the clock. Not to mention having to repair and rewire systems these old with little in the way of spares.”
Lokk-Huu’s lips peeled back, revealing his sharp incisors—the closest his species could get to a smile, even if it was pretty unnerving. “Then I’m really glad to have you onboard, Lieutenant.”
She returned his smile then looked at her engineer. “We’ll start here, head down to the next deck and get stuck in. Remember this is just a patch job, it doesn’t have to be pretty—”
“So long as it works,” the Tiburonian finished for her. “That is the motto we live by, Lieutenant.”
* * * * *
As battered and bruised as the transport was on the outside, the inside was far worse. Everywhere Ramirez went there were panels from the bulkhead, deck and ceiling missing, evidence of fires, smashed monitors, ripped out fittings, how she kept flying was a mystery. As bad as the ship was, the people were worse. They had all been through hell though only a handful were managing to cope, many of the others looked so distraught by what they’d gone through they barely seemed to register the world around them. It was even more heart-wrenching when he looked at the children, all too thin and frail, many were obviously ill, some cried quietly whilst others were out of tears.
He handed the last ration pack he had to a young Trill man, who protectively clutched an infant, not yet a year old, to his chest. He viewed the box of emergency foodstuffs with suspicion—or rather the uniform of the man handing it to him—before reaching out a shaking hand and accepting it, without uttering a word. Ramirez left him alone, heading down the dimly-lit corridor. Before leaving the Orion, they’d managed to load up only a few dozen of the packs, as well as essential medical supplies and some gear the engineering team might’ve needed, none of it was enough to meet their needs, but with limited space on the shuttles they couldn’t take all they needed—not unless they’d used all four of their shuttlecraft, though even then that would barely be adequate.
Rounding a corner he saw Cameron Barrett approach empty-handed, his own batch of supplies already handed out. After eighteen months without seeing the man, he looked so different. His grey eyes were haunted by his experiences since they’d last been together, now surrounded by dark rings; he’d lost weight, making his face gaunt, whilst his typically smooth jaw bristled with stubble; and then there was the scar. It looked recent; starting at his right temple it cut along his high cheekbone then down to his jaw and ended on his chin. It only highlighted just how bad things were with the refugees, since a few minutes with a dermal regenerator would’ve healed the injury without a mark.
As they met halfway down the darkened hallway, before Ramirez could even say a word, Cam slammed him up against the bulkhead so hard his head banged against the metal. The next thing Ramirez knew their lips were locked in a familiar struggle, one he had long-since thought he’d never know again. The kiss was brief but intense, more so than they had ever been—and they had always been very passionate together.
When they parted he found himself looking into Cameron’s eyes and, for the briefest moment, they were just as he remembered them. It was fleeting though, as they soon clouded over with darker memories.
“You have no idea how hard I had to fight the urge to do that in the hangar,” Cam said softly.
“Me too,” he admitted. He paused a moment, before he continued. “I...I thought you were dead.”
Cam traced the scar. “Almost was a few times, but we kept going. I’d thought you’d be in prison, not back in uniform.”
He reached up and gingerly touched the harsh wound on Cam’s face. “I was up until this time last year, then they gave me the choice: the penal settlement on New Zealand or serve onboard the Orion. I chose the latter. She may not be a combat ship, but at least it’s better than rotting away in some cell. Though the first time I set foot onboard I did question my choice.”
“It looks like you’ve done well, Diego. They seem like an interesting crew.”
That made him chuckle. “That’s definitely one way of putting it. What about the others?”
Cam shook his head. “They didn’t make it. Most were killed on the second day of the Dominion attacks. I made it out with Gahr, Robert, Kejj and Motoko. Gahr and Robert were killed on recon a month later, Kejj died after she went hand-to-hand with three Jem’Hadar six months after that. Motoko gave her life saving the Hope three weeks ago.”
He felt tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I failed you all. I should’ve been here with you.”
“If you were I don’t think I’d be here now,” Cam told him. “I’ve only kept going as hard as I have because you were alive. I was fighting to survive so that one day we could have this.”
Ramirez shed his first tears since being captured by Starfleet, wrapping his arms around the man who meant more to him that any other ever had or ever would.
* * * * *
The U.S.S. Orion had been returning from a supply run when she’d picked up the faint signal. Had it been anyone else but extremely diligent Lieutenant Aleksander Jachim, the Chief Operations Officer, monitoring the comm system it was likely the call would’ve gone unheard. Not for the first time, Captain Reihyn was glad to have the younger man on his crew. They had dropped out of warp and, after some doing, managed to establish brief contact with the source of the emergency call.
It was coming from a civilian refugee ship, which had apparently run afoul of a Cardassian patrol craft and been forced to shelter in the plasma storms. Unfortunately, their engines had been overtaxed and they were all but adrift within the Badlands.
As much as Reihyn wanted to help, the Orion would never have survived a trip into the storms, and the nearest ship was the Tecumseh, which was even larger and had less chance of safely getting in and out. They couldn’t just ignore the call for help, so they were going in by shuttle. His plan was to assess their status, look at the damage and make what repairs they could. If the ship could be piloted out of the storms, the Orion could take them under tow to the nearest station, if it couldn’t they would need to be evacuated. From what they’d been told there were less than two hundred aboard, which the Orion could handle with ease.
So now, he sat at the conn of the shuttle Issan being buffeted about like a leaf in the wind, trying to find a single transport in a volatile expanse of space famous for messing with sensors. He kept his eyes fixed on his console, finding the swirling mass of pink and purple energy that filled the viewport to be daunting despite how beautiful it was.
“How we doing, Lieutenant?”
“Shields are holding,” replied Chief Engineer Enan Lanali from the ops station on the opposite side of the cockpit. “Stabilisers are compensating as quickly as they can, but there’s just too much chop for them.”
“Are you’re sensors showing anything?”
“Just the other shuttle, sir.”
He knew had she seen anything then he would be the first to hear about it, but it felt like something captains should keep on top of.
“I’m coming up empty here as well,” he told her. He tapped the communications array. “Issan to N’dira. Anything on your end?”
“No sensor contacts and nothing to report, unless you count what the Doctor’s grumbling,” replied Lieutenant j.g. D’Kehra, his Security Chief (and occasional sex partner) from the other type-seven shuttle.
He smiled, just imagining Doctor Sioll Baxx being unhappy about their current predicament and more than willing to voice his opinion to the other five on the shuttle. For the mission he’d decided on twelve crewmen, including a security team of four, another four engineers, Baxx and a medic, Chief Ramirez and himself. He had considered giving his First Officer, Clarissa DuMont, the mission he had decided to take it upon himself—missing the work of away missions. Though she still seemed reluctant to be in command, she had led successfully operations before, even commanded the ship for three days, when he’d been called into a series of meetings, without any problems.
“Understood, stay sharp. Issan out.”
The cockpit fell quiet as the two officers focused on the job at hand. As they ventured deeper into the Badlands, he grew more aware of the time the Orion was spending sitting so close to the border. The old girl wasn’t rated for combat and, aside from her assignment to Minos Korva, had managed to stay out of the fighting. Her one foray into an active battlefield had shown how ill-prepared she was, so he had left orders for them to immediately withdraw should they detect any hostiles approaching their position.
As the minutes stretched out with nothing appearing on sensors and only a vague heading they’d been able to approximate from the weak signal, which had long since fallen silent, Reihyn had to question at what point did they give up the search. When did he put the lives of his crew ahead of the refugees? They could search the area for days and still never find the transport, even if they passed within twenty thousand kilometres of it—the storm fronts were just so intense they could obscure anything, including the N’dira which was only two hundred meters to port. It was a decision he didn’t want to make, but it was a possibility he may face. For all they knew the Cardassian patrol ship was still searching for them and could’ve finished the job they’d started, or could stumble onto the two shuttles.
He shook his head, trying to clear such negative thoughts from it. Focus on finding these people and then getting home. For a second he paused in his scrutiny of the sensors to wonder when he’d started to call the Orion ‘home’. It was short lasted.
“Issan, I think we have something,” stated D’Kehra over the comm. “The Chief thinks he’s got them ahead, bearing two-one-one-mark-zero-five-seven.”
He ran his own scan along the heading and was greeted with a sensor contact. From what the instruments could determine it was made of Federation standard materials, whilst the profile looked to be that of a Sydney-Class transport—a type of ship popular among civilian agencies.
“Confirmed. Adjust heading, increase to full impulse.”
“Aye sir. ETA will be in six minutes.”
His navigation system showed the same estimate, barring any new plasma wakes or eddies that might hamper their progress. He breathed a sigh of relief, as he wouldn’t have to make the call that ended their search. The first hard job was complete, the second fast approaching.
He glanced at Lanali, about to ask her to open a channel to the transport but stopped when he saw a frown on her usually smooth brow. “Problem Enan?”
She looked up at him then back at her display. “I thought I saw a faint metallic signature to stern, sir. It barely registered for less than a second and vanished again.”
He checked his own screen but saw nothing. “It could have been a piece of debris caught in a field or a sensor ghost.”
Still looking at the sensors the Rigellian-Tomal nodded. “You’re right, sir,” she sounded unconvinced though.
“Try to contact the transport, tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ll keep an eye open, see if anything else shows up.”
“Aye sir.”
* * * * *
The old transport, from the same era as the Orion herself, looked as though she’d been through the wars. Her hull was a mishmash of panels, mostly pale blue, grey and white, though there were a few that looked as though they belonged on a Klingon ship, whilst other sections of her hull were scorched and blackened. Light came from only a few viewports in the forward section, whilst her nacelles and impulse engines were both dark.
Studying the ship, Chief Petty Officer Diego Ramirez felt something wasn’t right. All the civilian organisations he knew of took pride in their ships, keeping them looking as pristine. Whilst the blast patterns could’ve come from the battle with the patrol ship, her hull being in such a state made no sense. There was the possibility that it was privately owned, and that whoever the owner was had taken it upon themselves to rescue refugees—not unheard of, there were two Federation citizens who used their abundant resources to help the civilians caught in the middle of the war. However, they were known to be even more particular about the condition of their ships. Something about this ship reminded him of when he’d been in the Maquis, where they made do with whatever they could scavenge from junkyards.
“Lieutenant,” he began, looking at D’Kehra who manned the conn.
“I feel it too, Chief,” she told him, not taking her eyes off the old ship.
Just as she reached for the comm panel to speak with the Captain in the other shuttle, every sensor in the cockpit sounded.
“Two sensor contacts aft,” he yelled, routing as much power as he could to shields, as he looked at the telemetry that appeared. “Peregrine-Class fighters. It’s an ambush.”
“Break position and scatter!” Reihyn ordered over the comm.
“Hang on!” she called out, slamming the type-seven shuttle hard to port and pushing the engines beyond their tolerance. “Charge phasers.”
“Powering weapons,” he confirmed. He didn’t know just what luck a pair of type-IV phaser banks would have on a Starfleet fighter, but if this was the way he was going out he’d make sure he went down firing.
The communications array burst to life. “Starfleet shuttles please hold your position!” a desperate voice called out, the interference so bad he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. “Our ships mean you no harm. We sent them out to make sure you arrived in one piece. Please help us.”
He and D’Kehra shared a suspicious look as the Captain responded.
“This is Captain Reihyn of the U.S.S. Orion. Have your fighters stand down and maybe we can discuss lending you aid.”
Ramirez kept their weapons hot but ran a scan of the two attack craft, ships he’d piloted with the Maquis, so knew what he was looking for. “Sir, neither ship has active weapon signatures or targeting scanners.”
The voice from the transport said as much. “Had we wanted to do you harm, they would’ve had ample opportunity. Please, we don’t want any violence. We have severe damage and injured civilians onboard, we need your help.”
Doctor Baxx stepped into the cockpit from the aft compartment, his wrinkled face scowling as he listened to the open channel.
“For all I know you are carrying dozens of armed soldiers. What assurances do I have that my people will be safe?”
“I know you’re hardly likely to believe anything I tell you, but you have my word that your people will be safe onboard.”
“Standby,” the Captain replied, before a secure link was opened up between both shuttles. “I take it you heard that. Options?”
“Do we have any?” Baxx spoke up. “These people in need of aid and we came out here to help.”
“Captain,” Ramirez added on quickly, “our sensors do show one hundred and seventy-four life-signs aboard, all from Federation worlds. Regardless of who they are or what they did, they were once UFP citizens.”
“So you think they’re Maquis as well.”
“Yes sir. Going by the state of that ship, and the presence of the Peregrine’s.”
“Could this be a trap? Is this a tactic they’ve used?”
“Not in my experience, sir. But things may have changed a lot over the last eighteen months, given all they’ve been through.”
“Understood. We’ll proceed with caution, everyone going in armed—no exceptions!” he added before Baxx could voice his objections.
“Understood,” replied D’Kehra.
The secure channel closed and the broadband signal opened up again. “We will come aboard and assess your situation.”
“Thank you, Captain. Our shuttlebay is ready to receive you.”
* * * * *
Despite the objections of Crewman Anders and Ytog, both of whom held type-III phaser rifles, Reihyn stepped out of the shuttles forward entryway first. He kept his phaser holstered but his hand on the cool handle, just in case. From the other shuttle D’Kehra and Patel were the first on the deck, rifles raised, with Baxx close behind.
The two fighters had come in with them and landed either side, whilst the cavernous bay held two more. As the external doors slowly closed, interior ones opened and two human-looking women entered the bay, heading straight for them. Neither were armed.
As the rest of the shuttle teams emerged, the ventral hatches on the two fighters opened and the pilots climbed out. Reihyn noticed D’Kehra taking in all the details and lower the muzzle of her rifle slightly. He knew she was quick to assess situations, picking out potential dangers almost instantly, so if she sensed no immediate threat it was a good bet they were safe.
He approached the two women, both in simple coveralls and looking exhausted. He assumed one to be the ship’s captain, though couldn’t say which one with any certainty. They stopped a few meters away.
“I’m Captain Reihyn.”
“Captain Greta Kruger,” said the shorter of the two, her blonde hair cut short. “My Ops Manager, Ledana Xelis.” Given the deep black of her eyes, he suspected she was a Betazoid.
“Diego?” a voice called from the portside. He looked over at the other shuttle crew, in particular his Chief of the Boat.
One of the fighter pilots approached the group, a look of amazement on his rugged, scared face. It paled in comparison to the expression on Ramirez’s. At first it looked as though he’d seen a ghost, before relief and joy overcame the shock, stepping closer.
“Cam!”
The two men embraced, all sense of decorum or duty forgotten about. It was a moment that Reihyn wasn’t going to deny them, no doubt the Chief had suspected that all the people he’d known from his days with the Maquis were victims of the Jem’Hadar’s purge of the DMZ. In this war, there had been so few moments of happiness that it was something to be enjoyed for as long as it lasted.
He turned back to Kruger and Xelis, who were also watching the reunion. The civilian Captain raised an eyebrow at him. “I doubt there are many Starfleeters who would welcome Maquis ‘terrorists’ so warmly.”
“I doubt there are many Starfleeters out there who used to be in the Maquis.”
“I’m afraid your man may not find any others be knows—of all those onboard only eight were actively involved with the Maquis. The rest are all former colonists, non-combatants whose homes were obliterated by the Dominion. They have nothing left, nowhere to go. We need to get to safety. Can you help?”
Her words were delivered with such sincerity, such intensity that he couldn’t help but feel misty-eyed. If what Kruger was saying was true, these people were true innocents whose only involvement with the war had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He looked at Lanali, who was also affected by what they’d been told. “Lieutenant, I want a full diagnosis of their systems, ASAP. Find out what’s wrong and see if there’s anything we can do to effect repairs.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
“Ledana will show you to engineering.”
“Come with me,” the Betazoid added.
Lanali called her team together, then followed Xelis out of the hangar. Baxx stepped forward, obviously itching to get to work.
“You said something about injured?”
Kruger nodded then looked at the other civilians in the bay. “Th’Vrey, show the medics to sickbay.”
“You got it. This way,” the Andorian pilot called. Baxx and K3 Brown headed after him, both eager to get to work and help out wherever they could.
“Lieutenant,” he addressed the last officer he had. “Have your team get the supplies off-loaded and distributed to the refugees.”
“Aye sir,” D’Kehra replied, slinging her rifle over her shoulder, before leading the security guards back onto the shuttles.
He looked back at Kruger. “We took what we had space for, it isn’t a lot but what we have is yours.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.
“Captain.” Ramirez by his side, trying to look composed once again, though failing miserably. “Orders sir?”
He gave the Chief a faint smile. “Give D’Kehra a hand with the supplies.”
“You too, Barrett,” Kruger said to the fighter jockey.
“Aye sir,” Ramirez replied as Barrett simply nodded.
As they headed for the shuttle, with the other two pilots, he refocused on the civilian captain again. “Why don’t we head to the bridge, I can contact the Orion and can begin preparations for evacuation—should it be needed.”
* * * * *
Lanali whistled as the panel was opened up and she saw just what they were dealing with. Their diagnostics of the transport, which was called Hope, had shown that the battle with the Cardassians had shorted out several EPS junctures throughout the ship. It was this damage that had crippled them, unfortunately it looked far worse than she’d expected.
Today marked the one year anniversary she’d set foot on the Orion, given the daunting task to get the ship to minimal operational standards in just two weeks before she was due to be launched. Though the old Constellation-Class ship hadn’t seen a day of active duty in over fifty years, her troublesome EPS network looked like a child’s ten-piece jigsaw puzzle compared to mess that the transport was in. So many lines were blown or melted, that running a bypass would be impossible—but their own engineer’s had known that already, or else they could’ve gotten the ship to at least limping. This was definitely a far bigger job than she’d expected.
She wished Alek had been there to help, he was better than she was with EPS manifolds. The thought of Lieutenant Jachim brought with it the familiar tingling in her pointed ears and warming of her cheeks. He wasn’t with them, so it fell to her. Luckily, Crewman Torlin was adept with the painstaking work, so they would focus on that, whilst Ellis and de Haan would see to the damage caused to the impulse driver coils. Warp was out of the question, but there was a slim chance for their sublight engines—that way they could at least get clear of the plasma storms. But the ship would have to be evacuated then, as the structural integrity would never hold up to a warp tow, even at just factor one.
“I know, it’s pretty messed up, isn’t it,” admitted the Hope’s Chief Engineer, a Kasheetan called Lokk-Huu. “You Fleeters must be used to something far newer and shinier.”
She smiled at her counterpart. “Actually, the Orion is about the same age as the Hope. She was reactivated a year ago to bolster the ranks.”
“Really?”
“Yup, so I’m used to ships with a few thousand light-years on the clock. Not to mention having to repair and rewire systems these old with little in the way of spares.”
Lokk-Huu’s lips peeled back, revealing his sharp incisors—the closest his species could get to a smile, even if it was pretty unnerving. “Then I’m really glad to have you onboard, Lieutenant.”
She returned his smile then looked at her engineer. “We’ll start here, head down to the next deck and get stuck in. Remember this is just a patch job, it doesn’t have to be pretty—”
“So long as it works,” the Tiburonian finished for her. “That is the motto we live by, Lieutenant.”
* * * * *
As battered and bruised as the transport was on the outside, the inside was far worse. Everywhere Ramirez went there were panels from the bulkhead, deck and ceiling missing, evidence of fires, smashed monitors, ripped out fittings, how she kept flying was a mystery. As bad as the ship was, the people were worse. They had all been through hell though only a handful were managing to cope, many of the others looked so distraught by what they’d gone through they barely seemed to register the world around them. It was even more heart-wrenching when he looked at the children, all too thin and frail, many were obviously ill, some cried quietly whilst others were out of tears.
He handed the last ration pack he had to a young Trill man, who protectively clutched an infant, not yet a year old, to his chest. He viewed the box of emergency foodstuffs with suspicion—or rather the uniform of the man handing it to him—before reaching out a shaking hand and accepting it, without uttering a word. Ramirez left him alone, heading down the dimly-lit corridor. Before leaving the Orion, they’d managed to load up only a few dozen of the packs, as well as essential medical supplies and some gear the engineering team might’ve needed, none of it was enough to meet their needs, but with limited space on the shuttles they couldn’t take all they needed—not unless they’d used all four of their shuttlecraft, though even then that would barely be adequate.
Rounding a corner he saw Cameron Barrett approach empty-handed, his own batch of supplies already handed out. After eighteen months without seeing the man, he looked so different. His grey eyes were haunted by his experiences since they’d last been together, now surrounded by dark rings; he’d lost weight, making his face gaunt, whilst his typically smooth jaw bristled with stubble; and then there was the scar. It looked recent; starting at his right temple it cut along his high cheekbone then down to his jaw and ended on his chin. It only highlighted just how bad things were with the refugees, since a few minutes with a dermal regenerator would’ve healed the injury without a mark.
As they met halfway down the darkened hallway, before Ramirez could even say a word, Cam slammed him up against the bulkhead so hard his head banged against the metal. The next thing Ramirez knew their lips were locked in a familiar struggle, one he had long-since thought he’d never know again. The kiss was brief but intense, more so than they had ever been—and they had always been very passionate together.
When they parted he found himself looking into Cameron’s eyes and, for the briefest moment, they were just as he remembered them. It was fleeting though, as they soon clouded over with darker memories.
“You have no idea how hard I had to fight the urge to do that in the hangar,” Cam said softly.
“Me too,” he admitted. He paused a moment, before he continued. “I...I thought you were dead.”
Cam traced the scar. “Almost was a few times, but we kept going. I’d thought you’d be in prison, not back in uniform.”
He reached up and gingerly touched the harsh wound on Cam’s face. “I was up until this time last year, then they gave me the choice: the penal settlement on New Zealand or serve onboard the Orion. I chose the latter. She may not be a combat ship, but at least it’s better than rotting away in some cell. Though the first time I set foot onboard I did question my choice.”
“It looks like you’ve done well, Diego. They seem like an interesting crew.”
That made him chuckle. “That’s definitely one way of putting it. What about the others?”
Cam shook his head. “They didn’t make it. Most were killed on the second day of the Dominion attacks. I made it out with Gahr, Robert, Kejj and Motoko. Gahr and Robert were killed on recon a month later, Kejj died after she went hand-to-hand with three Jem’Hadar six months after that. Motoko gave her life saving the Hope three weeks ago.”
He felt tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I failed you all. I should’ve been here with you.”
“If you were I don’t think I’d be here now,” Cam told him. “I’ve only kept going as hard as I have because you were alive. I was fighting to survive so that one day we could have this.”
Ramirez shed his first tears since being captured by Starfleet, wrapping his arms around the man who meant more to him that any other ever had or ever would.
* * * * *
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Guess the Border Service folk were rather busy, there being a war and all.
