Fifth Hour
USS Bluefin
Auxiliary Control
Delta Simms was nearly out of breath when she stumbled into Auxiliary Control. The normally squared-away Second Officer was adorned in workout shorts and a "Ski Rigel VII" T-shirt, her long, red hair partially secured in a pony tail, though tendrils fell across her face. Her journey to the backup control room required several detours up and down ladder alcoves while back-tracking from sealed emergency bulkheads. She was gratified to see Lt. (j.g.) Bralus already seated, his bald, blue head mottled with splotches of purple, indicating the adrenaline surge rushing through the Bolian's system. He turned to look at Simms and shook his head.
"It's bad, Commander. Almost every system has failed."
"I already figured that," she replied, her drawl more pronounced than usual. "How 'bout some specifics?"
Bralus turned back to the controls, gesturing with frustration. "The main computer is off-line and back-ups are slow at best. No comms, no sensors, no navigation, warp drive is down and we've got multiple hull breaches. Life support is on emergency back-up. Did we hit something?"
"More likely something hit us," she replied, turning to study the Master System Display. As the former assistant engineer studied the display, her face paled and she uttered a string of words that would have earned a sharp rebuke from her mother.
"All the emergency bulkheads forward of the flight deck and the main engineering section have engaged," she observed, her voice more calm than she felt. Time to set aside emotions for now. Nightmares could come later, assuming they survived.
"Shield status?" she queried. They were still on the edge of a powerful ion storm. Without shields . . .
"Primary hull shields holding and steady," he replied. "Secondary hull shields are intermittent. Sections forward of engineering are down to 70% but holding. Aft of engineering . . ." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the EPS conduits were severed at junction 27 and 31. I think we're missing part of the ship."
Delta frowned as she continued to study the MSD. The starboard nacelle was off-line and probably destroyed. Add the loss of warp capability to the list of problems. "Concur," she said, taking in all the red indicators on the MSD, clamoring for attention. Work the problem, she told herself. "Can you extend the shields from the primary hull emitters?"
"Negative. We're on reserve power, as it is. For now, radiation levels in the primary hull are still in the green zone. Secondary hull levels are rising but below dangerous levels at the moment. Still, I recommend anyone going down there wear a hard suit."
"Standard protocol for damage control parties," she replied, automatically. "Assuming we have enough able-bodied crew members left to handle damage control. Priorities are life support, shields, and comms, in that order. Got it?"
The Bolian acknowledged and silently began to study the systems schematics and how to make things function in ways for which they were not designed.
Simms went to a locker near the MSD and opened it. Inside were emergency supplies - first aid, water and food concentrates, e-suits, phasers, and emergency communicators. She took one of the old-style units and flipped open the grid. She was rewarded with the chirp of an open channel. The emergency communicators did not run through the main computer so, although limited in range and capabilities, they still functioned. At least, they were supposed to. Sometimes old-school tech worked best.
"This is Lt. Commander Simms to any Bluefin personnel; report in, please."
There were several seconds of painful silence before a reply came through.
"Delta? It's O.C. What the hell happened? I've got injured crewmen stacked three deep in sickbay. The damned EMH keeps flickering in and out, asking to 'state the nature of the emergency,' and Sanders is the only corpsman who made it to sickbay in one piece. I need normal power restored or we're going to lose a lot more people."
Simms let out a breath in relief. "Hang in there Doc. We're working on it. No idea what happened yet, but we still have air to breathe and backup power. I'm in Auxiliary Control and we're trying to piece things together. Any word from the Captain or any of the bridge crew?"
"No, you're the first person I've heard from outside of the injured crew members. God, it's a mess down here." Delta could hear a commotion and what sounded like someone screaming in pain. "Gotta go," said Castille, and the channel went silent.
Simms flicked the communicator closed and sat next to Bralus at the controls. "Let's get busy," she ordered.
* * *
Ore Carrier SS Forty-Niner
Engineer Tyna Miller started awake. She had dozed off, sitting awkwardly against the bulkhead in engineering. The pain in her broken arm pushed through the exhaustion, the meds having worn off. She looked across and saw that Thurn was slumped in a chair, snoring loudly. The young Tellarite was also worn down, his efforts through EVA to repair their subspace receiver had failed. He still wore the bulky suit, the helmet discard on the deck. Miller wondered how he could sleep like that.
She winced as she stood. The hard deck was hardly conducive to rest. Best to stay awake anyway, just in case someone came to rescue them. Then, she glanced at the countdown timer she had set on the console. Just under six hours for total failure of the containment field.
Who am I kidding? she thought. No one is coming for us in this storm.
She idly wondered which deadly scenarios would be most painful. Warp core implosion? Radiation poisoning? Asphyxiation? All three were very real possibilities. At least death by core implosion would be nearly instantaneous. Radiation poisoning and/or asphyxiation . . . not so much.
It occurred to her that she could end this now. Over-riding the few remaining safety protocols would be child's play. Hell, it was a miracle that the core hadn't gone super-nova already.
Miller walked toward the engineering controls and opened an access panel. She began to reach in, then hesitated. Turning, she saw that Thurn was staring at her with his large, black eyes.
His gaze was not accusatory, just resigned. "I thought about that, too," he murmured. Miller noted the traces of dried blood on his snout and the pool of coagulated vomit on the deck. He had stayed out too long and the radiation had leeched through the suit.
"Thurn, I . . ."
"But it wasn't my place," he continued. "You're the senior officer on board. Your ship, your call."
Miller nodded. She glanced back down at the open panel. It would be so easy . . . so quick.
She closed the access panel. "No," she said, firmly. "We have over five hours. Someone will come."
* * *
Star Stallion 02
He gasped for air. Something was covering his face, but there was air . . . sweet air coming from . . . what the hell did it matter?
But why couldn't he see? There was a dark haze across his vision. He tried to blink but his eyes didn't want to work right.
And why in the seven hells did his chest hurt so bad? It felt like all three of his lungs were on fire. Yet his body was so, so cold. He was shaking . . . couldn't stop.
His last memory was of going EVA without a spacesuit. Had . . . he died? Was this one of the dreaded seven hells of legend?
If so, the afterlife sucked.
"Sir? Commander? Can you hear me?"
His eyes might not be working, but there was nothing wrong with his sense of hearing. Or smell. He inhaled through his ample nostrils. Tellarites, as a species, have a much better sense of smell than sight.
"Vargas?" It came out as a faint wheeze. By the third whore-mongering demi-god, why did his chest hurt so?
"It's okay, Mr. Gralt. You're going to be okay."
From the slight tremor in the young Ensign's voice, Gralt had serious doubts about that.
"How . . . where . . . ?" Gralt gasped.
"I . . . I'm not sure what happened. Captain Akinola ordered me to reinstall the impulse engine in the Stallion I was inspecting. I was inside, running final diagnostics after completing the installation, when all hell broke loose. One minute, I'm in the cockpit, running through lines of code . . . the next, I'm tumbling around the cabin. I managed to stabilize the stallion and saw . . . my God, sir, the ship was nearly cut in half." He paused a moment to compose himself.
"Tried contacting the ship but comms must be down. Was about to maneuver to a docking port when I noticed a secondary explosion from the remains of the engineering section. That's when I saw someone . . . you . . . tumbling away from the ship. I managed to activate the emergency transporter and you materialized and collapsed. Sir, I . . . I thought you were dead. You were cold as ice and unresponsive. Still . . . I had to try . . . used the emergency medical tricorder and the programmable hypospray. It injected Tri-ox and something for radiation exposure. Then, just now, you started breathing and . . . please, sir, don't try to remove the oxygen mask."
Gralt took in everything Vargas said. Part of his mind understood he was suffering from decompression sickness, exposure to vacuum, and extreme cold, not to mention radiation. 'Okay?' That was a frakking joke.
The Chief Engineer's greater concern was the Bluefin. He pawed weakly at Vargas' tunic, his muscles not responding readily.
"The ship," Gralt croaked. "How . . . bad?"
Vargas swallowed. "Bad, sir. Starboard nacelle is gone and we're venting plasma from the remains of the strut. Secondary hull sheared off forward of the landing bay. Engineering is . . . well, you know, sir. You were there. The primary hull appears to be mostly undamaged.
The Tellarite tried to sit up, but a paroxysm of coughing forced him back down. Vargas noted the dark blood coming from his mouth and snout. Ensign Vargas, like all Starfleet and Border Service officers, received training in advanced first aid, but he was no medical doctor. Still, he understood the devastating effects of exposure to pure vacuum. Gases trapped in Gralt's lungs had expanded when he was ejected into space, creating an embolism that ruptured bronchi and damaged lung tissue. If Gralt did not receive real medical attention, and soon, he would likely die.
The young Brazilian secured the Chief Engineer with restraints to the cot, securing him against abrupt maneuvers that might be required. Gralt had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Just as well, because Vargas needed to focus on flying the Stallion.
He moved forward, settling back into the left-hand seat and powered up the sublight engines with thrusters at standby. He activated the Stallion's sensors and frowned. Bluefin still had her shields up. He smacked his forehead, exasperated with himself. Of course the shields were up; they were still surrounded by a powerful ion storm. Good thing the shields were operating, otherwise the surviving crew members would quickly be cooked. The bad news, of course, was that he could not dock with the ship with her shields up.
Vargas was an engineer, not a pilot. But he was a problem solver, so he completed a sensor sweep over the entire cutter, looking for options.
There! As he had expected, there was a gap in the shields aft, where most of the damage occurred. It would be tight; there was only about five meters between the hull and the interior energy wall of the shields. The gap was designed to allow EVA by hard-suited crewmembers or workbees, providing access to the hull while shields were up. A Star Stallion might fit, but just barely. If he contacted the shields, the stallion could be thrown into the Bluefin's hull with catastrophic results. He needed to avoid the shield emitters as there was little to no clearance surrounding them.
He brought up the hull schematics of the Bluefin and studied them for a moment. There was a docking port on the starboard side of the saucer that seemed his best chance. As he recalled, it opened onto the same deck as sickbay, so that made it an even better choice. The downside was the need to maneuver around not one, but two shield emitters, plus the flow of sparking plasma from the fractured nacelle strut. Tricky, but doable for an experienced helm officer like Mr. Bralus or Mr. Sarnek.
Unfortunately, Ensign Vargas was not an experienced helm officer. But he was the only hope that Lt. Commander Gralt had for survival.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. Plotting a circuitous course for the smallcraft, he eased Stallion 02 forward, activating thrusters to match the slow rotation of the wounded cutter. The computer began to issue a strident proximity warning. He silenced it.
"I hope Mr. Gralt doesn't get upset if I scratch the paint," Vargas mused, as the Bluefin filled the viewport against the backdrop of a deadly ionic tempest.
