That would probably be better. I was just thinking about ship classes that were shown on Star Trek: Picard.
UT10 Tales of the USS Bluefin - "Ten Hours"
- Thread starter TheLoneRedshirt
- Start date
Wow! Stopping by for the first time in quite a while, only to see several of my dead and buried stories on page one . . . it's the zombie apocalypse! 
Not sure when or if I'll get back to finishing these tales, but this particular story already has an ending . . . I just haven't posted it yet. Still details to work out. But the ending is already determined. Not all tales have a happy ending.
Spoiler alert: There won't be another USS Bluefin, at least not any time soon. And, to quote a famous Scottish engineer, "there won't be any bloody A, B, C, or D." Bluefin wasn't and isn't a "hero" ship like Enterprise or Discovery. She's a working ship for the "every man/being." "Tales of the USS Bluefin" was always the blue-collar version of Star Trek. The crew wasn't the best and brightest . . . they weren't explorers or diplomats. They were working stiffs who did the grunt work along the fringes of the Federation. They knew they were expendable. No ships will be named for any of them. They're the space cops, the rescuers, the trip wire / cannon fodder should another border war break out. I guess that's why they interest me . . . and those characters will (hopefully) continue on in some way.
Not sure when or if I'll get back to finishing these tales, but this particular story already has an ending . . . I just haven't posted it yet. Still details to work out. But the ending is already determined. Not all tales have a happy ending.
Spoiler alert: There won't be another USS Bluefin, at least not any time soon. And, to quote a famous Scottish engineer, "there won't be any bloody A, B, C, or D." Bluefin wasn't and isn't a "hero" ship like Enterprise or Discovery. She's a working ship for the "every man/being." "Tales of the USS Bluefin" was always the blue-collar version of Star Trek. The crew wasn't the best and brightest . . . they weren't explorers or diplomats. They were working stiffs who did the grunt work along the fringes of the Federation. They knew they were expendable. No ships will be named for any of them. They're the space cops, the rescuers, the trip wire / cannon fodder should another border war break out. I guess that's why they interest me . . . and those characters will (hopefully) continue on in some way.
I miss Bluefin and her crew. I miss a lot of United Trek crews that I love.
TLR, and anyone else who might be watching... I've written a vignette to tie up the refugee crisis and task force Vanguard set in 2387, and it acts as a prequel to my new series, Tales of Cygnus Station. Hope to have it posted in a week or two. It's written by hand and I type slowly on my tablet.
I had a friend read it and they said it was rushed, and would flow better if I filled in some gaps and tightened up the prose. Guess it'll be longer than a week *sigh*
Bringing this thread back again.
TLR, please finish this one. PLEASE!!!!!
TLR, please finish this one. PLEASE!!!!!
BB, I have been giving this story a lot of thought recently. I know what happens and how it ends. Just figuring out the next chapter and how far to take the carnage. Thanks for the interest (and kick in the pants!) I promise to at least focus on this one to the exclusion of other tales. Who knows? Maybe I can bring this mess into some form of closure.
(Note: First installment since 2018 and this tale began in 2016. Maybe I should rename it "Ten Years.")
Sixth Hour
USS Bluefin
"We have to be ready for anything. That's what we train for.” - Admiral Karl Schulz, USCG
Armory - Forward
“Warning, secure helmet visor. . . Radiation levels critical. . . Warning, secure helmet visor. . . Radiation levels critical . . .”
Senior Chief Solly Brin winced. His head was pounding and he just wanted to sleep, but that damn voice just would not shut up.
Aside from the pounding in his skull, there was the disconcerting sense that he was floating. Strange, but not unpleasant. Maybe he was dreaming . . . except, as a rule Orions don’t dream. And there was an odd scorched smell , , ,
“Radiation levels critical. . . Warning, secure helmet visor. . . Radiation levels critical . . .”
The words began to penetrate the fog in his brain. With an effort, he forced his eyes open . . .
. . . to find that he was, indeed, floating, bobbing weightlessly in the room. The back of his EVA suit bumped against the ceiling of the armory. Brin fought a wave of vertigo, trying to assess the situation. He reached up and closed the visor of his hard suit, finally silencing the vocal warning system. Emergency lighting flickered and the dull red alert lights cycled on and off.
He tapped the com switch on the breastplate. “Brin to bridge, what’s our status?”
Nothing. He tried again with the same lack of response.
Obviously, something catastrophic happened. Several possibilities ran through his mind, but aside from a lack of gravity and a surplus of radiation, he didn’t have a clue. The detritus of clothing and equipment floated around him as did motes of dust, a coffee mug, and a spinning hyper-spanner.
Another wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. His vision blurred.
“Get a grip,” he growled to himself. Ignoring the throbbing in his skull and the nausea in his gut, he forced his way to the door that led to the aft armory compartment. He wasn’t surprised that the door did not slide open at his approach. Removing a multitool from a pouch on his suit, he opened a panel, accessing the manual override.
He paused before working the override lever and checked the readout located on his left forearm. Sure enough, there was still breathable air where he was, although the pressure was well below normal. If there was less pressure on the other side . . .
Glancing around, he spotted the bench in front of the row of spacesuit lockers. He pulled a restraining tether from his utility belt and attached it to one of the bench supports. Thusly secured, he turned back to the override lever and moved it to the open position.
The door slid silently open and the debris which had languidly floated around Brin shot through the opening. Senior Chief Brin looked through the doorway in shocked horror. The aft armory was where Chief Deryx, Petty Officer Steiner, Crewman Larjani, and Specialist Emily Polk were preparing for a rescue mission.
Except they were gone. So was the aft armory. Twisted structural members and sparking EPS cables drifted in the dark void. The stern of the cutter including most of engineering and the landing bay was gone, sheared away by some unimaginable force.
* * *
Star Stallion 02
Portside Docking Port
Ensign Vargas began to tremble as the adrenaline rush faded. He was drenched with sweat from the mental and physical strain of guiding the small craft between the functioning shields and the hull of the cutter. It had been the most terrifying few minutes of his life, but it was the only way he could bring the horribly injured Lt. Commander Grant back to the ship and medical help.
Fortunately, the star stallion was capable of automatic docking and the status board showed green with a firm seal. His heart still beating like a trip hammer, he managed to stand and went aft.
“We made it, Mr. Gralt! We’re docked at the same level as sickbay. Just hang on and I’ll get help.”
The Tellarite did not respond, having slipped back into unconsciousness.
Vargas made his way to the airlock, watching with impatience as the pressure indicator finally stabilized and the Stallion’s hatch slid open. The Ensign stepped through . . .
. . . into a scene of pandemonium. He stopped abruptly at the sight of injured officers and crewman lining the corridor. Some were horribly burned. The smell hit him and caused his stomach to lurch. Worse than the smell were the groans and screams of the injured.
A corpsman he recognized but couldn’t recall his name appeared and knelt to attend one of the casualties.
“Hey! Corpsman! Help me! I’ve got Commander Gralt in the Stallion . . . he’s in a bad way!”
Corpsman Sanders looked at Vargas, a frown of incomprehension on his haggard face. “Wha . . . What are you talking about? How did you . . .”
Vargas strode forward and grabbed Sanders by his blood-stained tunic. “I need help now! Mr. Gralt was exposed to vacuum for . . . well, I don’t know, but if you don’t help me get him into sickbay, he’s going to die!”
Sanders pulled away. “Look around, Ensign . . . I’m up to my ass in wounded and dying! You’re gonna have to . . . “
They were interrupted by a petite Andorran ensign who limped up and got between them. "Mr. Vargas, I’ll help you get Mr. Gralt.”
Vargas blinked. He recognized her but her name wouldn’t come to him. So much confusion and chaos.
“Come on,” she said, guiding him back toward the docking port with gentle but surprisingly firm strength. Vargas turned to glare at Sanders, but he was already attending to another crewman.
Entering the small craft, Ensign Drii An’Shill uttered a small gasp when she saw Gralt. He appeared already dead but then she noticed the faint movement of his chest.
“Help me with the a-grav stretcher,” he said, removing it from the bulkhead and unfolding it. An’Shill took one end and activated the anti-gravity plating. They gently rolled Gralt, positioning him onto the stretcher, then slowly guided it and its burden out of the Stallion toward sickbay.
* * *
Bridge
Working his way around debris and blocked ladders, Captain Akinola finally arrived on the bridge. His heart fell at the scene of damage. Though the bridge was mostly intact, acrid smoke tinged the air as overheated transtators and ruptured EPS conduits sparked and sizzled. He frowned, noting the absence of their first officer.
“Ensign Vashtee, report.” Such a normal command in the midst of calamity seemed out of place. Nonetheless, there were still protocols to follow.
Maya turned, her expression a mixture of relief and fear. She coughed before replying.
“Captain, Commander Strauss and Lt. Bane went to check on our damage and retrieve communicators from Auxiliary Control.” She gestured to the Vulcan helmsman lying on the deck. “Mr. Sarnek was wounded when his board overloaded. We’ve applied a pressure bandage from the first aid kit and his vital signs are stable but he is still unconscious.”
Akinola nodded. “You have the bridge, I take it?”
She straightened, “Oh. Yes sir . . . I . . .”
The Captain forced a slight smile. “Stand easy, Maya,” he said, gently. “You’re holding up well, considering.” He paused. “Now, can you bring me up to date as to what happened?”
The Sri Lankan Operations officer related all that she could, from Lt. Bane’s discovery of the cosmic filament, Sarnek’s valiant but vane attempt to avoid it, and the subsequent destruction as the filament ravaged the cutter.
“Communications are down, main computer is off-line, we still have partial shields . . . for the primary hull at least. Sensors are down, weapons off-line, life support operational on back-up. As for the rest of the ship, we lost a nacelle and most of engineering . , ,”
Her voice trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes.
The reality of their situation struck home. Akinola knew their ship was mortally wounded as were many of her crew. The rescuers were now in need of rescue - assuming they could survive the next few hours in a force three ion storm with critical systems failing or gone.
Sixth Hour
USS Bluefin
"We have to be ready for anything. That's what we train for.” - Admiral Karl Schulz, USCG
Armory - Forward
“Warning, secure helmet visor. . . Radiation levels critical. . . Warning, secure helmet visor. . . Radiation levels critical . . .”
Senior Chief Solly Brin winced. His head was pounding and he just wanted to sleep, but that damn voice just would not shut up.
Aside from the pounding in his skull, there was the disconcerting sense that he was floating. Strange, but not unpleasant. Maybe he was dreaming . . . except, as a rule Orions don’t dream. And there was an odd scorched smell , , ,
“Radiation levels critical. . . Warning, secure helmet visor. . . Radiation levels critical . . .”
The words began to penetrate the fog in his brain. With an effort, he forced his eyes open . . .
. . . to find that he was, indeed, floating, bobbing weightlessly in the room. The back of his EVA suit bumped against the ceiling of the armory. Brin fought a wave of vertigo, trying to assess the situation. He reached up and closed the visor of his hard suit, finally silencing the vocal warning system. Emergency lighting flickered and the dull red alert lights cycled on and off.
He tapped the com switch on the breastplate. “Brin to bridge, what’s our status?”
Nothing. He tried again with the same lack of response.
Obviously, something catastrophic happened. Several possibilities ran through his mind, but aside from a lack of gravity and a surplus of radiation, he didn’t have a clue. The detritus of clothing and equipment floated around him as did motes of dust, a coffee mug, and a spinning hyper-spanner.
Another wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. His vision blurred.
“Get a grip,” he growled to himself. Ignoring the throbbing in his skull and the nausea in his gut, he forced his way to the door that led to the aft armory compartment. He wasn’t surprised that the door did not slide open at his approach. Removing a multitool from a pouch on his suit, he opened a panel, accessing the manual override.
He paused before working the override lever and checked the readout located on his left forearm. Sure enough, there was still breathable air where he was, although the pressure was well below normal. If there was less pressure on the other side . . .
Glancing around, he spotted the bench in front of the row of spacesuit lockers. He pulled a restraining tether from his utility belt and attached it to one of the bench supports. Thusly secured, he turned back to the override lever and moved it to the open position.
The door slid silently open and the debris which had languidly floated around Brin shot through the opening. Senior Chief Brin looked through the doorway in shocked horror. The aft armory was where Chief Deryx, Petty Officer Steiner, Crewman Larjani, and Specialist Emily Polk were preparing for a rescue mission.
Except they were gone. So was the aft armory. Twisted structural members and sparking EPS cables drifted in the dark void. The stern of the cutter including most of engineering and the landing bay was gone, sheared away by some unimaginable force.
* * *
Star Stallion 02
Portside Docking Port
Ensign Vargas began to tremble as the adrenaline rush faded. He was drenched with sweat from the mental and physical strain of guiding the small craft between the functioning shields and the hull of the cutter. It had been the most terrifying few minutes of his life, but it was the only way he could bring the horribly injured Lt. Commander Grant back to the ship and medical help.
Fortunately, the star stallion was capable of automatic docking and the status board showed green with a firm seal. His heart still beating like a trip hammer, he managed to stand and went aft.
“We made it, Mr. Gralt! We’re docked at the same level as sickbay. Just hang on and I’ll get help.”
The Tellarite did not respond, having slipped back into unconsciousness.
Vargas made his way to the airlock, watching with impatience as the pressure indicator finally stabilized and the Stallion’s hatch slid open. The Ensign stepped through . . .
. . . into a scene of pandemonium. He stopped abruptly at the sight of injured officers and crewman lining the corridor. Some were horribly burned. The smell hit him and caused his stomach to lurch. Worse than the smell were the groans and screams of the injured.
A corpsman he recognized but couldn’t recall his name appeared and knelt to attend one of the casualties.
“Hey! Corpsman! Help me! I’ve got Commander Gralt in the Stallion . . . he’s in a bad way!”
Corpsman Sanders looked at Vargas, a frown of incomprehension on his haggard face. “Wha . . . What are you talking about? How did you . . .”
Vargas strode forward and grabbed Sanders by his blood-stained tunic. “I need help now! Mr. Gralt was exposed to vacuum for . . . well, I don’t know, but if you don’t help me get him into sickbay, he’s going to die!”
Sanders pulled away. “Look around, Ensign . . . I’m up to my ass in wounded and dying! You’re gonna have to . . . “
They were interrupted by a petite Andorran ensign who limped up and got between them. "Mr. Vargas, I’ll help you get Mr. Gralt.”
Vargas blinked. He recognized her but her name wouldn’t come to him. So much confusion and chaos.
“Come on,” she said, guiding him back toward the docking port with gentle but surprisingly firm strength. Vargas turned to glare at Sanders, but he was already attending to another crewman.
Entering the small craft, Ensign Drii An’Shill uttered a small gasp when she saw Gralt. He appeared already dead but then she noticed the faint movement of his chest.
“Help me with the a-grav stretcher,” he said, removing it from the bulkhead and unfolding it. An’Shill took one end and activated the anti-gravity plating. They gently rolled Gralt, positioning him onto the stretcher, then slowly guided it and its burden out of the Stallion toward sickbay.
* * *
Bridge
Working his way around debris and blocked ladders, Captain Akinola finally arrived on the bridge. His heart fell at the scene of damage. Though the bridge was mostly intact, acrid smoke tinged the air as overheated transtators and ruptured EPS conduits sparked and sizzled. He frowned, noting the absence of their first officer.
“Ensign Vashtee, report.” Such a normal command in the midst of calamity seemed out of place. Nonetheless, there were still protocols to follow.
Maya turned, her expression a mixture of relief and fear. She coughed before replying.
“Captain, Commander Strauss and Lt. Bane went to check on our damage and retrieve communicators from Auxiliary Control.” She gestured to the Vulcan helmsman lying on the deck. “Mr. Sarnek was wounded when his board overloaded. We’ve applied a pressure bandage from the first aid kit and his vital signs are stable but he is still unconscious.”
Akinola nodded. “You have the bridge, I take it?”
She straightened, “Oh. Yes sir . . . I . . .”
The Captain forced a slight smile. “Stand easy, Maya,” he said, gently. “You’re holding up well, considering.” He paused. “Now, can you bring me up to date as to what happened?”
The Sri Lankan Operations officer related all that she could, from Lt. Bane’s discovery of the cosmic filament, Sarnek’s valiant but vane attempt to avoid it, and the subsequent destruction as the filament ravaged the cutter.
“Communications are down, main computer is off-line, we still have partial shields . . . for the primary hull at least. Sensors are down, weapons off-line, life support operational on back-up. As for the rest of the ship, we lost a nacelle and most of engineering . , ,”
Her voice trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes.
The reality of their situation struck home. Akinola knew their ship was mortally wounded as were many of her crew. The rescuers were now in need of rescue - assuming they could survive the next few hours in a force three ion storm with critical systems failing or gone.
Yep, those are the longest ten hours in the history of …. Hours?
And in more than one sense. How exciting that you’ve come back to this story after all this time. And you left us with such a huge cliffhanger to boot. I don’t think this is the end of Bluefin, but she certainly will never be the same after this.
Hope you get the chance to finish this tale. I certainly can’t wait to get some more.
And in more than one sense. How exciting that you’ve come back to this story after all this time. And you left us with such a huge cliffhanger to boot. I don’t think this is the end of Bluefin, but she certainly will never be the same after this.
Hope you get the chance to finish this tale. I certainly can’t wait to get some more.
Seventh Hour
USS Kittiwake NCC-4460
Captain’s Ready Room
Quinn Elena Destrehan, C.O. of the Kittiwake and the youngest cutter commander in the 7th Squadron, stared at the image of Admiral Morgan Bateson with an expression of shock on her face.
“Admiral? Are you sure?”
Bateson’s grim visage nodded. “It’s Bluefin’s disaster buoy alright. There’s no doubt. We can’t raise them, either because of the ion storm or . . .” He left the other possibilities unsaid.
“We . . . we’ll head that way immediately, sir. Maximum warp.”
The Admiral nodded. “As I was about to order. Unfortunately, we have few assets in the sector, especially with Scamp laid up for repairs. I’ve notified Starfleet Command and they are dispatching the light cruiser, USS Guanabara, to assist in search and rescue efforts. I’ve ordered the buoy tender, Pamlico, and one of our Aerie-class boats to search for the SS Forty-niner, the ship in distress to which Bluefin was headed. But , , ,”
His voice trailed off and Destrehan understood. The Aerie-class boats were small and lacked the speed or durability of the Albacore-class cutters. And USS Pamlico was an ancient converted Oberth-class ship, slower still and ill-suited for rescue work in an ion storm.
Bateson seemed to read her thoughts. “Quinn, if I thought either Pamlico or Egret could help with Bluefin, I would have sent them. But you are closest to Bluefin by at least a couple of hours. Godspeed, Captain. Bateson, out.”
Destrehan had difficulty processing the news. Joseph Akinola was a legend, one of the most experienced ship’s commander in the Border Service. To think that Akinola, his crew, the Bluefin, all might be lost . . .
She took a calming breath then toggled the communicator on her desk. The image of her Executive Officer, Lt. Commander Dee Dee Townsend appeared.
“X.O., immediate course change to,” she glanced at the coordinates that Bateson sent, “244 mark 18. Maximum warp.”
Townsend looked surprised, but relayed the order to the helm officer. “What’s up, Skipper?” She queried.
Destrehan hesitated. She knew Lt. Commander Townsend had served on the Bluefin as Second Officer before becoming X.O. of Kittiwake. Townsend had many friends on their sister ship.
“Come see me in my ready room and I’ll fill you in.”
Something in Destrehan’s voice gave Townsend pause. “Right away. . . Lt. Xyvek, you have the conn.”
* * *
USS Bluefin
Auxiliary Control
A wave of relief washed over Delta Simms when Commander Strauss and Lt. Bane entered Auxiliary control, both adorned in Emergency Environmental Suits.
“Am I glad to see you!” said Simms. “How are things on the bridge?”
“A mess,” admitted Strauss, removing her helmet. “Sarnek is hurt but stable. Ensign Vashtee is holding down the conn . . . not that there’s anything working up there.”
“And the Skipper?”
Strauss shook her head. “He was in his quarters when things went to hell. No comms, no turbolifts, some of the ladder alcoves are blocked with debris . . . My guess is he will try to get to the bridge, but it will probably take him a while.”
Simms nodded. “Any idea what happened? It felt like we hit something.”
Bane looked morose. “More like something hit us . . . a cosmic filament, to be precise.”
Delta’s eyes widened. “My God! I guess we’re lucky the ship wasn’t completely destroyed.”
He shook his head. “If I had spotted it a couple of seconds earlier, we might have avoided . . .”
“Belay that, Nigel,” Strauss said, not unkindly. “You warned Sarnek and that likely kept us from turning into sub-atomic particles.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he muttered, unconvinced.
Strauss turned her attention to the Master Systems Display. She frowned. “That’s a lot of red on the MSD.”
Simms nodded. “Almost all primary systems are down, so what’s left are mostly backup and tertiary systems, but even there some have failed and are failing. Artificial gravity is hit and miss, and it’s a miracle that the shields for the primary hull are still up. If not, well . . .”
They all knew if the shields failed, either the storm would tear them apart or the ionic radiation would cook them.
Strauss gazed at the auburn-haired second officer. “How bad?”
Simms swallowed. “Starboard nacelle was sheared off. Most of the engineering hull and flight deck are gone. We, um, likely lost a lot of . . .well, anyone down there, including the flight deck and the armory.”
That jarred the XO. She knew casualties were a given. Still . . .
“What about sickbay?”
A pained expression crossed Delta’s face. “I was able to get through with our old communicators. They keep some there. It’s bad, Inga . . . mass casualties . . . burns, broken bones, you name it. O.C., that is, Dr. Castille is doing his best with a couple of corpsmen and able-bodied crew performing triage and basic first aid. I was able to get the EMH rebooted from here, so that helps some.” She paused. “Gralt is barely hanging on.”
“He survived?” Strauss was surprised but glad the curmudgeonly Tellarite was alive.
Stimms nodded. “Best I could understand is that he was ejected into space when the emergency shields failed. By some miracle, Ensign Vargas beamed him aboard a Stallion and managed to get him on board. But Inga, Gralt is critical and O.C. isn’t sure he’ll survive unless we can get him to Echo Station.”
The ship suddenly shuddered violently, reminding them that an ion storm still raged around them. Simms turned her attention to the MSD and cursed.
“Structural integrity is down to 25%. We’re gonna start coming apart at the seams if it drops any more.”
“Any chance of getting subspace comms back up?” asked Bane.
“Slim and none,” replied Delta. “Hopefully, our disaster beacon deployed and broadcast our location.”
“Yeah, but even if it did, rescue is a long way away,” replied Strauss. She turned to Lt. Bane. “Nigel, take a couple of communicators to the bridge. I’m going below decks to see if there are survivors or anyone trapped.”
“Good plan,” he replied, “but you head to the bridge. No offense, but I’m better suited to carry someone up a ladder than you.”
Inga opened her mouth to argue and pull rank, but she stopped. Nigel was right.
“Very well.” She took one of the old communicators and connected it to his chest panel. “But keep in touch. Check in every five minutes, understood?”
Nigel grinned for the first time since the onset of the disaster. “Aye, ma’am.” He pulled down his visor and gave a jaunty salute before departing Auxiliary Control.
* * *
SS Forty-Niner
Tyna Miller awoke from a fitful sleep. Her broken arm throbbed painfully and her mouth was dry. She moaned, trying to sit up from the hard engineering deck.
Thurn was unconscious or . . . well . . . maybe he already departed this mortal coil a few minutes early. Lucky him.
Her head was muzzy, thinking was hard. What was it she wanted to do?
Oh yes. See how much longer until the warp core imploded and they turned into a new sun.
Her vision blurred and standing up proved to be more of a challenge than she anticipated. Scooting her back to the back bulkhead, she was able to shimmy up to a standing position.
Miller’s head swam and she began to rethink her life choices. She could have stayed in Starfleet, but the regimen had begun to wear on her. If she’s stayed in, she might be a lieutenant commander by now, maybe a full commander?
She chuckled. No chance of that now. She would die as Chief Engineer of this miserable bucket of . . .
A movement within the warp core containment chamber caught her eye. She squinted and wiped tendrils of sweat soaked hair from her eyes.
“What the frak?”
Dmitri Stavros was inside the containment chamber, wearing a hard suit. Not that it would do him any good, the intense radiation would leach through that hard suit like water through tissue.
Dmitri was attempting to climb on top of the warp core. The core was wedged at an angle following the failed ejection attempt.
She staggered to the control panel. Comms were down, so she beat on the transparent partition, trying to gain his attention.
The crazy Russian glanced down at her, his face wearing a feral grin. No doubt he was drunk out of his mind, but this was sheer suicide! He wouldn’t last five minutes while he . . .
He managed to get on top of the core. Then, grabbing the metal overhead braces, he began to jump up and down.
Miller was transfixed. What the hell did he think . . .?
But he jumped. And jumped. Bringing down his considerable weight on the wedged warp core, even as the radiation was killing him. He maintained the mad grin, even as blood began to seep from his nose and eyes, and . . .
Then the warp core disappeared. So did Dmitri. Whatever caused the core to jam in place gave way.
She stared, mouth agape, at the empty chamber. Had that drunk son of a bitch saved the ship?
Then the warp core detonated.
USS Kittiwake NCC-4460
Captain’s Ready Room
Quinn Elena Destrehan, C.O. of the Kittiwake and the youngest cutter commander in the 7th Squadron, stared at the image of Admiral Morgan Bateson with an expression of shock on her face.
“Admiral? Are you sure?”
Bateson’s grim visage nodded. “It’s Bluefin’s disaster buoy alright. There’s no doubt. We can’t raise them, either because of the ion storm or . . .” He left the other possibilities unsaid.
“We . . . we’ll head that way immediately, sir. Maximum warp.”
The Admiral nodded. “As I was about to order. Unfortunately, we have few assets in the sector, especially with Scamp laid up for repairs. I’ve notified Starfleet Command and they are dispatching the light cruiser, USS Guanabara, to assist in search and rescue efforts. I’ve ordered the buoy tender, Pamlico, and one of our Aerie-class boats to search for the SS Forty-niner, the ship in distress to which Bluefin was headed. But , , ,”
His voice trailed off and Destrehan understood. The Aerie-class boats were small and lacked the speed or durability of the Albacore-class cutters. And USS Pamlico was an ancient converted Oberth-class ship, slower still and ill-suited for rescue work in an ion storm.
Bateson seemed to read her thoughts. “Quinn, if I thought either Pamlico or Egret could help with Bluefin, I would have sent them. But you are closest to Bluefin by at least a couple of hours. Godspeed, Captain. Bateson, out.”
Destrehan had difficulty processing the news. Joseph Akinola was a legend, one of the most experienced ship’s commander in the Border Service. To think that Akinola, his crew, the Bluefin, all might be lost . . .
She took a calming breath then toggled the communicator on her desk. The image of her Executive Officer, Lt. Commander Dee Dee Townsend appeared.
“X.O., immediate course change to,” she glanced at the coordinates that Bateson sent, “244 mark 18. Maximum warp.”
Townsend looked surprised, but relayed the order to the helm officer. “What’s up, Skipper?” She queried.
Destrehan hesitated. She knew Lt. Commander Townsend had served on the Bluefin as Second Officer before becoming X.O. of Kittiwake. Townsend had many friends on their sister ship.
“Come see me in my ready room and I’ll fill you in.”
Something in Destrehan’s voice gave Townsend pause. “Right away. . . Lt. Xyvek, you have the conn.”
* * *
USS Bluefin
Auxiliary Control
A wave of relief washed over Delta Simms when Commander Strauss and Lt. Bane entered Auxiliary control, both adorned in Emergency Environmental Suits.
“Am I glad to see you!” said Simms. “How are things on the bridge?”
“A mess,” admitted Strauss, removing her helmet. “Sarnek is hurt but stable. Ensign Vashtee is holding down the conn . . . not that there’s anything working up there.”
“And the Skipper?”
Strauss shook her head. “He was in his quarters when things went to hell. No comms, no turbolifts, some of the ladder alcoves are blocked with debris . . . My guess is he will try to get to the bridge, but it will probably take him a while.”
Simms nodded. “Any idea what happened? It felt like we hit something.”
Bane looked morose. “More like something hit us . . . a cosmic filament, to be precise.”
Delta’s eyes widened. “My God! I guess we’re lucky the ship wasn’t completely destroyed.”
He shook his head. “If I had spotted it a couple of seconds earlier, we might have avoided . . .”
“Belay that, Nigel,” Strauss said, not unkindly. “You warned Sarnek and that likely kept us from turning into sub-atomic particles.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he muttered, unconvinced.
Strauss turned her attention to the Master Systems Display. She frowned. “That’s a lot of red on the MSD.”
Simms nodded. “Almost all primary systems are down, so what’s left are mostly backup and tertiary systems, but even there some have failed and are failing. Artificial gravity is hit and miss, and it’s a miracle that the shields for the primary hull are still up. If not, well . . .”
They all knew if the shields failed, either the storm would tear them apart or the ionic radiation would cook them.
Strauss gazed at the auburn-haired second officer. “How bad?”
Simms swallowed. “Starboard nacelle was sheared off. Most of the engineering hull and flight deck are gone. We, um, likely lost a lot of . . .well, anyone down there, including the flight deck and the armory.”
That jarred the XO. She knew casualties were a given. Still . . .
“What about sickbay?”
A pained expression crossed Delta’s face. “I was able to get through with our old communicators. They keep some there. It’s bad, Inga . . . mass casualties . . . burns, broken bones, you name it. O.C., that is, Dr. Castille is doing his best with a couple of corpsmen and able-bodied crew performing triage and basic first aid. I was able to get the EMH rebooted from here, so that helps some.” She paused. “Gralt is barely hanging on.”
“He survived?” Strauss was surprised but glad the curmudgeonly Tellarite was alive.
Stimms nodded. “Best I could understand is that he was ejected into space when the emergency shields failed. By some miracle, Ensign Vargas beamed him aboard a Stallion and managed to get him on board. But Inga, Gralt is critical and O.C. isn’t sure he’ll survive unless we can get him to Echo Station.”
The ship suddenly shuddered violently, reminding them that an ion storm still raged around them. Simms turned her attention to the MSD and cursed.
“Structural integrity is down to 25%. We’re gonna start coming apart at the seams if it drops any more.”
“Any chance of getting subspace comms back up?” asked Bane.
“Slim and none,” replied Delta. “Hopefully, our disaster beacon deployed and broadcast our location.”
“Yeah, but even if it did, rescue is a long way away,” replied Strauss. She turned to Lt. Bane. “Nigel, take a couple of communicators to the bridge. I’m going below decks to see if there are survivors or anyone trapped.”
“Good plan,” he replied, “but you head to the bridge. No offense, but I’m better suited to carry someone up a ladder than you.”
Inga opened her mouth to argue and pull rank, but she stopped. Nigel was right.
“Very well.” She took one of the old communicators and connected it to his chest panel. “But keep in touch. Check in every five minutes, understood?”
Nigel grinned for the first time since the onset of the disaster. “Aye, ma’am.” He pulled down his visor and gave a jaunty salute before departing Auxiliary Control.
* * *
SS Forty-Niner
Tyna Miller awoke from a fitful sleep. Her broken arm throbbed painfully and her mouth was dry. She moaned, trying to sit up from the hard engineering deck.
Thurn was unconscious or . . . well . . . maybe he already departed this mortal coil a few minutes early. Lucky him.
Her head was muzzy, thinking was hard. What was it she wanted to do?
Oh yes. See how much longer until the warp core imploded and they turned into a new sun.
Her vision blurred and standing up proved to be more of a challenge than she anticipated. Scooting her back to the back bulkhead, she was able to shimmy up to a standing position.
Miller’s head swam and she began to rethink her life choices. She could have stayed in Starfleet, but the regimen had begun to wear on her. If she’s stayed in, she might be a lieutenant commander by now, maybe a full commander?
She chuckled. No chance of that now. She would die as Chief Engineer of this miserable bucket of . . .
A movement within the warp core containment chamber caught her eye. She squinted and wiped tendrils of sweat soaked hair from her eyes.
“What the frak?”
Dmitri Stavros was inside the containment chamber, wearing a hard suit. Not that it would do him any good, the intense radiation would leach through that hard suit like water through tissue.
Dmitri was attempting to climb on top of the warp core. The core was wedged at an angle following the failed ejection attempt.
She staggered to the control panel. Comms were down, so she beat on the transparent partition, trying to gain his attention.
The crazy Russian glanced down at her, his face wearing a feral grin. No doubt he was drunk out of his mind, but this was sheer suicide! He wouldn’t last five minutes while he . . .
He managed to get on top of the core. Then, grabbing the metal overhead braces, he began to jump up and down.
Miller was transfixed. What the hell did he think . . .?
But he jumped. And jumped. Bringing down his considerable weight on the wedged warp core, even as the radiation was killing him. He maintained the mad grin, even as blood began to seep from his nose and eyes, and . . .
Then the warp core disappeared. So did Dmitri. Whatever caused the core to jam in place gave way.
She stared, mouth agape, at the empty chamber. Had that drunk son of a bitch saved the ship?
Then the warp core detonated.
Hey good to see you back! 
Back with a vengeance, I see. You sure know how to make an entrance, or reentry, at any rate. Only 3 more long hours to go.
This kind of reminds me of the CoE book Wildfire and the beating the daVinci took. Now they were able to get that ship repaired in six weeks, but half of it wasn't missing.
I'm going to make a prediction that whomever survives this encounter will be reassigned to another cutter and the Bluefin will be relegated to a scrapyard and the history books. Hope I'm wrong, though
This kind of reminds me of the CoE book Wildfire and the beating the daVinci took. Now they were able to get that ship repaired in six weeks, but half of it wasn't missing.
I'm going to make a prediction that whomever survives this encounter will be reassigned to another cutter and the Bluefin will be relegated to a scrapyard and the history books. Hope I'm wrong, though
Eighth Hour
USS Bluefin
Sickbay
Dr. Castille was past the point of exhaustion, yet the number of injured and dying seemed endless. The EMH at least didn’t get tired, but even the holographic doctor could only serve one patient at a time. The two corpsmen were as tired as Castille.
Fatigue led to mistakes. Mistakes led to people dying.
Worse still, medical supplies were dwindling. The new medical replicator was off-line and emergency medical stores were kept near the flight deck . . . which was now open to space.
If some sadist had imagined a worse-case scenario, it couldn’t surpass this one.
Thankfully, most of the crew were well-trained and knowledgeable about first aid and dealing with trauma - all part of the mission of the Border Dogs. Those with minor (and some not so minor) injuries were helping as best they could. Part of him was in awe of the willingness of these crewmen to step up in the midst of gore and suffering.
But another part of him was beginning to sense that these heroic efforts might be futile. His brief conversation with Delta Simms had been sobering. The ship was barely holding together and help, if it was coming, was still a long way away.
The EMH approached Castille, abruptly holding out a medical instrument. “Dr. Castille, this protoplaser has failed and we have no more available. How do you expect me to seal open wounds without a protoplaser?”
Castille fixed the EMH with an icy stare. “Does your programming include how to suture a wound?”
The EMH actually stepped back, his expression of horror so comical that Castille almost laughed.
“You can’t be serious! That’s barbaric!”
“I’m absolutely serious. If our 24th century technology is failing, then we will have to practice medicine from an earlier time.”
“My programming does not extend back to the stone age!” sniffed the EMH. “Besides, I am programmed with the total medical inventory of this vessel, most of which is now lost. At no time have we stocked catgut and suture needles!”
“Then improvise,” growled Castille. “If you can’t, then deactivate yourself and get out of my way!”
* * *
Bridge
Captain Akinola had never felt so helpless. He felt . . . knew . . . he should be doing something . . . anything . . . besides waiting on the dead bridge of a dying ship.
No inter-ship comms, no internal sensors, no way of knowing what was happening and who still lived.
He considered going off on his own, making his way through the damaged ship, but to what end? He forced himself to stay put. Strauss or Bane should return with working communicators and news from below decks.
Hopefully.
At least Sarnek had come around. Vulcan physiology was pretty amazing. He was not only awake but alert and moving around without difficulty. Maybe his “nap” was part of some sort of healing trance. Or maybe Sarnek had an unusually hard skull.
No point going into the ready room. That would only further isolate him from his ship, his command.
Akinola served on Bluefin for many years - first as a non-com, then a mustang lieutenant, and finally as Captain and commanding officer. He knew his time in the center seat would end one day.
But not like this.
His reverie was broken by the arrival of the XO. Commander Strauss’ cheeks were pink from the exertion of climbing ladders and maneuvering around, over, and under debris. The E-Suit was too big for her and bore traces of soot accumulated from heavily damaged parts of the ship. There were smudges on her face and a bruise on her cheek as well.
But she had persevered and held up two old-style communicators with a self-satisfied grin. While lacking the range and clarity of the modern comm-badges, they were not dependent on the ship’s computer controlled comm system and thus were operational.
The Captain managed a smile in return “You’re a sight for sore eyes, XO,” he said, accepting one of the devices and giving it a practiced flip of the wrist. The grid cover opened with the welcomed chirp of an open channel.
“Auxiliary Control, this is the Captain. Can you read me down there?”
“ Simms here, Captain. I read you loud and clear.”
“Good to hear your voice, Commander. The XO just arrived, so let me get a sit-rep from her then we will head your way.” He glanced around, a profound sense of sadness washing over him. “There’s nothing we can do from the bridge.”
* * *
Privateer Sujimax
Ah’met Rynar Soames tried to hide the deep concern he felt. His compatriots expected boldness and bravado from their leader.
But as they pushed their Zynarian flagged corsair deeper into the ionic maelstrom, Soames was having second thoughts. You can’t make a profit off salvage if you’re dead, the little voice in his head kept reminding him.
“Time to intercept that vessel?” he queried, his voice tighter than he liked.
“Less than one-half standard hour,” replied L’Shiv. Even the normally aggressive first mate seemed subdued. Like most of the privateer crew, she was a hybrid - the unfortunate offspring of a Klingon and Orion - and thus an outcaste from both societies.
Soames was also a mix. The father he never knew was an Orion who kidnapped his mother years ago, selling her as a slave. The forced union resulted in his birth and his own enslavement until luck and ingenuity combined so that he gained his freedom.
“Radiation levels increasing,” came the voice of Choag, their engineer. “Not at lethal levels, but I would advise against planning to have any offspring.”
This elicited a chuckle from Soames. Count on the dour Choag to unintentionally lighten the mood.
“I’m not exactly the family-man type,” quipped the Ah’met. “So, let’s press on.”
L’Shiv grunted but made no other comment.
And that’s when the light of a million suns suddenly illuminated the space ahead of them. Even the auto-dimming feature of the viewscreen did not totally protect them from the dazzling brilliance.
Soames wondered briefly if a photon torpedo had exploded in their path.
The shockwave that followed made him realize it was far worse.
USS Bluefin
Sickbay
Dr. Castille was past the point of exhaustion, yet the number of injured and dying seemed endless. The EMH at least didn’t get tired, but even the holographic doctor could only serve one patient at a time. The two corpsmen were as tired as Castille.
Fatigue led to mistakes. Mistakes led to people dying.
Worse still, medical supplies were dwindling. The new medical replicator was off-line and emergency medical stores were kept near the flight deck . . . which was now open to space.
If some sadist had imagined a worse-case scenario, it couldn’t surpass this one.
Thankfully, most of the crew were well-trained and knowledgeable about first aid and dealing with trauma - all part of the mission of the Border Dogs. Those with minor (and some not so minor) injuries were helping as best they could. Part of him was in awe of the willingness of these crewmen to step up in the midst of gore and suffering.
But another part of him was beginning to sense that these heroic efforts might be futile. His brief conversation with Delta Simms had been sobering. The ship was barely holding together and help, if it was coming, was still a long way away.
The EMH approached Castille, abruptly holding out a medical instrument. “Dr. Castille, this protoplaser has failed and we have no more available. How do you expect me to seal open wounds without a protoplaser?”
Castille fixed the EMH with an icy stare. “Does your programming include how to suture a wound?”
The EMH actually stepped back, his expression of horror so comical that Castille almost laughed.
“You can’t be serious! That’s barbaric!”
“I’m absolutely serious. If our 24th century technology is failing, then we will have to practice medicine from an earlier time.”
“My programming does not extend back to the stone age!” sniffed the EMH. “Besides, I am programmed with the total medical inventory of this vessel, most of which is now lost. At no time have we stocked catgut and suture needles!”
“Then improvise,” growled Castille. “If you can’t, then deactivate yourself and get out of my way!”
* * *
Bridge
Captain Akinola had never felt so helpless. He felt . . . knew . . . he should be doing something . . . anything . . . besides waiting on the dead bridge of a dying ship.
No inter-ship comms, no internal sensors, no way of knowing what was happening and who still lived.
He considered going off on his own, making his way through the damaged ship, but to what end? He forced himself to stay put. Strauss or Bane should return with working communicators and news from below decks.
Hopefully.
At least Sarnek had come around. Vulcan physiology was pretty amazing. He was not only awake but alert and moving around without difficulty. Maybe his “nap” was part of some sort of healing trance. Or maybe Sarnek had an unusually hard skull.
No point going into the ready room. That would only further isolate him from his ship, his command.
Akinola served on Bluefin for many years - first as a non-com, then a mustang lieutenant, and finally as Captain and commanding officer. He knew his time in the center seat would end one day.
But not like this.
His reverie was broken by the arrival of the XO. Commander Strauss’ cheeks were pink from the exertion of climbing ladders and maneuvering around, over, and under debris. The E-Suit was too big for her and bore traces of soot accumulated from heavily damaged parts of the ship. There were smudges on her face and a bruise on her cheek as well.
But she had persevered and held up two old-style communicators with a self-satisfied grin. While lacking the range and clarity of the modern comm-badges, they were not dependent on the ship’s computer controlled comm system and thus were operational.
The Captain managed a smile in return “You’re a sight for sore eyes, XO,” he said, accepting one of the devices and giving it a practiced flip of the wrist. The grid cover opened with the welcomed chirp of an open channel.
“Auxiliary Control, this is the Captain. Can you read me down there?”
“ Simms here, Captain. I read you loud and clear.”
“Good to hear your voice, Commander. The XO just arrived, so let me get a sit-rep from her then we will head your way.” He glanced around, a profound sense of sadness washing over him. “There’s nothing we can do from the bridge.”
* * *
Privateer Sujimax
Ah’met Rynar Soames tried to hide the deep concern he felt. His compatriots expected boldness and bravado from their leader.
But as they pushed their Zynarian flagged corsair deeper into the ionic maelstrom, Soames was having second thoughts. You can’t make a profit off salvage if you’re dead, the little voice in his head kept reminding him.
“Time to intercept that vessel?” he queried, his voice tighter than he liked.
“Less than one-half standard hour,” replied L’Shiv. Even the normally aggressive first mate seemed subdued. Like most of the privateer crew, she was a hybrid - the unfortunate offspring of a Klingon and Orion - and thus an outcaste from both societies.
Soames was also a mix. The father he never knew was an Orion who kidnapped his mother years ago, selling her as a slave. The forced union resulted in his birth and his own enslavement until luck and ingenuity combined so that he gained his freedom.
“Radiation levels increasing,” came the voice of Choag, their engineer. “Not at lethal levels, but I would advise against planning to have any offspring.”
This elicited a chuckle from Soames. Count on the dour Choag to unintentionally lighten the mood.
“I’m not exactly the family-man type,” quipped the Ah’met. “So, let’s press on.”
L’Shiv grunted but made no other comment.
And that’s when the light of a million suns suddenly illuminated the space ahead of them. Even the auto-dimming feature of the viewscreen did not totally protect them from the dazzling brilliance.
Soames wondered briefly if a photon torpedo had exploded in their path.
The shockwave that followed made him realize it was far worse.
Very nice.
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