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Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle

Reply #25 –
[ Lt (jg) Sarresh Morali | Junior Officers Quarters | Deck 08 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @Ellen Fitz @Nolan @RyeTanker   

[Show/Hide]

There was something thrumming in the background, but he did not pay it too much attention. After everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, Sarresh had been given down time - ordered into it by Lt. Cmdr. Cross, in fact. There was much to deal with still, but the time traveler had been utterly exhausted after everything. So he had sought out what comfort he could get - the comfort of his bed. Of rest. And of the company of the woman whom he was dreaming of had just kissed his cheek and murmured something inappropriate in his ear. A notion that would take things further than they had come to by this point. Which, in his fatigued state, sounded like a really, perfect idea. 

The dull awareness of something wickedly snapped into focus when the full blast bleating of the red-alert siren wailed into existence and the lights of his quarters came into full, glaring bright glory. He shot up with a start, blinking rapidly and searching for focus. It came, in the form of the supple security officer standing in the doorway. A groan bubbled up in the back of his throat as he saw her wink and dash out his door. 

"For fucks sake," he bemoaned as he pulled himself together, stumbling out of the bed. In sharp contrast to the woman that had shared his bed, Sarresh had let his uniform fall wherever it lay when he had stripped out of it the night prior. Thus he had the choice of picking it up, or finding a fresh one. More familiar with his quarters, he moved to the closet while he ordered the alerts muted again. No sooner had he started to pull on his pants than the voice of Lt. Commander Cross filled the room, alerting the crew that the ship had been boarded. 

Just what the absolute hell did I manage to sleep through? He asked himself. Surely he would have been woken prior to now, but he saw no missed messages in his comms log, that he took a scant moment to view. Nevertheless, he was on the same deck as the battle bridge for the Vector. For all he knew, he was the senior science officer aboard, and dreaded the notion of having to man a bridge station. By rights he should go secure the Temporal Laboratory, but then, it was already damned secure when he was not there in person. Unless the boarders had a temporal agent of their own - a notion he could not dismiss - no one was getting in there but him. 

Moving across his room, he used his thumb to open a small locker hidden behind a wall panel. He drew out a tricroder with a blue stripe down the front of it, a sleeker model than standard issue, and for good reason - it hadn't been rolled out to the rest of the fleet yet, and wasn't expected to do so for another 6 months. His less than human looking eyes scanned the read out, and he reached back into the locker, withdrawing a Type-2 Phase pistol and checking itåçs charge. Satisfied, he set them aside, zipped up his uniform jacket, and calmly left his quarters, armed with scanner and phaser. 

For now, he would ensure the Temporal laboratory was secure. And then he'd circle back to the bridge, if need be...

OOC: To be continued on Ranger thread as needed. Natalie Stark can currently be found on the bridge of the Helmet (Thread: "Heavy is the head"), trying to keep Vector and crew in one piece. And as for Ens. Eloi-Danvers whereabouts? All to be revealed in good time...

Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle

Reply #26 –
[ Ensign Karen Duncan | Cryogenic Stasis | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy | D03 0100hrs ] @Brutus @Nolan @ob2lander961 @chXinya @Dumedion @Griff @rae @Stegro88 @Eirual @RyeTanker @tongieboi @Number6 @Hans Applegate @Pierce @joshs1000 @Nesota Kynnovan @Krajin @P.C. Haring @TWilkins @Eden @SomeBunny

Her hands were shaking. She couldn't make them stop.

Karen worked quickly despite the tremor in her fingers, checking the cryochamber's readings for the third time in as many seconds. Everything had to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. There would be no second chances, no room for error. Not with this patient.

Captain Ives lay before her, barely clinging to life.

The captain's breathing was shallow, assisted entirely by the biobed's life support systems. Pale skin—so pale it seemed translucent under the harsh medical lighting—was marred by burns and trauma that made Karen's stomach clench even after years of medical training that should have inured her to such sights. The injuries were catastrophic. The kind of injuries that should have killed someone immediately.

Would have killed someone, if not for...

"Readings are stable," Doctor Nicander's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. The Câroon physician moved with practiced efficiency, his hands steady where hers trembled, though Karen couldn't help but notice the armed security officers flanking him on either side, their weapons never wavering from ready positions. "We need to initiate the cryogenic process now. Petty Officer Timmons, confirm the matter stream preservation protocols held."

The sight of those guards—fingers on triggers, eyes hard and watchful—should have been disturbing. Would have been disturbing under normal circumstances. But these weren't normal circumstances. Doctor Nicander was Infested. Had been Infested for who knew how long. Was still Infested, the parasite lurking somewhere inside him even as he worked to save their captain's life.

The irony wasn't lost on her. Neither was the desperate necessity that had led to this moment.

"Confirmed, Doctor." Timmons' voice came from the engineering console he'd practically welded himself to since they'd begun this desperate gambit. The petty officer looked exhausted, his face drawn and haggard, but his eyes were sharp as he monitored the readouts. "The captain's pattern remained stable in the buffer throughout the engagement. It was... it was close, sir. We lost power twice. Had to reroute from auxiliary systems to keep the buffer from degrading."

Karen felt her breath catch. The buffer. They'd kept Captain Ives suspended in a transporter matter stream for the duration of the battle—hours of violent engagement, of ship-to-ship combat, of systems failing and power fluctuating. One wrong surge, one failed conduit, one moment of instability, and the captain would have been lost forever, scattered into nothingness like static on a viewscreen.

But somehow, impossibly, it had worked.

She'd heard the story in fragments, pieced together from hurried conversations and terse reports. The accident aboard the Allegiant had been catastrophic—Captain Ives wounded so terribly that conventional transport was impossible. Materializing in that condition would have killed the captain instantly. And there, in the makeshift brig where they'd confined him, Doctor Nicander had heard what happened. Had demanded to be released. Had argued with his captors—argued that he could save the captain, that the Infested inside him wanted Ives dead but he didn't, that he could fight it long enough to do what needed to be done.

It must have been an impossible decision. Trust an Infested. Let him out of confinement during a battle when he could sabotage everything, when the parasite could take control at any moment and finish what the accident had started. Risk everything on the word of a man who wasn't entirely himself anymore.

But they'd done it. They'd released him, surrounded him with armed guards—the same guards who stood in Sickbay now, watching his every movement—and he'd worked with Timmons to do something that should have been impossible: suspended the captain mid-transport. Held in the pattern buffer, neither here nor there, preserved in a state of quantum uncertainty while the battle raged around them.

It was brilliant. It was insane. It was the kind of desperate improvisation that defined life aboard the Theurgy.

And it had required trusting a man possessed by their greatest enemy.

"Initiating cryogenic suspension," Doctor Nicander announced, his hands moving across the controls with the confidence of someone who had done this too many times before. His movements were careful, deliberate—not just because of the delicate nature of the work, the nurse realized, but because any sudden motion might be interpreted as hostile by the guards whose weapons never wavered from their target. "Nurse, monitor the captain's vital signs. Alert me immediately if there's any fluctuation."

"Yes, Doctor." Her voice came out steadier than she felt, muscle memory and training overriding emotion. Her eyes locked onto the biobed readouts, watching as the captain's already slow heartbeat began to decrease further, metabolism slowing as the cryogenic process took hold.

The chamber began to seal, transparent aluminum sliding into place with a pneumatic hiss that sounded too final, too much like a coffin closing. The nurse wanted to reach out, to stop it, to do something other than stand here and watch as their captain—the person who had led them through impossible odds, who had kept them together when the entire Federation wanted them dead, who had believed in them when no one else would—was locked away in frozen stasis.

"Captain..." The word slipped out before she could stop it, barely a whisper.

Doctor Nicander's eyes flicked to her, not unkind despite the intensity of the moment. "The captain will survive," he said quietly, though whether he was reassuring her or himself, she couldn't tell. "This gives us time. Time for the wounds to stabilize, time to develop treatment protocols, time for..." He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Time for what? Time to figure out how to save someone who by all rights should already be dead? Time to hope that medical technology would advance enough to repair damage this severe? Time to pray?

The chamber sealed completely, and the nurse watched as frost began to form on the interior surfaces, watched as the captain's chest rose and fell one last time before the suspension fully took hold and all movement ceased. Frozen. Preserved. Alive, technically, but so far from living that the distinction felt meaningless.

"Readings are stable," she reported mechanically, because that's what she was supposed to do. Report. Function. Be professional. "Cryogenic suspension holding at optimal parameters."

"Good." Doctor Nicander stepped back from the chamber, his expression unreadable. His hands remained visible, non-threatening—a conscious choice, the nurse realized, to avoid spooking the guards. "Petty Officer Timmons, I recommend that you archive all transporter buffer data. A complete record of every second the captain spent in suspension. You may need it for the revival protocol."

The slight emphasis on you wasn't lost on anyone in the room.

"Already done." Timmons looked like he might collapse where he stood. "I've encrypted it with every security protocol I know. No one's accessing that data without authorization from Commander Stark or..." He hesitated, glancing at Nicander, then at the guards.

"Or whoever Commander Stark designates," Nicander finished for him, his voice carefully neutral. "I..." He paused, something flickering across his face—pain, perhaps, or regret. "I would appreciate being informed of any updates to the captain's condition. But I recognize that I don't have a right to that information. Not anymore."

The admission hung heavy in the air. The nurse felt her throat tighten. Here was a man who had just saved their captain's life through impossible means, who had fought against the thing inside him long enough to preserve the one person who mattered most to this crew—and he knew that none of it absolved him. Knew that he was still compromised, still dangerous, still the enemy wearing a familiar face.

One of the security guards—a hard-faced woman whose name Karen didn't know—spoke for the first time. "Doctor Nicander, you'll be escorted back to the brig now." It wasn't a question.

"Of course." Nicander's hands remained visible, movements slow and deliberate as he stepped away from the medical equipment. "I understand completely." His eyes found the cryochamber one last time, lingering on the frost-covered surface that obscured Captain Ives' face. "I'm... I'm glad we were able to do this. Whatever happens to me, whatever the thing inside me wants—this was worth it."

Karen watched as the guards moved into formation around him, weapons still ready, still watchful. Watched as Doctor Nicander—who had just performed medical miracles under impossible conditions—was led away like a prisoner. Which, she supposed, he was. Even heroes could be compromised. Even brilliant physicians could harbor enemies within their own flesh.

It was the cruel mathematics of their situation: trust was a luxury they couldn't afford, even when necessity demanded they extend it temporarily.

"Ma'am?" Timmons' voice was quiet, tired. "Are you alright?"

Karen realized she'd been staring at the doorway through which Nicander and his handlers had disappeared. She blinked, forcing herself back to the present, back to the work that remained. "I'm... yes. I'm fine."

She wasn't fine. None of them were fine. But they would function anyway, because that's what the situation demanded.

Commander Stark.

Right.

Karen felt reality crash back down around her with that thought. Commander Stark was in command now. The captain—their captain—was gone. Not dead, not exactly, but gone nonetheless. Locked away in frozen sleep while the ship continued to face threats that hadn't diminished just because one person fell.
What happened now? What happened to a crew that had followed their captain through hell and back, only to have that captain taken away at the moment when leadership was most needed? The battle was over—at least this battle—but the war continued. The Infested were still out there. The conspiracy still spread through the Federation like a cancer. Enemies surrounded them on all sides.

And Captain Ives was frozen in a tube, unable to lead, unable to guide, unable to do anything but exist in the space between life and death. Saved by an enemy who had fought against his own nature long enough to be their salvation.

Karen felt tears prick at her eyes and angrily blinked them away. Not here. Not now. There would be time for grief later, time to process what this meant, time to mourn the loss of the person who had kept them all together through impossible circumstances.

Behind her, the cryochamber hummed its steady preservation song. Captain Ives slept in frozen suspension. And somewhere in the brig, Doctor Nicander was being locked away again, the guards who had watched him save a life now ensuring he couldn't take others.

Karen squared her shoulders, wiped at her eyes one final time, and returned to work. Because that's what they did aboard the Theurgy. They kept going. They survived.
[ Commander Stark  | Bridge | USS Theurgy | The Triangle ]

The bridge was still thick with the hum of systems recovering from the battle when Lieutenant Madsen’s voice came over the comms—uneven at first, broken by static and interference. Then, clarity cut through.

[“Thalaron weapon neutralized. Donatra’s ship disabled. Donatra herself… is no longer a threat.”]

For a moment, Natalie Stark didn’t breathe. The words hung in the air like a lifeline, and when she finally exhaled, it felt as though the entire ship joined her. Shoulders eased, the silence that followed not one of dread, but of dawning relief. The impossible threat—the thalaron weapon—was gone.

But that relief lasted only seconds.

The next report came from Sickbay, and it struck harder than any blow the Romulans could deliver. Captain Ives had survived—but just barely. The damage was too extensive for their medtech to handle, compounded by his unique physiology. It had been Doctor Nicander—against every expectation—who had kept the Captain alive long enough for the transfer to stasis.

Nicander himself had returned to the brig afterward, without resistance, without a word. Stark didn’t know yet what to feel about that—whether gratitude outweighed distrust, or if either emotion mattered now. The baggage she carried about that man could fill a shuttle and there was nothing she could do about it. Could not let it play into her judgment. All she knew was that the Captain still breathed because of him.

And the Savi… silence. Hails unanswered. If they weren’t coming back, then there was no telling when—or if—Ives could ever be revived.

A soft tone pulled her back to the present. Long-range sensors had picked up multiple Starfleet signatures, closing fast. She checked the readout herself—her pulse quickening despite her effort to stay composed.

Several ships. Federation registry. One transponder unmistakable.

The Presidential flagship.

They would arrive within three hours.

The realization settled over her like cold water. Whatever this new chapter would bring, they had little time to prepare.

She rose from the command chair—his chair—and faced the bridge crew. Fatigue lined every face, but so did resolve. They’d fought, they’d survived, and now they looked to her.

“The battle is over,” she said, her voice steady despite the knot in her chest. “Donatra’s ship has been captured. A few Romulan runabouts escaped the field, but the rest have stood down and are willing to negotiate.”

She took a breath before continuing.

“Captain Ives has been placed in a cryo-stasis chamber. His condition is critical, and until further notice, I am assuming command of the Theurgy.”

The words felt too large, too final, but she pressed on.

“Multiple Starfleet vessels are inbound, including the Presidential flagship. They’ll reach our coordinates within three hours. I want full damage and casualty reports submitted by then. Every ship in our task group needs to be reintegrated and as ready as possible—we have no idea what to expect when the President arrives.”

She turned toward the tactical station. “Signal our Klingon allies. Inform them of the incoming Starfleet fleet and advise them to stand down until we know the President’s intentions.”

Then, to communications: “Maintain open channels with the Romulan forces. Begin coordinating for a diplomatic meeting in a neutral location—preferably aboard Theurgy—once we’ve established contact with the Starfleet vessels.”

Acknowledgments came quickly, the crew already moving with the quiet precision of those too tired for hesitation. Reports scrolled across consoles, voices rose in controlled exchange, and the ship began to feel alive again—wounded, but breathing.

Stark stood a moment longer, watching them, feeling the weight of command settle fully onto her shoulders. She thought of Ives lying in cold suspension, of Nicander returning to his cell, of the uncertain fleet speeding toward them under the Federation’s banner.

Whatever came next, there would be no pause. No reprieve.

She sank back into the command chair, hands tightening on the armrests as the stars beyond the viewport drifted past—steady, silent, and indifferent.

The battle was over.

But command had truly begun.
[ Ambassador Elim Garak | Observation Deck | Paris One | Approaching Coordinates near the Romulan Neutral Zone ]

The stars stretched before him in their infinite, indifferent beauty—a tapestry of light against the void that had witnessed countless civilizations rise and fall with equal dispassion. Garak stood with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his reflection ghosting across the viewport's surface like a specter from some half-remembered nightmare. How fitting, he mused, that he should appear so insubstantial when recent events had proven just how fragile the veneer of civilization truly was.

It had been a near thing, their escape from the brig. President Bacco had proven herself to be remarkably composed under pressure—a quality Garak had always appreciated in his adversaries and allies alike, though the line between the two had become delightfully blurred in recent days. The chaos following Admiral Abrik's attempted coup had provided just enough cover for them to reach the Jeffries tubes, and from there... well, desperation made for creative solutions.

Doctor Marlowe's broadcast had been their salvation, ironically enough. Once the crew of the Paris One had witnessed the simulcast—the real events on Qo'noS, not the sanitized fiction the Infested had been peddling—the atmosphere aboard ship had shifted dramatically. The president's order to screen every crew member had been met with surprisingly little resistance. Perhaps that spoke to how deeply the rot had spread, that people were relieved to prove their humanity rather than offended by the implication they might not be human at all.

The screening had revealed only one other compromised individual: Admiral Abrik himself, who now occupied the very cell Garak had so recently vacated. There was a certain poetic justice in that, though Garak found poetry poor consolation when weighed against the broader implications. If a man of Abrik's position had been compromised, how many others throughout Starfleet, throughout the Federation, remained undiscovered?

The straitjacket had been necessary. The parasite had driven Abrik to attempt self-termination three times before they'd restrained him properly. Watching the admiral—a man who had commanded fleets and advised presidents—reduced to a thrashing, foam-flecked creature had been... illuminating. And deeply unsettling.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Garak from his reverie. He didn't turn; he recognized the president's measured gait, accompanied by the heavier tread of at least two security personnel. They were taking no chances now.

"Ambassador Garak." President Bacco moved to stand beside him at the viewport, her gaze following his toward the stars. She looked tired—the kind of exhaustion that settled into bones and stayed there. "According to our latest scans, we're approaching the remains of a significant engagement. Ships from multiple powers: Klingon, Romulan, Reman..." She paused, and Garak could hear the weight in that silence. "And the Theurgy."

"Ah." Garak allowed himself a slight smile. "The renegades, as they've been so colorfully termed. Though I suspect that particular designation may require revision in the official records."

"Among other things." Bacco's lips compressed into a thin line. "The question is, Ambassador, what do we do when we arrive? I've spent the last hour trying to formulate an approach, and I find myself at something of a loss."

"You might start with a simple thank you," Garak suggested, his tone deceptively mild. "I understand Starfleet has been rather remiss in expressing gratitude to those who've been fighting to preserve the Federation while being hunted by it. A touch of appreciation might go a long way toward establishing productive dialogue."

The president turned to look at him directly, one eyebrow raised. "Sarcasm noted, Ambassador. But you're not wrong." She sighed, the sound carrying the weight of worlds. "The problem extends far beyond this moment, this ship, these coordinates. The rest of the Federation is only just beginning to wake up to the threat. And many—too many—still aren't buying it."

"Ah yes, the eternal challenge of truth versus comfortable fiction." Garak tilted his head thoughtfully. "Tell me, Madam President, of those who refuse to believe, how many do you suspect are compromised themselves, and how many are simply engaged in that most human of behaviors: denial?"

"That's the hell of it—I don't know." Bacco's hands clenched at her sides. "Not all disbelief stems from infestation. Some people genuinely can't accept that they've been deceived on this scale. Others have political or personal reasons to reject the narrative. Sorting the compromised from the merely obstinate is going to take time we may not have."

"And then there's the diplomatic quagmire," Garak continued smoothly, warming to his theme. "The Romulans who bombed Paris—how many were Infested, and how many were simply following orders from those who were? It's the oldest defense in the book, and one of the most difficult to refute."

"Just following orders." The president's voice was flat, hollow. "As if that absolves them of responsibility."

"It doesn't, of course." Garak turned to face her fully now, his blue eyes sharp despite the casual tone. "But it does complicate matters considerably. You cannot simply execute every Romulan officer who participated in that atrocity—many were acting on legitimate orders from their chain of command. They believed they were serving their Empire. Punishing them as war criminals when they were, in essence, tools of the Infested... well, that creates its own set of diplomatic nightmares, doesn't it?"

Bacco closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again, Garak saw the steel beneath her exhaustion. "The radicalization aspect makes it worse. Most of those involved weren't Infested themselves—they'd simply been conditioned by Infested superiors to view the Federation as an existential threat. How do you prosecute someone for being successfully manipulated?"

"You don't," Garak said simply. "At least, not in the traditional sense. But you must do something, or risk appearing weak to those who demand justice for the dead. It's a delicate balance—accountability without vengeance, justice without genocide. Threading that needle will require..." He paused, allowing himself a small, sardonic smile. "Well, it will require someone comfortable swimming in murky waters."

The president surprised him by laughing—a short, sharp bark of sound that held more irony than humor. "That's one way to put it. Ambassador, I'm glad you're here. I'm going to need someone who can navigate the grey areas we're about to enter. And from what I understand of your reputation, you're rather adept at finding your way through the shadows."

"You flatter me, Madam President." Garak's smile widened fractionally. "Though I note you stop just short of calling me a spy, a liar, and a master manipulator. How very diplomatic of you."

"I'm calling you an asset," Bacco corrected, her tone brooking no argument. "One I intend to utilize fully in the days ahead. We're about to walk into a situation that makes first contact with the Borg look straightforward by comparison. Multiple powers, multiple agendas, and an existential threat wearing the faces of people we trusted. If we're going to navigate this successfully, I need people who understand that sometimes the right thing and the legal thing aren't the same thing."

"How refreshingly pragmatic of you." Garak returned his gaze to the viewport, where the coordinates were growing closer with each passing moment. "Very well, Madam President. I accept your implicit offer of employment in this dubious enterprise. Though I do have one question."

"Which is?"

"When we arrive, and you extend your gratitude to Captain Ives and the crew of the Theurgy, will you be doing so as the President of the United Federation of Planets?" Garak's voice was soft, almost gentle. "Or as a fugitive president whose authority has been compromised by the very conspiracy we're trying to expose? Because that distinction, I'm afraid, will matter a great deal to how your words are received."

The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Finally, Bacco spoke, her voice carrying a strength that age and exhaustion couldn't diminish.

"I'll be doing so as both, Ambassador. As a president who acknowledges her government has been infiltrated and her authority questioned, but who nonetheless represents the legitimate civilian authority of the Federation. And as a woman who owes her life to the very people my government has been trying to destroy." She straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin. "If that makes me a fugitive president, so be it. But I'm still the president, and I intend to act like it."

"Good." Garak nodded approvingly. "Because they'll respect honesty far more than false certainty. These are people who've been lied about, hunted, and forced to make impossible choices while the Federation they swore to protect branded them traitors. They'll see through any attempt at political posturing in an instant."

"Then I'll give them truth instead." Bacco turned from the viewport, her security detail shifting to accommodate her movement. "Thank you, Ambassador. For the reminder, if nothing else, that this is going to require a level of honesty politicians aren't usually comfortable with."

"My pleasure, Madam President." Garak watched her go, then returned his attention to the stars.

Somewhere ahead, in the coordinates they approached, lay the Theurgy and whatever remained of the forces that had engaged them. Klingons, Romulans, Remans—a powder keg of interstellar tensions given form and fleet. And at the center of it all, a ship full of people who had sacrificed everything to expose a truth no one wanted to hear.

How very familiar that felt.

Garak's reflection smiled back at him from the viewport's surface, and for once, there was something genuine in the expression. They were swimming toward murky waters indeed, but murky waters had always been his natural habitat.

The game, as they said, was afoot.

And this time, perhaps, he was playing on the right side.
[ Dr. James Hudson Marlowe | Personal Office | SS Liberum | En Route to Classified Repair Facility ]

The smell of burnt circuitry and scorched metal still clung to everything despite the ship's environmental systems working overtime. Marlowe had grown almost accustomed to it—just another reminder of how close they'd come to being silenced permanently. The droids' attack had cost them dearly: Amy, Sil, and too many crew members whose names he kept running through his mind like a litany of the fallen.

But they were alive. Battered, bloodied, and limping toward one of Jaal's "trusted" facilities for repairs, but alive. And more importantly, still broadcasting when they could manage it.

Marlowe hunched over his desk, the blue glow of multiple PADDs illuminating his haggard features. Sleep remained an elusive luxury—every time he closed his eyes, he saw Amy's lifeless face, her body draped over the console she'd died protecting. So he worked instead, compiling data, cross-referencing reports, following the threads of information that continued to filter in through Jaal's classified channels.

The latest batch of intelligence had his full attention.

Reports of major engagement near Romulan Neutral Zone. Multiple fleet elements: Klingon Empire, Romulan Star Empire, Reman forces. Unconfirmed reports place USS Theurgy at center of conflict. Casualty estimates unavailable. Outcome: inconclusive.

Marlowe read the words for the fourth time, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the desk's edge. The Theurgy. Of course it would be the Theurgy. That ship had become the fulcrum upon which the fate of the Federation seemed to balance—a vessel full of people branded traitors who were actually the last line of defense against an enemy most still refused to acknowledge existed.

Enyd was on that ship. His former student, his friend—the stubborn woman who'd somehow ended up caught in the middle of this nightmare and who'd been part of the team that had rescued him from that Federation brig on Qo'noS. He'd seen her then, alive and determined, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Was she still alive now? Had she survived whatever battle had taken place near the Neutral Zone?

"Is that where it happens?" he murmured to the empty office. "Is that where we find out if truth wins, or if comfortable lies continue to rule the day?"

The battle—if the reports could be believed—had been significant. Fleet-level engagement, multiple powers, near the border that had defined generations of tension between the Federation and Romulan Star Empire. The implications were staggering. Had the Theurgy been destroyed? Had they somehow survived? Were they even now making their case to powers who might actually listen?

Or was this all just another elaborate trap, another manipulation by the Infested to consolidate their control?

The chime at his office door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "Come in," he called out, straightening in his chair and wincing as his body reminded him he'd been sitting in the same position for too long.

One of his newer research aides—Keera, a young Denobulan woman who'd joined his team after the embassy incident—entered with a PADD clutched tightly in both hands. Her typically cheerful expression was replaced by something that looked like a mix of excitement and frustration.

"James, we just received something through our Orion channels. You need to see this."

Marlowe gestured for her to continue, already reaching for another coffee that had long since gone cold. "I'm listening."

"One of our Orion informants—the reliable one, Vexis—just sent through intelligence about a major gathering being organized." Keera's wide eyes betrayed her nervousness. "We're talking about representatives from the Orions, the Tzenkethi Coalition, the Holy Order of the Kinshaya, the Gorn Hegemony, the Tholian Assembly, and the Breen Confederacy."

The coffee cup froze halfway to Marlowe's lips. Slowly, deliberately, he set it back down on the desk, his full attention now locked on his aide. "All of them? Meeting together? That's... that's unprecedented. Those powers barely tolerate each other under normal circumstances."

"Exactly." Keera nodded vigorously, her enthusiasm for the discovery momentarily overriding her concern. "According to Vexis, the meeting is scheduled to take place in or near Breen space within the next few weeks. The stated purpose is 'mutual security concerns regarding recent destabilization in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants.'"

"Destabilization." Marlowe's laugh was sharp and bitter. "What a wonderfully sanitized way to describe whatever the hell is actually going on." He leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk. "Do we have coordinates? Specific location? Timeline?"

Keera's expression shifted, and there it was—the frustration he'd noticed when she first entered. "That's where it gets complicated."

"Of course it does." Marlowe sighed, already knowing what was coming.

"Vexis has the information. Precise coordinates, attendee list, security arrangements, even the agenda topics." Keera's voice took on an edge that was decidedly un-Denobulan-like in its sharpness. "But that information is behind what they're calling a 'premium access fee.'"

"How much?"

Keera met his eyes, and Marlowe saw genuine anger there. She rolled her eyes dramatically before answering. "Enough to buy six ships like the Liberum and fund full pensions for our entire crew, their children, and their grandchildren."

The silence that followed was thunderous. Marlowe felt his hands curl into fists on the desktop, his knuckles white with tension. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet—the kind of quiet that made his crew know he was truly furious rather than merely frustrated.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly." Each word was precisely enunciated, controlled. "We have credible intelligence about a gathering of powers—powers that have historically been hostile to or at least deeply suspicious of the Federation—meeting in secret to discuss 'mutual security concerns' at precisely the moment when we've just exposed a massive infiltration conspiracy. A conspiracy that's almost certainly not limited to Federation and Klingon space." He paused, his jaw clenching. "This gathering could very well involve Infested representatives pushing their agenda to expand beyond their current scope. And the only thing preventing us from investigating this clear and present threat is..." He spat the words. "A paywall."

"That's exactly the situation." Keera's voice was tight with shared frustration.

Marlowe exploded from his chair, pacing the small office like a caged predator. "This is exactly what they count on! Information locked behind financial barriers, truth available only to those who can afford it, while the rest of the galaxy stumbles blindly toward catastrophe!" He spun to face Keera, his expression fierce. "This gathering—if it's real, and I suspect it is—could represent the next phase of whatever the hell the Infested are planning. If they've managed to infiltrate the Federation and Klingon Empire, what's stopping them from having agents among the Tzenkethi? The Breen? Any of these powers?"

"Which would explain why they're suddenly willing to meet together," Keera finished softly. "Someone's coordinating this. Someone's feeding them information, probably painting the Federation and Klingons as aggressive threats that require a unified response."

"Exactly." Marlowe resumed his pacing, his mind racing through scenarios and possibilities. "But we can't prove any of this without evidence. We can't investigate without the coordinates. And we can't get the coordinates without credits we don't have and couldn't justify spending if we did, all based on the word of one Orion informant—however reliable—selling intelligence to the highest bidder."

He stopped at the viewport, staring out at the stars streaking past in their limping warp trajectory. Somewhere out there, the Theurgy was fighting—or had fought—a battle that might determine everything. Enyd was out there somewhere, alive or dead, he didn't know which. And somewhere else, in or near Breen space, another threat was coalescing, one that could determine the long-term survival of everything worth protecting.

And he was stuck on a damaged ship, too poor to buy the information needed to investigate, too controversial to be taken seriously by most official channels even if he tried to share what little he knew.

"James?" Keera's voice was hesitant. "What do you want me to do?"

Marlowe turned from the viewport, his expression settling into something grimly determined. "Put together everything we have. Cross-reference the known intelligence with historical data on similar gatherings—if there have been any. Pull up everything we know about recent Breen, Tzenkethi, Kinshaya, Gorn, Tholian, and Orion movements. Trade patterns, diplomatic communiqués, military deployments—anything that might give us a clue about where this meeting could be taking place."

"You want me to try to triangulate the location?" Understanding dawned in Keera's eyes. "Use circumstantial evidence to narrow down the possibilities?"

"Exactly. We may not be able to pinpoint it precisely, but we might be able to identify likely candidates. Breen space is vast, but there are only so many locations that would be suitable for a gathering of this magnitude and political sensitivity." Marlowe moved back to his desk, already pulling up star charts and strategic analyses. "Look for locations with strategic significance, defendable positions, places with existing infrastructure that could support multiple diplomatic parties, somewhere remote enough to maintain secrecy but accessible enough for representatives from six different powers to reach without arousing suspicion."

Keera nodded, her fingers already flying across her PADD as she made notes. "I'll have a preliminary analysis ready within six hours. Maybe twelve for anything comprehensive."

"Good. And Keera?" Marlowe caught her attention as she turned to leave. "Keep this quiet. I don't want anyone outside our immediate research team knowing what we're working on. If word gets back to Vexis that we're trying to circumvent the paywall, we might lose access to the channel entirely."

"Understood." She paused at the door, her expression troubled. "James, even if we do narrow down the location... what then? We're not a military vessel. We can't investigate a meeting of potentially hostile powers on our own, and we don't have the resources to pay for the intelligence that would let us pass it to someone who could."

"I know." Marlowe's voice was heavy with frustration. "But we do what we can with what we have. Maybe we get lucky and piece together enough information to make a credible case. Maybe we don't, but at least we tried. And maybe..." He trailed off, thinking of a certain Starfleet lieutenant who'd proven herself trustworthy. "Maybe there's someone who can act on it if we can verify enough of it."

After Keera left, Marlowe sank back into his chair, the weight of exhaustion and responsibility settling over him like a physical force. The office felt smaller now, the walls closing in as the magnitude of what they faced became clearer. Two potential flashpoints—the situation near the Neutral Zone and this gathering in Breen space—and he was effectively powerless to impact either directly.

His gaze fell on his communications console, and a thought began to crystallize. There was someone he could try to contact. Someone who had proven herself uncompromised. Someone who was, theoretically, right in the middle of whatever was happening near the Neutral Zone.

Enyd Madsen.

If she was still alive. If the Theurgy had survived. If any of them had made it through whatever engagement had taken place. Those were a lot of ifs, but Enyd had always been resourceful, brilliant, and stubborn enough to survive impossible situations. He had to believe she was still out there.

But could he risk it? Reaching out to someone aboard the Theurgy meant potentially exposing his location, his operations, his crew. They'd just barely survived one assassination attempt. How many more would come if he made himself that visible?

And yet... if he didn't try, if this threat went uninvestigated simply because of financial barriers and his own caution, how many people would die? How much territory would fall to the Infested's expanding influence?

Marlowe stared at the console for a long moment, weighing the risks against the potential cost of inaction. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he activated a secondary encryption protocol—one of the secure channels Jaal had provided for emergencies—and began composing a message. Not to send immediately, but to have ready if Keera's analysis yielded anything substantive enough to justify the risk.

To: Lieutenant Enyd Isolde Madsen, USS Theurgy From: James

Enyd,

I don't even know if you're still alive to read this. I don't know if the Theurgy survived whatever happened near the Neutral Zone—reports are fragmented at best, contradictory at worst. But I have to hope you made it through. You always were too stubborn to let something like a fleet engagement slow you down.
I'm writing because I've stumbled onto something that has my instincts screaming that it's important, but I'm stuck behind the usual barriers of credits and access. You know how this works—truth is expensive, and I'm apparently not rich enough to afford it at the moment.

Here's what I know: There's going to be a meeting. A big one. Orions, Tzenkethi, Kinshaya, Gorn, Tholians, and Breen—all of them gathering somewhere in or near Breen space in the next few weeks to discuss "mutual security concerns regarding recent destabilization." Which, let's be honest, is a euphemism if I've ever heard one.

Now, I can't prove this, but my gut says the Infested have their fingers in this somehow. We know they've infiltrated the Federation and the Klingon Empire—what's to stop them from having agents among these other powers? And if they do, this gathering could be exactly the kind of coordination effort that turns bad into catastrophic. A multi-front coalition against the Federation, all based on paranoia and manipulation fed to them by parasites wearing familiar faces.

The problem is, I can't get the specific coordinates or details without paying an amount that would bankrupt me six times over. So my team and I are trying to triangulate possible locations using circumstantial evidence and historical patterns. It's a long shot, but it's what we've got.

If we manage to narrow it down to something actionable—and that's a big if—I wanted you to know about it. Or whoever in Starfleet isn't compromised and might actually be able to investigate. You proved yourself uncompromised when you helped get me out of that brig on Qo'noS. I trust you, Enyd. Which is saying something given how few people I trust these days.

My crew took heavy casualties recently. Lost my assistants, Amy and Sil, along with too many others. We were attacked by droids—someone really wanted us silenced. But we're still here, still broadcasting when we can, still digging for truth in all the uncomfortable places.

Happy hunting,

James

P.S. — If you're not alive to read this and someone else is going through your messages, please don't immediately arrest me. I'm one of the good guys, I swear. Probably.

He saved the draft message, encrypted it with multiple layers of security, and leaned back in his chair. The tone was far less formal than anything he'd normally send to someone in Starfleet, but Enyd had never been just another officer to him. She'd been his student, his friend, almost something more if either of them had ever slowed down enough to move beyond initial flirtation, someone who shared his passion for understanding truth even when it was complicated and uncomfortable. If anyone would understand what he was trying to do, it would be her.

When Keera's analysis was complete, when they had something more concrete than an Orion informant's expensive offer, he would decide whether to send it. Until then, they would do what they'd always done: dig for truth with whatever tools they had, refusing to let barriers—financial or otherwise—stop them from exposing threats to the people who deserved to know they existed.

Even if those people still weren't entirely ready to believe.

GM Note: This concludes the battle sequence and, technically, the main portion of the episode. We will be moving into the Epilogue next, which will feature the arrival of the Starfleet vessels and the subsequent meetings with the Remans, Klingons, Romulans, and the President.

Everyone should make one last post in this thread of your characters (where they are, how they receive this information Stark just shared, etc).

The ships are not reintegrated YET, but they will be by the time the Epilogue starts. You can do supplementary threads during the 3 hr in between to your heart's delight using S: D03 0100 hrs onward till 0300, understanding that the Ranger will be reintegrating with the Helmet during that time, and the Allegiant and Apache will be returning to the hangar as well. Starting at D03 0400 hrs, it will change to Epilogue.

Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle

Reply #27 –
[CPO Avandar Lok | Flight Deck | Fighter Bay | Deck 16 | Vector 02 | USS Theurgy] Attn: @everyone
[Show/Hide]

His head pounded, his body was weak, and sleep gnawed at the frayed edges of his consciousness. At any other time Lok would have remained in sickbay to recover with some fluids and pain killers, the battle was over, he could stand at ease, let someone else take the burden for a while…but there was no one else, so many were gone now, and those that remained were just as hurt and tired as he was. So he walked, through the damaged corridors of the ship back to his post, gingerly stepping over the pools of blood from fallen shipmates and fallen enemies. Even as he went his mind, as uncomfortable as it was, noted the damage and considered solutions, as any engineer would; it wasn’t his department, but with the ship being so shorthanded, perhaps worse after this battle, the possibility of being assigned to repair Theurgy with the engineers loomed.

After passing the security checkpoint, Lok entered the fighter bay once more. Not quite how he left it. The barricade was still there, though actively being disassembled in preparation for the return of the fighter squadron, new blast marks were all over the walls, but most intently was the bodies of Romulans, laid out in three neat rows at the back of the deck and another row of his fellow shipmates. He felt nothing in the moment, perhaps a bit of pity, he had seen enough heaped dead in his career that it had about as much impact on him as a bulkhead or door, but still, deep down, his stomach clenched and his heart felt heavy with sorrow.  It's not that he didn't care it was just he had learned to essentially ignore it until such a time when he could grieve on his own.

As a dozen or so Romulan prisoners were being led away, Lok approached Petty Officer Hussein, who seemed a bit surprised to see the large black feline up and about. Several other crew chiefs gathered around in expectation of orders. They were all exhausted, no doubt running on autopilot, much like Lok himself.

“Let’s devote ourselves to just clearing a landing space for our birds”, Lok began in a low neutral voice, he just needed to rattle off some orders, he didn’t have much left for inspiring speeches, “once the LSOs bring them in we will just deck park them for now until we can get the rest of this place cleaned up.”

He paused for a moment as his mind searched for something profound to say, but nothing was forthcoming so he said simply, “Good job today, guys.”

No other words were needed, just some nods as the deck crew headed off to straighten up, giving orders to their own teams as they went. Lok followed and helped move some of the barricades out of the way but before too long he started to feel a little woozy and took a seat on the floor against the port side wall, near where he had been shot. He closed his eyes, the feeling started to go away.

“You alright Chief”, Hussein asked as she approached.

“Yeah I’m fine, just needed to sit for a...for a moment”, Lok mumbled.

“Alright, just let me know if you need anything, we should have this squared away pretty quick.”

"Uh-huh..."

Before she had even walked away a soft snore emanated from the large feline. She glanced back down at him and shook her head with a smile as she looked at the now sleeping form of Lok.

“You get some rest, Chief, we got it from here.”


Cmdr. (3rd) Hassar al-Zaheer | Bridge | Deck 1 | Vector 01 | USS Theurgy]
[Show/Hide]

With the battle over in a great victory, Hassar found himself once again floating about, having turned over the tactical station to its normal officer once things settled down. His primary task was to get a status of all of his teams and determine casualties as well as equipment losses. A grim task to be sure as he had known already they had lost people. With the help of one of the ship’s communications’ officers he was able to reach and account for all of his marines. The butcher’s bill was surprisingly light, three dead, eight wounded, but in a galaxy where barely a hundred thousand vaharrans remained, three might as well have been three thousand. No time to dwell on it though, not in that moment anyway, as he noted down the names and made a mental note to ask the Starfleet commanders when he could conduct a vaharran funeral service for his fallen comrades.

With all that taken care of, Hassar retrieved his weapon, bid Commander Stark farewell for the moment, then left the bridge into the corridors beyond. Already there were medical and maintenance crews looking things over, but the Arosan Marines that had followed Hassar up here simply milled about without much to do, unsure of the Starfleet protocols, they simply stood guard where they thought best. Unsure himself exactly where they were wanted, Hassar dismissed the Marines back to their original staging area until orders from on high were more forthcoming.

Even so, Hassar was curious about a rumored impromptu diplomatic event between the warring sides and wondered, as the direct envoy for his people and of his father, would he have to attend, was he even allowed to attend? Granted the Arosan Republic wasn’t exactly embroiled in the conflict with the Romulans, but there was the reason he came out here in the first place, to find his missing people, to find his son. At the same time he didn’t exactly know much about diplomacy, just how to be courteous and observe, based on his time during the Dominion War, but anything that involved actual negotiations, he was a bit lost.

All that was in the future though, other things required his attention first as he headed down to the assembly area, taking a moment to say a quiet prayer to the spirits that his fallen Marines would find passage to the world beyond.


OOC Notes-
-Hereafter Avandar Lok, though the butterfly effect, is a Ferasan. Further details will be provided elsewhere and on his profile when that is updated.

Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle

Reply #28 –
[LT Arven Leux | Battle Sickbay | Deck 15 | Vector 3] Attn: @all

He had to see it for himself.

Amidst the wreckage and ruination of what was once a place of healing, Arven walked through a scene of complete carnage. Exhausted violet eyes surveyed the remains – the shattered consoles, the scorched walls, the blood-stained carpet – all while his mind fought the fatigue and the creeping sense of déjà vu.

“Doc,” a voice called, drawing Arven’s attention. He turned his tired gaze to one of the security escorts as the armored man emerged from the flickering darkness of the small ICU ward.

“Any others,” Arven asked with a sigh.

PO Deveraux shook his head. “We’re clear.”

Leux took one last look around, then nodded his head. “I’ll get some people down here to set up another aid station until we can get the equipment repaired.”

The security officer shrugged, the movement mimicked with a whine of artificial muscle fiber and servos as he made his way to the door, which was a half-blasted, jagged sculpture of twisted metal. “If we find more, we’ll send ‘em your way.”

Arven grunted as he half-bent around the jagged ruined entryway, back into the main corridor of the deck. “No – we’re taxed to capacity,” a hand ran through his sweat and grime caked hair, then down his face as they walked. “Stabilize them in place as best you can. Sickbay is in full triage mode.”

“The dead,” Deveraux asked.

Arven grimaced and shook his head. “Ours go to the morgue. Theirs can bloody burn for all I care.”

“Doc?” The security officer asked incredulously, almost with a laugh of disbelief.

Arven spun on him without warning, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “You heard me,” he snarled at the man, who nearly matched the Trill's height incased in his armor. “In case you haven’t noticed, we just lost over half of our medical personnel – doctors, nurses – people who posed no threat to – “

“Lieutenant,” Deveraux interrupted calmly, a hand on his shoulder. “I know damn well how many we lost today. Better than you,” the man nodded, and Arven noticed the pain in his dark eyes, the gashes on his brow and lips, and the scorch marks adorning his armor. “I’ve lost more than a few friends today, too – but that doesn’t change who we are. It can’t. Otherwise, they win, and all of it doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

For a moment, Arven couldn’t manage a response. In the end, he was simply too tired to argue, as the anger faded and took the fight with it. He shrugged Deveraux’ hand off as he turned and walked away towards the lift. “Bag and tag them then,” the Doctor grumbled, “storage will have to do until we figure out how to return them to their own.”

Deveraux sighed where Arven left him, then nodded and followed.

Arven’s badge chirped as the doors to the lift closed; he tapped it, resting his head back on the wall. “Leux, go ahead.”

[“Doctor, your presence and assistance are urgently needed in cryo-stasis.”] Vi-Nine stated in a hurried blurt of semi-emotive panic. [“Please proceed with haste.”]

The Trill’s face scrunched up in a grimace of fatigue before he answered. “On my way.”
 
[Moments later…| Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | Vector 2]

Arven caught a surprising nod from Dr. Nicander as he passed, followed by two security escorts. He didn’t have time to stop and ask the obvious questions, but moved past with urgency into the mostly pristine cryo-stasis compartment; where Vi-Nine stood centered around four hovering bio-beds – each with a casualty being prepped for stasis.

“Report,” Luex asked, moving to the closest bed console, where the color-bleached body of LT. V’lana lay unmoving – grievous wounds held in synth-flesh patches across her torso and neck.

Vi-Nine was a blur of motion; the android’s limbs and torso rotated about in a stream of movement as her head and ocular sensor stayed fixated on Arven. At her sides, Leux recognized the bright-red hair of Dr. Pax, and the slab of muscle that was Dr. Kobol – or what remained of them.

“Casualty reports and diagnoses are filed for later review,” the android replied rather curtly, “for now I would appreciate your assistance in preparing cryotubes twelve and thirteen for Doctor’s Pax and Kobol before their vitals crash – again.”

“Alright, alright,” Arven huffed as he moved to comply. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“Irrelevant. LT Kingston, Ensign Murphy, LT Havenborn still await stasis. I cannot perform miracles alone, Doctor.”

Arven powered up the appropriate systems in sync, pairing each tube with the life-sustaining apparatus of the hovering bio-beds without hesitation. The droids words stung, however – more than he’d care to admit. “Alpha-wave stabilizers initiated. Queing vitae transmitters for injection,” he reported, keying in the process codes to Dr. Kobol’s stasis tube before glancing at Vi-Nine. “What was Nicander doing in here,” he asked.

The droid emitted a blurt of noise that sounded incredibly mechanical yet disturbingly emotional. “Saving Captain Ives’ life,” Vi-Nine answered quietly. “Patient ready for interment,” she added the next second, moving away from the bio-wreckage that was once Dr. Kobol.

“Got it,” Arven grunted, lifting the bio-bed to slide into the misty interior of the stasis chamber and sliding it into place. It locked with the internal systems with a series of clicks, then sealed automatically as the systems came online. “Stasis online – systems optimal. Time and vitals logged,” he reported.

The pair worked in silent determined synchronization while they repeated the process with Dr. Pax.

Then the other casualties were brought in.

Charred uniforms were cut from bodies. Wounds were sterilized, sealed. Bones were reset, bonded, re-grafted. Flight suits and armor were removed. Vitals were brought within stasis-tolerance, just on the edge of death. Through it all, Arven ignored the fog of exhaustion that made him feel ten times heavier. He fought through doubt, confusion, the aches of self.
 
Most of all, he refused to dwell on the future; all that mattered was the here and now.

Kingston. Pax. Kobol. V’lana. Murphy. Havenborn, Arven noted, already preparing a mental list of injuries and possible future treatments, if they were afforded some time to research and preparation. He already knew that without Vi-Nine, and a great deal of luck, their odds of returning to duty seemed slim at best – but that was nothing new. He also knew they wouldn’t be the last patients of the day they couldn’t save. In the end, Vi-Nine swiveled her ocular node to him with a nod. Appreciation, perhaps? Or simple acknowledgement of a shared duty successfully done? He couldn’t know for sure.

Arven simply wiped the sweat from his face with the crook of one elbow with a sigh. He was beyond tired, but the job wasn’t finished. Not yet.

“Right,” he sighed, “who’s next then?”

In that moment, a female voice crackled over the coms, and Arven couldn’t help groaning at the prospect of even worse fighting to come. He thought, hoped, that there might have been some relief on the day that Starfleet finally managed to catch up with the Theurgy – that maybe by then the Federation would know about the Infested and sort themselves out – but after everything they’d seen and been through…

It's not over, he knew, somehow, it might never be.

Dr. Leux rubbed his tired eyes with a sigh, picked up a hypo, and pumped himself full of another dose of stims with a frown.

He had work to do.

Re: Epi 2 [ D02 | 2300 hrs.] All Squared up at the Triangle

Reply #29 –
[Lieutenant Ida zh'Wann | Lower Shuttle Bay | Deck 21 | Vector 3 | USS Theurgy] @Ellen Fitz @Dumedion @joshs1000 @P.C. Haring @rae @Brutus 

Hours Later

The security Deputy's eyes were exhausted as she hobbled along.  A small part of her revelled in the fact that she could take her helmet off.  She was distantly aware of the feeling of cool air against her skin.  It was great to be alive.  At least she was.  Her cold blue eyes swept the shuttle bay where rows of bodies were being laid out on the deck.  The morgue was understaffed as medical teams dealt with keeping alive those they would try to save.  The rest of the crew that wasn't involved in repairing the ship or finding other casualties were stoically helping to collect the dead.  They all wore masks and gloves.  Energy weapons tended to cauterize everything, but not all the fighting had been that clean, especially when Klingons got involved.  She sighed again as she saw the cost of the fighting in the ship, in the rows of bodies.  The only place relatively open and clear enough for morgue registration to be able to do their job with any sort of efficiency.

The results were telling as she walked by the rows of green body bags.  Many were slick from the blood that couldn't be contained in the deceased corporeal forms.  You fought well, may your spirits find peace. Ida thought as she walked past the dead.  The majority of them had come from their last stand around the boarding shuttle attached to Vector 3.  As soon as the Klingons had come aboard the rest of the Romulan fleet turned away, they should have given up.  If there was a choice, Starfleet would always take prisoners, but the marines had fought with suicidal determination in trying to hold their ground.  A last minute manoeuvre had brought Vectors 1 and 3 close enough for Ida to transfer back over and she'd gone for the jugular.  As the Klingons had compressed the invasion in room to room fighting, she'd beamed to the boarding ship and tried to seize it in a coup de main.  Instead, she'd had to hold on for dear life after managing to eject the parasitic attachment and hear about it explode just far enough to not cause Chief Arnold any more grief.  Then she'd joined the final fighting. She was hobbling because one of the last Romulans had decided it was better to blow himself up than be taken prisoner.  She'd managed to solve the potential damage by blowing out a window with her phaser rifle and ejecting him into space.  He'd gone off just beside the hull with just enough force to knock her back into the corridor.  The Klingons had thought her performance to be marvellous and the height of hilarity.  She just hurt.

She made her way past the green body bags to the white ones.  A brief flicker of grief flashed across her eyes.  So many had come so far, only for them to end so ignominiously.  She supposed she ought to be grateful that not everyone was here.  But it was hard; oh so hard now.  Reports were still coming in, but it wasn't good.  Commander Stark was in charge now that Captain Ives had been badly injured.  Lieutenant Zark was also in sickbay, medically sedated from her own misadventure on the same mission.  She wasn't sure she'd made the right choice this time in staying with the ship.  A frown formed and quickly deepened as she looked over the bodies and felt the magnitude of their loss on her.

Her mind must of have needed something to stop her from sinking into depression as she notice a couple of blue shirts working hurriedly, but confused over one open body bag.  One of the medical staff looked up at the other and shook his head, then the two looked around for help.  Ida was already walking in their direction, curious as to why someone would be trying so hard to work on the lost.  One of them saw her coming and quickly waved her over as they called for her aid.  "Lieutenant, we really need you help..."  Ida saw why, the name plate read Jeen.  Lieutenant zh'Wann shoved away the outrage and loss over what the Chief had represented as a person and in her potential, especially as a joined Trill. "What's the issue?" she asked coolly.

The medical person didn't skip a beat.  "We were thinking out systems were glitching since it said there was still an active life form inside the suit, but Chief Jeen is confirmed dead, so it was really confusing..."

Ida filled in the rest and came to a conclusion quickly as she pushed the medical tech aside and grabbed the dead woman's arm. The LCARS panel was still active and she punched a sequence into her own arm computer to interface with Jeen's armour.  The tech was still babbling, but she tuned him out as she read the results.  The symbiote was alive.  It was in really bad shape and the suit was doing what it could to sustain the body that the symbiote was consuming to keep itself going, but the slug was alive.  She reacted without thinking as she hit the comm system on her own suit. "zh'Wann to sickbay, medical priority transport.  The Jeen symbiote is still alive."  There was a startled pause before a feminine voice hurriedly replied.  "Acknowledged, stand by for transport."

Many many hours later....

Ida sat in the CMOs office and her head was in her hands.  She wanted to cry, but she didn't really know how any more.  Doctor Leux had tried.  There was an old human term for what he'd tried.  The effort had been Herculean, but the symbiote had been too badly damaged by the neurotoxin blade that had killed Jeen first.  After what felt like an eternity, her hands came down from her face and she leaned against the chair, uncharacteristically slouching.  The doctor had left long ago to tend to other shattered bodies and she stared through the bulk head in the direction of the morgue where it held the remains of one life, and lost collection of another.  She sighed as she felt there was only one thing left to do.  They couldn't keep piling up bodies like this for much longer, and getting them all back home was another question that had to be tackled soon.

Somewhere in those hours.....

[Lieutenant Commander Frank Arnold | Chief Engineer's Office | Main Engineering | Deck 25 | Vector 3 | USS Theurgy]

The burly engineer was exhausted as he continued to look over the litany of damages the ship had taken.  The worst of the damages had people assigned to them, but he felt the call to get out there and put his hands on some of the problems.  He took a sip of coffee, but it tasted of ash and the caffeine was starting to fail to wash away the whispers of sleep that called for him.  It was a tantalizing call and he picked up his coffee mug again and stared at it.  He didn't have the mind to glare at an inanimate substance for not helping him.

It wasn't the coffee's fault though.  That wasn't the problem, and it was only distracting him from what he knew was the real issue.  His mind stared in the direction of the warp core.  Not precisely the core, but the slipstream attachment to it.  And who it represented.  He could feel the honest part of his mind telling his ego that he'd let this situation go on long enough.  Possibly too long and they'd been lucky to dodge any unintended consequences.  There was the temptation to deal with this directly and simply by having security haul Azrin away to quarters arrest, but that was ultimately counter productive to the entire department.  He rubbed his exhausted face as he scratched his beard for a moment.  Maybe he'd have to get his head checked at the same time. Make sure it was still screwed on straight.  Resolved to do something, he logged a request to talk to Lieutenant Commander Hathev as soon as he was more coherent.


[Petty Officer 3rd Class Cirus Bodega | Main Bridge | Deck 1 | Vector 1 | USS Theurgy]

The sudden beeping on his screen caught the weary sensor technician's eyes and he forced his hands to move as he ran the analysis package.  His thoughts were slowed since the post adrenaline let down after the battle and he shook his head to try to clear the cob webs in his brain.  The computer spit out the results, and he felt adrenaline begin to surge through his system once more.  The PO3 spun on his chair towards Commander Stark.  "Captain."  He began, and it felt strange, foreign saying it even in the heat of the situation, but he pressed on. "Sensors are detecting an incoming starship.  It's a Sovererign Class, the USS Warspite.  She's putting out full power on her engines.  ETA in system will be about 4 hours.  She'll get a much clearer sensor reading on our location in two."  He had to mentally resolve himself for what the package was giving him next.  "There's a mass of Starfleet subspace signatures about 5 hours behind the Warspite.  Too far away for a good count, but it looks like at least 18 ships, probably more"  There was a pause to let that information sink in.  "Your orders Captain?"
 
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