Echoes from afar...

"Earth is the cradle of humanity, but mankind cannot stay in the cradle forever." - Konstantin Tsiolkovsky

A Step Forward, No Steps Back: Pt. 1

USS Blythe
2401

“Captain’s log. Stardate, 2401.911. The Blythe has received urgent orders from Starfleet Command to investigate and secure a newly discovered aperture on the outer edge of Beta Quadrant, a recurring phenomenon in what Starfleet has described as a larger ‘Underspace’. A number of ships have already been lost, relocated, or scuttled, and a great many of our adversaries also transported, seemingly at random all around our galaxy. My concerns regarding our lack of armaments should a combat situation arise were nullified by command, concerns which I still yield. Nevertheless, I have the upmost confidence in our new crew, of which I am, already, most proud.”

They say pride is a sin, no?


USS Blythe, Bridge

Captain Rutledge stood in the middle of the bridge, facing the viewscreen, his hands held tightly behind his back. His gaze shifted back and forth a number of times, glancing every so often to the Helmsman’s viewscreen, displaying a more detailed readout of their flight path, furrowing his eyebrows each time as he did so, then casually walked back to his chair.

“Time?’

Matthews, leaning over the helm, looked back at Rutledge. “3.2 minutes until arrival, Sir.”

“Any significant readings from the aperture at this distance?”

“Yes, Sir. It’s emitting faint and unstable subspace frequencies, unfamiliar to our scanners.” V’liv answered from her workstation, her eyes locked firm on her screen. “It could be some form of communication, althou-”

“-I doubt it. Keep me updated on any changes.” Rutledge nodded lightly in her direction, solemnly, taking seat in the center chair.

He eyed the other officers. As focused as they were, they held their heads high with a quiet rigidity and confidence. There was a dwelling an anticipation in the air, but hardly any fear. They were more experienced than most California-class crews, and certainly more composed, something to be grateful for, that he was sure of. 

Pausing a moment, he took a deep breath, exhaling quietly so Zjune, seated to his right, couldn’t hear him. He had never served with the man, but already found him a fascinating figure. Composed, calculated, alert, his XO seemed almost robotic in nature, so precise in his movements and hesitating at nothing. Even something as simple as fixing his hair was done meticulously; nothing he did looked like an accident nor an afterthought. It was something Rutledge admired already, on the other hand, he hardly knew the Commander at all.

Matthews chirped from his seat, “Sir, one minute until arrival. All systems standing by.”

The captain nodded and rose from his seat. “Shields up, all phasers on standby. Go to yellow alert, Lieutenant. Whatever’s out there, we’ll be ready for it.” He paused. “Go to half speed, then drop out of warp right on top of it.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

“Science officer, any changes in those readings?”

V’liv’s standing orders were to alert Rutledge if they did so, so she hadn’t. “No, Sir. Readings holding.”

Matthews chimed in from the helm interjecting firmly, his fingers dancing on his console, “Dropping out of warp in three…two…one…”

The ship lurched forward, and the viewscreen filled with what was, apparently the aperture, looming over the ship, with a dark purple glow emanating from the center of it. The crew remained still for a moment, their eyes fixated on the entity and awestruck by its size. It didn’t lie still; there were patterns of rippling on its surface, and it shimmered every few seconds, almost as if in response to the reactions of the bridge officers who stood staring.

“Science, Ops, I want readouts on this aperture. Size, depth, radiation levels, any gravimetric distortions? Get all the info you can. Helm, maintain a safe distance, 10km, wide angle.”

V’liv turned from her screen, facing the captain. “Sir, I’m detecting an energy emerging from the anomaly. Cannot identify.”

The viewscreen flickered, and the anomaly rippled again, with a large object breaking through the face of the entity. Ripples continued to follow the object, which Rutledge identified as a vessel of some sort, although unfamiliar. It was sizable, a dark vessel with an angled hull, marked with lettering he did not recognize.  It inched forward from the anomaly, towards the direction of the Blythe. 

“Hail them, Lieutenant.”

“No response on any channel, Sir.”

Tensions thickened among the bridge crew almost immediately. Rutledge’s jaw tightened; his eyes locked on the vessel. “Go to red alert. Arm all phasers and torpedo bays. Magnify viewscreen, 2.5. Let’s see if we can identify those markings. And keep hailing them.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

The bridge illuminated with that familiar red glow, and Rutledge kept his eyes on the viewscreen, his hand clutching the left side of his chair instinctively. The vessel followed the Blythe’s path as she made her way around the aperture, her port side facing the opposing ship. The alien vessel turned slightly, now on direct course towards the Blythe. 

“They’re charging weapons!”

“Helm, hard over! Phasers, fire!”

A Step Forward, No Steps Back: Pt. 2

USS Blythe
2401

“Helm, hard over! Phasers, fire!”

The Blythe shook firmly as the phaser blasts lit up the center viewscreen, briefly illuminating the space in between the two vessels. The alien ship turned sharply to evade, returned fire, a number of phaser pulses shaded a rich orange struck the far side of the Blythe’s hull, rippling against the light glow of her shields. The impact knocked a number of officers to the floor, Rutledge grabbing the rear of his seat so firmly his knuckles turned white, both feet firmly planted to the steel floor. He leaned forward, bellowing to his officers.

“Return fire, full effect, phasers and torpedoes! Aim for their weapons systems, Mr. Rahm!” 

The Bajoran Lieutenant at tactical locked weapons to what he could only vaguely discern to be their weapons, and opened fire, his hands sweating over his controls, exhaling as he fired, leaning over his console further as he did so. 

The ship shook once more as her payload of weapons burst from the hull of the Blythe, the unmistakable sound of her torpedo tubes emptying as she lurched, simultaneously dodging fire from their new adversary. The vessel’s shields buckled significantly under the torpedoes, and the Blythe’s phaser blasts again rippling against her shields, altering the enemy vessel’s course as it was forced off its intended course. It readjusted, firing another volley of orange phaser fire that once again shook the Blythe soundly. Matthews was knocked off his feet, his head hitting the bulkhead as he slumped to floor, and his eyes fluttered shut, leaving the flight controls unattended. An operations crewman leapt down to attend to the Lieutenant, moving his head, now bleeding from his crown, and shielding it in his knees.

Rutledge, also knocked to his feet towards the bridge’s rear, motioned to Zjune, still strapped to his seat, and pointed to the empty flight controls.

“Helmsman!”

Zjune hopped to his feet, throwing himself forward amidst the chaos, and attended to the helm as ordered, veering the listing Blythe, now facing her bow towards the vessel, allowing Rahm to readjust and again, open fire. 

The phasers pounded the adversaries” shields, knocked the ship to of its course and out of control. The last volley of phaser fire was too much for the smaller vessel, and it started to list heavily, no longer moving, no longer firing at the Blythe. The chaos subsided, almost immediately, as Rutledge motioned to tactical to cease fire, turning his attention to his First Officer. The thickness in the air seemed to subside as well, and the aperture, which briefly had become an afterthought, was in the background of their viewscreen looming over their assailant with a rich, solemn darkness. Their brief exploit had brought them much closer to the aperture than before, unintendedly, of course, but the captain was eager to reinstate a safe distance. 

“Back us off the aperture, ten kilometers as before. Report on the enemy ship.”

“Enemy vessel’s shields gone; her weapons systems failed as well. Warp drive out, but they can maneuver, slightly, on impulse.” Zjune reported, briefly glancing over to the science station. “We’re counting ten life forms aboard, all of them humanoid…but varying species”

Rutledge nodded. That’ll make things interesting. 

“What’s our status?”

“Shields holding at 85 percent. Weapons, warp drive, both online. Only minor phaser burns to primary hull.”

“Keep weapons locked on her engines, and for God’s sake, get Matthews down to sickbay.”

“Aye, Sir!” 

The crewman, his gold uniform now darked by Matthew’s blood, jumped to his feet, and lifted the unconscious helmsman to his chest, lifting his arm over his shoulder and putting all his weight on his shoulders. He buckled slightly but shrugged off any attempts for help. He made his way to the turbo-lift, leaving the bridge in a silent but intent rush. 

Rutledge mulled over the situation a moment, leaning forward in his chair, weighing his options. He looked over at Zjune, now back in his command chair, Matthews’ seat occupied by a young command rate officer. Now backed away from the aperture at the designated distance, he had a wider view of the vessel and the aperture behind it. The situation was his now, seemingly, but he found it curious, if not almost amusing, that their newfound adversary had plunged itself into a firefight when it was so apparently outmatched, even to the likes of a smaller Starfleet vessel. It remained mostly motionless, correcting its list every minute or so, seemingly making no attempts to escape or return a delayed line of fire, of which he and his crew knew they were incapable.  

“Let’s re-open a hailing frequency, maybe they’re keener to answer us now.”

“Hailing frequencies open, Sir.”

Rutledge sat upright in his chair, slowly scanning his bridge as he spoke. His officers kept to a respectful volume.

“Unidentified vessel, this is Captain John Rutledge of the USS Blythe, United Federation of Planets. You have unlawfully fired on a Starfleet vessel. State your intentions or prepare to be boarded.”

The captain let a small smirk rest upon his lips. He had no intention of boarding the enemy vessel, he had never done so before, but was eager to let his adversaries know he meant business. He had used that bluff before, figuring it a daunting possibility for a ship with a crew of only ten men. Still, his crew were less apt to his empty threats, eyeing each other almost nervously, if not slightly amused, albeit curious. Only Zjune kept his head still, facing forward with the cold glare he was used to carrying, amused at his captain’s bluff as he was, if only inwardly so. 

The tension on the bridge built as they awaited a response. The silence of the ship, only the slight hum of her engines seemed to exaggerate the stress in the air, the silence growing louder by the minute. Rutledge, however, was intent on receiving a response, however reluctant or even forced it might have to be.

“Fire a warning shot across their bow. Low yield, just something to scare them.”

“Aye, Sir.”

Rahm barely had re-target the phaser that was already locked on the vessel. One quick shot adjacent to its position didn’t do any damage, and the vessel continued to drift aimlessly. Rutledge readjusted himself in his chair, and looked back to Rahm, to his right and smirked, a calm demeanor, much the opposite of his comrades.

“Good shot, Lieutenant. Couldn’t have done it better myself.” He leaned forward in his chair, his right hand on his knee, carrying the weight of his upper torso. “We’ll hear from them soon.” 

The captain let the silence dwell another moment, and the viewscreen flickered on, a crackling and faded screen appearing before the bridge officers, a figure appearing before them, occupying the center of the screen.

“Federation starship.” The figure, a muscular male figure with green pigmentation and a short haircut addressed the crew. His face was bruised and bleeding, but his demeanor contrasted any hint of being in pain. He sat upwards, with a locked and vengeful gaze. He was an Orion, but his crew in the background were not. “I am Nivvor of the Corsair Syndicate Sentinel vessel Hangman. Surrender your vessel immediately.”

Rahm did his best to stifle a laugh, closing his mouth at the last second, hoping no one had heard. Surely, he must be joking! No shields, weapons, and no warp drive? Either he was entirely too hopeful, or desperately attempting to bluff Rutledge. Probably both.

Rutledge, however, felt no such humor in the Orion’s request; the request to surrender had annoyed, almost insulted him. The mere thought of a vessel succumbing to an under-gunned one like the Hangman, as they called it, was offensive, a disparage. Hardly likely.

What did their Captain say earlier? Corsair Syndicate? That’s a pirate ring, a small fleet of smugglers. Amateur raiders!

Rutledge stood and faced the viewscreen so his entire figure would be in view for the Orion pirate, pulling his shoulders back and bellowing to the figure before him with a sincere authority.

“Your shields are down, your weapons inoperative, and you have nowhere to go. As I stated prior, you unlawfully fired upon a Federation vessel, for which you and your crew will face adequate judicial punishment. You can surrender peacefully, or I can take you by force.”

Nivvor scoffed, stepping backwards and spitting on the ground behind him so Rutledge could see, a disdained look on his face. “Any attempt to board will be met with lethal force! We are well armed, trust me when I say so! I will give you one more warning, Federation starship, one you should heed! Surrender your vessel!”

V’liv alerted the captain from her station, so that only Rutledge could hear her. “Sir, their life support systems are failing. They won’t last more than ten minutes by themselves.”

Rutledge nodded in acknowledgement, turning from her to face the viewscreen again, now even more confident in his position over the situation than before. He subtly pressed a few buttons on the side of his chair, so carefully as to not bring notice to any movements his arm was making. The captain eyed Zjune, who only gave him a slight nod of approval, an understanding without any words exchanged. His glance turning its attention back to the viewscreen, he locked his stare to Nivvor, who still held an expression of disdain and subdued desperation. “Boarding your vessel won’t be necessary. Helm, can you get a lock on all ten signals?”

“Yes, Sir, signals locked.”

The Orion’s eyes widened as he realized the captain’s plan. His face filled with panic, and his screen flickered more as he ran to his nearest bridge officer, flailing as a control panel that had quite obviously burned out. His crewmen hardly moved a muscle.

“Alert Mr. Pronichev in security and have him standing by in the brig. I have some guests stopping by for an impromptu visit.”

“Standing by, Sir.”

The Orion yelled once more through the viewscreen. “You can’t!”

“Energize.”

A Step Forward, No Steps Back: Lt. Pronichev

USS Blythe
2401

“The average man will bristle if you say his father was dishonest, but he will brag a little if he discovers that his great-grandfather was a Pirate.” – Sir Bernard Williams

USS Blythe, Brig

Lieutenant Pronichev stood at the ready, his phaser rifle in his right arm, his left on the communications console after orders from the bridge. The arm strap of the rifle dug sharply into his shoulder, and his rifle barely moved, although it was pointed directly at the nearest containment cell, sitting in the middle of the three, his glare locked on the group of them, awaiting their adversaries’ arrival. Pronichev was accustomed to sudden changes in duty shifts and responsibilities; he had been distributing phaser rifles to his security teams just prior to being summoned to the brig.

Pronichev had his officers briefly muster ready the brig to receive their new guests as well as one could with only a minute or two of warning. Two of his security officers stood behind him, their Type-II model phasers aimed at the two outside containment cells. Despite the pirate’s vessel being disabled and their life support failing, he was not about to subject the Blythe to any risks he could foresee. They were possibly armed, and their temperament uncertain. He was sure they could cause a good deal of trouble if they wanted to, confined to a holding cell or not. 

The Lieutenant looked back to his two officers, motioning to the closest one. 

“Hail Roberts and Quon’lin, I want them here for backup. On the double. Phasers set to heavy stun. When they get here, I want one rifle on each door until I say otherwise.”

The two officers nodded, both replacing their hand phasers for rifles, with Roberts and Quon’lin arriving shorty afterwards. They did as ordered; all three cells were covered with a phaser, with Roberts guarding the door. Pronichev stayed where he was, awaiting the signal from Rutledge. 

“Energize.”

The four officers stood tense. All ten pirates materialized simultaneously in a bright array of shimmering lights. The transporter chief must have had the same idea Pronichev did, all the prisoners were separated equally into the three containment cells. Three were in one cell, three in the next, and four in the last, in between the two smaller, the Bolian standing towards the rear of the middle cell. They were unarmed, but their attitudes most certainly were not. They pounded incessantly on the walls and force fields, the latter muffling out of most of the sound of their futile yells.

Pronichev scanned all three cells, lowering his rifle and racking it on the shelf on the adjacent wall, his eyes still locked on the prisoners. He, nor his officers, would do anything of consequence until the captain further ordered, but he knew the significance of maintaining a strong authoritative presence until then. For all his new inmates knew, he was the captain. 

The Lieutenant decided to address them. He stepped forward, an erect posture and steady gaze as he stared them down through the force fields. 

“I am Lieutenant Pronichev, you are aboard the USS Blythe. You are not here by choice, consider yourself prisoners of the United Federation of Planets after willfully engaging a Starfleet vessel in an act of lethal force. I am not an attorney; I am not law enforcement. You have no rights, except for those guaranteed to prisoners-of-war under Federation law. Let me be clear, any attempt to disrupt this brig, my officers, or anyone else aboard this vessel will be met with swift, but fair, penalties.”

He paused, glancing at the faces of the group, their expressions ranging from anger to genuine curiosity. He continued, keeping the same firm tone. 

“The choice is yours. That is all.”

Roberts approached Pronichev quietly, and subtly reported, his rifle still scanning the cells. “All prisoners secure and accounted for, no serious health issues from the skirmish. Doc will come by and examine them, after the captain has made his rounds.”

“When should I expect him?”

“The Yeoman didn’t say, Sir.”

Pronichev nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Roberts. Cover the door.” He looked back up at the cells. They were all huddled together, all three groups conversing quietly amongst themselves. 

He leaned back over to Roberts, who hadn’t yet walked away. “Have their conversations monitored and recorded. Get two officers on it, something they say may lead to an explanation as to some of our questions.” 

“Aye, Sir.” Robert marched briskly off, without another word. 

The prisoners were constantly monitored by the officers for the next few hours, Pronichev pacing back and forth slowly, examining them with a watchful eye, looking for anything. A hidden blade, passed notes, a file, anything that might interfere with the wellbeing of the crew or his prisoners. He was overly conscious of his demeanor, trying his utmost to display a silent, tough professionalism, an attempt to dilute any potential conflicts before they arose. 

A beep from the console interrupted his march. He activated the console, the warm blue glow from the screen illuminating an otherwise dimly lit room. Rutledge was hailing.

“Pronichev reporting, Sir.”

The captain’s bold voice boomed, even through the console’s speakers. “Lieutenant. I hear you’ve got our ‘corsairs’ in good form. You and your security teams have made them feel at home, no doubt. I’m sure you’re quite busy down there. Anything of note to report?”

“No, Sir, not right now. They’ve been fairly cooperative so far. I gave them a good talking to, and our crew have kept in them in line.”

“Keep at it, Lieutenant, and notify me if anything changes. I’ll keep this brief. This attack on the Blythe has raised some eyebrows at Starfleet command, they had some suggestions for us. I’d like you at the briefing room, 0130 hours. The senior staff has much to discuss.”

“I’ll be there at 0130, Sir.”

“Rutledge out.”

The Lieutenant nodded to himself. No doubt Starfleet had some concerns over what was, essentially, a pirate vessel, crossing through an aperture, guns blazing. The Blythe had succeeded in battle, sure, but that could have been the first of many. He was grateful for his background in security in a situation like this, his decisions and his wits were paramount.

Pronichev nodded to his four officers, signaling for a rotation in watch duty, remaining at the console while the four slung their rifles around their back, greeting the next four that walked in to replace them, nodding in upbeat acknowledgement. They nodded to their Chief, one patting him on the back, one tapping the chair he was in while they entered. The prisoners hardly reacted to their entrance and brief lapse in surveillance, likely in part to Pronichev’s presence on the far side of the brig. 

A handful of more hours passed by, with the prisoners growing occasionally restless and unruly, knocking on their walls and raising their voices every so often, which of course gained no attention from the security team. Pronichev left his seat every thirty minutes or so, glancing at each pirate in the same stern manner he did hours prior, speaking only to the occasional officer that entered the brig, and even then their discussions were held to a hushed tone. 

Roberts entered briskly, greeting the Lieutenant with a small slap on the back and a handshake. His eyes were dark, circles over them like he had just woken up in his quarters. He had a phaser on his hip and greeted Pronichev with the hushed tone they had used earlier. 

“0125, Sir. Skipper will be expecting you in the briefing room soon.”

Pronichev put his hand on the officer’s shoulder, appreciative of his friendly gesture in his polite reminder. “Thanks, Roberts.” He collected his phaser and racked his rifle on the wall to his right, stretching briefly and exhaling as he did so, taking one last glance at his new prisoners. As before, they had no reaction to the security officer’s departure, minus a few disengaged glances. Leaving the dimly lit brig into the illuminated hallway, he reflected on the past ten hours, and the unwelcome vision of the piles of paperwork he was going to have to tackle in the following few days.