“Seriously, the brig still works?” Sidda asked out loud as she paced the cell she’d been put in all by herself. “Seriously?” she asked again, stopping to look at the one guard left to watch the brig from behind a control console.

Their one guard was pointedly ignoring his collection of prisoners, hands clasped behind his back, a stance ready to respond to any attempt to break free, or someone else entering the brig complex when they shouldn’t.

Orin had been placed in a single cell himself and the large Orion had opted to sit on the provided bench at the back, eyes closed and hands just sitting on his knees. Her dear cousin just bidding time, saving energy. Heck, he could be napping for all she could tell.

Samuel and Vlasov, as she’d finally remembered, were both in a cell together and doing much like Orin – waiting as they lounged about. Vlasov had laid claim to the bench, lying down on it, forcing Samuel to sit on the floor. Though only a few years younger than herself, both men didn’t seem perturbed to be in a cell at all, which wasn’t surprising for those under her employ.

And last were K’tah and Lern, in a cell together as well. K’tah was handling it much better than her mate Lern, who looked like he was ready to start tearing the cell apart one panel at a time. He stopped, slammed a fist into the forcefield, and then snarled at the guard before walking away from the field, sitting down next to K’tah, who whispered something to him before standing.

“Federation starships,” K’tah spoke, her words deep and rich, “tend to have many redundancies that make little sense. I guess the brig however does make some sense.” She glared at the guard, a man maybe a little older than Sidda herself, tall by almost anyone’s standard and a match in build for K’tah or Lern. “After all, wouldn’t want their prisoners getting free.”

“Yeah, save this a fucked situation,” Samuel said from his cell. “That was Orelia wasn’t it, Boss?” He too stood, hands in his jacket pockets. “Save I don’t think I’d ever even thought of the idea of Orelia in a Starfleet uniform. And she called you captain too.”

“That was weird,” Sidda said, still pacing, still thinking. She reached absentmindedly for her disruptor, just to reassure herself it was there, but the absence of it stopped her in her tracks. They’d been disarmed after the Not-Orelia had ordered her people to do so once she had concluded that the Sidda before her wasn’t her captain after all. And despite having Orin, K’tah and Lern, she’d ordered them all to comply. It was that or be stunned and dragged here by their ankles.

They’d even cracked out tricorders, removing every knife hidden on K’tah and both of Sidda’s boot knives. It was roundly unfair how proper and thorough they’d been at it while Not-Orelia had just stood and watched, then ordered them to the brig while she went to do something else.

“Fuck,” she muttered, then faced the guard once more. “You there, uniform boy, what’s your name.”

The man just stood there, looking somewhere in the middle distance, ignoring her.

“Fine, be like that. What ship is this then? Because I’ve never heard of a USS Vondem and trust me, I’ve been constantly checking.”

Still, she got no response from the man, which earned him a truly devastating glare, then a huff, then more pacing.

“So, when are you going to take this matter to the captain?”

Lieutenant Jenu Trid had pulled herself away from damage control at the request of the ship’s Executive Officer, much to the relief of the team she’d been working with, and just finished being briefed on the new arrivals aboard ship. That the Vondem had even been found by another ship was news to her, let alone boarders masquerading as their own crew had attempted to make their way to Engineering.

The repurposed lab made that Orelia was using made for a decent command centre. It was central to the majority of the ship, near enough to a major turbolift shaft that was being used to yell information up and down decks currently and had the benefit of being a few sections over from the brig where their ‘guests’ were being held currently.

Spread out on the table before the two women were a veritable collection of instruments designed for fine to gross bodily harm, from a simple straight-bladed knife to some twisted and jagged blade out of a Klingon horror story. A collection of phasers and disruptors were also set to the side, all with their power packs removed.

“Soon,” Orelia said, as she lifted one of the disruptors, which looked like it might have started life as a Klingon Defence Force weapon, but then lived a harsh existence with nary any maintenance, the normal care and attention one would expect of a Klingon weapon nowhere to be found on this weapon. “Look at this,” Orelia said, handing over the weapon in such a way to show the power selector off.

Trid, who’d been watching the camera feed from the brig, turned to look over the weapon, gently taking it to examine in the dim light of the lab, cursing the power restrictions that were plaguing the ship. “Solve all immediate problems?” she asked, turning the incredibly fine writing on the side of the weapon, in Orion mind you, into a question. That writing wasn’t original to the weapon at all, for no Klingon would ever disgrace a weapon in such a way. At least not with something so bland as ‘solve all immediate problems’ and not something like a short poem about problem-solving. “Vaporise? Klingon disruptors have a vaporise setting?”

“This one seems to,” Orelia answered. “In fact, all of these weapons do, including the phasers.” She pointed to the two phasers on the table, both of which looked like Starfleet issue from sometime in the last decade or so. “There hasn’t been a phaser with a vaporise setting since…the Cardassian Wars?”

“Sounds about right,” Trid said, setting the disruptor down carefully on the table. “Who’s was this anyway?” she asked, pointing at the weapon.

“Her’s,” Orelia said, pointing at the screen that was showing the Sidda imposter pacing in her cell.

“No, can’t be,” Trid said with disbelief, then approached the screen once more, sparing a quick glance to the others showing the other prisoners in the brig. “Apart from the clothing and the long hair, and the dyed strip that’s definitely not regulation, she looks just like the captain. Same height, same swagger, same confident look in her eyes.”

“Tricorder scan however can tell the difference.” Orelia pulled up a scan they’d taken while relieving everyone of their weapons. “Scars, evidence of broken bones, a few medical procedures Captain Sadovu hasn’t gone through – that isn’t our captain. I haven’t had Doctor Ward go do a full work-up yet, but I suspect we’ll get the full extent of the ruse then. It’s some clever surgical work I’ll grant.”

“But who would attempt to impersonate a Starfleet officer in such a hilariously bad way? Where’s the uniform after all? And why on the actual ship that the officer you’re impersonating is actually in command of?”

“And why now?” Orelia added.

“We could just try asking them,” Trid said. “Sometimes when you ask people questions they answer them you know,” Trid turned and offered Orelia a smile. “How about I go and ask them, Commander, and you can sit here and watch them?”

Stepping into the brig, Trid nodded once to Lieutenant Okpara, who afforded her the same in response as she stepped towards the cell containing the one prisoner she was interested in. Of course, her arrival had garnered the interest of everyone, but they weren’t her focus.

“Oh shit, is that Trid?” one of the humans whispered.

“Can’t be,” the other answered. “Trid wouldn’t be caught dead in a uniform.”

She stopped an arm’s length from the forcefield, the emitters arguably the brightest light source in the brig at the moment. The woman on the other side had stopped her pacing and was standing there, hands firmly in her jacket’s pockets, the leather given a slight sheen by the light but by meticulous care she guessed.

“Trid,” the Orion woman spoke finally after a few seconds of staring her down. “Gotta say, don’t love the uniform.”

“I was going to comment that your current fashion choice is ill befitting a Starfleet captain,” she replied. “I was hoping that perhaps we could cut to the heart of the matter instead of exchanging pleasantries perhaps?”

“Suits me,” the Sidda imposter replied.

“Excellent.” She smiled, glanced over the other prisoners once more, taking note of a couple of familiar faces and more than a few unfamiliar ones. “Perhaps we could start with names and why you’ve decided to board the USS Vondem?”

“Captain Sidda, SS Vondem Rose,” the Orion answered without hesitation, “here to answer a distress call and given frankly the weirdest Starfleet welcome I’ve ever been the victim of. You steal my ship’s name, you’ve got people running around with my crew’s faces, yourself included and to top it all off you throw me into the brig of a ship with limited power.”

“There was a chuckle from the two human prisoners, one of them turning away to sit back on the bench in the cell. “Tuesday,” was all he said.

“I thought Changeling imposters was a Wednesday thing?” the other said quietly.

She looked briefly at the two men, then back to the Orion. “So you’re claiming to be the captain of the SS Vondem Rose?”

Before the Orion could speak the door to the brig opened once more and a silhouetted figure in the door, supported with a walking stick and another imposing figure directly behind them, spoke up with a very familiar voice. “Captain Sidda,” the woman who just arrived said as she stepped forward, “perhaps we should speak in a more comfortable setting?” There was a pause as all the prisoners took in the woman before them, save for the Orion woman, who looked over Captain Sadovu, cocked her head to the side and smirked.

“Actually, the uniform doesn’t look half bad.”

The more comfortable setting was literally across the corridor and one that Sidda seriously suspected was just an interrogation room. A nice interrogation room admittedly, but still an interrogation room. A table that was one with the floor, two comfy enough chairs that looked heavy enough to be difficult for one to easily pick up and throw and the rather obvious camera pickup in the middle of the ceiling, no doubt hiding a holo-imager for that full-immersion playback in the future.

No doubt this was going in someone’s report to blow someone else’s mind.

She’d just sat herself down, opposite someone who looked like her, sounded like her, but most certainly wasn’t her. The bruising was the biggest giveaway after the captain’s uniform that this woman was wearing, but her posture and hairstyle really sealed the deal.

“Captain Sidda Sadovu,” the Not-Sidda said opposite her, with the Not-Trid standing behind her against the wall. It wasn’t like Sidda was going to be in a position to object to such things after all for now.

“Just call me Captain Sidda. Captain Sadovu is my mother,” she said, which garnered her a raised eyebrow until the action seemed to cause some pain to the other woman. “She’s an officious bitch.”

“That is…not exactly how I’d have put it,” the Not-Sidda answered. “But something I can agree with.”

An awkward silence settled as the two women stared at each other, one not having asked any questions, the other having learned over years not to provide answers unbidden, at least until relatively recently and with only specific people in her life. It lasted for nearly a minute before Not-Sidda spoke. “Who are you really?”

“Captain Sidda, SS Vondem Rose,” Sidda provided, crossing her arms and leaning back into her seat. “Don’t believe me, get a Betazoid up here, or a Vulcan. Who are you?”

“Captain Sadovu, USS Vondem,” Not-Sidda answered. She paused for a few seconds, then turned to look at Not-Trid. “Ensign Birm works on this deck, yes? Fetch him please.”

“Ma’am, I’m under orders not to leave you alone with the prisoner.”

“Commander Kamaru is being overprotective. Lieutenant Okpara can leave the brig and stand in the corner while you find me Ensign Brim,” Not-Sidda said. There was a few seconds where the Bajoran woman looked like she was trying to formulate a counter-argument before she nodded her head and left, soon replaced by the burly form of Lieutenant Okpara, still just as expressionless as before.

“Ensign Brim?” Sidda asked.

“A Betazoid, one of Counselor Hu’s staff. Not a therapist, as you can tell by the rank, but involved in all the paperwork it takes to manage the mental health of a starship’s crew.” Not-Sidda sat forward, resting her elbows on the table’s edge. “We’ll wait, shall we?”

It only took five minutes of the two of them staring at each other before an average-looking man stepped inside, did a double take, made apologies and then proceed to stand against the wall behind Sidda, so we to give answers to his captain without her seeing whatever answer he decided to give. She sighed, then shrugged, admitting the situation was beyond her immediate control and it was time to get on with it. A few baseline questions, re-establishing initial facts and Not-Sidda seemed more confused by the answers from her Betazoid than anything.

“Why were you in this nebula?” Not-Sidda asked.

“We weren’t initially. We were heading somewhere else and skirting the edge of it when your distress call was picked up,” she answered honestly. “A Starfleet signal in Romulan territory, we thought we best investigate before someone less hospitable than us came along and either ignored you or opted to take the lot of you prisoner for some reason.”

“We have no qualms with the Romulan Republic,” Not-Sidda answered.

“All fine and good if you were in Republic territory, but this is Imperial territory,” Sidda answered.

Not-Sidda looked to her truth-seeker, giving him a facial expression that she placed around the ‘Seriously?’ point, then back to her. “The Romulan Empire?”

“Well, the Star Empire of Rator, but yes, close enough.” Sidda’s own eyebrows furrowed in thought for a moment when she saw Not-Sidda’s face shift at the word ‘Rator’. “You weren’t expecting to hear that.” She leaned forward. “Goddesses, you really aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Her people are going to be expecting to hear from her soon.”

“I know they are. And yes, I know there’s no way we can stop them from beaming more people across without main power. Brim, what do you make of her?”

“She’s telling the truth. Or least as far as she’s aware of it. I don’t sense any hesitancy or deception at all.”

“And the more detailed scans while she was being interrogated?”

“See for yourself.”

“Wait, is this true?”

“Her and all the others.”

“So we’re in some other universe then? With a different quantum signature?”

“One where it’s not too dissimilar to our own.”

“We need their help.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, but if they can help us get power back online, we’re in a better position to defend ourselves.”

Sidda turned to face the door as it opened once more to admit the Not-her and Not-others that filed in with her. A lot of people for one person, not that she hadn’t used the same trick before. Knowing about it, expecting it didn’t guard against it. Not-Trid, Not-Orelia, that Betazoid Ensign and Not-her added up to several people arrayed against just her.

Not-Sidda, still walking gingerly, sat herself down and produced a communicator, likely Sidda’s own, a tricorder, Starfleet-issue, and a padd with a lot of information on it. “It would appear that either you or us, have slipped into the other’s universe.”

“You don’t say?” Sidda said, reaching for the padd, figuring it would be the least offensive to grab and bring closer for inspection. “You’ll excuse my lack of formal education on the sciences to make much headway on this,” she continued while flicking through the details on the padd, which looked like a series of collected readings, one for each of the crew she’d come across with, then a generalised writeup regarding their gear.

“I want to apologise,” Not-Sidda said. “We should have been more receptive to possibilities instead of overly guarded. If your offer for assistance is still on the table, we’d be grateful.” She indicated the tricorder. “It’s programmed with the scanning parameters we used to identify the quantum variance between the two of us,” she indicated between the two Sidda’s. “And your communicator. Your people are being released from custody as we speak and await you across the hall.”

Sidda glared at her doppelganger for a moment, then carefully collected the communicator to her, then the tricorder, flicking it open briefly, then closing it and pocketing it. She’d been meaning to get her hands on one for some time now and she’d just been given it. “I don’t know that I trust you, but I’m only going to find out why someone is pulling this bit if I dig deeper.”

“Is that a yes?” Not-Sidda asked.

“For a price. We’ll work that out later.” She smiled as she turned her attention to her communicator, admiring the older Klingon device, liking it for its hefty. Big and heavy for a decent throw and just right could knock someone out. And she only kept using it because of the Vondem Rose’s communication systems. “Sidda to Rose,” she spoke into the device after flicking a single button.

“Orelia here boss. Was just about to send over Orin and another party to make sure you were okay.”

Sidda smiled at Not-Orelia, the woman surprised to hear her own voice, and less professional and clipped at that. She offered a wink and then ignored her.

“Orelia, we’re going to need beamed power over here to make things nicer on everyone involved. Get T’Ael and R’tin on it and start the power transfer as soon as you can. I’ll call back when I’ve got something, till then, just keep an eye out for any unwelcome visitors.”

“Understood.”

“And Orelia.”

“Yah boss?” the voice from the communicator asked.

“Tell Revin,” Sidda said, dropping the name purely to see reactions, like she’d seen when she mentioned her engineers and being rewarded with some after all, “I’m being safe.”

Darkness.

Pain.

No, not constant pain, throbbing pain. All along her left side. Ribs, shoulder, arm, head.

Oh goddess her head was a mass of pain.

Darkness started to give way to harsh red lighting, punctuated by a harsher, brighter red that pulsed with a regularity she knew but couldn’t place. Then she could hear it, the muffled klaxon warbling in the distance. Other noises too but she couldn’t make out.

Then darkness again. Then the lights returned slowly. No, she was opening her eyes again. Why was blinking so slow? Somewhere she recalled she needed to stay awake, stay conscious, but why? It was important but why?

A dark figure approached and loomed over her, features nondescript, her eyes refusing to focus. A bright light shone in her face, then moved away, back again. Why? She reached out for it, to stop it, but her arms felt like lead, heavy and slow, easily swatted away by the figure who made noises at her she couldn’t understand.

Firm hands gripped her and forced her to roll over onto her back. That helped some with the pain, but her head still pounded. Then that red light pulsed and instead of it being some distant light source it was directly in front of her. It hurt with its intensity, its insistence on being noticed, an unspoken warning of something bad, but what? A slow and heavy arm moved to cover her eyes, to shield her from that light, only for it to again be swatted away as that figure from before did something.

A pinprick of pain in her neck, a warmth spreading through her being. Suddenly vague shapes, lights and sounds came more into focus. Not greatly so, but enough to make out the klaxon of red alert, the Medtech over her, the scanner held over her head.

“Shields down, not responding.”

“Main computer is offline as well. Backups barely responding.”

“Nav is offline. Sensors as well.”

“Engineering is reporting primary and secondary power are offline. We’re on batteries right now.”

She could make out those muffled sounds from earlier, her crew giving status reports, footsteps of people moving around the bridge attending to the wounded or in one instance putting out a fire at an open conduit housing.

“Captain,” the MedTech spoke to her directly, clicking his fingers to draw her attention. It was slow and a struggle to turn her head, but she slowly looked the man in the face. “How many fingers?” he asked, holding out his dark-skinned hand for her to count his fingers. One, two, three. Did a thumb count? No, why would it? It’s a thumb.

“Three and a thumb Abebe,” she replied slowly, carefully, the name coming naturally without thought. That was nice, at least something was going right.

“You’ve got a minor concussion ma’am,” he continued. “I want to get you to sickbay. Do you think you can walk?”

She coughed once, then tried to sit up, helped by Abebe, then slowly got to her feet before nausea and vertigo tried to bring her low. With help, however, she didn’t collapse straight to the floor but instead to a seat she hadn’t seen, but which felt familiar. Her seat, yes?

“No,” she answered Abebe’s question, then looked around the bridge. Yes, the bridge. The fire was out, that was a relief. The conduit housing was covered in thick white foam from the emergency canisters wielded by two of her crew. Fire suppression wasn’t working? “Report,” she demanded, though it wasn’t much of a demand at all. More of a single word bracketed by a cough at either end.

Abebe knew when he wasn’t going to be much help and waved someone over, who rapidly came into focus as they neared. “She’s concussed and needs to get to sickbay, but can’t walk at the moment. I’m going to help Simmons and then we’re both going to get the captain out of here.”

The other figure nodded, her green skin a sickly colour in the red lighting. Orelia, her first officer, yes? Yes. They’d served together for a while now. Sitting down next to her, she looked the other woman over and saw what looked like a bruise forming on her face, a couple of scratches too.

“Report,” she once again demanded, fighting her own eyes to stay open.

“It’s not pretty. You name it, it’s offline at the moment.” Orelia bobbed her head to stay in her field of vision. “Life support is on batteries, good for a few days, but we’ll start moving crew to shelters soon enough to conserve what we can.”

She nodded in understanding. “Focus efforts on power. If Chief T’Ael can’t get mains…get the impulse reactors started. More than enough power.” She blinked, thinking through where all of that came from. If she thought about it, it disappeared, but not thinking about what needed doing and it just came naturally.

At this point, Abebe and another man, Simmons by context, reappeared in focus. “Ready ma’am?”

With a nod and extended hands, they both helped her to her feet with ease, her balance far better than earlier, but both men kept hold of her arms.

“I’ll keep her safe Captain,” Orelia said, getting to her own feet and walking with her to one of the doors off the bridge. “Gents, get her there safely. Turbolift only has enough internal juice to get you to deck six, so you’re walking the rest of the way.”

She stopped and looked down, seeing something on the floor in the rubble, giving it a prod with her foot. Rectangular, bronze in colour. “Orelia,” she spoke out, giving it another foot prod. “Fix that will you.”

Dutifully the other woman leaned down and retrieved the plaque, dusting it off and holding it up for inspection before looking at the spot on the wall where it had dismounted. “I’ll get it sorted right away,” she conceded as the ruined wall panel was gone, exposing the inner workings behind it.

Her own eyes lingered on the plaque a moment more. USS Vondem, Century-class. Then she smiled and stepped past into the turbolift with her escorts.

Darkness.

Pain.

No, not constant pain, throbbing pain. All along her left side. Ribs, shoulder, arm, head.

Oh goddess her head was a mass of pain.

Darkness started to give way to harsh red lighting, punctuated by a harsher, brighter red that pulsed with a regularity she knew but couldn’t place. Then she could hear it, the muffled klaxon warbling in the distance. Other noises too but she couldn’t make out.

Then darkness again. Then the lights returned slowly. No, she was opening her eyes again. Why was blinking so slow? Somewhere she recalled she needed to stay awake, stay conscious, but why? It was important but why?

A dark figure approached and loomed over her, features nondescript, her eyes refusing to focus. A bright light shone in her face, then moved away, back again. Why? She reached out for it, to stop it, but her arms felt like lead, heavy and slow, easily swatted away by the figure who made noises at her she couldn’t understand.

Firm hands gripped her and forced her to roll over onto her back. That helped some with the pain, but her head still pounded. Then that red light pulsed and instead of it being some distant light source it was directly in front of her. It hurt with its intensity, its insistence on being noticed, an unspoken warning of something bad, but what? A slow and heavy arm moved to cover her eyes, to shield her from that light, only for it to again be swatted away as that figure from before did something.

A pinprick of pain in her neck, a warmth spreading through her being. Suddenly vague shapes, lights and sounds came more into focus. Not greatly so, but enough to make out the klaxon of red alert, the Medtech over her, the scanner held over her head.

“Shields down, not responding.”

“Main computer is offline as well. Backups barely responding.”

“Nav is offline. Sensors as well.”

“Engineering is reporting primary and secondary power are offline. We’re on batteries right now.”

She could make out those muffled sounds from earlier, her crew giving status reports, footsteps of people moving around the bridge attending to the wounded or in one instance putting out a fire at an open conduit housing.

“Captain,” the MedTech spoke to her directly, clicking his fingers to draw her attention. It was slow and a struggle to turn her head, but she slowly looked the man in the face. “How many fingers?” he asked, holding out his dark-skinned hand for her to count his fingers. One, two, three. Did a thumb count? No, why would it? It’s a thumb.

“Three and a thumb Abebe,” she replied slowly, carefully, the name coming naturally without thought. That was nice, at least something was going right.

“You’ve got a minor concussion ma’am,” he continued. “I want to get you to sickbay. Do you think you can walk?”

She coughed once, then tried to sit up, helped by Abebe, then slowly got to her feet before nausea and vertigo tried to bring her low. With help, however, she didn’t collapse straight to the floor but instead to a seat she hadn’t seen, but which felt familiar. Her seat, yes?

“No,” she answered Abebe’s question, then looked around the bridge. Yes, the bridge. The fire was out, that was a relief. The conduit housing was covered in thick white foam from the emergency canisters wielded by two of her crew. Fire suppression wasn’t working? “Report,” she demanded, though it wasn’t much of a demand at all. More of a single word bracketed by a cough at either end.

Abebe knew when he wasn’t going to be much help and waved someone over, who rapidly came into focus as they neared. “She’s concussed and needs to get to sickbay, but can’t walk at the moment. I’m going to help Simmons and then we’re both going to get the captain out of here.”

The other figure nodded, her green skin a sickly colour in the red lighting. Orelia, her first officer, yes? Yes. They’d served together for a while now. Sitting down next to her, she looked the other woman over and saw what looked like a bruise forming on her face, a couple of scratches too.

“Report,” she once again demanded, fighting her own eyes to stay open.

“It’s not pretty. You name it, it’s offline at the moment.” Orelia bobbed her head to stay in her field of vision. “Life support is on batteries, good for a few days, but we’ll start moving crew to shelters soon enough to conserve what we can.”

She nodded in understanding. “Focus efforts on power. If Chief T’Ael can’t get mains…get the impulse reactors started. More than enough power.” She blinked, thinking through where all of that came from. If she thought about it, it disappeared, but not thinking about what needed doing and it just came naturally.

At this point, Abebe and another man, Simmons by context, reappeared in focus. “Ready ma’am?”

With a nod and extended hands, they both helped her to her feet with ease, her balance far better than earlier, but both men kept hold of her arms.

“I’ll keep her safe Captain,” Orelia said, getting to her own feet and walking with her to one of the doors off the bridge. “Gents, get her there safely. Turbolift only has enough internal juice to get you to deck six, so you’re walking the rest of the way.”

She stopped and looked down, seeing something on the floor in the rubble, giving it a prod with her foot. Rectangular, bronze in colour. “Orelia,” she spoke out, giving it another foot prod. “Fix that will you.”

Dutifully the other woman leaned down and retrieved the plaque, dusting it off and holding it up for inspection before looking at the spot on the wall where it had dismounted. “I’ll get it sorted right away,” she conceded as the ruined wall panel was gone, exposing the inner workings behind it.

Her own eyes lingered on the plaque a moment more. USS Vondem, Century-class. Then she smiled and stepped past into the turbolift with her escorts,

One advantage of the Rose over the old Vondem Thorn was that she came with a proper conference room. Though Sidda was pretty certain it had some distinctly Klingon title like Planning Chamber or War Room. Maybe even just Officer Fight Club. Either way, it meant she had a dedicated space finally to talk with her senior crew that wasn’t just the bridge with everyone at their stations.

A dedicated space that she, at great personal expense, had tastefully decorated and made a bit more comfortable than the single large standing table and wall monitor that the Klingons had fitted. A richly coloured wooden table took centre stage, the wood actually grown and sourced from Vondem itself. Comfortable chairs for all, fitted with automatic sensors to conform to whoever sat in them, save for her own of course. It would only conform to two people aboard the ship and be rather uncomfortable to all others.

Carpets had been laid as well, dark purple in colour but strictly utilitarian in nature. The look, not the feel, of extravagance. Why waste on something someone was likely to spill something on eventually? A few trophies of past accomplishments finally had places to be displayed, chief amongst them a hardcopy she’d had made of her authorisation by a Starfleet officer as a legitimate salvage operator and a now rather empty bottle of alcohol he had sent her.

She’d have to get a hold of Rourke at some point and ask him about it. Maybe send him a few of her favourite drinks in reply as a way of thanks. More so if he could tell her how to procure some more for herself. Terrans spirits just weren’t really part of her knowledge base.

All of this aside, she was settling herself into her own chair, with Gaeda at the far end of the table, resplendent in a new leather jacket he’d bought himself. Something rakish, he’d said when he first thought of the idea a few weeks ago and to which she had to admit suited him. Especially as a commander of a bird of prey.

“Okay, I just want it to be known that I have never been so happy to get cargo off my ship as all of that maple syrup. Twenty-five thousand litres of syrup. Ugh…” There was a chorus of chuckles around the table, then a conspiratorial look from Gaeda, who reached down beside his chair, lifting a single bottle up and setting it on the table, label towards her.

“I didn’t steal it, I bought it off of Mr Rol,” he said, stopping a complaint in its tracks. “Said I needed a memento. Orelia, would you?” The bottle was passed and Gaeda just locked eyes with Sidda as the only other Orion woman in the room stood, collected the bottle and added it to the trophy wall.

“Fuck you,” Sidda said jovially. “All of you actually. Who knew about this?” Most hands around the table went up. “Ugh. My ship. Mine.”

“Our trophy wall,” Orelia quipped.

“You know what, for that Orelia, I’ve got news for you. I’ve settled on a new XO for the Rose. Congratulations.” Sidda waited for the round of congrats, the mock acceptance speech, and then settled the assembled members of her crews. Vondem Rose and Martian Thorn were essentially one crew, people swapping between cramped Thorn and comfortable Rose, but the command staff were starting to settle, occasionally swapping, but something permanent at the top had to be arranged for consistency. “Oh, and Gaeda, I’m taking Trid for this run. That okay?”

“Sure thing boss. She’s been crawling up the walls anyway. I’ll take that new kid, Gor was it?” He nodded happily when she nodded in the affirmative. “Give him some experience, show him the ropes.”

“Sounds good. Right…the new information all that syrup bought us points us to a Colonel Rint Gor’vel. Apparently, he’s taken up residence on a lovely little estate on Delta Velorum. So, we’re all going to go and pay him a visit and see if we can’t dissuade him of this notion of putting bounties on my fiancée.” Nods of understanding met Sidda, a few confused faces, but they accepted the mission. “Gaeda, Thorn rides shotgun on this. Anything big comes up, Rose handles it, you go and get me Gor’vel.”

“Sounds like a plan boss.”

****

That meeting was now a few days in the past, with both ships travelling along at warp seven under cloak. It was risky with the age of Thorn’s cloak combined with Romulan familiarity with such devices, but Sidda’s thinking was that two vessels running this fast under cloak in tight formation would convince any ship that did see them to either pointedly not see them or at least ask for clarification at which point they’d be away. Was it smart? Only circumstances would tell.

“Trid, go ahead and drop us to warp five,” was Sidda’s only concession to the looming Velorum Nebula. Speed, cloaks and nebulas would not mix well as she’d been informed by her engineers and on this, she was inclined to agree with them.

“Warp five aye.”

“Uh, Cap,” a young Romulan man spoke up from the Klingon’s concession to Operations and Communications, “you might want to hear this.” He didn’t wait for a ‘go ahead’ or any other response before pushing a button and filling the bridge with static.

“May…day… this… …aut,” the static was intolerable, but the computer voice could be heard and was recognisable to a good number of people on the bridge as the preferred voice of ship’s computers across all of Starfleet. “…dis…all for…S V…. Ves…suf…a com…tems fail… life…is…batt…wer…any…ves…can…der…tance…do so…age…rep.”

“Can you clean that up any Teloc?” Sidda asked as she stood up and wandered over to his station to look over his shoulder, not that anything he’d do would be something she’d be familiar with. “Get me some more of that message?”

“I wish ma’am, but it’s very faint and kind of washed out by the Velorum Pulsar. In fact, I think it might be because of the pulsar we can even pick the call up?” He shrugged, tried some other magic with his console and commands that Sidda had no idea about, and then gave up. “It’s damn weak. I don’t think anyone else is going to hear this unless someone else is running around out here.”

“Trid, all stop,” Sidda snapped, then turned back and sat herself down. “Teloc, get me Gaeda.” Only a few moments passed. “Gaeda, looks like some Starfleet nut has broken down in the nebula. Bad too. Go on ahead, we’ll see what the do-gooders were up to sneaking around a Romulan nebula.”

“You sure boss?”

“Yes. I don’t want him disappearing. If you don’t hear from me, get in and grab him then head for…Point Bravo. We’ll meet you there.” She cut the circuit herself and then sat back. “Trid, take us into the nebula. Teloc, get me some coordinates. Let’s go see if we can’t nab ourselves a few more Starfleet favours.”

****

***Tamarillo to Kyban Rookery***Vondem Rose is operating within Republic territory***Unknown Starfleet emergency beacon detected within Velorum Nebula***VR Actual has ordered ship to intercept***Please confirm if SI operation and if asset rescue is required***No reply will be considered as a negative

****

“No luck XO,” Lieutenant R’tin said defeatedly as the console in front of him chirped. “There’s not enough juice in the batteries to maintain the containment fields until the warp core is self-sustaining. We’re going to just have to wait till the fusion reactors come online.”

“Yeah, I thought you were going to say that.” Orelia glared at the cold warp core that dominated Engineering, attempting to force her will upon the inanimate object such that it would spring to life and never refuse her simple demands ever again. “I’ve kept your team long enough, go give your sister’s team the extra hand. I want those reactors repaired and online within the day.”

“I’m not the one that said it would take two days,” he said defensively.

“No, but the batteries will fail in four days, so let’s not test their stated load values, shall we?”

A panting sound at the forced open door to Engineering drew everyone’s attention as a petty officer rested there, catching their breath. “Pardon ma’am,” he said between breaths, “But Lieutenant Munroe says you could come quick. Someone’s found us…”

The petty officer was left in the wake of Orelia and R’tin both bounding past him, to the left and straight along the corridor heading straight to an outer compartment. Without power the Vondem was blind and the only way to know if something was out there was good old-fashioned eyeballs. Spaced around the ship crewmen sat, watching the nebula, ready to send runners if need be, to shout down vacant turbolift shafts and carry messages around the ship.

And it paid off seemingly.

The space was a small observation area, the intersection of various corridors near the outer hull and used to make a semi-social space in the lower decks. Lieutenant Munroe was standing there with a pair of binoculars in hand, watching something in the haze of the nebula beyond the window. “Christ Mack, if you haven’t got the XO…” he started, then stopped when he turned to face those approaching and see the target of his summons.

Quick to hand over the binoculars, he pointed Orelia in the right direction and let her scan the distance for a moment to see the object he had detected.

“Klingons? Here in Republic space?”

“Purple Klingons too. Never seen a purple D7 before.”

****

“Only took a day boss, but there she is. Federation Century-class. I’m picking up only minor power signatures. Looks like main and secondaries are out.”

Sidda mulled it over. The distress message hadn’t gotten any clearer and looking at the state of the ship before her, it wasn’t the nebula that was the cause of the problems, but the sender themselves.

“That ship got a name?” she asked.

“Transponder is dead,” Teloc replied. “Hails aren’t getting a response either.”

“Trid, move us around and let’s get a read of their registration. Orelia, tell Bones to get a few of her people ready. Cousin dearest,” she said looking to Orin now, “I’m going over, think you can find a few people to come with?”

The large man nodded, signed to her and then left the bridge to go assemble his boarding party.

“What the?” Trid blurted out as the Vondem Rose moved around the crippled ship, keeping distance as Sidda had ordered. On the view screen, coming into view for all to see was the ship’s charred upper hull and proudly emblazoned upon it the ship’s name and registry.

USS VondemNCC-82053

“Something is wrong about this,” Revin said as she watched her lover adjust the gun belt on her hips before securing it. The two of them had the armoury across from the transporter room all to themselves, the rest of the boarding party already waiting.

“I agree with you love.”

“Then why are you going?” She stepped closer and as Sidda stood straight up, reached out to fix Sidda’s shirt, smoothing a few wrinkles, then the same to her jacket and generally preventing her lover from continuing to prepare.

“Because I want to know why someone is faking a Federation starship and distress call with my homeworld’s name on it.”

Revin smiled and then stepped closer, rocking up onto her toes just enough to plant a kiss on Sidda’s cheek. “It’s also plenty of other people’s homeworld. And a Federation member world.” She was just citing facts, but coincidences don’t just happen so this was aimed at Sidda in some capacity. Just had to be. “Come back to me, yes?”

“You worry too much. I promised I’d keep you safe when we first met.”

“You’ve promised more since then,” she replied, holding up her hand and the engagement ring on it.

With a quick but passionate kiss, the two women left the armoury and straight to the transporter room where Orin had arranged his security detail. Himself, the two Klingons he’d brought onto the Rose and two humans. Five guards for one woman who was dwarfed by even the smallest of them.

Stepping around by the transporter operator, Revin watched as Sidda took her place, did one last check on both of her disruptors and then nodded to the chief, disappearing in a swirl of orange-red motes of light.

Not less than thirty kilometres away those same figures materialised upon a derelict transporter pad aboard the seemingly stricken USS Vondem. Darkness quickly enveloped them as the transporter light faded, then was beaten back by lights being turned on, from shoulder mounted to gun mounted to in Sidda’s own instance a hand-held torch. “Right, on me,” Sidda commanded as she stepped off the padd and went straight for the door, which refused to open, or even acknowledge her existence. “Orin, would you please?”

With an application of brute strength, the door was parted and the party, led by Sidda herself once more, stepped out into the corridor. Only the barest of emergency lights lit the corridors, seemingly free of signs of battle or debris. “Spooky,” one of the humans said quietly.

“Why are you whispering?” the other asked.

“In case someone is listening, duh.”

Before Sidda could say much more, Orin thumped his chest and the two chatterboxes shut up, muttered something and went silent. She didn’t need to look at them or Orin to know the looks on their faces, nor did they need to see the smirk on hers. “We should be on the same deck as Engineering. Should be this way,” she said, pointedly not whispering, before she continued on her way down the corridor. “They must be running life support low on this barge, it’s colder than I like.”

“All Federation starships are cold,” the female Klingon said, earning a chuckle in agreement from her partner. K’tah and Lern as she’d learned recently, were both ex-KDF and willing to fight as long as they didn’t have to do anything to dishonourable.

“No arguments here,” Sidda muttered.

They strode in silence for a few more minutes, stopping at intersections, trying computer panels from time to time. No signs of life until they came across two Starfleet officers emerging from a Jefferies tube hatch in the distance. Both parties spotted each other and before Sidda could get so much as a ‘Hi’ out they were sprinting away and towards Main Engineering.

“Well, guess the jig is up. Shall we go introduce ourselves?” With a round of head nods, the group continued at their pace, knowing they were giving any defenders a chance to dig in.

“Captain, how do you feel?”

Looking up from the padd, Sidda blinked twice as her eyes focused, slowly, on Dr Ward, not helped by the dim light of Sickbay in an emergency. “I feel groggy. Guess it’s what to expect from a concussion?”

“You tell me, Captain. Records show this would be number three for you. Academy Fencing team and a bad shuttle flight I recall.” The Doctor approached closer, a hand scanner coming up so she could wave it in a halo around her patient’s head.

“You’re forgetting the one from the Klingon mosh pit last year,” she corrected.

“Well, it can’t be that had if you’re spotting my tests.” The scan completed, she then pried, with little effort, the padd from Sidda’s hands. “I said no screen time and here I find you reading status reports?” Her own eyes glanced over the summaries then set the padd down just out of reach. “I’m ordering you to relax. Besides, we’ll need you on your A game if what I just heard is true.”

“What would that be?” she asked, blinking to try and kick start her brain, then rolling her head around.

“Apparently a D7 or a K’t’inga class warbird just found us. Though apparently, it’s painted purple?” Ward’s tone indicated not just a question, but utter confusion at the concept of a Klingon ship painted purple.

“House Kurhcill. Minor house on the far side of the Empire.”

“Really?”

Sidda smiled at the Doc, then let it turn into a wicked smirk. “Goddess no! Who paints a Klingon ship purple?”

“You replaced all the bridge and conference room carpets for a nice shade of purple,” the Doctor pointed out.

“Yes, but I have impeccable taste in design, as well as a Captain’s prerogative to redecorate when a ship is in port.”

She wasn’t entirely sure how continuing down the corridor had turned into a standoff, but it had, and quickly. Security had ambushed them clearly, stepping out from around corners with weapons drawn and enough numbers to make Sidda’s little boarding party instantly realise they didn’t stand a chance.

“Guns down folks,” she ordered of her people after instinct and training had caused all of them to snap weapons to bear. Her own disruptor, at least one of them, was holstered as growling behind her and other sounds indicated a distaste for the action, but compliance.

Her own hands were raised soon enough, just the torch in one, as she stepped forward from her group. “We’re just answering a distress call from this ship, figured Engineering was a good place to find survivors.”

Eventually one of the Starfleet personnel stepped forward out of the gloom and past the blinding torch lights being aimed at them, going from a silhouette to an actual person, and one the entire party recognised as someone back aboard the Vondem Rose.

“Captain?” the woman who looked exactly like Orelia asked, her uniform denoting her as a Commander.

“Who the fuck are you?” was Sidda’s response.