The air is singing with a choir of weapons fire, a hissing, sibilant scherzo of coalesced energy that leaps across the room between the two makeshift covers. A dozen voices are drawn together, and I can hear each person as if they spoke with their own voice.

Tulil’s is the deepest, the most resonant, as his powerful phaser blasts vibrate the deck plates with their energetic long jumps. He works on the discharge crystal of that beat-up old type-3 from the 2360s in his off hours. He says he prefers the reliability of the boxy square thing.

He’s fascinated with that era, something about the golden age of Starfleet. He wasn’t even born then, but much of the Empire’s propaganda that poured from his family’s television featured the handsome bald captain of the Federation’s flagship. I doubt he was the only one enamoured with this vision of the enemy who threatened to fundamentally alter the Romulan people, it’s why Ambassador Spock was so successful.

He says he was assigned to Starfleet by the choice of his superiors, that his deployment to this foreign power was a fair trade for the support garnered for the fledgling Romulan Republic. But I’ve seen the glimmer in his eye as he works on that old rifle, secreted in the corner of Daedalus’s lounge, bathed in the light of Starfleet. One day I’ll ask him if he’s really here simply out of duty; I’m pretty sure he asked to be assigned with us.

In either case, he fights with the cold focus of a man with something to lose, and I’ll take that for now. As one of the armour-clad enemies dashes for a nearby console, his muzzle pushes past him and lets loose a needle of white hot energy; the foe falls. Tulil is already tracking the next foe with a huntsman’s eye before the body hits the deck.

Ole could be his opposite, roaring from behind a large cargo crate he has turned on its side single-handedly. The gigantic blue hairless bear is something out of a legend, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a particularly terrifying myth is whispered over campfires about his exploits. There’s an equally massive rifle that I’m almost certain isn’t regulation clutched in his paws. A long-barreled thing flanked with cruel-looking canines at its mouth. It pours out green dragon fire onto the enemy that burns the air as it flies on invisible wings around the room. His aim is terrible, covering the bulkheads in dark patches of dented metal, but he brings something more effective to the firefight. Fury.

When I first came aboard Daedalus after the events of the Exodus sphere, I knew there would be some battered hearts. They had, after all, lost some of their nearest and dearest. And on such a small ship, everyone was near and dear. Crewmembers had trudged in and out of my office, carrying tears and denials as each plodded along on their journey of reflection. But Ole had sat in the chair with a glum smile, like the loss of some of his closest friends was a sad but inevitable line in his story.

I see the truth on his face as he allows a spittle-laced roar to escape his chest. Alongside it, he unleashes another volley of weapons fire.

He is now forever angry, and I am grateful not to be in his sights.

Rhoska is an odd one. He’s an old hand at the Starfleet game, and nothing seems to faze him. Even here, in the heat of combat, fighting for our lives, he looks like he could be considering a particularly reluctant condenser of some far-flung farming colony. He’s shoulder-deep in the console as he attempts to re-route the command controls for the orbital weapons platforms, but still finds a moment to adjust his tattered cap back into position.

He calls for a tool from Oscuri, who hunkers beside him with the contents of the engineering kit splayed about the deck, and I catch his eye. He offers me a wry smile and a tilt of his head before taking the spanner from his colleague and returning his attention to the challenging console.

He’s got a story for everything, a piece of worldly advice delivered in his thick cornfed accent for evey scenario. It’s become a joke amongst the crew that most are likely fishermen’s tales, everyone nods and smiles and takes the proffered wisdom under guidance. But as he reaches for his phaser with a free hand and looses a series of dead-eye blasts over Oscuri’s shoulder towards an overly brave enemy soldier, I can see a well of experience in the old man’s stories.

He returns to his work unfazed by the combat that surrounds him, and I am jealous of his calm.

Shani Oscuri is almost as much a mystery to me as she is to the rest of the crew. Despite the close quarters of the ship, I’ve yet to meet many who have an opinion of her beyond ‘she does her job well’. I’ve watched her work alongside Theta Squad for several months, and I agree.

She’s very good at her job.

The woman is wealth of knowledge, everything from the life cycles of Tholian silkworms to the latest geological surveys of far-flung asteroid fields. I’d swear she has some direct access to the ship’s library system somewhere in her various cybernetic enhancements. But Malax says it’s a secret, despite the pressure of my three pips. Whatever the reason, she takes full advantage of her mental archive, digital or not, and I am left with the assessment I started with: she is good at her job.

But I’ve seen her sometimes hanging around the wide windows of the aft lounge, lost in thought. Her dark eyes plumbing the depths of the universe through the trail of Daedalus’s warp field as the galaxy races past at lightspeed. Rhoska joked with a laugh that would endear mothers, that she was ‘buffering’ when I had enquired. He might be right, I suspect she’s cataloguing, preparing for every eventuality they may face.

She is, after all, very good at her job.

Then there is me.

Hidden in the corner of the operations centre, as the weapons fire flies, completely and utterly lost. I am without focus, without fury. Without experience or knowledge. I had led us blindly into this conflict, trusting the offerings of the weasley Tellerite who had scurried from the room as we entered, sending a pile of nearby padds falling to the deck and alerting the enemy. It is my responsibility to take care of this team, but all I can do is hold my hands to Anyok’s chest as dark crimson blood flowed from a vicious wound, pooling at my knees. The med kit is just out of reach, and I dare not let up the pressure for a second.

She had taken the first angry purple shot from the enemy when they had spotted us, and despite her nimble acrobatics, taken the shot full force to the chest.

Then all hell had broken loose.

Ole had cried like a bloodied barbarian and leapt into the fray, throwing a crate over for cover before unleashing his colossal weapon on the foe.

Tulil was quickly alongside him, darting here and there with precise movements, letting off blinding orange beams into the rainbow of lights above our heads.

Without discussion, Rhoska and Oscuri had disappeared into the maze of consoles, their focus still on the mission to re-engage the station’s defence satellites.

And I was left here alone, to drag Anyok’s body into cover behind a large fallen desk.

I was at the mercy of my colleague’s skills and the enemy’s tactics.

There is blood on my hands.

Suddenly, it all falls silent. Ole has stopped shouting. Tulil’s phaser has gone quiet. Even the whispering of Rhoska and Oscuri has ceased as the pair peek their heads over the console.

The enemy has been dispatched. We have won.

And I had nothing to do with it.