((Runabout Anvil))

“You served with Captain Ayres and Cdr Parr on the Farragut right Murdock?” Paccelli asked.

“I did. I even served a few shifts on the bridge and the Captain gave me a few direct orders in my few months aboard.” Murdock said, as if pleased with himself for the accomplishment.

“Alright then, call ’em up. Get ’em talking.” Patch said. He was a bit suspicious of why they’d have flown out here all this way on a pair of Valkyries that weren’t really designed for long range patrols. Especially given the presumed state of their ship when they would have left.

“Aye sir” the Benzite said as some blue steam fluttered around his breathing apparatus. He activated the external comms.

“This is Ensign Murdock aboard the USS Anvil calling the Starfleet Valkyrie directly infront of us. Please respond.” He said after opening the channel.

Valkyrie Fighter

For a second, Ayres just stared at the comms panel, as if the voice might clarify itself into something else if he gave it a moment. The accent was familiar in a faint, sideways way. Benzite, young, very correct. Murdock.

The name slotted into place a heartbeat later. The one who had done a turn on the bridge rotation before they had been flung into this mess. Eager, careful, endlessly concerned with understanding how the human idioms worked.

He did not touch the transmit control immediately. Old habits warred with newer, less romantic considerations. You could still run, something in him suggested, unhelpfully. He thought, briefly and fiercely, of all the ways this could be taken out of his hands.

Then he imagined not answering. Not hearing anything from beyond the Valkyrie’s hull for hours more. The logic, when he stripped the sentiment away, was clear and unforgiving. Alone, his odds were rubbish.

“All right,” he said, and hit transmit.

“Anvil, this is Captain Michael Ayres onboard the Valkyrie,” he said. “I’ve been tracking one of our own, Commander Parr, who I believe to be leading us to the Pilgrim’s main staging area, possibly the source of all of this madness.”

There was a brief silence. He could almost see the expressions, the rapid recalculation on the other end: the sheer relief of hearing a recognisable voice and turn of phrase, the scramble to respond correctly.

A new voice responded this time, this one had a strong hint of New Yorkers accent. Apparently Murdock wasn’t alone on the runabout that was gaining on him from the rear.

“Captain Ayres sir, this is Lt. Paccelli. I don’t know if you’re aware, but you’re officially listed as missing in action right now. I’ll file your initial comms in our logs…I hope you got a good reason for not letting anyone know you were out here, I’d hate for that MIA status to be switched to AWOL. If you’re XO has found the Pilgrim HQ or homeworld or whatever, we can go check it out together. Ease up on your throttle a bit, I and my wingman will form up on you in about 5 minutes. The Victory is about a half a day behind us.” Patch said. He was honestly throwing the Captain a bone, but Ayres would still need an excuse for abandoning his post and running with comms blacked out.

Ayres watched the little wedge of light slide across his forward display, marking the Anvil’s projected intercept. MIA. That, he thought, was at least marginally better than KIA. It also meant a great many eyes would be very interested in whatever came next. “Ayres,” he told himself quietly, “this is the part where you decide whether you are going to be a professional or a romantic idiot.”