The USS Mackenzie died.

For ten minutes.

Ten minutes of no gravity.  Ten minutes of counting the seconds, they worried that the calculation about the remaining air had been wrong.  Floating and holding onto anything, fearing that the system wouldn’t return, they would all die from loss of air and then eventually burn up in the atmosphere as the Mack continued its descent into the planet.

The moments sluggishly passed from the bridge to the engine room to the corridors to the transporter rooms.  Each creak, each shift, each groan from the superstructure jolted the crew, multiplying the fear factor and strumming on nerves like a puppet master.  Panic attacks were dealt with as best as possible – groups had already sought out each other and gathered in the community.  No one was alone.

Ten minutes of staring at dead doors, nervously grasping handheld phasers, rifles, and whatever could be used in defense.  Watches clicked forward, the silence rebounding over and over.  

Nobody wanted to speak.  

Nobody wanted to admit the terror that was thrashing about just beneath the surface of most of the crew.

The clock ticked onwards.

Five minutes passed.  Eyes stared at walls.  Ears listened for the sound of the enemy.  The air began to smell stale.  New worries were born out of the old.  Breathing exercises had begun earlier by some.  Now, more lungs joined the chorus of slow and steady.  It was a symphony of life desperate to live.

The clocks ticked.  One minute remained.  On the bridge, the four officers were strapped into their chairs, waiting, watching.

Thirty seconds.  Captain Wren Walton gripped the arms of the command chair, her hands ready to fly across the darkened console.  At the helm, Gabriella Castillo similarly posed her hands.  The ship had continued to fall towards the planet.  She had one task – get them out of orbit and back in open space.

Ten seconds.

Five.

Four.

Every Starfleet body on the ship tensed and held their breath.

Two.

One.

The silence stretched past zero.  Nothing happened.

Wren growled, “Come on, Mack…you gotta live…”  She felt the edges of panic creeping towards her peace.  They needed a win.  They needed to get their ship back.  Damn it.  Suddenly, she felt the thrum of the warp core kick into existence.  And the dead starship rose from the dead with a start.  Consoles flickered on as the computer core booted quickly, and the lights blinked alive brightly.  Hands were on consoles as reports streamed into Communications Chief Oscar Reede.  Walton ordered, “Target all non-Starfleet signals and beam them all to the brig…now.”  Her XO, Commander Park, was ahead of her orders, muttering curses on each and every cultist life sign she found and transported.

Suddenly, the turbolift doors opened, and an unfamiliar voice ordered, “Hands off consoles, or I start killing.”  Brody Daltone stepped out, armed with twin phaser rifles.  “You really shit on my parade.”  He aimed at Reede, who was closest, and then at Wren, “I will kill you.”

They’d put their weapons at their sides in anticipation of the reset.  Walton cursed her loss of focus. She put her hands up, “What do you want?”  She glanced at her console and was relieved to see Gabriella had prevented further damage by pulling them quickly out of their spiral into the planet.

“I want you to put this ship into the ground where it belongs.  I’m expecting company, and they’re very particular about honoring deals.”  He inched his fingers closer to the triggers, “Having read what I could about each of you, I think I’m going to have to do it myself.”

Wren stared at him, “Who the hell are you?”

Suddenly, the other turbolift door flew open, and a streak flew out, a bright red whine of a phaser flying across the bridge and slamming into Brody Daltone, who stumbled in shock but remained standing, swinging his twin rifles over to where the shot had come from.  Reede didn’t think.  He didn’t speak.  He didn’t look at his captain.  He thought back to his days on the Academy Football team.  Jumping up from his station, he threw his body into the feet of Daltone, who finally crumpled to the ground, his phaser rifles crashing to the ground and sliding just out of reach.  The figure of Carolyn Crawford popped up and ran to where she slammed her foot into his chest, pointing the handheld phaser just inches from his nose.  “Give me a reason, you piece of shit.”

Dalton looked to the fiery gaze from Reede and then to the others who had now armed themselves with similar looks and weapons.  He fell to lay flat on the ground, a grin spreading, “They are going to be so pissed.  You’ve screwed with the wrong guy, Crawford.”

Carolyn checked the settings on her phaser and stepped back a few feet.

And shot Brody Daltone.  She turned to her captain and XO, “I do love me the stun feature on a phaser.  Good at shutting people up.”

Wren let a dry chuckle out, “Get him cuffed and secured.  Let’s…”

Castillo announced unevenly, “We have a heavy Syndicate cruiser dropping from warp at the edge of the sector.  They’re on an intercept course.  Three minutes.”

Walton scoffed, “It’s never dull in the Janoor System.  Red Alert, sound battle stations.  Alert our friends on the planet; we might need to wake up the planetary defenses.”  She turned to watch Kondo stepping onto the bridge, an amused look on his face.  She pointed to his station, “Let’s show ’em what happens when you decide to mess around with the Mack.”