Gail ran her fingers down the centre of the wide doors, its hidden motors and servos moaning with effort as they attempted to fulfil their duty and pull the doors aside. They roared a desperate plea as the two bulky doors shuddered in their tracks but refused to be parted from one another. Forcibly bound to each other by the hastily erected weld across the seam, which itself was serving its final command to bind the doors together; evidence of a desperate attempt to halt an unrelenting enemy. Her short, calloused fingers alighted across the undulating mountain range of melted metal as she followed its path down the large cargo bay portal, her fingers tracing hastily formed valleys and peaks as the groaning motors created a seismic vibration through the roots of the perfectly vertical microscopic mountain range. She smiled as she recognised the familiar steady hand of a practiced engineer, who despite being bloodied and breathless, nearing the end of a harrowing retreat could not help but do a job correctly. A tear formed in the corner of Gail’s eye as she faintly heard the sizzle of the phaser against the metal, a final, desperate blockade against a horror that wore the face of their dearest friends.

Crayden could hear the words of a frustratingly calm Vulcan tutor as the phaser slowly boiled the metal, ‘Take a breath, listen for the change in tone, make the bond tight.’ He had been right of course that taking the extra few seconds over a weld would make the difference but his smug instruction had always rankled the man as a young cadet. Even now a mote of frustration licked at his sweating neck.

“Cray? How’s the door coming?” a voice called from across the small cargo bay.

“Almost there Lieutenant.” He allowed the phaser to hum across a few inches of the deck plate, sealing the base of the bulky doors to the floor on which they stood. Exhaling a long breath he stepped back and inspected his work, the still warm metal radiating heat. “T’Nor would be proud.”

A deep baritone voice rumbled at Crayden’s ear, “Impressive work as always petty officer. Will it hold?”

Crayden turned to face the aging engineer, focusing his attention on the man’s eyes so as to avoid the disquieting scar that oozed blood on his forehead, the makeshift sling across his chest that held the man’s crushed arm or the slowly expanding red mark that crept across the side of his mustard-coloured uniform. “A dozen Gorn couldn’t break that now.”

“I’d take Gorn right now.” A chuckle escaped the man’s lips, followed by a painful intake of breath as his good arm clutched his side.

“We should ask the L.T. to take another look at that boss.” Crayden offered an arm as he indicated the red shouldered woman across the other side of the bay.

“I’d be surprised if she’s got anything in that little box for me.” The grizzled engineer scrunched his wrinkled face in pain. “I need a sickbay, not a medkit.”

Crayden offered an arm as the older officer wobbled slightly and helped him shuffle across the small bay to the makeshift shelter the other survivors had fashioned from crates and barrels. Survivors. The word felt bitter on his tongue without speaking it. They had been forced to run in fear down hallways that had once heard the laughter of arguing friends and the whispering prayers of an ensign who had missed his alarm. To be made survivors within the walls of their own home was a cruelty that suited the Borg all too well. That it should be the faces of their friends that chased them through the halls of their once cherished memories was all the crueller.

The Lieutenant knelt over another crew member, prone on a stretcher as the pair rounded the large crate that functioned as the main wall of the make-shift citadel, the familiar click of the hypospray was followed by a sputtering hiss as the small device struggled to aerosolize the almost empty cartridge. As the ragged breathing of the crewman slowed to a shallow constant the young woman stood from her knees as she clicked the med kit closed, satisfied her long forgotten trauma qualification had not been misremembered. As her eyes met the two men she summoned them aside to join another woman who was surveying the crates. Crayden noticed her long flowing silken robe patterned with ornate flowers now tattered and tainted with spattered blossoms of blood as she examined the surrounding containers, her body visibly shaking with tension.

“That was the last of my painkillers.” The lieutenant sighed, rubbing her forehead in frustration. “There’s not a lot left in here.” She tapped the case slung over her shoulder with her manicured fingernails.

“Could we replicate some?” Crayden asked as he levered the older engineer to sit on a nearby grey box, who lent back grateful to be off his feet for a moment.

“There should be a replicator over in the corner for fabricating tools.” The old man waved vaguely towards the workbench at the far end of the room. He winced and hissed through his teeth at the action, screwing his closed eyes even tighter . All eyes ignored the growing red stain that now spread across his stomach, there was little that could be done to stem the flow, even if the old man would allow it.

“They’re locked out with everything else. I tried when we passed through the Mess.”

Silence fell across the small team as the shallow breathing of the barely conscious crewman hissed a few metres away.

“I’m open to all options here.” The Lieutenant looked around the group, her eyes reaching for any and all suggestions. Crayden could see the cracked façade of borrowed confidence clung desperately to her features, an attempt to emulate the style she had witnessed in more seasoned commanders. Cray searched through his mind, flipping pages in his mental address book, for her name, barely recollected in the heat of the moment. The pips had made her in charge.

“Is there anything in the crates we can use?” she turned to the older woman, who continued to keep the welded bay doors in her periphery as she hummed with tense energy.

 “It’s mostly raw materials, a few boxes of Tarkalean tea I was keeping for Captain’s Day celebrations.” The woman motioned to the large crate as she ran the hem of her silken robe between her dirt covered fingers. “Boxes and boxes of ration packs.”

“We can grab a few but we need to keep moving.” The Lieutenant turned to Crayden. “Any other ways out of here? I admit my work with the research team didn’t bring me down here much.”

A cog clicked in Crayden’s brain. ‘Lieutenant Williams!’ he exclaimed at the back of his mind. The woman was the administrator for the research cluster who were temporarily aboard, her shoulders were red by virtue of her role rather than any particular interest in command.

“There’s those big ones over there.” The old engineer pointed to the massive exterior doors that led to the vessels exterior and the suffocating death of the empty void. The loomed massive and easily forgotten, forming a sizeable portion of the wall.

The panicked eyes of the woman in the robe burned into the engineer as she focused her disapproval. “That’s not funny Edwin.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny Marsella.” Another silence crept across the group, heavy and thick as they contemplated his meaning. “I’d rather that, than have a Borg make-over.”

She reached for his shoulder as if to slap him admonishingly but recoiled back as she saw the blood stain had begun to creep insidiously up to his armpit.

“There’s a Jefferies tube access behind those crates.” Crayden pointed to a nearby stack as he cast a glance to the Lieutenant and drew her gaze to the prone crewman and the wounded engineer seated before them. “But it’s tight and hard going.”

Understanding his meaning, Lieutenant Williams returned his stare with wet eyes. The woman had never thought herself a leader. She had been convinced to donn the command department robe by an old mentor, ‘it’ll give you more options’ he had said as he signed the transfer forms. She had gladly received the golden pips on her collar as recognition for her successful management of long term projects across the quadrant. She had applied for this posting aboard the ship to be able to work with her lifelong hero Dr. Sherridan. She had never, in a million Sundays expected to have to make these choices.

Crayden felt sorry for the woman, now devoid of options. Her gaze shifted between the vast airlock doors and his face. Perhaps the old man was right. Perhaps it was preferable to becoming a drone. “The weld will hold them back for a while. Long enough for the captain to do something.” He offered, throwing a lifeline to the hopeless officer.

“The Captain! Yes, I’m sure he’s working to stop the Borg now!” She exclaimed, her voice caked with false confidence. “We’ll make safe here and rest up, have some food and wait for further instructions. Cray did a fantastic job on those doors, not even an angry Seh’lat could get through them.” A silent thankyou left her lips towards the petty officer, neither could know the truth of the statement but it gave a moment of hope to the group. “Marissa, why don’t you tell us what’s on the menu.”

Gail examined the med kit that hung on the corner of the shelving, her white gloved fingers struggling to extricate the shoulder strap from the metal work where it had got caught in the escaping wind. With a final tug it came free of the frame and twisted slowly, the familiar silver caduceus symbol catching in the sunlight as it spun in the zero gravity environment, endlessly carried by inertia. Swallowing her tears as she pressed the silence button on her comm panel Gail took the kit in her hands and clipped it to her EVA suit as she began to cross back to the giant open airlock doors which exposed the interior of the vessel to the cold airless universe. Beyond she could see the latice work of the decomissioning yard where the vessel now rested, too damaged in the confusion of Frontier Day to serve any longer. 

Alone in the silence, she wept.