Post by Nola on Mar 14, 2017 2:57:24 GMT
"One, two, three, lift!" called Ensign Kelior. Petty Officer Lahora grunted and lifted at the knees, carrying her end of the torpedo over to the loading rack. She was beginning to tire, though the towering Rigellian Ensign seemed calm as ever.
Fortunately, the battlestations klaxon drowned out her labored breathing. Unfortunately, the young Risian could only take a moment to rest as Kelior was already moving for the next one.
"Open," called Warrant Officer Horacek. Chief Petty Officer ch'Zenar, Lahora's direct superior, keyed open the torpedo's access panel.
"Arming," announced Horacek, punching in the arming sequence. Lahora had lost track of how long this had been going on. The various alarms, physical exertion, and irregular shaking of the hull had made keeping track of time more trouble than it was worth. She and Kelior might have been hauling quantums for five minutes or five days. Ultimately, however long it had been since the autoloader had blown was irrelevant; they needed to keep the torps coming, so Lahora ignored the ache in her limbs and prepared to lift the next one.
"Load!" called Horacek. He and ch'Zenar shoved the projectile into the tube, and the familiar 'CHOOM' of a torpedo launch followed almost instantly.
"Lift!" called Kelior, and Lahora returned her attention to the task at hand. Grunting and straining, she carried over her end of the torpedo, and the loading process began again. She didn't have much left in the tank, but she was determined to keep lifting until her body gave out on her. A glance at the dwindling pile of torpedoes told her that she could finish the job, and she pushed all other thoughts from her mind.
Lift. Arm. Load. Fire. Over and over they labored, occasionally forced to brace against a bulkhead as the Hyperion's Beta Module rocked under a rain of Breen fire.
Things had looked so dire when they'd been told the size of the enemy fleet. They were outnumbered four-to-one, and Lahora had initially suspected the battle wouldn't last more than half an hour. A stolen glance at the chronometer told her they'd been at it for nearly six. Six hours of near-constant hell, and the Hyperion was still standing. If she could still fight, then so could Lahora.
At least, that is, until ammo ran out, and she was greeted by an uncomfortable blend of relief and sorrow as she realized she was lifting their penultimate warhead. Two more shots. She hoped they'd be good ones - every ship the Hyperion destroyed was another ray of hope that any of them might see tomorrow, that Free Haven would remain free.
All told, this was the third time the Hyperion had fought for the colony. During the war with the Tzenkethi, the Hyperion had led what was left of its taskforce to liberate the colony from the retreating Breen. A few months ago, the Hyperion had led another force to protect the colony from the battles between the Breen and Tzenkethi. Now, once again outnumbered and outgunned, the Hyperion was fighting for Free Haven. Once more, the ship had taken on one of Starfleet's impossible tasks. As Lahora's muscles began to jelly, she couldn't help but wonder if this was one too many.
But the Hyperion was still on its feet. Until otherwise, her crew would do the same.
Lahora set the final torpedo on the rack, and instantly fell to her knees, gasping desperately. Kelior was at her side in an instant.
"Good work, Lahora," he said, and she couldn't help a small smile. Donny's voice had always been a soothing one (the crew had taken to calling him Donatello for some reason, and it had stuck).
"Load!" shouted Horacek, his voice a hoarse rasp. 'CHOOM' screamed the launcher, and then it fell silent.
"Forward mag to Tactical," called Chief ch'Zenar after a tap of his combadge. "That's it. We're dry."
The four of them sat quietly, panting and either doubled over or slouching against the loading rack. The ship continued to rock, the lights starting to flicker. Lahora felt a brief desire to see how the fight was going, but her body insisted on staying where she was, leaning against Donny, eyes closed as she imagined the battle raging outside.
"Do you-" started Horacek, but his thought was interrupted by a violent lurch that sent them all flying. Lahora caught a brief, chaotic glimpse of flailing limbs and shocked expressions before thudding heavily against the bulkhead. Her world swam as an intense agony gripped her brain. Her breath fled her lungs instantly, and she was unable to will herself to breathe. Somewhere, deep beneath the pain and panic, she wondered if there hadn't been a hull breach. That worry was allayed when she was finally able to draw a breath, her lungs burning with the effort.
As she tried to correct her sense of the room, a new sound immediately caught her attention. The klaxon had changed, and the sudden shift in rhythm triggered every sense of alertness she could muster.
Suddenly on the floor, Lahora struggled to her feet as she tried to recall where she'd heard this particular alarm before. The others were already moving, and she had the impression they were speaking, but her brain was too busy to decode anything they were saying.
She recalled a brief flash of memory, something from her Academy days. A drill, and a particularly memorable one. Why had it been memorable? Was it funny? Did she perform particularly well? No, no...
It was memorable because it had been terrifying, and all at once the world around her came into focus. She scrambled to her feet as the announcement came:
"All hands, abandon ship! Repeat, all hands abandon ship! Life pods and auxilliary craft! Go!"
She clutched to Donny's arm, and he half-dragged her along as they made their way to the nearest escape pod. Fragments of conversations spilled into her still-ringing ears as the rest of the crew followed suit.
"Move it people! We're leaving!"
"Go on ahead, I'm gonna make sure everyone gets out!"
"Help me! I can't walk! Somebody, please!"
Lahora briefly looked about for whoever was calling for help, purely out of reflex, but Donny just pulled her along, eyes forward and focused on the task at hand, just like always. She thought about how proud she was to serve with someone as focused and unshakeable as Donny Kelior, and the fact that that was the thought that made it through the haze filled her with a deep sense of foreboding. This was it. The Hyperion was finished, and they were going down with the ship. She hoped they'd given the Breen a fight for the ages. She hoped the Breen would remember the beating they'd taken at the hands of the Hyperion forever, that their descendants would still be telling the story a thousand years later.
The Hyperion deserved no less.
It was this sense of perspective that caused her not to panic as the ship rocked once more, as the lights went out and stayed out, and as Donny was torn out of her grasp and disappeared in a pile of rubble as the bulkhead exploded.
---
Lahora had no way of knowing how much time had passed. It could have been seconds, or hours, or whole lifetimes. Even as her consciousness teased its way back into existence, she contemplated the possibility that it was simply a trick of a dying body - a few last synaptic bursts as her body was rent by a disintegrating ship.
But the sensation didn't go away, and she soon became aware that parts of her body were vibrating. Her feet? Yes, her feet were dragging along the floor.
"Dolly?" she slurred, her eyes opening to a sea of blurs. Something warm and damp was running down her face, and a dull ache on top of her head told her she was in trouble.
"Stay with me, Crewman," called a voice, but she didn't even attempt to figure out whose it was. "We're almost there."
"'Scape pod," Lahora mumbled.
"Pods are gone," said the voice. "There's one shuttle left, and we're getting on it."
"Head hurts," she managed.
"I know," said the voice, and this time it stirred an echo of memory. After a few moments, she recalled an image of Lieutenant Commander Ederan, the Beta Module XO.
"Any left?" Lahora asked.
"You're the last one," said Ederan, with only the faintest tremor.
---
Ederan set the unconscious crewman on the floor of the shuttle, wordlessly directing a medic to check on her. She had a garish wound on top of her head, and Ederan had no idea what the prognosis might be.
"That's it, let's go!" he called to the shuttle pilot, and the craft lifted off and sped out of the bay through a cloud of plasma. He let himself feel a sense of relief for exactly two breaths before shuffling his way forward through the crowded shuttle.
"Aft view," he called, his tone somber. The pilot wordlessly switched the viewscreen, and Ederan felt several gazes over his shoulder as the remains of the Hyperion came into view.
The Gamma Module had split in two, and was venting plasma. The Alpha module had gone critical, and fragments were spreading in all directions with several of the larger pieces already burning into the atmosphere. The Beta Module, which they'd just left, was following suit, explosions tearing through the superstructure as it went down. Ederan glanced to the colony, trying to gauge where the module might impact. To his token relief, it looked like it would safely land in the ocean.
It wasn't until he blinked that he realized he was crying. An unidentified hand clasped his shoulder as he quietly wiped his eyes.
"Set coordinates for the rendezvous," he instructed. "Full impulse."
He looked back to the screen, this time looking to the Breen forces. Scores of ships seemed little more than burning hulks, and occasional flashes filled the screen as more enemy ships went critical. It was with grim satisfaction that Ederan estimated that the Breen wouldn't be able to hold the colony with what they had left.
"Sir, I've got ships dropping out of warp; it's the fleet!" called the pilot, and a small flame lit itself deep in Ederan's stomach.
"On screen!" he called, and the crowed behind him pressed in.
The Ninth Auxiliary Fleet had dropped out of warp right on top of the Breen flank, and the enemy was already scattering. A trio of Galaxy-class ships rained phaser fire on the various frigates and cruisers that the Breen had brought, and a score of escorts screamed in to tear them apart. Excited whoops and relieved sighs rang out behind him, and Ederan found himself grinning despite the tears.
They had done it. The had held long enough for reinforcements to arrive, and the Breen were going to lose. Free Haven would be held. A profound sense of pride filled his chest as he turned and looked to the dozen or so crew with him, the last to leave the Hyperion. He tried to think of something profound to say, some expression of the grief-tinged pride and elation that filled his being in that moment, but no words would come.
Not until he thought about what Captain Rome might say, that is. At that point, the words became obvious.
"We did the job," he said. "Well done, all of you."
Fortunately, the battlestations klaxon drowned out her labored breathing. Unfortunately, the young Risian could only take a moment to rest as Kelior was already moving for the next one.
"Open," called Warrant Officer Horacek. Chief Petty Officer ch'Zenar, Lahora's direct superior, keyed open the torpedo's access panel.
"Arming," announced Horacek, punching in the arming sequence. Lahora had lost track of how long this had been going on. The various alarms, physical exertion, and irregular shaking of the hull had made keeping track of time more trouble than it was worth. She and Kelior might have been hauling quantums for five minutes or five days. Ultimately, however long it had been since the autoloader had blown was irrelevant; they needed to keep the torps coming, so Lahora ignored the ache in her limbs and prepared to lift the next one.
"Load!" called Horacek. He and ch'Zenar shoved the projectile into the tube, and the familiar 'CHOOM' of a torpedo launch followed almost instantly.
"Lift!" called Kelior, and Lahora returned her attention to the task at hand. Grunting and straining, she carried over her end of the torpedo, and the loading process began again. She didn't have much left in the tank, but she was determined to keep lifting until her body gave out on her. A glance at the dwindling pile of torpedoes told her that she could finish the job, and she pushed all other thoughts from her mind.
Lift. Arm. Load. Fire. Over and over they labored, occasionally forced to brace against a bulkhead as the Hyperion's Beta Module rocked under a rain of Breen fire.
Things had looked so dire when they'd been told the size of the enemy fleet. They were outnumbered four-to-one, and Lahora had initially suspected the battle wouldn't last more than half an hour. A stolen glance at the chronometer told her they'd been at it for nearly six. Six hours of near-constant hell, and the Hyperion was still standing. If she could still fight, then so could Lahora.
At least, that is, until ammo ran out, and she was greeted by an uncomfortable blend of relief and sorrow as she realized she was lifting their penultimate warhead. Two more shots. She hoped they'd be good ones - every ship the Hyperion destroyed was another ray of hope that any of them might see tomorrow, that Free Haven would remain free.
All told, this was the third time the Hyperion had fought for the colony. During the war with the Tzenkethi, the Hyperion had led what was left of its taskforce to liberate the colony from the retreating Breen. A few months ago, the Hyperion had led another force to protect the colony from the battles between the Breen and Tzenkethi. Now, once again outnumbered and outgunned, the Hyperion was fighting for Free Haven. Once more, the ship had taken on one of Starfleet's impossible tasks. As Lahora's muscles began to jelly, she couldn't help but wonder if this was one too many.
But the Hyperion was still on its feet. Until otherwise, her crew would do the same.
Lahora set the final torpedo on the rack, and instantly fell to her knees, gasping desperately. Kelior was at her side in an instant.
"Good work, Lahora," he said, and she couldn't help a small smile. Donny's voice had always been a soothing one (the crew had taken to calling him Donatello for some reason, and it had stuck).
"Load!" shouted Horacek, his voice a hoarse rasp. 'CHOOM' screamed the launcher, and then it fell silent.
"Forward mag to Tactical," called Chief ch'Zenar after a tap of his combadge. "That's it. We're dry."
The four of them sat quietly, panting and either doubled over or slouching against the loading rack. The ship continued to rock, the lights starting to flicker. Lahora felt a brief desire to see how the fight was going, but her body insisted on staying where she was, leaning against Donny, eyes closed as she imagined the battle raging outside.
"Do you-" started Horacek, but his thought was interrupted by a violent lurch that sent them all flying. Lahora caught a brief, chaotic glimpse of flailing limbs and shocked expressions before thudding heavily against the bulkhead. Her world swam as an intense agony gripped her brain. Her breath fled her lungs instantly, and she was unable to will herself to breathe. Somewhere, deep beneath the pain and panic, she wondered if there hadn't been a hull breach. That worry was allayed when she was finally able to draw a breath, her lungs burning with the effort.
As she tried to correct her sense of the room, a new sound immediately caught her attention. The klaxon had changed, and the sudden shift in rhythm triggered every sense of alertness she could muster.
Suddenly on the floor, Lahora struggled to her feet as she tried to recall where she'd heard this particular alarm before. The others were already moving, and she had the impression they were speaking, but her brain was too busy to decode anything they were saying.
She recalled a brief flash of memory, something from her Academy days. A drill, and a particularly memorable one. Why had it been memorable? Was it funny? Did she perform particularly well? No, no...
It was memorable because it had been terrifying, and all at once the world around her came into focus. She scrambled to her feet as the announcement came:
"All hands, abandon ship! Repeat, all hands abandon ship! Life pods and auxilliary craft! Go!"
She clutched to Donny's arm, and he half-dragged her along as they made their way to the nearest escape pod. Fragments of conversations spilled into her still-ringing ears as the rest of the crew followed suit.
"Move it people! We're leaving!"
"Go on ahead, I'm gonna make sure everyone gets out!"
"Help me! I can't walk! Somebody, please!"
Lahora briefly looked about for whoever was calling for help, purely out of reflex, but Donny just pulled her along, eyes forward and focused on the task at hand, just like always. She thought about how proud she was to serve with someone as focused and unshakeable as Donny Kelior, and the fact that that was the thought that made it through the haze filled her with a deep sense of foreboding. This was it. The Hyperion was finished, and they were going down with the ship. She hoped they'd given the Breen a fight for the ages. She hoped the Breen would remember the beating they'd taken at the hands of the Hyperion forever, that their descendants would still be telling the story a thousand years later.
The Hyperion deserved no less.
It was this sense of perspective that caused her not to panic as the ship rocked once more, as the lights went out and stayed out, and as Donny was torn out of her grasp and disappeared in a pile of rubble as the bulkhead exploded.
---
Lahora had no way of knowing how much time had passed. It could have been seconds, or hours, or whole lifetimes. Even as her consciousness teased its way back into existence, she contemplated the possibility that it was simply a trick of a dying body - a few last synaptic bursts as her body was rent by a disintegrating ship.
But the sensation didn't go away, and she soon became aware that parts of her body were vibrating. Her feet? Yes, her feet were dragging along the floor.
"Dolly?" she slurred, her eyes opening to a sea of blurs. Something warm and damp was running down her face, and a dull ache on top of her head told her she was in trouble.
"Stay with me, Crewman," called a voice, but she didn't even attempt to figure out whose it was. "We're almost there."
"'Scape pod," Lahora mumbled.
"Pods are gone," said the voice. "There's one shuttle left, and we're getting on it."
"Head hurts," she managed.
"I know," said the voice, and this time it stirred an echo of memory. After a few moments, she recalled an image of Lieutenant Commander Ederan, the Beta Module XO.
"Any left?" Lahora asked.
"You're the last one," said Ederan, with only the faintest tremor.
---
Ederan set the unconscious crewman on the floor of the shuttle, wordlessly directing a medic to check on her. She had a garish wound on top of her head, and Ederan had no idea what the prognosis might be.
"That's it, let's go!" he called to the shuttle pilot, and the craft lifted off and sped out of the bay through a cloud of plasma. He let himself feel a sense of relief for exactly two breaths before shuffling his way forward through the crowded shuttle.
"Aft view," he called, his tone somber. The pilot wordlessly switched the viewscreen, and Ederan felt several gazes over his shoulder as the remains of the Hyperion came into view.
The Gamma Module had split in two, and was venting plasma. The Alpha module had gone critical, and fragments were spreading in all directions with several of the larger pieces already burning into the atmosphere. The Beta Module, which they'd just left, was following suit, explosions tearing through the superstructure as it went down. Ederan glanced to the colony, trying to gauge where the module might impact. To his token relief, it looked like it would safely land in the ocean.
It wasn't until he blinked that he realized he was crying. An unidentified hand clasped his shoulder as he quietly wiped his eyes.
"Set coordinates for the rendezvous," he instructed. "Full impulse."
He looked back to the screen, this time looking to the Breen forces. Scores of ships seemed little more than burning hulks, and occasional flashes filled the screen as more enemy ships went critical. It was with grim satisfaction that Ederan estimated that the Breen wouldn't be able to hold the colony with what they had left.
"Sir, I've got ships dropping out of warp; it's the fleet!" called the pilot, and a small flame lit itself deep in Ederan's stomach.
"On screen!" he called, and the crowed behind him pressed in.
The Ninth Auxiliary Fleet had dropped out of warp right on top of the Breen flank, and the enemy was already scattering. A trio of Galaxy-class ships rained phaser fire on the various frigates and cruisers that the Breen had brought, and a score of escorts screamed in to tear them apart. Excited whoops and relieved sighs rang out behind him, and Ederan found himself grinning despite the tears.
They had done it. The had held long enough for reinforcements to arrive, and the Breen were going to lose. Free Haven would be held. A profound sense of pride filled his chest as he turned and looked to the dozen or so crew with him, the last to leave the Hyperion. He tried to think of something profound to say, some expression of the grief-tinged pride and elation that filled his being in that moment, but no words would come.
Not until he thought about what Captain Rome might say, that is. At that point, the words became obvious.
"We did the job," he said. "Well done, all of you."