Surefoot 73: The Longest Day

USS Surefoot, the Front, Stardate 52892.56:

"Fifteen minutes to the Border, Sir," T'Varik reminded him over the intercom.

Captain Esek Hrelle nodded to the figures on the desk viewscreen, as if they had spoken instead of his First Officer, and replied, "Thank you, Commander. I'll be right out." As the comlink ended, he focused back on the conversation, knowing their time was almost up. "And here we go, Runt of the Litter."

"I guess so, Dad." Sasha's sober, resolute face filled the screen; she had lost some weight around her cheeks since they had last been together, he noticed, and seemed more balanced, more sober, quite literally in fact, despite their current circumstances. "You never did get a message back to Cait, did you?"

"No, but they'll know what's happening. Everyone will know. Something like this can't be kept under wraps." He noticed, barely visible from inside her jacket a non-regulation holster under her left arm, where a black ballistic pistol sat, and below it, at her hip, the pommel and grip of her Kaetini sword. Good, he thought, I'd wrap you in neutronium armour as well if I could. Screw that, I'd beam you back to Cait, to have a long, safe life.

He swallowed; there was so much he wanted to say to her. A lifetime's worth, and more. Instead, all he could do was tell her, "I love you, Sasha. Stay safe."

Her face tightened. "I love you too, Dad. And you'd better stay safe as well."

"I'll do my best. Now let me talk to that little butt pimple alone."

Offscreen, a gruff voice announced, "Get to the Bridge, Lieutenant."

Sasha nodded, holding up a hand to Hrelle as she departed, quickly replaced by Captain Weynik, his black eyestalks dipping down, the lights reflecting off of his ossified face ridges. "If you're gonna tell me you love me, too, you fat bastard, I'm gonna vomit." He grunted. "Not that I have anything left in my stomach."

Hrelle made a noise. "Same here... believe it or not. I still can't believe how many ships are out there. The battle logistics will be a nightmare."

"As far as I'm concerned, it's not enough. And how many will survive the day?"

"Don't get caught in those thoughts, Little Brother. We focus on our corner of the battle... and keep our ships and crews safe and sound."

"Agreed. I'd better get on the Bridge. You too, Hefty." But he leaned forward and promised, "I'll keep her safe. If it comes down to it, she'll be shoved into an escape pod before me. And when this is all over, we'll talk again about retiring from Starfleet and opening up a private detective agency on Royla."

"Forget it; all you little garden gnomes look alike to me. Take care, Brother."

"You too, Brother."

He ended the communication, rose to his feet and adjusted the holster at his side. Everyone onboard the Surefoot was sporting a phaser now, even the Horta Ensign Stalac. It wasn't certain that they might be boarded, like they had been during the Battle of Khavak, but it always paid to be careful. Let's face it, Esek, it was more likely that they'd get blown out of the sky by some Dominion battlecruiser.

He pushed aside such morbid thoughts -- however likely they were -- as he strode out of his Ready Room and back onto the Bridge, looking at the viewscreen... with a starfield outnumbered by the swarm of starships racing as one to their destiny.

It seemed more prosaic, when one looked at the Tactical/Operations station screen shared by his Chief of Security C'Rash Shall, and his Second Officer Sextilis Bellator: just dots on a screen. Countless dots, tightly packed together and moving in the same direction.

Nevertheless, it still astounded him. Once when he was a cub, old enough to go out on the trawlers with his Papa, he bore witness to the largest school of sleekfish he had ever seen or heard of: thousands and thousands of scurrying things, swimming easily around the ship, their scales reflecting the sunlight, a living current stretching for seeming infinity in every direction. He was certain he would never see anything so grand again in his long-legged life.

Until today.

Surrounding them was the Alpha Quadrant Armada, the greatest collection of starships in the history of the Galaxy: Starfleet vessels of all sizes, shapes, ages and conditions, from tiny arrowhead-shaped starfighters, to the behemoth Sovereigns, Excelsiors and Galaxys; the more uniform raptor designs of the Klingon Imperial Fleet, from the small but swift Birds of Prey to the monstrous Vor'chas; and the regal warbirds of the Romulan Star Empire, late to the War but welcome nevertheless.

The Surefoot, and the rest of the Thirteenth Fleet, had joined the Armada as they left their initial collection point at Deep Space Nine to head for the Cardassian border, to engage with the Dominion forces that had withdrawn behind the lines to regroup and rebuild their troops and ships. It was inevitable that they would return to their former strength, given time.

But the word had been given: the Enemy would not have that time. They would be pursued. They would be fought. And they would be defeated.

At whatever the cost.

Sitting in her chair adjacent to his, Commander T'Varik checked her display for what seemed to Hrelle like the hundredth time. "Ten minutes to Cardassian Border, Sir."

He breathed in, still staring ahead, as if mesmerised by the ships. And what a pity, that it always seemed to take a common threat to unite forces, instead of a common dream.

"Captain," T'Varik prompted softly.

He nodded; the scent of fear was thick in the air, had been since word about the upcoming battle was announced. He opened a shipwide channel. "Captain to Crew: the Armada is about to engage the combined forces of the Dominion, the Breen Confederacy and the Cardassian Union..."

*

On every inhabited deck of the ship, everyone was awake, on duty, on alert and attentive to their Captain's words.

In Sickbay 1, Ezekiel Masterson kept his arms crossed, appearing nonchalant, but really not wanting to lower his right arm and let it touch the phaser in the holster on his hip. He was a Sawbones, a doctor, a healer of flesh and mind. He was sick of this War, a seemingly senseless clash of ideologies that triggered a senseless clash of bodies. So much blood had been spilled already, and more was to come.

He looked across to his Chief Nurse, Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas, remembering the days when the muscular, coffee-skinned woman was still a cadet, her combative Capellan mentality making her a challenge for his usual easy-going nature... but never making him doubt her competency at the job, or her coolness under fire. Literal fire; she wielded a phaser and a throwing blade as easily as a tricorder or autosuture.

He hoped she'd make it through all this, and go on to be everything she could be.

*

"As you are already aware, we will not be performing our usual duties as an ambulance ship... not at first, anyway. We will be fighting, alongside everyone else, and no longer protected by the Articles of War as a noncombat vessel. Everyone has been given sidearms, in case we're boarded..."

In Engineering, Chief Sakai stood alongside his entire Engineering crew, though they looked more like a firing squad with all those phasers. He regarded them: Arad Maf, Nalack, Tori Emoto, Logan Gentry, Loxx Noraha, Suran Kaurril... they all looked so young.

I have a shock for you, Davey Boy, he told himself. They are so young.

And yet, some of them have been through so much... and he didn't mean his endless supply of practical jokes. He had heard about what had happened to them when the Cardassians and Jem'Hadar had last boarded, killing their Chief and Assistant Chief, threatening the others.

Sakai had served in Starfleet for thirty-two years before he emerged from retirement. And in all that time, he had never killed, never had to kill, never even drew his phaser except during mandatory marksmanship training. Keep a warp core from breaching? No problem. Hold together a Structural Integrity Field generator together with gaffer plastic and profanity? Easy Peasy.

But fighting? Killing? Could he handle it, if it came down to it? And how much of himself, the irrepressible nature that earned him the nickname of Monkey among those who knew him, would be left?

*

"Those of you who served during the Battle of Khavak will remember the Jem'Hadar and Cardassians who invaded us, and the death and destruction they caused.

I can't tell you if the Enemy might board again.

But if they do... you will show no mercy. Those are my direct orders. Any one of you is worth a thousand of them. They're willing to die for what they believe in. Let them. You live for what you believe in."

In the Shuttlebay, Ensign Zir Dassene let her free hand rest on the armoured plating of her combat vest as she looked to the Security Team she was commanding. They looked back, nodding, trusting her. She had developed a reputation among them since the Battle of Khavak, where she had killed several of the Enemy in Engineering.

She wished she could be worthy of that reputation. Inside, however, she felt alone, fractured, held together with fraying string. The fear that came to her at Khavak had never really left her. There had been no one onbaord to speak with about it: her friend Peter was back on Earth with his daughter, training to be a Counselor, there was no regular Counselor onboard the Surefoot until most recently, and most of her friends were assigned elsewhere, or were too busy.

Perhaps she should have spoken to one of the senior officers... but they might have taken her off duty, and she was needed, now more than ever.

So Zir made herself ready. She was alone in the Universe, a self-imposed exile from the Orion Empire, unable to live in a place where slavery and piracy and crime were the norm. Starfleet, the Federation, had saved her, taken her in unhesitatingly, protected and educated her, showed her a better way of living, and gave her a chance to be the best she could be.

And Captain Hrelle had shown absolute faith and trust in her, had become a second father to her, taught and guided her these last few years.

She would protect that man. Protect this ship and crew. Protect the Federation.

She would burn worlds for them.

*

"And feel free to invoke any divine forces you believe in, or even those you don't; we're not too proud to get a little extra help on our side. Good luck, to all of us. Captain out."

At the Crossroads, the junction on Deck 3 linking the three Sickbays, Sre Gyver Timbrel stood tall, the black-maned equinoid tapping his hoof steadily, seeking a calming mantra as he looked to the rest of the Support Crew assigned to guard this section of the ship: the Gorn Kevin O'Reilly, raised among humans and embracing their friendly ways; the water-breathing Argoan female Hylore Waro, so eager to serve among the stars she was willing to wear an aquatic exosuit most of her time; the brave, feisty Malurian female Malala Jain, always positive in the face of the pain and suffering she had faced in the past; the Terran female Alison Pagan, her mask of cynicism unable to suppress her generosity of spirit; and her fellow Terran Valentin Dellaport, hiding his fear over the hostile unknown behind his anger.

They were good people, and he had learned from them, and served them as his faith had instructed. He could not help but feel guilt over what he had concealed from them... even as he hoped that circumstances would allow him to continue to do so.

*

"Captain out." Hrelle closed the channel and leaned back in his chair, staring ahead, his voice low, confidential. "Not as inspirational as it could have been."

The Vulcan's tone was sober but sympathetic. "There is little to be gained with setting unrealistic expectations of our chances of survival. You have completed your messages?"

He nodded. All crewmembers were invited to prepare messages for their next of kin, for storage in the ship's recorder marker, to be recovered in the event of the worst happening. He ground his teeth; it would be First Landing Day back on Cait today, the anniversary of their ancestors' arrival on the Motherworld, a time of celebration with family and friends, even after the recent tragedy of the Occupation. He couldn't recall when he had last made it home for First Landing, but he was especially feeling the absence of his family. "And you?"

"Kami. Misha. And my brother Pedalk and my nephew Srilik on Vulcan." She looked to him meaningfully. "Anyone else I consider family is here with me."

He nodded, smiling slightly. "What a coincidence-"

"It's started!" C'Rash announced behind them, her scent changing and her tail twitching with anxiety. "A Klingon Vor'cha and a squadron of Birds of Prey have leapt ahead and drew First Blood! Galors and Jem'Hadar Scarabs are counter-attacking!"

Hrelle looked up at the viewscreen, seeing the nova flashes of starships at war, just ahead of them.

"Communications traffic increasing within the Armada," Bellator reported sharply. "Sir, Admiral Tattok has transmitted your orders! Captain's Eyes Only!"

He rose up quickly to join the junior officers at their stations, the pair of them stepping aside to let him read, before he forwarded the relevant technical details to Tactical and Helm.

He breathed in, delivering an order he hadn't given since his days in the Salem Sector on the Furyk, against the likes of the Kzinti or the Orions, a lifetime ago:

"BATTLE STATIONS!"

*

Just beyond the battlefield, above and below the plane of the ecliptic, non-combat vessels of Starfleet and non-Starfleet origin observed, transmitting live subspace to an ineffable number of relays, stations, networks and agencies.

On a hundred worlds and more within the United Federation of Planets, and to other locations within the Klingon and Romulan Empires, the Ferengi Alliance, the First Federation and many more, those with varying levels of interest in the outcome of the battle -- a hundred billion people at least -- watched, listened, prayed, gambled, invested, debated, planned and waited.

*

Starfleet Academy Grounds, San Francisco, Planet Earth:

Ensign Peter Boone sat on one of the commons room couches with his daughter, and what seemed to be all the residents of the accommodations building, watching the viewscreen. They could have watched it in their quarters, but people drew together instinctively for support at crisis moments, even if they weren't directly involved like those on the battlefield.

He smiled wryly to himself. In a couple of weeks, he would be fully qualified to Counsel everyone here. Then the smile dropped, as he realised how many patients he was likely to have when this was over.

On his lap, his seven-year-old Abby leaned back against him. "Is Zir fighting out there?"

He nodded. "And Astrid and Stalac and Tori and Urad."

She giggled. "Tori says bad words."

He hugged her. "Yes, she does. She doesn't mean it, though, it's just her way of expressing her anxiety. Like when you twirl your hair in your fingers, or when Stalac rumbles and Urad cracks his knuckles."

She nodded at that, settling further against her father. "Miss them."

Peter tightened his hold; the rest of Alpha Squad were his best, only friends in the Galaxy. They had gone through so much... together. "Me too, Buttercup. Me too. But we'll be back with them before you know it." If they live...

*

Capitol Building, First City, Planet Cait:

"First Minister?"

Ma'Sala Shall looked up instinctively; a month or so ago, she would have still noted to herself how new that title felt, after decades as Fleet Captain of the Planetary Navy of the Motherworld. No longer. Like her regenerated eye and arm, which still itched, she was too busy to care, and if anything it felt like she had been in politics for decades instead of mere months. "Yes, Anjeles?"

The stone-furred female leaned into the open office doorway. "The Crooked Tail has arrived at the Cardassian Border, and is transmitting a live feed on the transwarp channel."

"Thank you."

"And Fleet Captain Mrorr and Commissioner Nenjo are here, too."

"Thank you."

"As well as Minister K'Trierr and the rest of the Matriarchy Council."

"Fuck you."

The younger female remained unmoved by her boss' profanity.

Ma'Sala rose to her feet and marched out into the Command Centre, wishing the tailors that made her civilian outfits at least tried to make them as comfortable as her old Navy uniform. The large enclosure was dominated by the main viewscreen overhead, illustrating a field of... Seven Hells, there were thousands of ships out there... Esek, Sasha, C'Rash... please be safe...

In various places, where obvious combat was taking place, there were smaller secondary screens popping up with closer views. The number of secondary screens was increasing, as both sides began pouring their respective forces into annihilating the other.

Among those in the room was Mrorr, former Captain of the Deep Keep, who was instrumental in the battle to free Cait from the Ferasans, and was now Fleet Captain of the burgeoning Planetary Navy, and as well as Commissioner Nenjo, formerly an agent of the Caitian Secret Service, and now its head. Ma'Sala once held both roles, but gave them up to become a politician.

But hopefully not a politician like Minister K'Trierr, a snooty, self-serving aristocrat who acted like her shit smelled of Bahari orchids, and was now badgering Mrorr with questions on the battle... as if she was interested in anything outside of her own ambitions to take Ma'Sala's place. Approaching, she announced, "Ministers... I would have thought you'd be home with your families for First Landing Day."

K'Trierr turned to her, the mocha-furred female slipping on her default unctuous mask. "First Minister, we could not possibly leave you with the burden of supervising such a momentous event alone... especially with the understandable temptation of drawing one of our few remaining ships into the conflict."

Ma'Sala grunted; it had already been hotly debated within the Council about Cait's potential involvement in the conflict, with many opposing it, some out of resentment for the Federation's delayed response to the Occupation, some believing that her only reason for wanting to be involved was because of those family members of hers serving in Starfleet, others because they simply didn't have the resources to spare.

She appreciated the last reason, at least. They were still recovering from the Occupation: cleaning up the environmental damage, dealing with the effects of the nuclear bombing of Shanos Minor, rebuilding their Militia and Planetary Navy, repairing their economy, healing their society, seeing to the reconciliation with the Ferasan survivors...

And unlike her former roles, she had to depend upon others, make concessions, in order to get what she wanted done. "I already agreed that the Crooked Tail would be there only as an observer, Minister, and not get involved. I may not be the sharpest claw on the paw, but my memory isn't that bad." She turned to Mrorr. "Speaking of which, where is our ship?"

Mrorr pointed to an image on the upper end of the viewscreen. "On the northern plane of the elliptic, one hundred thousand kilospans distant. Their Prowl is activated, they haven't been detected."

Ma'Sala nodded, seeing the small, black, arrowhead-shaped vessel, a surveillance ship that had been on a long-range spy mission observing the Kzinti near the Salem Sector when the Ferasans invaded the Caitian system, thus being spared destruction at their paws. "There, K'Trierr, just as promised: they're not involved."