Star Trek RPG - Mission #4: "Codex Aelyrr"

Nia's smile begins when she hears the music, and broadens when Graham tells her with gentle sincerity that this is a 'picnic.' Then she opens her eyes and grins fully, examining the blanket, the candles, the basket, the delicious food aroma... Looking up at Graham, her hands still in his, Nia almost--almost--spoils the moment with a teasing remark about having spent four years on Earth, and thus knows very well what a picnic is. In fact, the first time she had sex with a human, a fellow cadet, was on a blanket much like this in a park near the Golden Gate bridge.

But the way he's gazing at her, so tentatively proud, so anxious to please, and so oddly nervous for a man of his age and maturity... She can't do it. Not only would it ruin the moment, it would mean he'd stop staring at her the way he is. It's too charming, too flattering, for her to want him to stop. Booker's making her feel like the cadet she was all those years ago in the moonlight beneath the bridge: young and hopeful and eager to experience something precious; something she'd done innumerable times, but had an entirely new significance.

All that promise, that hope, is in Booker Graham's stare. And her heart melts like the warm wax from the candles; she finds nothing to tease him about.

"Oh Book," she says in an exhale, taking in the scene with genuine affection. "It's perfect. Everything looks and smells amazing." When she peeks more closely at the basket, she gets confirmation of her earlier guess. The bread rolls have the ship's cook's fingerprints on them--literally.

A.J. always finishes with a kind of signature flourish, a slight swirling pressure with his thumb...

And he does the same thing with bread, too.

This salacious thought nearly makes her giggle, but it passes quickly. The casual licentiousness she shares with A.J. is so far from what she's beginning to feel for Booker, she can't think of them simultaneously. She doesn't even want to.

At this realization, she feels a series of tingles down her spine, which she usually associates with fear. But she's too happy for fear. The word escapes her and she doesn't care to define the feeling... she just knows she likes it.

Grasping Booker's hands for support, Nia leans forward over the candles and kisses him gently on the side of his mouth. "Thank you," she whispers, and rubs her cheek to nuzzle him, to feel his skin and let him feel hers, before returning to her side of the blanket. "Now tell me. How did you find and pack all this so fast? And how fast can you unpack it so we can start indulging ourselves?"

Thalen thinks for a moment, then says, "Let's try a half-watch to begin with, and then we'll see how you feel. Report to the Bridge in the next ten minutes, please, and take the Communications station. I'll let Davis" - Ens. Meredith Davis, an Australian woman whom Kylah knows slightly - "to expect you to relieve her."

Cooper kisses Collins and says, "You would do quite nicely, my dear. And we have my quarters all to ourselves for the night."

Kylah feels a little thud of disappointment in her stomach. "Yes, sir," she says slowly. "But--while I am always grateful and honored to be assigned to a Bridge watch, I had hoped to continue my monitoring and decoding of the signal--or rather, signals. May I first stop at the Communications Center to see if there has been anything new and retrieve my data? Or will I be allowed to perform those tasks from the Bridge?"

Graham grunts while unpacking the basket. "Uh, a lot of begging and borrowing." He looks up, smiles slightly and shrugs. "I may be busy cleaning the galley or the guy who lent me the basket's quarters..." As he pulls more and more out of the basket, he whistles, impressed. "But it was worth it," he adds, glancing at Nia. When everything is laid out on the blanket he holds the basket up sideways. "See, no present. I can follow orders, ma'am."

Thalen says, "Yes, of course, I expect you to continue with that work on the Bridge. That's why I'm letting you stand another watch, after all. You can access all the same data from there."

After thanking Lt. Thalen, Kylah heads to her quarters to pick up the datapad she left behind. She then washes her face, brushes her teeth and reapplies the eye makeup that was ruined with her tears. Her artistry with an eyeliner brush ensures that her puffy eyes are not too noticeable.

By the time she arrives at the Bridge to relieve Ensign Davis, she feels somewhat refreshed and more than ready to begin--or rather, resume--her work. She looks around the Bridge to see who else is on duty, and then prepares to take her seat. "Have there been any new messages or any other noteworthy signals, Ensign Davis?"

Nia beams approval at Booker, and together they start off with a toast--to the ship, their health and whatever adventures may come their way. With those final words their eyes meet, and Nia gives a mischievous lift of her eyebrow while she sips. 'Adventures' can have many different, delicious meanings.

As their meal begins, Nia tears off a quarter of a baguette, feeling the crust crackle beneath her fingers although the bread itself is deliciously warm and soft, and uses a fork to place some of the juicy, seasoned meat on it. Before she tries it, however, she glances across the candlelight.

"We never did finish our lunch discussion yesterday. Isn't it annoying when chow is interrupted by pesky duties?" she jokes, then sits back a little. Her first small bite of the bread-and-meat combo is heavenly, and she takes some time to savor the taste properly. Once she's through, she licks her lips and continues her thought.

"How about I'll start where we left off. I was about to ask you about your family. I hope you don't mind." Nia glances down at the bread and twists at it with more nervousness than she usually displays. "It's a question I probably should've asked once you mentioned that you have a daughter about Ensign Kylah's age. At the time you and I weren't really... well, anything. But now..." She shifts her gaze to his left hand. "I know humans often wear a ring to show commitment, and you don't. Still, that's not conclusive. I'm sorry for prying, but..." Her voice softens slightly. "Are you still with her mother?"

Collins returns Cooper's kiss and walks with him to his quarters.

Graham's...well, relieved...Nia seems to be enjoying the picnic. Their relaxed interactions, having the Arboretum to themselves... He feels 20 years younger.

The whole universe, including his heart seems to stop for a moment when Nia asks her question.

Graham looks down at the crudite in his hand. "'Still with her,' that's a...a funny way to put it," he nearly whispers.

He swallows. "Maybe I am." He pauses and looks up at Nia. "But...She's dead, Nia." He closes his eyes. "Maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I should be dead, too, but..." He opens his eyes, looks away from her off into a distance far beyond the walls of the Arboretum. "She's gone."

Lt. Bennett nods to Kylah from the big chair. Lt. JG John Brooks is at Navigation, Ens. Horst Leventhal is at the Helm, Ens. Jeanne St. Croix is at Security, the Tellarite botanist Lt. Gral is at Science and Lt. Robert Mille is at Engineering. The other stations are unmanned for the night watch, and the Bridge lights are dimmed. On the viewscreen, the stars ahead seem to zoom closer, then fall away at the edges as the Yorktown heads ever deeper into unexplored space. Kylah can just see the hazy glow of what looks like a nebula ahead and slightly to port.

Davis does not seem to be pleased to be yielding the Communications station, but says civilly enough, "Nothing out of the ordinary to report, Mr. Kylah. I stand relieved."

Nia can almost feel the blood draining from her face. She didn't expect this, not at all.

And yet...

Somehow, this isn't a complete surprise. She couldn't have guessed--before they met, all she knew about him was his service record. But despite their banter, their chemistry, the jokes they've shared, Booker Graham has always seemed dark. Not evil dark, but living in a shadow that surrounds him like a fortress: something he's been trapped inside--and maybe something that he's built, stone by stone. To protect himself? Or, judging by his harsh words now, to protect others from him?

Maybe both.

She exhales and drops the food, concentrating only on the sad lines and valleys of his scarred, weathered face. "Oh Book," Nia whispers, her head shaking in tiny movements. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't..." Please don't what? Don't blame yourself? I have no idea how this woman died. I'll sound fatuous if I just give him platitudes.

And because she doesn't hide behind lies very often, she says exactly that.

"I don't know what to say. I have no idea how she died, I don't know why you blame yourself--and I'd be insulting you if I flat-out told you to stop feeling what you feel. Not without knowing the circumstances. But I will say..."

She swallows and wishes he'd look at her, but understands why he won't. When she continues, her voice is quiet but urgent. "I think you're wrong, very wrong, to think you should be dead. You've got colleagues who need you, rely on you. At lunch you mentioned Collins, how you enjoy helping her, supporting her. She said as much to me about you, the other day. And Ensign Kylah... if you're right about whatever she's going through with Rangin, you're the only person to figure that out. That girl desperately needs someone like you. Then there's me." She looks down briefly. "We've only known each other a little while. But I'm... I'm very glad to be someone you've let in, a little bit. I hope to get closer. At least to have the chance to get closer."

A few seconds pass and she returns to gaze straight at him. "But most of all--above everything and everyone else--you have your own child. I don't know what your relationship is like. But I know, at least a little, of the man you are. I see strength. Perseverance. Intelligence. Protectiveness. I think--I believe your daughter should have that in her life."

Nia's hand curls on the blanket, bunching it up into her fist. "You don't owe me any explanation, and I'll shut up right now if you don't want to say anything. But can I ask... when did she--I'm sorry, I don't know her name, I don't mean to speak of her casually--when did she die? And... how? I understand if you think I'm intruding," she adds hastily. "Tell me only what you're comfortable with."

Graham smiles slightly--it's rueful rather than happy. "When did she die?" He shakes his head. "Jane died too soon."

He looks down and reachers for the hand she has curled up around the blanket and sets his on hers. "At the hands of some very bad people--Orions--about ten years ago" he says softly. "I went to find them. Got this," he continues, tracing the scar that runs down his face. "And lost my lieutenant commander's pips."

He swallows and squeezes her hand. "I never talk about it this way with Lizzy--Elizabeth, our daughter....calm." He grimaces, tempted to look away from Nia in shame but resisting the urge to do so. "Sober." He takes a deep breath and now does look away for a moment. "I really should...."

He clears his throat and shrugs. "But look, it's a, uh--it's a hard past, but it's the past," he continues. "You're not intruding, Nia, but we can save brooding on it for, say, our third date. We'll meet somewhere dark and bleak..." This time his smile has a little humor in it, and he pats her hand.

"But what about you...I never did ask do you have any family?" There's a weird moment in his mind when Graham wonders if the word "brood" would be offensive in this context, or, for that matter, maybe exactly the right word, given what he read about Sidonia. He decides to keep that to himself for the moment.

Nia turns her hand so that she can squeeze Booker's hand in return. She understands why he wouldn't want to talk about it, but what he's described definitely requires more discussion--at a later point, when he feels ready. Her gaze remains steady, open and sympathetic without being pitying.

Since he clearly wants a change of subject, Nia knows she has to oblige. How much does she tell him now? His candor should be repaid in kind. But one thing isn't entirely her secret to tell, so she decides on the abridged version.

"My parents worked together as engineers and inventors. I came by my love of tinkering through them. Dad died a long time ago, when I was eighteen. Radiation exposure and lung poisoning--that's usually how people end on Sidonia, and my father was more at risk than almost anyone, since he spent so much time in his airships, up where the atmosphere is toxic." Nia feels her throat tighten but she continues cheerfully. "But Ma is hanging on, even at nearly 53. She's actually one of the oldest women still planetside. As a scientist she feels obligated to stay and work, rather than emigrating." Nia smiles affectionately, though concern tempers the expression somewhat.

"Um, other family. I have roughly fourteen half-siblings and one full-brother--I say 'roughly' since I've no idea if they're still alive or not. I've never met my maternal siblings--if you know about Sidonia, you probably know that mothers don't raise their young. We have community creches to do that job, and then the children go live with their fathers, hopefully emigrating if they're male. Women are more...closely monitored."

Nia tries to keep her voice free of bitterness and almost manages it. It's helpful to look at Booker's face. His scars--especially now that she knows the genesis of at least one of them--are the marks of a man who's fought his own battles, and his strength bolsters her own.

Graham listens attentively, his brow furrowing at times as she relates a history that's not too full of sweetness and light either.

"Fifty-three, eh?" he replies quietly. "Here's to her health," he offers, picking up a glass of wine and offering the opportunity for her to do the same and clink the rims.

After a pause he shifts a little bit awkwardly. "Uh, yes, I read a little about Sidonia and, ah...breeding." He clears his throat, noting that she mentioned women--like her--were "closely monitored."

"Uh, you didn't say if you had...you know, had to, uh--you know? Uh--do you have any?"

After clinking his glass with her own, she sips again and ponders his latest question. Nia finds Booker's characteristic discomfort and awkwardness in a man of his experience rather endearing. He seems terribly concerned about offending her. Has someone judged him harshly in the past? His father, she remembers suddenly--the bullying father and those thugs at his school. Most of his youth was probably spent negotiating a thin rope dangled above quicksand.

But that was long ago. Even now, he still gives the impression of someone who fears that one wrong word will cause a calamity, or ruin someone's opinion of him.

In any event, her opinion of his question is that it's entirely expected. Of course, knowing what Sidonian culture is like, he would ask about her own status. Most men do, and with most men she just says 'yes' and moves on, because motherhood is not a suitable topic of conversation when you want a man thinking of you as a lust object, not an incubator.

But Booker risked enough to tell her something honest, something that cost him in the telling of it. Such trust should be repaid in kind.

She inhales and lets her finger circle the rim of her glass. "Yes," she says quietly. "By the time I left, at 20, I'd borne five children. Four of them are with their fathers and, I pray, living better lives offworld. Though I'll never know. I've never so much as held them."

Nia lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug, as reluctant as Booker to brood on her situation but unable to completely eradicate the melancholy. The last words are hoarser than she would like, and she really doesn't want to utter them. "The fifth... my only boy... he was stillborn."

She swallows and tries to bluff her way out of the mood. "Honestly, that's a pretty good record for planet-bound Sidonian women--it's pretty rare for mothers to survive all their pregnancies, much less have an 80% infant survival rate. That made me a valuable commodity. Proved that my parents had been right in judging my value--they knew I'd be productive, and early, too."

Nia's gaze flickers away from Booker for a few seconds. "I know from a human standpoint, the way we live on Sidonia is... barbaric. Parents selling their daughters' breeding rights almost as soon as the child is old enough to be judged for her potential as a--as a brood mare. It's basically slavery and it's why we're not a Federation planet.

"But that's the system we lived in," she says, not overly defensively, though when she looks back at Booker her gaze is not ashamed. "Since I had to endure it, at least we benefited. I'm happy to say that many of our family's experiments and inventions were built thanks to the profits from those high bids and number of breeding contracts."

She lifts her face, unapologetic. "I had six years' worth of contracts signed by the time I was old enough to begin, when I was about 12. I produced with all but one partner. My parents were proud. And honestly, I was lucky. I mean, the faster you get pregnant, the less you have to be with near-strangers your father's age--or more. Once fertilization occurs, the man moves on to his next contracted partner, if he has one.

"And for a few blessed months, I'd be free to do what I wanted to do more than anything else in the world." Her face lights up with a smile, and she closes her eyes at the thought. "I could fly."

When she opens her eyes, she does something she rarely does--blush. "Sorry. I didn't mean to go into my whole autobiography. There's a lot I haven't... well, no. I'll shut up. The food's getting cold. Not that it's much worse for wear even if it's no longer piping hot. Some things do get better with age." Her sparkling eyes assess Booker with frank approval. And not a little hope.

Kylah looks curiously at Ensign Davis as she leaves the station. What have I done now?

But soon Kylah forgets the other woman's somewhat chilly manner and is busy setting up her datapad to link up with this comms panel, hoping to update her data with whatever information has been gleaned in the interim. She checks to see whether the translator has had more luck in identifying any additional words. Further, she looks to see if any of her queries to the museums and university have received replies yet.

In his bunk, Rangin turns over and continues sleeping peacefully.

In the Galley, Johnson bakes some fairy cakes for Nia and some shredded lamb Vulcan Pastries for T'Var using the leftovers from the picnic. She's a bit below par with the news of Fujishiro and he is hoping this might help.

Kylah sees the UT has made no progress with the alien messages; it's very odd. She also has had no responses to any of her offship queries.

Bennett is reading from a data pad and taking notes, Brooks and Leventhal are discussing the Martian gravball finals, and Gral, Kylah can see, is intently studying several red flowers on his Science display screens.

Rangin is still resting comfortably.

Johnson's baking goes well.

Stymied momentarily, Kylah remembers her earlier theory. She knows that modern Tel'ese--the language spoken in Kylah's northern homeland on Elas--has significantly split from its origins on the southern lands from which her people migrated two millennia ago. Similar changes in pronunciation are seen in Anglo Saxon and Romance languages on Earth.

And on Qo'nos, too, she thinks. Even as tradition-bound as the Klingons are, their language--tlhIngan Hol--has changed in pronunciation and spelling many times over the course of its history. Not that anyone in the Federation is likely to know the difference.

Perhaps, if she repeats her transliteration of the messages into the translator, her inevitable slight mispronunciations (despite her much-praised facility with learning new languages) might approximate this same sort of language drift from the mystery language to Ancient High Caitian. That is assuming, of course, that the two really are related.

First, she knows she needs to adjust her original scan, which has been tracking any new signals from the same general area as the original sources. She asks the computer to plot a few hypothetical trajectories of the original, moving signal source using the difference in location from the first moment she began recording until the last-heard communication. Using those calculations--which may be only slight changes in degrees from a few hours ago--Kylah reconfigures the comm system to randomly sweep these new locations.

Once that is done, she settles back into her chair, knowing this will take a while. Then she takes out her datapad and, in a soft voice, begins to read the transcript of the lengthier message, hoping against hope that her theory is correct and the UT will find a few more matches.

Kylah carefully reconfigures the Yorktown's sensitive subspace antennae, which takes about 20 minutes, and the communications system's random sweep begins. The UT also goes to work and begins sifting the words of the earlier messages anew.

Cooper and Collins go to his quarters. One thing leads to another and....

Later, in bed, he looks thoughtfully at her, touches her hair and says, "We haven't really talked since... well, you know."

Collins looks right back at him. "Yeah, I know. You got a topic in mind?"

"The baby." He takes her hand, and asks quietly, "How are you these days, really?"

"I'm fine." I so do not want to talk about this, she thinks. "Thanks for worrying, but really, I'm good. No new crying jags."

"Well, that's good. Do you think... you might want to try again sometime?"

"Maybe. Someday." She looks at Cooper quizzically. "Are you in a hurry to be a father?"

"Well... I wouldn't say a hurry, exactly, but someday... and with you... yes, I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

Collins stares at Cooper. "Wow. It's only been a few months. I mean, yes, if and when I'm ready, I think you'd make a great father. But we hardly know each other. And I'm not ready to alter my career path to something a little more mom-friendly." She sits up and turns away a little bit. "I mean, hell, I knew missions would be dangerous; my first three on this ship were proof enough of that." The guilt she still feels from the Sakathian mission starts taking hold again. She hugs herself and leans back into Cooper's embrace. "It wouldn't be fair to my child if I went and didn't come back. I saw a lot of 'not coming back' my last posting."

He pulls her closer. "I understand. Starfleet and motherhood - or fatherhood - don't necessarily go together. It's something we'd have to really consider and think through. But to bring new life into the world together, that's an amazing thing, and it changes everyone. You know?"

"I suppose." Collins considers what Cooper said for a few moments, then a thought occurs to her. "Have you ever been a father? I mean before last month?"

"No." He pauses. "Have you? Been a mom, I mean?"

She lets out a guffaw, then quickly covers her mouth. A tad embarrassed, she adds "No, I've been called a 'mutha', but I've never been one." Collins shifts within Cooper's arms so that she faces him. She kisses his nose and says, "I'm pretty sure it will be awhile, years, maybe a decade or more, before I'm ready for the responsibility of mom-ness. You're welcome to stick around, if you like." She smiles.

He returns the kiss with interest and says, "You know, I just might...."

Having cooked the pastries for T'Var, next Johnson finds himself having to be a neutral party between Yeoman O'Shea and Spec/1 Miller over a local sporting matter. A little while later, he is trying to get Ens. Terezis further out of her shell by trying to convince her that speaking above a whisper is perfectly acceptable. It's not helped by Two Tons Rawlings making jokes at his expense the entire time At least the double act gets her grinning away.

It's another fun evening in the galley.

Graham knows he needs a moment to process what Nia's just told him about her years on Sidonia. To give himself some time, he responds only to her light remark about the food. "Well, it's okay, yeah, part of the charm of a picnic is eating cold food, a lot of the time..."

His words trail off and he frowns slightly. "I'm sorry about--" he closes his eyes a moment to think, then guesses that she wasn't intending to invite a long discussion of painful parts of her past, at least at the moment. "Well, it's a lot to swallow, so to speak--life on Sidonia," he says softly. Then he sighs and shrugs. "But then again Earth's Eugenics Wars weren't so long ago, either were they?"

He shakes his head and smiles slightly. "We're doing a hell of a job trying to keep this dinner upbeat, aren't we? Have I told you you look...amazing. Really...great," he adds. "And what about--what about flying: is there something you're looking forward to...like a particular ship, or place you've never flown? I'm afraid I wouldn't know much about what pilots like you really dig." After a pause he smiles and adds "Well, pulling maneuvers that make ground-pounders like me get dizzy or puke, I've noticed that on a few occasions."

* * *

Nia smiles. "Thank you for the compliment--but I should've been the first one to mention how handsome you look. The food's only half as attractive." She does appreciate the care he's taken with his appearance... but she especially appreciates the smooth--for him--transition from the less pleasant aspects of their lives to this new topic.

"Anyway, about flying... I'm not that sadistic. I prefer maneuvers that'll give anyone riding with me a thrill, rather than cause them trauma," she says with a twinkle in her eye. "But sure, when alone, or with a fellow pilot, I'll get a bit more adventurous. Although I admit there was one occasion only a couple of years ago, where I pulled off some moves that resulted in Vargas nearly yanking the stripes right off my uniform. But, um, I'll save that story for a rainy day. Not sure you'd approve any more than Vargas did."

She proceeds to tell him of some of her experiences on a variety of ship classes--from innumerable shuttle jaunts to a science ship early on in her career, to a freighter--that was an unusual hush-hush assignment right before she was seconded to the Yorktown, which she only gives vague details about--to the tiny USS Bean during her final year at the Academy.

Nia suddenly laughs. "Oh my. I almost forgot about the Bean. I remember joking to the other Nova squad cadets that it must've been named that way because for such a tiny scout ship, it sure made a lot of noise. My mistake was saying this in front of our training commander. He was, um, not amused, and as a result I had to research and perform a two-hour presentation in order to, and I quote, 'learn my goddamn history of the goddamn capital planet of the goddamn Federation.'" She grins ruefully. "I now know almost as much about Earth's early space program as I do Sidonia's."

After popping a grape in her mouth and enjoying its cool sweetness, she tilts her head. "I know how much the Academy meant to you," she says in a softer tone. "But did you ever get in trouble there?"

* * *

Graham thinks for a moment, in part because he's distracted by Nia's pleased expression as she eats what he thinks was a grape. He shake his head and chuckles. "Trouble? No, I guess I saved that for once I was on the job..." He rubs his chin. "At the Academy--for the first time, I felt like I had a purpose, and an opportunity to be something...well, to do something good." He chuckles again. "I was pretty driven...got the nickname 'By the Booker,' by my second year."

He smiles. "I'm not sure I can really picture you on a freighter. I could sooner imagine Vargas second in command on a luxury cruiser."

* * *

Nia almost snorts, but changes it to a hearty laugh, both at her own expense and Vargas's. "Boy, do you have the wrong idea of me. My free time often finds me on my back in the shuttle bay, happily scrubbing the undercarriage of the Meitner or whichever little baby I've just flown, while every inch of me covered in layers of grime. I just clean up well. But as long as we're talking about cognitive dissonance, I find it even harder to imagine you as a 'by-the-book' kinda guy. I guess we all have surprises inside us." She lifts her glass to him. "Here's to the fun of being surprised."

They both drink and for a little while focus on eating the exquisite morsels prepared for them, the occasional companionable silences broken by exclamations of pleasure over the food, shared reminiscences of past ships they've served on, gossip about people they've served with, and learning each other's favorite films, books, music, places.

Time passes and when Nia has licked her fingers of the sticky-sweet juice from the last slice of pear, there's a longer pause as she looks across at Booker--easier to do now that the candles have melted down considerably. The music from his tricorder fills in the silence. "It'd be a shame to waste the accompaniment," she murmurs. Smoothly getting to her feet, she holds out a hand to him. "Dance with me?"

* * *

"Dance?" Booker blurts out, surprised by the question. He laughs. "Well, yeah, maybe you are 'full of surprises.' But I guess did bring music." He takes her hand and stands up. "I, ah, really hope your scales protect your feet, though..."

Graham feels like he's a lumbering ape in comparison to Nia's fluid movements, but resist the urge to apologize--at least unless she cries out in pain if a break a toe... But she seems relaxed, almost melting into his arms, bringing her close enough so he can take in her scent--which is not as uncanny as the other night, but nonetheless intoxicating in its own way...

It's only a short distance for their lips to move across each others' cheeks into a kiss. Kisses.

They are passionate, but not rushed: it's as if the quiet intimacy can and should continue indefinitely...

Nice that we're not horny 17 year-olds racing the clock to get into each other's pants...

A few songs feel like a long time--maybe it was, Graham realizes, as Nia sighs.

* * *

Nia could happily continue swaying gently up against this muscular, tender man, feeling his mouth on hers--as delicious as anything from that picnic basket--until the tricorder runs out of music. But... not tonight. Damn it, she thinks, but pushes the thought away because she wants just one more kiss...

Finally she breaks to catch her breath. "Book," she whispers, brushing her fingers against his firm jawline. "Book, it's...getting late..."

* * *

Graham mumbles acknowledgement: not pleased by the fact but accepting that she's right.

Graham stops his rhythmic (well, sort of rhythmic) swaying and touches her cheek. "You're right..." He sighs as well. "It wouldn't be in keeping with a proper picnic if I didn't walk you home," he offers. For a moment, Nia looks more tired than he would have expected and he almost--almost--wonders if she'd prefer otherwise, but her smile is warm and sincere.

A few moments later--basket packed--they walk arm-in-arm, unhurried, to her quarters. Neither feels the need to speak--in fact, the tricorder is still playing its strolling musician soundtrack--but once they reach Nia's door Graham's the first to break the silence.

"One more dance, inside?" he asks quietly, holding her eyes. Once again, for a moment Graham feels an instant of doubt: a shadow of something...hesitation?

It passes once again as she smiles and takes his free hand in hers with both tenderness and conviction. She gestures toward the door and leads him in as it swishes open.

And their dance--and the kisses--do indeed continue.





Nia by SidonianGal, Graham by general_urko, like duh!

Graham and Onn pass the early evening together quite happily, as do Cooper and Collins.

Kylah continues her comm work. Thalen checks in with her and, satisfied that she's up to it, clears her to serve the rest of the watch.

Eventually Science Officer Roble enters the Bridge from the turbolift. He steps over to the big chair and chats quietly with Bennett.

Rangin's alarm sounds, and he sees it's just about time for him to get to the Bridge. He finds Roble already there. Lt. Bennett rises from the big chair and asks, "I understand you're going to have a turn as Acting BCDO?" She and Roble are both smiling at him.

Rangin strolls onto the bridge still waking up slightly and ready to do a shift at the Science console to improve on his BCDO studies. He isn't quite expecting Lt. Bennett and Lt. Cmdr Roble to both be standing by the Captain's chair and both smiling at him. He can feel his throat dry out slightly as she mentions that he will effectively be sitting in the Big Chair. A brief glance across at the empty seat and all it entails fills him with a sense of elation at his opportunity, his first time in the hot seat in one of the more prestigious ships of the fleet, and yet a certain sense of trepidation that he's still dreaming in his quarters and when he awakes it will just be a Bridge watch.

Rangin coughs slightly and replies "I wasn't aware my studies had advanced so far ma'am, but I'm looking forward to the opportunity." He nods at Roble, who is no doubt amused by the slight deception and Rangin wonders how he missed what Roble's real meaning had been.

Looking up at his two peers, and then around the room, wanting to drink it in and not forget this moment, he also realises that Kylah is sat at the Comms panel, though he cannot tell if she has noticed him or not. "No time like the present, ma'am and thank you for the opportunity, sir."

Rangin brings himself to attention in front of Lt Bennett. "Permission to take the conn?"

Kylah, in the middle of requesting that the UT compare her new recording of the message to any other language, senses Velir's arrival on the Bridge. She casts her eyes sideways to see him walk toward Roble, but then hurries to return her attention to her console. Somehow she had forgotten he was due for a late watch, and to be honest, she is uncomfortable at the thought of working so closely with him.

However, when she hears Bennett's words indicating that he will be taking the conn, a warm flush of pride suffuses her. Her genuine happiness for him overtakes the awkwardness and she smiles to herself. To her knowledge he has never served in this capacity before. How she wishes to turn and cast a congratulatory look in his direction!

But Kylah fights the instinct, instead acting as if this is an ordinary change of BCDO. She forces herself to continue her work.

Bennett gestures gracefully. "Please do. I stand relieved, Ensign." With a respectful nod to Roble, she leaves the Bridge.

The Science Officer leans in and says quietly, "I had mentioned your BCDO preparations in offering you this opportunity, Mr. Rangin. Would you rather not?"

It is now 2301 hours.

Rangin acknowledges Lt Bennett's gesture and stands aside to allow her room to leave while listening to Lt. Cmdr Roble. Speaking quietly back to him, "Allow me to say, sir, that I wasn't expecting this opportunity, but I shall endeavour to do it the justice it deserves. However, if I had been more prepared, I would have a bought a cushion."

A sly wink is sent Roble's way as Rangin sits down in the Captain's chair, which seems slightly large for him and feels, well just like a chair. But that isn't what grips Rangin's mind as it sits there, it's the knowledge that at this particular moment in time, he is in charge and the thought energises him as he can see everything at his disposal. Then it hits him, the realisation that it's not the chair or the position on the Bridge that really counts. It's the person and the authority that goes with it and Rangin only hopes he can live up to that promise.

Not exactly calm, but after the first two seconds don't result in immediate disaster, he looks up at Lt. Cmdr. Roble and gives a small nod to show that he is ready. Time to find out what is happening on the ship, for better or worse his ship and his responsibility, until such time as he is relieved. He only hopes that it stays a peaceful night.

With a deep breath, he calls out clearly to the Helm, "Status report, if you please Mr Leventhal."

Roble smiles and nods, and moves to the Science II console, to Gral's left.

Leventhal glances over his shoulder and says crisply, "Still on course for the FGC 23 pulsar cluster at Warp 5, as ordered, sir. All systems nominal."

"Thank you," replies Rangin to the update. His first order as a Captain, a simple but necessary step he hopes.

He settles back and when nothing else arrives to take his attention, he goes back to the datapad containing his sensor readings from earlier. If something is going to happen, well, he's in the right place to be told.

Looking over sensor readings in the center chair of a Constitution-class starship's Bridge is a novel experience for Rangin, but he has no epiphanies.

After a while, having made no headway in the sensor readings, Rangin begins to realise that while the Captain's chair is ideal for commanding a starship, it's a poor substitute for a well equipped science lab when working through problems of this type. Perhaps he should have bought a book instead as he begins to wonder what all the other people who have sat in this position do when the times are quiet. Somehow the thought of Lt Bennett reading Classical English novels while in charge raises a smile, unlikely though it was.

Then again, if there is little he can do with the sensor readings at least he can find out if there is anything further on the reason he has the readings in the first place. The only issue being that it means talking to Ens. Kylah and Rangin is still not sure how she took this evening. However, despite what they may feel, or not, for each other, they are both serving officers on the ship.

Putting the datapad to one side, he turns to one side and asks politely through the quiet chatter on the Bridge, "Mr Kylah, is there any further update on the unknown signal readings from earlier."

Kylah glances down at her hands on the panel before speaking in a calm voice. "No, sir. We have not intercepted or received any further signals, although I have recalibrated the sensors to attempt to match a potential course for the source that appeared to be a vessel. Or a body in motion at any rate. Perhaps the narrower sweep will pinpoint the signal more accurately." Kylah moistens her lips. "I also spent some time reading a transliteration of the messages into the computer, and am currently waiting for the Universal Translator to run through its database in search of any matches."

She hesitates and turns her chair toward Velir. "I would be grateful for any advice, sir; perhaps there is something else I might try, but have not considered yet?"

Rangin considers Kylah's question for a moment or two before shaking his head and looking back up towards her. "I think you have it covered, there's nothing else I can think of without getting more data." Twisting slightly further round towards the Science terminal and pitching his voice to include them as well, "Perhaps Mr Roble might have some ideas of more options to consider?"

Roble also thinks briefly before asking, "Have you done a recurring-phoneme analysis of the messages, Ensign? There might be some useful pattern there."

A yeoman in red steps onto the Bridge and hands Roble a data pad with a report on the ship's life support systems' oxygen-replenishment rates.

Rangin accepts the datapad and reads through the report. If all is acceptable, as far as he can tell, then he will sign it off and hand it back to the Yeoman with a nod, but if there appears to be an issue, then he will query it. Oops

Rangin nods at the sage advice and turns back to the slightly less interesting role of being Captain.

The music has long since run out, and the only sounds in Nia's quarters are her and Booker, now entwined in a dance far more intimate than the one they started with hours ago. Nia's lips are raw, her lipstick long gone, as she moans softly and arms stretched downwards, grabbing onto Booker's hair. He's currently kneeling between her legs--pleasuring her just as she did him not long ago.

Her scales are nearly invisible, especially down near him, and every inch of her body is alive and electric. Suddenly she feels her mind reeling, suddenly dizzy, and she opens her eyes with a gasp. "Book," she whispers, the combination of exquisite need and a more pressing urge spurring her to repeat: "Booker..."

She feels him stop and slowly crawl his way back onto the bed, kissing a trail along her body. He pauses at her breasts to tease them further and finally he's staring, smiling, into her eyes. His weight is delicious and at almost any other time she would welcome it. Her breaths are more shallow, even though she's trying to keep control she isn't certain she can wait. I've left it too long, I have to tell him...

* * *

Graham's long since lost all sense of time, in part due to some...powerful distraction...but more so because he and Nia could be the last two people in the universe at the moment. There is no reason to force their "dance" to proceed at anything other than the natural pace they've arrived at through a few words, touches, moans and other little clues...

The next steps feel obvious and right. He's above her, looking down, all his attention on her, and each of this senses is telling him...

Something's wrong.

The hand pressed his back has lost its strength. The eyes he's become very familiar with are glassy, not her usual mischievous. Her sighs aren't moans of pleasure, they're almost...gasping for breath?

Shock?

Now his hands do move quickly, one out of instinct and training, one out of concern: he shifts his weight off her body, one reaching for her wrist to check her pulse, the other touching her cheek. "Nia...Nia, are you all right?"

* * *

Nia's lungs fight to expand, to suck in air, even though it's counterproductive: each breath of this atmosphere is costing her. Booker's face is fading in and out. She shakes her head in answer to his question and turns to her right, her heavy, heavy arm reaching in vain for the night table.

Along with her fear of losing consciousness is simple embarrassment. This is entirely her fault, she lost track of the time, she lost track of her own biology. All because she was too wrapped up in the beautiful moments with this man.

And now she'll scare him off. Despite her race's having evolved into the near inability to produce tears, her eyes prickle and sting with the instinct, due to her physical predicament and anger at being seen like this. It's anathema to her.

She closes her eyes to avoid seeing Booker's face as she croaks: "Can't... breathe..." She lifts her left hand to clutch his own, so tenderly placed on her cheek, while her right keeps limply stretching for the table. "Please... top drawer..."



Nia=SG, Graham=GU

Kylah nods at Roble. "Yes, sir, I searched for repeating phonemes this morning--at least, on the original messages--both manually and through the system. All I could learn were a few words that resembled Ancient High Caitian. I am hoping the UT will find more patterns in my transliteration, if it at all resembles what a natural evolution from this language to Caitian--or any other known language, for that matter--would sound like." She glances at the panel, wondering how much longer the analysis would take. "The words were discomfiting," she adds more quietly. "The original matches were "way, course, through, codex, sacred and... enemy."

Roble glances at the data pad and returns it to the yeoman. "Thank you - show that to the BCDO, please," he says, gesturing to Rangin in the big chair. Everything appears to be in order to him, and he signs.

An hour passes, and then another. The Coridanite xenobiologist is coming to appreciate just how quiet the "graveyard shift" can be. The Yorktown sails on.

The UT seems to have hit a brick wall. Kylah tries several further interpretive approaches and is about to run the messages through an obscure Pellian recursive-analysis grid when her Comm board beeps. Another message, just as faint and from the same general direction as the first, is coming in.

While it's so quiet, Rangin catches up on his journal reading from a little while ago as well as writing a letter or two to keep himself occupied.

Straightening up, Kylah redirects all the sensor resources to recording, locating and enhancing--if possible--the message.

"Vel--Excuse me--sir?" she says, turning to Velir. She's embarrassed but too excited to let herself focus on a slip-up like that. "We've just found another message. Same area as the first, and very faint. I'm just trying to--" Swiveling back to her panel, she finishes pressing some buttons. "--To triangulate and pin down the source."

Kylah taps in the approximate coordinates of the first signal, then asks the computer to identify and calculate any difference in the current signal's location from the original. She also listens carefully and pushes her earpiece as tightly to her ear as possible. Having nearly memorized the first sections of the original message, she hopes she can recognize any words or patterns. Is this a new message or an automated broadcast?

Rangin's ears perk up at the sound of his name being part mentioned and tries not to blush as Kylah cuts it off for the more formal. He turns at the sound and can see her concentrating over the Comms panel.

At her description of the signal, Rangin wonders what he can do to help, without immediately rushing up to lean over her shoulder. Putting his datapad to one side, with a half finished missive about his first time in the Captain's chair, and fighting his instincts he considers the options before deciding on a course of action. "Mr Gral," he calls out to the Tellarite, "can our sensors pick up anything in region?"

Ens. Kylah skillfully works the Comm console. She is able to considerably amplify the still-faint signal and adjust for the resultant distortion. The signal is undoubtedly from the same source as the original. She next triangulates its location, and sees that it originates 2.3 light years away from the location of the first transmission. Given the path of the signal source as originally tracked, this would be consistent with a transmitter on a starship continuing on that course at a speed of about Warp 5. The signal is much more dense than before, with nearly six times the data packed into the same subspace broadcast interval, and it continues even now. She recognizes some patterns and phonemes, but no individual words yet in the torrent of data. It does not seem to be an automated broadcast, but she can't be sure of that. The UT, now with much more data to work on, goes into high gear.

Lt. Gral directs the Yorktown's powerful lateral sensor array to focus on the signal source as Lt. Cmdr. Roble steps over and looks over his shoulder. "We're still at extreme range, sir," the Tellarite says to Rangin, "but there appear to be three, no, two ships, now slowing down... and coming to a stop. Both are smaller than us, and not far from that giant nebula. Still too far away for us to ID them, though."

"Thank you Mr Gral," responds Rangin to the news as he considers their next actions, "Keep an eye on them, let us know if anything changes or you can ID them."

He quickly works out what he would want to make a decisions, Who are they, what are they and more importantly how close are they going to get? as for the moment it's what he needs to work on. Putting aside the frisson of excitement that they could potentially be discovering new species out here, every Captain's dream, he focuses on the task at hand. "Mr Brooks, given current course and speed, how close are we going to get to them?"

"Aye, sir," says Gral. Roble leans in and talks quietly with him.

Brooks, the navigator, checks his board. "Not much closer, sir. Our course will take us well past them but only a few thousand kilometers closer. Not enough to make a difference for sensors."

Kylah listens to the others using only the back of her mind. Mostly she is busy wondering why the information is so dense. Biting her lip, she sets out to perform a spectral density estimation, hoping to determine the number and nature of the different frequencies apparently being transmitted--and thus possibly identifying the type of information that is being passed along. Could the broadcast be sending data other than audio--perhaps images or video?

There's only a millisecond of hesitation on Graham's part: what he'd like to do is be simultaneously calling Sickbay while going for whatever Nia's indicating she needs from the top drawer. But it's not as if there was somewhere on his person to stow a communicator under the circumstances. He puts his trust in what she said: I believe she told me what she needs most, he thinks as he reaches for the drawer.

* * *

Watching Booker's every move through what seems like an increasing black fog, Nia tries to keep reaching but she can't support her arm any longer, and it falls heavily to the bed. Her trembling fingers still extend as best she can. "In--Inhaler," she whispers, the words almost inaudible to her. She hopes he can hear better than she can. "Silver. White."

It's getting difficult to keep her eyes open. Must stop panicking. Not life or death. Yet. Though fear-fueled adrenaline is flowing through her veins and every instinct tells her she's drowning, intellectually she knows there's plenty of time--her body will shut down in order of necessary organs to conserve her resources. First to go is mobility, which has happened. Then hearing and sight, also imminent. Finally: consciousness.

Even after that, her biology allows her to go into a form of hibernation, with her heart slowing to five BPM, giving her anywhere anywhere from a half-hour to a full day, depending on the temperature.

These facts should calm her. But they don't. When your lungs feel like a soaked sponge, rational thought flies out the window. All Nia can do is hope Booker will find her emergency inhaler and understand how to use it. Her eyes flutter open and she tries to identify the large Booker-shaped blob nearby. She wants to tell him not to worry, that she'll be fine, but slowly she feels as if she's fighting sleep. And she must fight it off, because if Booker doesn't know what to do...

He will. The thought is so certain it nearly makes her smile. Then her eyes roll back and close.

* * *

Sight, sound, touch--feels neon, electric. Everything is moving in slow motion, just like...like combat first aid.

Falling back on the training that became instinct over the course of his career makes it easier to stay focused, except...

Except that people didn't always make it.

That's not going to happen here.

What she says--gasps--sounds like "inhaler." Graham's mind's racing as he pulls open the drawer (...that will definitely need some repair later.) Oxygen deprivation? Airborne toxin? Since he's fine it must be a condition specific to Nia...

He rips through the contents laser-focused on what she said: silver, white, inhaler. And then it's there. A semi-opaque white tube, affixed to a small silver canister.

When he grabs it and turns back to Nia, he's horrified to realize her eyes are closed, her mouth parted while the rasping sounds from her throat and chest worsen.

"Nia?" It's a plea, and then he turns it into a command. "Nia!" She has to open her eyes and respond or... Or what? He doesn't know the answer. Her lips move but he can't tell if she's trying to talk or just seeking air.

Instinctively he leans forward, arms gently cradling Nia's head and neck. Not just because it's standard first aid procedure, clearing her airway, but because...because he needs to touch her, protect her. This close, he sees that her face and neck are pale. Ashen. There are now gray scales beneath her usually smooth skin. It's as if life is literally draining from her.

Graham stares wildly at the inhaler, long enough to notice the button on top of the canister. With no clue whether he's doing this right, he slips the tube into her mouth, then--blinking sweat from his eyes--he uses his thumb to press and hold the button.

He hears a blast of some kind of spray and feels her head pushed back from the force of whatever-this-is. He waits a few seconds, then presses the button again for another spray. Uselessness and dread wash over him.

One more try, and I'll have to find my communicator.

One more try and maybe I've wasted too much time because I don't know how to use the goddamned thing.

"C'mon Nia, Come on..." He's thinking it hard enough to say it out loud.

* * *

The first pump of her inhaler forces the Bilitrium compound down Nia's throat. By the third attempt, her lungs gratefully inflate, the concentrated rare element reviving her as it begins to be processed by her blood and nervous system.

She breathes it in and her mind clarifies, sweeping the black fog back. Her eyelids still feel heavy but she manages to open them. The breathing tube is in her mouth and it's trembling--it's in the hands of the man who's inches away, holding her against his chest, cradling her like a babe in arms.

Of course she can't speak. Her left arm can move now, however, and with effort she lifts it and places a hand on his, the one holding the inhaler. The trembling seems to lessen, but not completely. Covering his fingers with hers, she presses down, pushing the button along with him. Oh, it's delicious, this precious, precious compound. Slowly she feels lighter.

The whole time, her gaze meets Booker's. His face is frozen, features seemingly carved in granite. She tries to speak to him without words. Her eyes are grateful, shamed, frightened. But none of this is conveying what she needs to tell him. When she's enough in control of herself, she pulls the inhaler from her mouth--fighting Booker, who seems determined to keep the thing that saved her in place. But she doesn't need it, and she tries to convey this with her eyes. At last he lets her remove the tube.

"Thanks," she whispers, and lifts her right hand to touch his cheek. "I'll be fine, Book. I promise I'll be okay. I'm sorry... I was stupid... should've known..." Needing more help, she inhales another pump of the spray. The more clearly she can see the lines of fear and worry--and blame--in Booker's expression, the worse she feels.

"Don't worry, please don't worry. I'm sorry," she repeats, and closes her eyes to bury her head against shoulder, too angry at herself--too ashamed at her own stupidity--to let him see her. The strength in his arms makes her feel even weaker in comparison. You idiot. You damn fool idiot. What's he going to think of you now?













Graham by GU, Nia by me

Graham stirs, feeling the warm presence cradled in his arms. "Mmmm, Jane," he mumbles, his eyes fluttering open, and...

Not Jane. Nia.

For a moment he flushes and he's grateful she's still asleep.

Asleep with a respirator mask over her face, hooked up to a large tank...

But she's breathing easily, he notes with relief.

The mask was a source of some...what, embarrassment? he thinks...Uh, two hours ago, he realizes as he glances groggily at the chronometer.

Once the inhaler thing had revived her, Nia had explained what happened but seemed... He's not sure.

My planet has a Class-H atmosphere. We don't naturally process the kind of air you find on Federation ships or planets, and I require a compound that uses Bilitrium, nitrogen and oxygen. In order for my people to emigrate, we needed to come up with a way to breathe outside our solar system. Dad died before it was successful, but... anyway, that inhaler and my full-size respirator are the results. Thanks to our natural harsh surroundings we've evolved to survive for some time without breathable air, but after about thirty-eight to forty-six hours, our systems need to be replenished or we start going into a kind of... hibernation. That's... that's what you saw.

She seemed to want to get what turned out to be the respirator apparatus herself, something he explained as gently as he could was not going to happen--nor was she going to do anything but lie still--unless you stunned me with a phaser...

And she...suggested...I leave, as I placed the mask as carefully as I could on her face....

I'd like to stay...to make sure you're all right.

She hadn't insisted, so...

Here we are....

What can I do, kick the shit out of Starfleet standard atmosphere?

He moves to adjust his arms around her shoulders...

Just...be where I'm needed to be, he thinks, listening to her steady breaths.

Booker's movements rouse Nia. She feels the strength and warmth of him near her, knows she's naked, and he's at least half-naked judging that there's nothing but skin between them. She starts to cuddle up against him--and the tug of the respirator tube wakes her up entirely.

Her eyes flash open and recognizes the mask covering her nose and mouth. She's wearing her full mask. In front of him.

Cheeks burning, Nia lifts her hand and pulls the plastic case from her skin. The condensation from her breaths cools in the ship's air. "Book," she says quietly, not looking at him. "Thank you. If you need to get up for an early watch, you can go. I'm just... I am so damn sorry."

She finally turns to stare up at his shadowed face. "This never happens. I mean it, it never happens. Not since I first got used to the schedule, not since the early days at the Academy when I took stupid risks like any other kid who'd never left home. It wouldn't have happened tonight except... time stopped mattering. I didn't want it to end." With a slow shake of her head, she leans back against him, wondering if he can feel the difference in temperature from her usual coolness to the shame-induced flush.

"I'm just saying, I'm not sick or anything." Her voice is firmer, the words faster. "Starfleet knows about this. I'm approved for flight, I've proven myself fit for missions time and time again. I--I don't want you to think--"

She shuts her eyes, not knowing how to put this. I'm usually a good-time fucktoy, the crew's favorite shuttlecraft--in and out, a quick ride and we're done. I've never wanted, never needed someone to rescue me like that. After all, shuttles are great for quick jaunts, but if one's too high maintenance, they're not worth the trouble, are they? You just take the next one.

Instead she sighs. "I just know no one should have to be scared like that. Especially you, considering..." No, she can't finish that. She can't bring up his wife, that would be presumptuous in the extreme. "I hope this won't affect... you and me," she says quietly, plucking the edges of her mask absently in her fingers.

Kylah realizes that the alien transmission is still covering just a single subspace band, but has much more data packed into it than any of the previous ones. It's a very unusual, ultradense signal; she's never come across anything like it before. She can find no images or video in it.

Rangin looks around the Bridge any trace of boredom and tiredness swept away by the news of the last minute or so. He tries to stop wondering what is out there and think about it rationally. Flights of fancy were all very well but until there was some hard data it was just wishful thinking of what might be, to be nearly always swept away in boring and mundane answer. It was rare something new came out of this kind of situation and until whoever was on those ships wanders up close and personal and the Yorktown can see them, it isn't worth trying to come up with any answers.

Checking to see if the other crew are feeling the same, he wonders how long he will have to wait before something else occurs. All he can do until then is make sure the ship is ready for that moment. "Mr Mille, Mr St Croix, statuses please?" if anything is going to happen, Rangin wants the ship and its security both ready to react to whatever is out there.

While they are checking, he suddenly thinks of the first thing he should be doing. Just like any science experiment, no matter how exciting, always keep a record. Rangin opens his datapad and starts to take notes in his familiar shorthand.

Rangin knows that the Ship's Computer automatically and continuously records what is said and done on the Bridge.

Ens. Jeanne St. Croix, at the Security console, says, "All Security systems nominal, sir. No problems reported anywhere aboard. Ship's phasers, photon torpedoes and deflector shields are on standby but are ready if needed."

Lt. Robert Mille, at the Engineering post, says, "All indicators are green for the warp drive, and we're maintaining course and speed without difficulty. Impulse drive is offline but also available if needed."

Roble steps down into the well of the Bridge and asks Rangin quietly, "Should we take a closer look at those ships?"

Graham listens silently to Nia, wondering:

Did I do something wrong?

Or is their something...personal...about the breathing stuff that she'd rather keep private, or finds embarrassing?

"It doesn't change anything," he says, uambiguously--although, in point of fact, it doesn't change anything for him, but he's not sure it hasn't changed something for her...

"I...know you're not sick, but I'd like to stay to make sure you're OK all the same." He pauses a moment, neither tightening nor relaxing his arms around her. "If...if I'm bothering you I can go sleep on the couch."

"Is that should we, or we should Mr. Roble?" Rangin mutters quietly back to the officer. "I will admit my scientific curiousity is piqued and l, and I am sure others as well, would be interested to know what is there." Rangin weighs up the options of heading across there while still supposed to be supporting the science experiment on board. But this is balanced against not passing up such a golden opportunity. What would Captain Singh do? Ignore it and carry on or investigate the ships. Dr Brold would no doubt claim that his experiment should take precedent, but Rangin had already provided stats to last a day or so.

Rangin makes his decision. "I think you're right Mr Roble. We shouldn't pass up an opportunity for first contact, if indeed this is what it is."

Rangin takes a deep breath and prepares to make his first, and hopefully not the last, major decision as a Captain. The knot in his stomach only adding to tension he can feel as he works out his next commands.

"Mr. Gral. How close do you need to be for a good sensor sweep of that area? Mr Brooks. Please plot a course brnging us close enough for Mr Gral and how much of a detour it would be. Mr. Kylah. Anything on that transmission would be useful."

Noting his thoughts in his own log entry, Rangin sits and waits nervously for something to do. "Well Mr Roble, lets see what we have out there. Please monitor to see if they notice us." Rangin leans back in the chair waiting for the new course to be calculated.

Brooks thinks for a moment, checks his board and says, "I could alter our course by ten degrees to starboard and hold it for half an hour, while either maintaining Warp 5 or increasing speed. That should bring us close enough to significantly improve our sensor readings without getting too far off course"

Gral nods. "That would work. Then we could resume our original course with little lost time. I recommend we do it, sir."

Nia hates this. She doesn't want Booker to think she's frail either physically or emotionally. Because she's not, and hasn't been in a long time. Lifting her arm, she gently pulls Booker down, and lifts her own body up, so she's close enough to kiss--if he wants to. Letting her iips brush against his cheek, she whispers: "I want you here. I'm just--not used to being seen like this."

She kisses his cheek and with her free hand gestures with the mask. "I'll need another four or five hours on this," she continues, wishing she could read his mind, or at least see his eyes more clearly in the dim room. "If you you don't mind, and can sleep here, with me..." Her gazes searches the shadows beneath his brows for any sign of doubt as she admits softly, "I'd like that very much."

Graham gives her a gentle kiss, feeling a bit like he's trying to balance--blind to the true twists and turns of the path--between showing he cares and making too big a deal out of what happened in a way that upsets Nia further.

"I would too," he replies softly and evenly, after a moment adjusting his position so she can lie comfortably with the mask on while he still is able to put an arm around her.

He's grateful for it...But now he's also grateful for the darkness, and the fait accompli presented by the mask that prevents more conversation.

Because every quantum of awareness of being here, with her, in the aftermath of a real fear of losing her at once draws him closer to the being present in the moment and calls him further away....

Toward remembering holding someone without appreciating the risk of losing her...stupid, so goddamned stupid...

And never being able to hold her again, not even her cold body.

He's listening to Nia's breathing, his ears still attuned to listen for anything wrong (her reassurances not withstanding). But his stare upwards toward the ceiling in the dark is far away.

Jane...

There's nothing to say to Jane's ghost. There's nothing to say to Nia. He's searching for his younger self, to tell him--to understand that very last moment he held her, to burn it into his mind in a way infinitely above and beyond a couples's every day kisses or embraces fade into the routing...

Or just to never let go. You should have never let go, Booker....

Moving carefully so as not to disturb Nia, though still gazing upward at the ceiling, he shifts just slight so his arm is settled more snugly around her shoulder.

Never let go.

Setting her jaw, Kylah stares at the frequency spectrum, wondering how it can be so dense yet show no harmonics to indicate additional image or video data. She hears Velir's discussion with Roble and the orders he gives to the rest. The prospect of changing course to advance closer to the possible vessels is unsettling. If we move near enough to sense them... they might be able to sense us.

Should she voice this concern? The urge to do so nags at her. Instead she merely digs her nails into her knees. Velir and Roble must know what they are doing. Velir is not the type to take risks... Although, to find new life forms... that is his specialty. Might his curiosity overshadow his caution?

The disloyalty grates on her and she pushes it away. And when he tells her that more information on the transmission would be useful, she also pushes away the impulse to say "If I had more, I would give you more."

She swallows and responds: "Yes, sir. All I can tell you thus far is that this message is... different. There is far more data transmitting on a single frequency; I think that is why the translator is having little success as yet. I will continue to analyze manually as well."

She stares at the screen. More data, densely packed, but apparently not different types of data. A vague thought occurs to her, and she rubs her forehead as if massaging her brain will help make sense of it. Could this be some kind of... synchronized or simultaneous broadcast? [I]Perhaps the message is dense because it is coming from multiple voices--if these are indeed living beings, she still cannot determine that--all speaking at once. Like a... like a group recitation or a spoken chorus?

The theory seems farfetched and Kylah does not share it with the others. Sighing, she sits back. Then, starting over while still listening to the message, she calls up the frequency spectrum graph of the original to compare it with this new one on her screen. Are there any similar patterns anywhere in the old and new messages?

"Thank you Mr Brooks, Mr Gral for your recommendations." Rangin pauses while taking in Kylah's slightly frustrated reply. "Thank you Mr Kylah," he calls back to her, "without an understanding, we don't want start anything we can't respond to diplomatically."

Rangin nods as the pieces of information come back to him trying to work out what they should do. The nagging cause for concern is that if anything does happen they will not be able to communicate with them and the last thing he wants to do is kick off an interstellar incident over a minor misunderstanding. Stranger things have happened.

It feels like a few moments and he is terribly aware of everyone in the room waiting for him to give an order and for a moment he can understand that loneliness of Captaincy, that whatever happens next is his responsibility. It would be so easy to turn it down, just go past at extreme range and forget it ever happened, At least that way, everything and everyone would be fine and they could just go about the business without incident and no chance of starting anything. The safe option.

But that isn't just why they are here. Their job is also to be at the forefront of the Federation and its exploration of the Universe. What lies ahead could be both good or bad, but if they don't look, they can never find out. And taking these kind of risks is what they all signed up for...

"Very well," he calls out clearly to the quiet of the Bridge, "Mr Brooks, Mr Leventhal. Lay in the course, maintain speed at Warp 6 and steady as she goes."

...and he would have the fun of explaining to the Captain and Dr Brold of exactly why they have deviated from their course.

Roble nods and steps back to the Science II station.

"Aye, sir," says Brooks, responding to Rangin's order. "Course plotted and laid in."

"Increasing speed to Warp 6," Leventhal says, snapping switches at the Helm. "Course change now initiated."

Rangin can feel the ship shift slightly as it turns to starboard. The underlying tone of the Yorktown's mighty warp drive nacelles rises and grows before settling into a new continuous hum.

Kylah sees that the density of the new signal is due to multiple inputs at the source, as if indeed from a chorus or group recitation. The frequency spectrum graph and UT pattern-analysis matrix show only a single similar pattern to the original broadcasts, however. The others in the dense transmission are dissimilar, although apparently in the same or a closely-related language.

Kylah's eyes widen at the confirmation of what seemed to be a wild guess on her part. She leans forward, scowling, and rubs her eyes as she peers at UT's results. It might be her lack of sleep catching up to her, but she needs to make absolutely certain her understanding of the analysis is correct before she passes it along to the others.

So... Her finger traces the frequency spectrum graph while she works this out. Only one pattern appears to resemble the original broadcast--perhaps it is a repeated or replayed message, or at least one using similar words? Meanwhile, the rest are in unison, but sending a different message? Possibly in the same language as the first?

Kylah tries another longshot and attempts to distinguish the unique pattern from the others, and identify just how many 'voices' are in this group.

There seem to be at least eight different "voices" or narrative sources in the transmission. Kylah keeps working, and after another ten minutes, has a breakthrough with the UT. The primary thread of the transmission is, she realizes, a distress call. The key portion reads:

This is the Naradraen. We are under attack by an enemy [untranslatable] ship. We have taken casualties and have been badly damaged. Our situation is critical, and we require immediate assistance. Please, please help us! The blessings of Ael upon whoever comes to our rescue.

Gral says moments later, "I'm detecting energy discharges between the ships, Mr. Rangin. I believe they're firing on each other."

Rangin is making some personal notes for later as to why he had increased the speed to allow for the signals to be investigated and to try and get back on schedule. Once they resume course and are on schedule again, they can drop back to Warp 5. Hopefully, they can get some useful information and still be on time.

But Lt. Gral's call brings up the one scenario that Rangin is probably least prepared for. A full firefight in the middle of space. Yes, he's done his time in the Academy, but that was in Science, not on the Command track. The Kobayashi Maru was someone's else problem, well now it could be his.

Still, without further information there was little anyone is going to do without answers to a few pertinent questions, like should they get involved and if they did, was it a wise thing to do.

He clips the orders out as he runs down his own mental checklist of what he needs.
How far away..."Mr Leventhal, how close are they at current speed?"
What's there..."Mr Roble, Mr St Croix, tactical analysis: what's taking part? "
Who are they..."Mr Kylah, any luck deciphering what this incident might be about?"

Rangin grips the arms of the chair tight, trying not to leap to his feet and start pacing around as his usually did when trying to gather his thoughts around him and work through a problem. He needed something else to concentrate on, a fixed point of focus... "Mr Gral, main viewscreen if you can."

"Aye sir," Kylah says, and passes along the translated distress call. There are several uncertainties in her mind that nag at her and she tries to work them out.

All that is required for evil to flourish is that good people do nothing. It's strange the thoughts that flow in the mind when he hears the news, but he knows that whatever he might be doing, he cannot stand aside. He didn't against the Orion Syndicate on Coridan and he wouldn't do here.

"Thank you Mr Kylah, when possible respond offering assistance. Mr Brooks, please plot possible courses and times for intercept. Mr Gral, let us know if any start heading in our direction."

He considers ordering a Yellow Alert, but the Yorktown was in no immediate danger and still some way from the battle going on. A brief glance at Mr Roble as the ranking officer on the bridge and Rangin realises that as an Ensign, he probably shouldn't be ordering one of Starfleet's finest ships into a battle. Especially not on his first time out in charge. Until now, everything had been a matter of course and aside from some explanations he was going to have to make about the signal, now he was going to have to explain a whole lot more.

"Mr Kylah, please patch me through to the Captain's quarters."

When done so, Rangin flicks the switch in the Captain's chair and hails her, knowing that waking her in a comm call is likely to be preferable to the screeching alarms.

"Ensign Rangin to Captain Singh. My apologies for waking you, but we have a situation."

Leventhal says, "We'll be there in 20 minutes at current speed, sir."

St. Croix reports, "Preliminary tactical scan shows two ships, both smaller than the Yorktown. One is firing more than the other. They've dropped out of warp and are moving no more than several thousand kms relative to each other."

"Sensor readings are improving as we approach, Mr. Rangin," Roble adds. "I should have better and more specific data shortly."

The Bridge's main viewscreen still shows a starscape ahead, with the purplish-red nebula growing steadily more distinct, but still no ships are visible to the naked eye. Gral says, "We should have better imagery in the next few minutes, although at extreme visual range."

Even if she has just woken up, Singh doesn't sound at all groggy. "Report, Mr. Rangin."

Unsure about the feasibility of sending a reply message when she does not know the language, Kylah tries to get sure. Why was the UT able to translate the group's message but not the solo version? Without any context, such a translation of an utterly unknown language is literally impossible. Perhaps this distress call is much closer to High Caitian than the other, solo 'voice'?

The fact that one name is untranslatable, but two others--"Naradraen" and "Ael"--were seemingly correctly rendered as names--is an inconsistency that confuses her as well. Unless I am right, and this group message is indeed much closer to High Caitian than the original source. Perhaps the translated names are known to the ancient Caitians, but the third one is not. Which indicates that the ship in distress is from some civilization that are connected to the Caitians, but whoever is transmitting that other message--presumably the entity that is firing on the Naradraen--is not.

With these guesses in mind, she starts to seek answers from the computer: Is the group's message close or identical to High Caitian or some other known language? And is the untranslatable word more closely connected to the original message?

But why would the second language--presumably the aggressors in this battle, if the distress call is to be believed--be transmitting on the same band, simultaneously with the group under attack? Kylah cannot understand this. Perhaps the messages' sources are so close that the Yorktown's sensors are unable to distinguish them...?

Next, she tries to find any reference to Naradraen or Ael, either within the Starfleet database or the wider subspace net. She assumes Ael is a deity; as far as the Naradraen, it may be a mythological or historical reference, especially if it is indeed the name of a vessel. Both these names might still be part of Caitian knowledge.

Finally, while the computer thinks away, Kylah double-checks the appropriate protocol for First Contact. This will be her first official attempt at it, and she does not want to deviate froms tandard procedure. After all, the last time she met new aliens--the Hwuen--did not work out well for her.

Twenty minutes, Kylah thinks as she hears the response from Leventhal. She prays she can determine the answers before then.

The language of the transmission has some elements of High Caitian but is more unlike it than like it. The distress call was in the "single voice" thread and not the "chorus" of the dense transmission. There is no reference in Federation records, including in the High Caitian language database, to the words "Naradraen" or "Ael." The untranslatable word is linguistically dissimilar from the rest of the broadcast and there is not enough data yet to translate it. Starfleet's First Contact protocols specify peaceful contact, if possible, along with assurances of Federation goodwill, appropriate statements of Federation principles and political norms, and expressions of a desire for diplomatic relations, trade and cultural exchanges, if welcomed by the other race.

The UT works through the other seven "voices" of the chorus and gives a preliminary analysis - each appears to be a personal religious statement by a different individual. "Ael" is referred to by each in such a way as to indicate that he, she or it is a monotheistic deity.

Kylah is concerned that she mixed up the transmission sources. She looks away from the screen and scans the Bridge, trying to gauge her awareness and wondering if she should stand down from duty. This is too important, she is not ready, she will inevitably ruin things...

Her gaze falls on Velir. He is not panicking, at least from what she can see. He seems concerned. She is not infringing on his emotional privacy again--not after breaking her promise to herself back in his room yesterday afternoon. But she knows Velir well enough by now to recognize the little line between his eyes that deepens when he is concentrating on a difficult problem.

You wanted to show him you can be strong and professional. Do not run away again.

She turns back to her panel and takes a deep breath, holds it, and then exhales. Think, think! How can she possibly communicate with the "Naradraen"? If this language is so dissimilar to High Caitian, communicating to them in that language seems unlikely to work. Frankly, given this dissimilarity, she has no idea what magic by which the UT managed to translate so specific a distress call without any references or context in the first place: it seems an impossibility, at least according to everything she knows about linguistics and decryption.

All at once an idea occurs to her. She looks back at the distress call language:

This is the Naradraen. We are under attack by an enemy [untranslatable] ship. We have taken casualties and have been badly damaged. Our situation is critical, and we require immediate assistance. Please, please help us! The blessings of Ael upon whoever comes to our rescue.

Then gives a slight gasp when she realizes the solution: Why--I can use the words in the message itself! If I create a response using only the translated vocabulary in the original message and the distress call, the UT can change it back to the original language. Kylah knows it will not suit the protocol for first contacts, but this is an emergency situation. The niceties about trade and ethics must wait for a time when they are not entering the fray of a battle. And when I can speak more than the most basic of words.

Thinking hard, Kylah constructs the following draft: This is the ship, the Yorktown, to the Naradraen. Our course is to help the Naradraen; rescue comes. After a hesitation, she adds: Whoever is enemy?

A grimace twists her mouth. For someone who speaks in the elite dialect of her own people, composing such gibberish is anathema. But it is the best she can do with the limited vocabulary she has been given; hopefully it will be clear enough.

She sets this draft aside and turns to the mechanics of finding a subspace channel to match that of the distress signal. This message must be heard by the correct recipient--not the enemy.

"Ma'am, situation as follows. We picked up another strange transmission, a distress call that a ship in the area was being attacked." Rangin steels himself for the next sentence, "We diverted slightly to see if assistance is required and it appears there is an engagement taking place between two ships. We are still analysing data on the situation ahead and if we were to assist in any way we can be there in twenty minutes."

There's a moment's pause as Rangin switches from the factual to his own personal feelings about the situation. "Ma'am, I'm loathe to let a distress call go unanswered."

Kylah may, with authorization, send a response on the same subspace channel through which the messages have been received. She may send it in the language of origin - a database of which the UT is developing with each passing minute - and in other languages, as well, including High Caitian (which might be better understood by the aliens than Kylah can understand their tongue), Federation Standard, Linguacode and any others.

Singh says, "I'm inclined to agree, Mr. Rangin. Recommendations?"

http://memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Linguacode

After finishing her message, Kylah ponders the strange illogical conundrum. The UT--or at least, the way the ship's computer is parsing the UT's output--must be in need of repair. Everyone who understands how translation works knows that it is literally impossible to translate a language given what the computer is claiming--that this alien language bears almost no resemblance to High Caitian or any other known Federation language.

As she learned in her Communications courses over the years--as well as her own experience prior to joining the Academy--unknown languages are not like cryptograms; such puzzles only work because the solver knows that the cipher is based on a specific language, with each letter replacing a letter in this known alphabet. That is not the case here.

Kylah remembers learning that in Earth's history, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics were utterly untranslatable for nearly two thousand years, eluding the understanding of linguistic experts and anthropologists alike. Only the discovery of the Rosetta Stone in the early 19th century made them comprehensible, thanks to providing the same message in hieroglyphics as well as other already-known languages. With such a primer, the hieroglyphics were finally decrypted.

Then there was the famous case of the Voynich Manuscript. Whether it is a code, stenography, an invented language, or an unknown previously existing language... whatever it contains remained a mystery since its origins multiple centuries ago.

She shakes her head, bringing herself back to the present. I can only assume this language must be more like High Caitian than the computer is indicating. There is simply no other logical explanation for the UT's ability to translate it, other than sheer magic.

Clearly there is something wrong with the way the UT is interacting with the computer system. Kylah diligently sends a note to the engineering department to double-check the parsing of the UT's output. Then, satisfied, she proceeds to translate her message into a more lucid version in High Caitian and Federation Standard, and the still often unreliable Linguacode. Once she gets approval she will send it in those languages. At the very least, she is pleased to know her rudimentary version will certainly be understood.

From whom will Kylah seek approval?

She's waiting for Velir's order., or Singh's, depending on the results of his conversation with the captain.

"Answer the distress call ma'am, politely and diplomatically. We still don't know the full extent of what is occurring or the ships involved. Given the nature of the engagement ahead I would also consider going to Yellow Alert now in readiness pending possible action."

Rangin takes stock of the situation and his own readiness for such an undertaking. "Ma'am, If there is an engagement, I'm not the right person to be sat here." he says through gritted teeth, but knowing its the right thing to say. He hasn't really been fully trained for this, as in taking a Starship into either a First Contact situation or an engagement, let alone both at the same time. "I can do it, but this might require a more...experienced touch."

Kylah turns slightly to watch Velir, unable to hide her admiration. Having grown up among power-hungry, ambitious men, she finds little as admirable as someone who recognizes a weakness, who knows when his limits have been reached and can willingly cede to another's greater knowledge. The ability to regroup and change one's plans to suit a changing situation is one of the most important attributes of a leader. Velir may denigrate himself now, but Kylah knows that one day he will make an excellent command level officer--if that is what he wishes.

"I concur, Mr. Rangin. Answer the distress call but don't go to Yellow Alert yet. I'll be up shortly. Singh out."

Rangin closes the comm channel and takes a moment to compose himself. Looking straight forward at the viewscreen, as if he can somehow see the events unfolding in front of him, he steels himself to give the orders he knows he should give to the Bridge.

"Mr Kylah, please respond to the distress call offering assistance from the Yorktown. Mr Brooks, Mr Leventhal, lay in a course for the two ships and engage. All posts, standby."

"Let's see what we can do to help." he mutters to no-one in particular.

Kylah nods tightly and sends the message in its various translations. "Aye aye, sir," she says, wanting Velir to know she stands with him--even if they do not really stand together. She continues to monitor the broadcast in hopes that the Naradraen will understand and respond.

Brooks and Leventhal comply, and the Yorktown moves ever closer to the battle.

Kylah soon has a response from the other ship, which the UT immediately renders into Federation Standard: Message received, Yorktown. We welcome and urgently need your assistance. Please hurry! We expect to be boarded momentarily. We are.... The transmission is then cut off in a wave of subspace static.

Gral says to Rangin, "One of the two ships, sir, is of an unfamiliar design not found in Federation records; the other is a Klingon scoutship, E5 class."

Capt. Singh comes onto the Bridge.

Kylah's heart pounds as she hears the message and relays it to Velir. Despite the likely futility she attempts to reconnect with the Naradraen--not using her ship's name this time for fear of giving away too much information to anyone who has boarded the ship. "Naradraen. We are on our way. Please respond if you can. Naradraen, please respond--"

Then Gral's words freeze her in place. A Klingon scoutship. Apparently attacking a nonaggressive alien.

All along she's known the high likelihood of encountering Klingons in a Federation capacity, but she has never been able to predict the circumstances. Arriving in mid-battle, with the Klingons apparently the aggressors... It could not possibly be worse.

Back home, when she was preparing to leave for her new Yorktown assignment, Aldaan's only suggestion regarding such a possibility was: "Your safety is paramount. You are too valuable and must survive. No matter what allegiance you must choose in order to make that happen, in the end you must side with the victors."

The advice--really a command--was neither helpful, laudable or palatable. Kylah prays it will not be necessary to make such a decision.

Her mind runs through the situation as unemotionally as she can. A scout ship against the Yorktown is a poor match indeed. If she recalls correctly, Klingon scout ships generally can only hold 12 or fewer crew members. Why is the Naradraen prey to such a small vessel--and why would they attack at all? Then again, she does not know how large or powerful the Naradraen is.

Singh's arrival on the Bridge is a relief. Of course Velir should have his chance at command, and he would likely acquit himself admirably if it were necessary. But with Klingons involved... Experience is vital.

Rangin exhales sharply at Lt Gral's report and really wishes he hadn't thought about the Kobiyashi Maru, tempting fate like that.

"Oh. just. dandy." he growls under his breath, as where there is a Scoutship, there is likely to be a Warbird around somewhere. Well, if Roble had thought he was going to be getting some valuable experience, he couldn't have been more right. He tries to recall from memory what to do in these situations only to go blank. It wasn't a very necessary part of the Science course and frankly he never thought he would be in this kind of situation. Spending more time than most on placements, spotting new species, had left him a little rusty on the finer points of interstellar combat and his experiences on a more local level are going to be of no use in this situation.

As Captain Singh enters the Bridge, he rises from the Captain's chair, her chair really, and stands in front of it, considering the fact that waking her had probably been his smartest move all evening. But there's no feeling of relief, just a gnawing sense of a job yet to be done, a job he isn't quite ready to carry out, but that she is. The Yorktown may be more than a match for the scout ship, but who knows what else would be waiting....or even if they would be in time.

Before she even asks for a report, he starts to inform her of the situation. "Ma'am we have a Klingon Scoutship attacking an unknown vessel that is requesting our aid and expecting to be boarded soon. We are currently at Warp 6 heading straight for it with arrival time in just over 15 minutes." Rangin estimates it from Levethal's last comment and the time taken for Singh to arrive, but even so, he may be off as time has dragged and sped up so may times over the last few hours.

Kylah finds that the static which drowned out the Naradraen's message persists.

"Thank you, Mr. Rangin. I relieve you," the Captain says, taking her chair. "Any forward visual yet?"

"Still a few minutes away, ma'am," Roble says. "Mr. Rangin, please take Science II. Mr. Gral, thank you, you're relieved." The Tellarite leaves the Bridge.

"Tactical," the Captain says, and a pale blue gridlike display appears on the main viewscreen. The Yorktown, the alien ship, the Klingon scoutship, the nebula and the three closest stars are all shown. Rangin checks the scale and sees that the nebula is enormous - the entire Coridan star system would fit into it at least twenty times over.

"Tactical analysis, Mr. St. Croix," Singh says.

The Frenchwoman rises, turns towards the Captain and clasps her hands behind her back. "The Klingon scoutship is about a sixth our size, Captain. The E5s aren't used by the Imperial Klingon Fleet anymore but are still popular with traders, mercenaries and pirates, and remain in use in the planetary forces of some Klingon allies. Fast, heavily armed, tough and well-shielded; typical crew of 40. The other ship is of unknown origin but is about the same size as the scoutship. It appears to be configured as a light freighter roughly comparable to our Coleman class of cargo ships, lightly armed and with a crew of about 60. Both seem to have suffered some damage."

"Thank you, Ensign. Mr. Roble, give me a more intensive scan of both."

"Aye, Captain."

Singh leans forward. "Red Alert. Raise shields. Arm photon torpedoes." The Red Alert klaxon begins to sound throughout the ship, and the bulkhead Alert indicators blink crimson.

St. Croix turns back to her console and says moments later, "Shields raised, Captain. Photon torpedoes armed."

"Very well." The Captain turns in her chair to Kylah. "Any further contact with the ship under attack?"

Alarmed by the news that this older ship is larger than expected, Kylah looks at Singh and repeats what she told Velir. "No, sir. The last transmission indicated that they were being boarded, and then I lost contact. I have tried to reach them since to no avail."

"I stand relieved ma'am." Rangin steps aside to allow the Captain her chair before heading to the secondary Science console to back up Lt. Cmdr. Roble where he continues the analysis that had already been started.

Singh smiles. "That's 'ma'am,' or 'Captain,' if you please, Ens. Kylah. Why did you lose contact, can you tell? Damage to their transmitter? Jamming? Something else?"

At the Science II station, Rangin sees that the scoutship has disruptors characteristic of Klingon ships of that size and class in Starfleet records. It appears to be in poor repair and has serious hull damage; he notes 26 Klingon lifesigns aboard. It is moving slowly and continuing to fire on the other ship, which is even more extensively damaged and is losing atmosphere and debris from some compartments. There are 39 lifesigns aboard. His scan is clouded by energy distortions from the disruptor fire, but the lifesigns are mammalian and bipedal.

As Rangin's scan continues, he sees that the second ship has now come to a full stop relative to its foe.

Kylah flushes and nods. "I am sorry, yes, Captain. I..." She looks back at her panel and does her best to clear up the signal. "...I think it is being jammed. The voice was overtaken by static, and I cannot seem to get through. If the transmission had been cut off on its own, or had been destroyed, I believe I would hear only silence."

The klaxons open Nia's eyes and she takes a second or two to register that this is not a bad nightmare. Cursing, she removes her mask with a yank and fumbles to turn off the respirator. When she sits up she sees Booker waking as well. "I have to get to the Bridge," she says, resting a hand on his arm just long enough to connect and feel his warm strength before jumping out of bed to dress herself. She knows he will have his battle station to get to as well.

Underwear, stockings, gold dress, boots... all on in under thirty seconds. She makes sure to pull at her drawer to grab her inhaler, just in case; not having had a full night of replenishment probably won't cause a problem but it's better to be safe than sorry. It's looped chain is pulled over her neck to hide beneath her collar.

No time for them to kiss each other goodbye, damn it. Not the way she wanted this evening to end--with a breathing crisis and now this. Hopefully not a portent for how this relationship goes. After a silent look at Booker, Nia heads to the Bridge and her Helm, tucking her hair back into its braid before changing from a jog to a run.

Reflexively, even before eyes are fully open, Collins is out of bed and getting dressed before the second klaxon sounds. She finishes dressing, pulls her hair back into its familiar ponytail, kisses Cooper, and runs for turbolift. "Bridge!" she tells it. When the lift doors open, she heads right for the secondary security console, because she sees St. Croix at the primary.

"Ma'am, I'm reading 26 Klingons on the Scoutship and 39 indeterminate lifeforms on the other. They do not appear to have boarded the ship, but it is coming to a stop. It also has hull breaches across the board."

Quickly Rangin passes the data on the ships to St. Croix's terminal. The data would be invaluable if she opens fire.

The Red Alert klaxon continues to blare from stem to stern of the heavy cruiser.

As Kylah checks the static's subspace profile, she sees that it is indeed the result of jamming. She is unable to break through. Judging by signal strength, amplitude cross-section and other elements, it is very likely to be coming from the Klingon ship. Reports of Red Alert readiness pour in via the comm system from belowdecks and she finds herself very busy acknowledging them all. One of the messages is from Lt. Thalen, who says, "Stay where you are, Mr. Kylah, unless you wish to be relieved. I'll be in the Comm Center if you need me."

Onn makes her way through the crowded corridors, catches a turbolift and soon arrives on the Bridge. She takes the Helm, followed shortly by Bennett, who takes Navigation. Bennett gives her a quick, encouraging smile and they both brief themselves from the Ship's Status displays on their consoles. Brooks and Leventhal leave for alternate duty assignments below.

Collins takes the Security II console and confirms what she's heard from Rangin.

Delaney sits down at the Engineering post, and Dr. T'Var at Life Sciences, and they bring themselves up to date.

St. Croix acknowledges the data Rangin shared.

Roble is able to put up a visual for the two ships. The Klingon ship is lean and ugly, all business, a dirty gray-green with black highlights. The alien ship - presumably the Naradraen - is more rounded, almost graceful, with an orange-tinted hull. Both have clearly been damaged. As you watch, the Klingon ship fires its forward disruptors, but the other ship's deflectors shrug it off and it returns fire.

The Science Officer checks sensors and adds to Rangin's report, "The Klingon ship does not have typical IKF markings. There is no match in our records for it. The alien ship also has an unusual drive system. Preliminary readings suggest a hadron-pulse system of some kind."

"Thank you, gentlemen," the Captain says, staring at the viewscreen. "Mr. Kylah, open a channel to the Klingon ship."

Kylah swallows and does as ordered. If successful, she will say, "Channel open, Captain."

Nia is calm and cool, though breathing a bit quickly, and looks from her panel to the viewscreen. As someone who's worked with all sorts of vessels from the inside out, she appreciates both the Klingon ship's stark, no-nonsense build and the Naradraen's more elegant form.

Doesn't look like the latter is in desperate shape, not yet, anyway; fortunately its deflectors are still active. But that's no warship and the crew may not be trained for an extended battle. Not against Klingons or... well, whoever's in that E5. A ship like that might've passed through several hands until it got to its current owners. Nia's willing to take short odds--or at least even money--on the likelihood of the inhabitants being some rogue thugs rather than Klingons.

Graham is impressed by Nia's speed reacting to the red alert: she's so fast and so focused he doesn't have a moment to ask if she's up to it after all that happened...

Something he in point of fact appreciates because while he is concerned he is pretty damn sure that is not a question Nia wants to hear from him at the moment...

And anyway he needs to respond as well.

Graham has an "oh shit" moment when he quickly checks to re-confirm his standing assignment in case of red alert and sees he's supposed to be at Security station II on the Bridge.

Catching up with Nia is impossible as he has to dash to his quarters to gear up in uniform, but he does his best to move every bit as quickly as she did and report to the Bridge.

He finds Collins already there and acknowledges her with a quick nod.

Collins returns Graham's nod and turns to St. Croix. "Ensign, you are relieved." If St. Croix salutes, Collins returns it. She steps sideways to Security Station I to make room for Graham at Station II

A glimpse of Booker entering the Bridge almost makes Nia smile, but she only does with her eyes, briefly, before double-checking the status from Science. 26 Klingons? Well, I lost that bet, good thing there weren't real credits on the line. She smirks ruefully at herself and makes a mental note to pass along the information to her fellow Helmsmen aboard this and other Fed ships--that the E5s aren't just hand-me-downs passed along to Klingon allies, but in fact there are still Klingon crews in charge of some of them.

Then again, if we end up engaging them, my guess is there'll be one less to worry about. Her gaze lifts slightly to catch Booker again. It's certainly not the first time she's spent a night with someone only to serve with them hours later. But a Red Alert situation only moments after being in each other's arms? Yeah, this is a new one. She's not sure she likes it, either. Naturally she doubts she or Booker will be distracted; they're professionals. Still... there's a new sense of protectiveness toward him.

Look, you have to keep the whole crew safe, right? As long as you do your job, he'll be protected too. Nia returns her laser-like focus to shift among her panel, the nav panel, and the viewscreen, in that order. Any order from Singh or change in their situation and she'll be ready.

Collins keeps the E5 in her sights, ready to fire on the Captain's command. "Phasers and photon torpedoes armed and ready, Ma'am."

Graham hasn't had much to do beside check his console (as he would do anytime he came on duty, just more expeditiously under red alert conditions). He realizes that he's see both Collins and Nia - the latter casts a glance quick way and he responds with a quick, almost imperceptible nod - in terrible dire straits, but both seem ready to rock and roll at the moment. As does Bennett, seated next to Nia, which he still - for good reasons, bad reasons, or none at all - he still finds a little awkward.

Kylah is on station and seems completely composed, which gives him a moment of happiness.

It seems like - he's not sure, and doesn't want to know if it's true - but Rangin may have just yielded the big chair. Well, he can go below an run some experiments and let the bridge crew get to business, he thinks with relief.

There are no salutes in Starfleet.

St. Croix nods at Collins's order and leaves the Bridge. Graham takes up his post.

Singh says, a little sharply, "I didn't order phasers armed, Mr. Collins. Take them offline, please." Then she silences the klaxon, hits the white comm button on her chair arm and says, "Klingon vessel, this is the USS Yorktown. We are responding to a distress call and intend to assist the ship you are attacking. Cease fire, break off at once and return to Klingon space, or we will fire upon you. This is your only warning. Acknowledge."

There is no immediate reply.

Collins does as the Captain says, albeit reluctantly.

Kylah tries--not expecting any success--to see whether the Yorktown's broadcast has been received by the Klingon ship. At least, she hopes to ensure that the same interference that is blocking the Naradraen's messages isn't having the same effect on the Yorktown.

A flash of an idea hits her, although she is unsure whether now is the right time to attempt any experiments. She does not want the Captain to speak to her as she did Collins.

Then again, her idea might--might--bring them more information, rather than taking them a step closer to a battle. It is her duty.

"Captain," she says quietly into the tense silence awaiting a response from the Klingon vessel. "This morning, I mentioned having heard a second message from a stationary source--possibly a planet or moon or space station. This source was communicating with the Naradraen--at least, I assume it was the Naradraen. Now that we have moved closer in range and have some shared language, may I attempt to reach whoever sent that message? Perhaps they will know what this is all about."

While focused on his sensor panel which is sstill gathering information, Rangin tries to keep an eye on the interaction on the bridge in this time of crisis and in particular to how Captain Singh is taking charge. Firm precise and polite that could only have come from years of practice and determination, Rangin sees how the earned respect means that the ship is doing exactly what she wants.

If he ever wanted to be a Captain of a ship, this was the kind of thing he would not only have to aspire to but emulate in the fullness of time. The only other thing he can think of is that after this is all over, finding those who were on the Bridge at the time and buying them a drink to say thanks...although he isn't sure if protocol would allow it. One thing he is sure of that if it ever came to a battle, he would far rather have Ens. St Croix at the Security station than Collins.

As Singh hails the ship, he cannot help a small smile passing his lips at her wording, similar to his initial recommendation. Perhaps he isn't so far off after all. He focuses back on the sensors to try and determine what the Klingon Scoutship is doing next, whether preparing to back off, or go all out.

All decks now report full readiness under Red Alert conditions. Kylah is confident that the Klingon warship would have received the Captain's hail, despite its jamming of the Yorktown's communications with the alien ship, as those were on different subspace channels. In any event, there is no immediate response from the Klingons.

"Yes, please do, Ensign," Singh says in response to Kylah's suggestion. "Also, send a brief update to Starfleet Command."

Rangin knows of no reason under Starfleet protocol why he couldn't treat his watchmates to a drink later (assuming he and they live that long).

Collins and Graham see that the Yorktown will be within torpedo range in eight minutes.

"Recommendations?" the Captain asks aloud.

Moments later, the Klingons fire again at the other ship, which does not return fire.

"Beam Ens. Rangin into space" occurs to Graham as a constructive recommendation, but inappropriate under the circumstances.

He glances briefly at Collins, not wanting to step on her toes but at the same time not wanting to leave her hanging if she's looking to "big brother" to respond--he's in fact not sure how much ship-to-ship combat she's seen.

"We, ah, don't know the situation ma'am," Graham replies, his voice becoming crisper and more confident as he continues.

He realizes that given his age compared to many others on the bridge...Nia and Bennett aren't really older than Collins--it's possible he may have been in more ship-to-ship than everyone combined aside from the Captain.

"But if the Klingon ship doesn't stand down nobody on the other ship will left alive for us to sort things out with. I recommend a torpedo across her bow and an order--one--order to desist." He looks from the Captain to the view screen and back. "A ship her size would have to be extra crazy, even for Klingons, to take on Yorktown." He glances at Collins. "I'm sure we can disable her with phasers if needed, Captain."

Kylah quietly works to open a channel to the source of the second, stationary message. If she is successful, she will send the message:

Attention. This is the USS Yorktown, a starship representing the United Federation of Planets on a peaceful mission of exploration and scientific discovery. Several hours ago we first detected broadcasts from a vessel in motion and a stationary source. Since both sources were of unknown origin, we could not interpret them at the time.

After working on the translation problem for hours, not long ago we received a distress call that we could now interpret, from a vessel identifying itself as the Naradraen. The message stated it was being attacked and requested help. We changed course and informed them we were on our way to assist them, which they acknowledged. They stated that they were in danger of being boarded. At that point, the transmission was blocked, most likely by the enemy vessel.

We are now within visual range and see that the Naradraen is under active fire and has sustained damage; the other ship is of Klingon origin--if you do not know this race, they are from the planet Qo'nos and possess a growing empire. This ship does not appear to be part of the Klingon Imperial Fleet, however, and may be working alone. They are aggressive and are outgunning the Naradraen. We fear the vessel cannot withstand the attack for much longer.

We will protect the Naradraen to the best of our abilities, but wish more information, if possible. Is the Naradraen your ship? Has the crew contacted you and informed you of what led to this attack? Can you tell us your species and origin? Any information you can provide would be appreciated. Please respond as soon as possible. This is an emergency and we must act soon.

Whether or not the above message is successfully sent, Kylah sends a modified version of this message to Starfleet Command, containing only the information related to the two ships now in combat.

Nia listens to Booker and nods slightly, but then her expression shifts to one of slight concern as she stares back at the viewscreen. "Mr. Graham is right, Captain--a ship her size would be crazy taking on the Yorktown all by herself. So why are they ignoring our message?" She inhales deeply. "Perhaps we should consider the possibility that they're not alone. Uh... Ensign Rangin, you've been working with that spectacular new device we were meant to be testing. I know it's meant to be used on planetary bodies, but... do you think it'd be any use in detecting cloaked ships?"

While continuing to monitor the battle in front of him, Rangin hears his name being called and a question asked by Lt. Onn. Considering for a moment he shakes his and turns in his chair to respond to her and the Captain at the same time. "Unfortunately, ma'am, we don't even know if it is wired in correctly, we have only just run the initial tests. As for detecting a cloaked vessel, I very much doubt it in open space. In a nebula, it might be able to track the displacement wake of a ship as it moves. Also, the side effects of the device are currently prohibitive, we'd lose all bio-sensor data. If we could be certain other ships would be impacted likewise, it might prove valuable, but we currently have no way to test the hypothesis safely."

Rangin considers the point for a moment, "If there are other vessels out there, we may wish to consider monitoring and jamming the Scoutship to see what communications it is making, ma'am," he addresses to Captain Singh. "Also ma'am, it looks as though assisting the Naradraen will also involve removing a Klingon presence from the ship."

"Even a cloaked ship emits some kind of energy." Collins offers out to the whole bridge. "Can we make the sensors sensitive enough to detect a cloak?"

Ruminating on Rangin's answer, Nia purses her lips. Damn. What's the fun of having a new toy if you don't play around and try to break it? But that's one of the many differences between pilots and sciencey types. She ponders the negatives of losing biosensors for a few minutes versus the delicious possibility of uncovering a cloak. If it were up to her, she'd risk it... but she'd feel better doing it on a shuttle rather than a starship with hundreds of people on board.

When Collins speaks, Nia nods. "If only. It's been tried. Our more learned science officers can correct me if I'm wrong, but so far the only success in penetrating one of these bad boys was back with the Romulans, when they first developed the tech back in '66. Unfortunately, they plugged the hole in the design not long after--and Klingons seem to have done even better than their pointy-eared counterparts."

She shakes her head ruefully. "Far as I know, the only way our sensors will pick 'em up is if they start to move--or right before they uncloak. And by then it'll just give us enough time to say 'Oh sh--'" She catches herself before it's too late and says 'Shoot' rather than it's saltier option.

"On the other hand," Nia continues, "after thinking it over, I'm not entirely sure my fears are that justified. Can't see why they'd have a second cloaked ship just to attack the Naradraen--they'd only cloak if they knew we were coming to the party and wanted to obfuscate their firepower. But before we got here, they wouldn't waste the energy, especially since they're vulnerable to attack and can't use their weapons. And the Naradraen didn't mention being attacked by a pair of ships, did it, Ensign?" She turns to Kylah, then realizes the young woman isn't looking at her. "Ensign Kylah?"

Busy trying to act on Velir's suggestion of jamming any outgoing transmissions, Kylah does not realize Lt. Onn is speaking to her, so pays attention only peripherally. But the use of her name makes her swivel around. "I am sorry, Lieutenant. You asked if the Naradraen...?" She suddenly recollects the question and shakes her head. "No, they referred only to one enemy ship. Actually they used another word to describe the ship, but the UT could not translate it. I cannot think why the UT would not know the word for Klingon, if that is indeed what they said. Perhaps the Naradraen did not know who the Klingons were."

She bites at her lip and looks back at her datapad, with the previously translated messages. "I do not know if this is useful, but it does not seem this attack was altogether a surprise. Early this--yesterday morning, the message I intercepted used the words enemy and course. I think they knew someone was likely to be after them on their journey. And it involved some sort of holy book. A codex, they called it."

After a hesitation, Kylah shakes her head. "But this is probably not helpful information now," she murmurs, then falls silent. Her attention returns to the attempt to identify any messages from the Klingon scout ship, and then to jam them--if possible.

Graham splits his attention between his console and the discussion among his crew mates.

He's glad he kept quiet, as he agrees with Nia's analysis--in the end.

A setup for the Yorktown with the ship-to-ship as a charade would be outlandish for Klingons. More like Romulans.

And while if there was anyone would spend enough cycles to craft such an ornate scenario--including, if it were an ambush, disguising the ships as those of Klingons to misdirect the Federation's retaliation--it would be the Romulans, it's such an outlier he wouldn't make tactical decisions based on it.

Although just to be sage I wouldn't expose our flanks to the ship on the lose side, either, he thinks.

Kylah has no immediate response to her message to the other alien signal source. She knows that, given the Yorktown's current location, a reply from Starfleet Command or a closer starbase might not come for at least a day.

"Thank you, everyone," the Captain says. "Mr. Roble, Mr. Rangin, scan for anything that might suggest the presence of a cloaked ship or ships nearby. Use Dr. Brold's prototype sensor module only if you think it would help. Mr. Collins, prepare a torpedo for proximity detonation - close enough to get the Klingons' attention, but not enough to damage them. Then prepare a spread of four torpedoes for immediate followup and on-target detonation. Mr. Graham, track the Klingon ship and target it for optimal effect, but minimum effect on the unidentified ship, if possible. Fire only on my command."

The ships on the viewscreen grow larger; the nebula is also becoming more prominent by the minute. The alien ship returns fire at the Klingon, but its weapons are relatively weak by comparison, and the Klingon ship is undamaged. The scoutship begins moving again, and fires once, twice, three times in quick succession. The alien ship is badly shaken by the disruptor fire and its deflector shields are now near collapse.

"Three minutes to torpedo range," Roble says.

Suddenly Collins remembers Lieutenant Thalen's message from over a week ago. "Starfleet Tactical told us about this." she says as she scan through her messages to find the one she remembers, and the notes she made on it. "The Naradraen. Is it from Haran V?"

Roble checks the Federation shipping updates. "No such vessel has ever put into Haran V or anywhere else that we know of," he says.

"See to the torpedoes, if you please, Lieutenant," the Captain says.

So, everyone else can blurt stuff out? Nice. Collins faces her panels but looks sideways to Graham. Was I wrong for saying that? she asks with her eyes.

"Yes ma'am," comes Rangin's clipped reply as he focuses on the sensor panel and wonders how to find the invisible. Just looking for it directly isn't going to work and there is nothing to compare it to. Well, perhaps that isn't necessarily the case. But the only thing in the area which is marked out are the subspace disturbances from the warp engines of the two ships. If any cloaked vessel is out there, then maybe he can see it that way.

Rangin's fingers begin to dance across the console as he starts his searches before sending the suggestion to Roble.

There are higher-than-usual levels of interstellar hydrogen and other trace gasses in the area because of the nearby nebula, Rangin sees. In his initial search, he finds no nearby subspace disturbances other than the warp drives of the Yorktown itself and the Klingon ship. The alien ship's unusual hadron-pulse drive has no subspace signature at all.

Nia shifts her gaze to the right and slightly ahead of her, toward the tactical station -- but this time she's looking at Collins, not Graham. "Excellent memory, Collins," she says quickly and quietly. "The Naradraen's culture seems to be completely new to us, so I doubt they've ever been inside known territory or we'd have some record of their language. But this batch of Klingons could be a splinter group from that battlecruiser, or could be utterly unrelated, which I admit is more likely. Either way, I'm very glad you reminded us that Klingons were on Anubis not so long ago." She looks at the viewscreen with a slight frown. "Personally, I'm not a fan of traveling in their wake."

Briefly pausing in her continued attempts to monitor and/or jam any messages from the Klingon vessel, Kylah turns to Lt. Onn as the older woman speaks. Then she returns to stare at her screen.

An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu is making her stomach muscles tense. The red alert, the klaxon, the sight of a lieutenant at the helm... Singh and Roble on the Bridge with Vargas oddly absent... and now the mention of a Klingon battlecruiser.

That dream, she thinks with a shudder. That horrible dream.

Of course she realizes no one can predict the future; even with her mental abilities, that is impossible. And there is no battlecruiser here now, much less two. At least, none that they have seen thus far.

But the flash of visions from that nightmare nag at her. So much blood, so many dead... the Yorktown reeling, battered and vulnerable... and that terrifying inevitability of the computer's countdown to self-destruct. Another icy shiver runs down her spine.

It meant nothing. Of course it meant nothing. Focus on now, not phantoms from your mind!

With a swallow, Kylah redoubles her efforts to track any broadcast messages either from--or to--the scout ship.

After a moment, another thought occurs to her. Now that the Universal Translator understands so much more of this language, the Naradraen's original signal--and the one sent from the stationary source--should now be much easier to translate. Quickly, she runs the earliest messages from yesterday morning through the UT in hopes of learning more.

Rangin keeps monitoring to see what he can find in the remaining few minutes before they engage.

As best he can Graham gives Collins a sanguine look as if to say "don't worry about it, shrug it off," shrugging just slightly himself.

Graham double checks and triple checks his targeting, confident but conscious a mistake would be, well...embarrassing.

Not just in front of Nia, but Bennett as well, and Collins, and...well, everybody.

"Nor am I, Mr. Onn," the Captain says seriously.

Kylah discovers no messages emanating from the scoutship on any of the usual Klingon military subspace bands, but soon does on a tertiary Klingon channel. It is encrypted. She begins jamming at once, but does not know how long it had been broadcasting before she cut it off.

The earlier alien messages are still somewhat fragmentary. They appear to have been a lengthy status report from the Naradraen to what was probably a ship, base or colony of the same race in another star system. The first ship signaled that it "was bearing the Codex of blessed memory away from our ancestral enemy and to lasting safety with you, Ael willing." The recipient of the signal, in replying, encouraged the Naradraen to make the best possible time, evade the enemy and avoid attack. The Naradraen then acknowledged. There was also extensive telemetry and technical data, largely numeric, that Kylah does not understand.

Rangin finds no smoking gun for the presence of a cloaked ship or ships nearby, but cannot be sure that they aren't there. There are no noticeable displacements of interstellar gasses, or microgravitational distortions, that would suggest cloaked ships in the vicinity.

Graham's targeting is complete and he believes it is correct. His board does not indicate if Collins has prepared the five torpedoes as the Captain ordered, however.

The Yorktown is one minute to torpedo range.

Collins taps the panel a few more times. Without turning around, she declares "Torpedoes armed and at the ready, Captain. Awaiting your order."

Kylah passes along all the message information to the Captain, including the Klingons' activity. She also sends off a recording of the message to Garcia for decryption if possible. Can she locate how distant or to what approximate location the Klingons' message has been sent?

"Thank you, Mr. Collins," says Singh.

Garcia acknowledges the referral and a few seconds later adds, "This is not a typical Klingon military code. It might take me awhile. Stand by."

Subspace communications are typically omnidirectional and Kylah cannot determine how distant, in what direction or to what approximate location the Klingons' message was sent. It was a sufficiently strong signal to reach the Klingon Empire at this distance, however.

Just before the Yorktown comes into torpedo range, the scoutship fires again at the alien ship. In a feat of piloting which Onn cannot help but admire, the Klingon ship then does a "backflip" (relative to the Yorktown) and deftly moves to the far side of the alien ship, moving in close, to within fifty meters of its prey. "Her shields have collapsed," Roble announces. He checks another display. "The Klingons have got her in a tractor beam... and are now engaging their transporter."

Rangin, in his scans, now notices unusual radiation readings coming from the alien ship.

The Yorktown is now within torpedo range. "Take us in another 800km closer, then all stop," Singh orders.

"Why isn't the Naradraen moving?" Nia mutters, furious and ready to pull the Yorktown back in line with the Klingon ship, if Collins needs help getting a lock on it. "The ships are equal in size, she should be able make an attempt to escape the tractor beam."

Shaking her head as if bothered by an insect, she doesn't waste time asking why the hell a mere scout ship is equipped with the energy for such powerful tractor beam use. They're Klingons, they don't need a reason to be over-the-top bullies. Nia continues to stare in concern at the seemingly helpless alien vessel. "Is something wrong with their engines? If not, maybe whoever's at the helm's been injured." Or worse than injured... but she doesn't voice that.

Collins concentrates on keeping the sight aimed at the Klingon ship.

Unable to find any trace of another Klingon ship. whether it is there or not, Rangin leaves a subscan running, to alert him in the case that one should decloak, and then turns his focus towards the two ships concentrating on the unusual radiation, and the number of crew on each ship as to whether the Klingons have finally started to board.

"Take us around on the other side, Mr. Onn," Singh says. When the helmswoman does, the Klingon scoutship uses its tractor beam to turn the alien ship to keep it in between. Collins is stymied by the scoutship's move and cannot get a clear shot.

Rangin refines his search and believes the radiation is coming from what appears to be the engineering section of the alien ship. It does not read as dangerous to humanoid life, but is of a type he has never seen before. Klingon lifesigns have dropped by five on the scoutship and increased by the same number on the alien ship. Two alien lifesigns have stopped registering at all.

Roble says, "Sensors are picking up weapons fire on the alien ship - Klingon hand disruptors."

Singh stands and, after a moment, says, "Mr. Onn, assemble a boarding party. Take phaser-2s set on heavy stun. You may use deadly force if there's no other way to help the people of that ship against the Klingons. Beam over immediately."

Nia gets to her feet. "Aye aye, Captain," she says automatically. She suspects strongly she knows why Singh chose her. They need to move the ship in order to get access to the Klingon vessel, and--if Nia's guess was right--either pilot's dead or the Naradraen needs a quick fix. Either one is right in Nia's wheelhouse.

She thinks fast. Security officers first, obviously. And there's one guy who can take out any bullies in a hand-to-hand situation, if it gets to that. Her communicator snaps open as she moves from her seat. "Onn to Rawlings. Grab a phaser-2 and get to Transporter Room 1, we've got a date with some Klingons."

Her eyes catch sight of Collins. Girl looks like she's itching for a fight. Is she ready after whatever that health scare was? Nia remembers their drinks session. Yeah, she's up for it. "Collins, you're up."

Then she hesitates before her next choice. Shit. Shit. I can't be worried about this. Stay professional. He's got the experience, you know that. Focus. "Graham, you too."

Rawlings, Collins, Graham. That's the muscle. Radiation leak... I might be able to fix that if I can get there, but if not, I need someone who might be able to figure out alien tech, especially if it's causing them damage--and preferably someone who thinks out of the box. Nia's gaze shifts to the Science station. Booker's not going to like this, but... "Mr. Rangin, you're with us."

Six are the most they can beam out at one time. So who gets the lucky spot? A doctor, maybe, but Rangin can probably serve in a pinch... She hesitates for a few seconds to mull over.

Kylah watches all this, swiveling and staring at Velir when his name is called. She darts her attention to Lt. Onn and stands up. "Lieutenant," she blurts. "You will need someone who can communicate with them. The UT is not complete and I--I can--" I can sense their emotions, is what she wishes she could say. She also wants to say that she can speak Klingon fluently, but that is definitely off the table. "I can possibly fill in where there are gaps. Please ma'am, I volunteer."

The young ensign's voice stops Nia's racing thoughts. Not a bad idea, but... "You're up to this, Ensign? You've been in and out of sickbay a lot over the past couple weeks. Had a concussion only a few days ago. I'm sure you'd be useful, but..." She stares at the Elasian. "No offense but you look like you're on your last legs. I need everyone with their full wits."

Heart racing, Kylah clutches the edge of her chair. "I am fine, Lieutenant. I am fine. And I know this language better than anyone. I have worked on it all day, almost non-stop!"

"Exactly. You've been working on this for two watches. And you look it. Enthusiasm noted, but--no. End of discussion." She says to the Vulcan healer, "T'Var. We want a sawbones who can fight. Transporter Room 1, with me, if you please." She nods at the Captain and the rest of her team, ignores Kylah completely and rushes to the turbolift. On the way, she surreptitiously pats her chest for the comforting reassurance of her inhaler. No problem.

In the turbolift, she catches the look of disappointment in Kylah's face. Nia remains firm, but she does say: "You are vital here, Ensign. I want you ready to help liaise with these folks if the UT falls short. Got it?" The ensign nods slowly.

That accomplished, Nia promptly forgets everything but strategy. Once everyone is on the turbolift with her, she'll head to grab the weapons and get on board to save the Naradraen and kick some Klingon ass.

Sinking slowly to her chair, Kylah is aghast and embarrassed... and terrified for Velir. She knows he is smart and she is not well-equipped to protect him--even if he were to need protecting. What can she do? She is poor with phasers and her knives are gone.

But it is not just the need to be with Velir while he faces danger. The aliens whose messages she has been focusing on all day... their prayers, their pleas, call out to her. It is as if they have been talking directly to Kylah, waiting for a response. Too, there is her recent attempt to flee the Yorktown. She wants to make up for that, to prove that she is a member of the crew. They all helped save her life even though she was abandoning them, ignoring her duty. Now she cannot even stand with them.

She watches Velir as long as she can. I will pray for you, she thinks, wishing he could hear her. Her eyes scan the whole team. I will pray for you all.

Collins follows Onn to the turbolift. She's ready to run to the weapons locker and then to the transporter room. Klingons. At last. Something familiar. she thinks. She's also somewhat relieved that Onn was chosen to lead this team. I'll watch her and learn. Then, next time I'm up, I'll do better.

Concentrating hard on the sensors, Rangin is surprised to hear his name called for Away team, especially to go head to head with a set of Klingons. Of course it's worse than that as Ens. Graham would also be coming along, and frankly Rangin expects to be shot by him and for it to be called an accident, friendly fire or just that a Klingon did it.

Briefly before he leaves his seat, he dumps the schematics of the Naradraen into a tricorder including info on the radiation. Getting up he confers with Lt. Cmdr. Roble about being kept informed as to where the Klingons were on the ship before heading to the turbolift behind the others.

As he reaches there, he overhears the conversation between Lt Onn and Kylah and can see her desperation to come along, but in some ways the Lt. is right, Kylah is not up to it. Once finished, Rangin briefly steps to her side and asks her quietly and urgently, "Kylah, if there is one thing you could do for us, please let them know we are coming. Would save us more trouble than we can handle and we'll be back sooner rather than later."

He then heads for the turbolift ready to follow whatever orders he needs to and holding a tricorder with some unusual data.

Nia pays close attention to Rangin when he walks over to Kylah, bearing in mind Booker's fears about him. As a result she overhears his quiet request to her.

"Belay that request, Kylah," she says quickly. Her gaze shifts to Singh and then to Rangin. "Sorry. The Klingons are jamming the Naradraen's channel, which means the enemy's almost certainly aware that they were contacting us--and the Klingons are probably listening in on us as well. That means if we send anything, they'll know about it, but the aliens won't. That not only defeats the purpose but telegraphs our arrival.

"But good call on getting the Klingons' position--I wasn't gonna bother with that until we get to the Transporter room, since we want the latest data. Still, it can't hurt to put the word in now." She darts a glance at Roble. "Not sure how close you can monitor all our various lifesigns, but we may need to split up at some point. If possible, send us an inaudible warning if we're within ten meters of a Klingon--say, two quick pulses on our comms." She glances back at her group. "Radio silence is crucial. No alerts or discussions on our communicators unless absolutely necessary. Collins, pass that along to Rawlings, please."

Kylah listens numbly to both Velir and Onn. She is glad the older woman was the one to remind Velir about the signal jamming. Onn's subsequent comment about requesting silence sends another jolt of concern through her--a reminder that it's such a dangerous mission, even communicating with the boarding party could risk their lives.

She turns to Graham and wishes him good luck with her silent stare, and the same to Collins, although she is less sure the latter will take notice of her.

"Aye, sir." Collins acknowledges Onn's orders, although she wonders why the lieutenant is ordering the remaining bridge crew around with the Captain sitting right there.

Collins nods in response to Kylah's stare. Poor kid, she looks so worried.

Dr. T'Var rises from her seat, following Onn. Others soon arrive to take the Bridge posts of those who are leaving, including Leventhal, who is now back at the Helm.

Roble says, "The five Klingons appear to be sticking together, although our scans are somewhat hindered by radiation interference. I'll provide the coordinates to the transporter operator so that you can be beamed in close, but not right on top of them."

"Carry on, Lieutenant," Singh says to Onn. "Mr. Kylah, download all the UT data you have on the alien language into the boarding party's communicators. Further communications should only be through encrypted texts, until Mr. Onn tells us otherwise."

Onn and the others will be able to draw phaser-2s, tricorders and communicators in Transporter Room 1.

Kylah gives a tight nod and, blinking back tears to remain professional, transfers the language transcripts and direct data to the team's communicators as ordered. If she cannot go, she will do whatever she can to contribute and keep both her colleagues and the aliens safe.

Rangin decides that saying little and letting those with more experience get on with it, he can follow along behind. His experience isn't it this area, actually he's not even sure why he is going along saying as Ens. Hayes would probably have been a far better match in talking to any new aliens, so what is Lt. Onn thinking?

He passes on commenting on the fact that the Klingons would know the instant they transported across and weren't going to be shy about informing their own team over an encrypted channel about where they were boarding across to. Of course, that just meant they were gong to be boarding a panicked and troubled ship, that had been under attack, who probably didn't know them from the Klingons, while heavily armed and spoiling for a firefight, without informing the terrified, nervous, and probably trigger happy, crew they were turning up, who were likely to fire on any new group who boarded as a threat...what could possibly go wrong?

Trying to convince himself that this is probably some Security or Command Tactic he had missed while cataloging skullworms on Vecna II, he resigns himself to the fact that if he is going to wind up in the Captain's Chair again, he has a lot to re-learn. But the more he considers it, the more he wonders if another Security member wouldn't be a better fit, but as the others gather he realises that with one Command, three Security and a medic, he was the only Science person there. At least T'Var was eminently sensible when it came down to it.

Rangin will follow the others, picking up the phaser-2 and communicator, but keeping his own tricorder with its data in.

Onn, Collins, Graham, Rangin and Dr. T'Var gather in Transporter Room 1. Lt. JG Mark Ferguson is behind the console, and says to Onn, "I've coordinated with the Bridge, ma'am. They'll drop shields long enough for me to beam you over, then raise them again."

Ens. Terrance Thayer "Two Tons" Rawlings soon arrives to complete the Yorktown boarding party. He seems tense but ready for anything.

Onn confirms that everyone's communicator has been upgraded with the alien language database to function as small UTs.

Collins is ready to jump onto the transporter pads, but she decides to wait for Onn's orders.

Graham has a succession of thoughts, all of which he thinks better of expressing out loud, most of which he's not happy about.

Other than what he concedes is perhaps personal rather than professional concern for her safety, he has no objection to Nia leading an away mission--except that under these circumstances, if he were in the big chair he'd drop a loaded for bear Security team in first to clean up the Klingons, then send one of Starfleet's typical multi-role teams.

He doesn't doubt the effectiveness of such teams in general--but a Klingon boarding party? We don't need a fucking xenobotanist...

Which is the second pisser, given what he's told her, he's shocked Nia picks Rangin... He forces himself to maintain a neutral expression. Even a questioning glance is BS while she's in command of the away team, but damn do I want to ask her what she's thinking...

Graham can at least give Kylah a quick, confident nod and a thumbs up when she glances his way. He suspects she wouldn't fully appreciate an attempt at humor, but it might not even be that many years off for me to joke I've been on beaming into hot LZs since before she was born.

Rawlings seems solid, and he has the sneaking suspicion T'Var is, in the way Vulcans often are, quietly more of a badass than anyone would guess from the Medical uniform.

He chuckles to himself. With Collins and Nia rounding out the team, Rangin's a regular Ens. Dunsail.

In the transporter room he gives Rawlings and then Collins a comradely punch on the shoulder. "Check weapons," he says, starting out addressing his Security colleagues then glancing around to the rest of the group.

"Permission to take point, N- ma'am," he asks Onn, throwing a glance Collins way to acknowledge she's senior Security officer.

In response to the shoulder bump, Collins feigns a gut punch to Graham's midsection. She then nods, indicating she's fine with him taking point.

Nia thanks Ferguson briefly and then takes in the team, pausing just long enough on Booker to know that she has no doubt of what he's thinking regarding the composition of the party. She lifts one finger at his request, telling him tacitly to hold his horses. She then takes a deep breath and stands tall, the usual humor in her gaze replaced by a glint of anger and resolve.

"Okay guys. This isn't the time for a long debate, but I want strategy suggestions from each of you. I also want to tell you why I think you were the right choice for this mission.

"The security makeup is pretty obvious." She looks at Rawlings. "Double-T, you know you're here because I know you, I trust you, and I frankly pity the Klingon who tries to go up against you in hand-to-hand combat.

"Collins. You got your crew to safety, to the best of your ability, back on that Sakathian zombie-laden station. I want that same kind of gutsy fighting on this team to help the aliens out of this mess.

"Graham." Nia moistens her lips slightly before continuing. "Strategy. Toughness. Experience. Resilience under extraordinary pressure. And an absolute resolve to take care of your allies." She stresses the last word, hoping he knows that she doesn't really think he'd frag Rangin, but also that she expects him to not give the guy any guff.

"T'Var, obviously we want a skilled doctor with a cool head and an excellent trigger finger. These aliens may be hurt. We may get hurt. Your job is... well, hell, you're like 75 years older than I am, of course you know what your job is."

She turns to Rangin, who seems cool but somewhat... ambivalent? He probably didn't like her second-guessing his recommendation to Kylah. He'll have to get over that. "Rangin, you seem to be the odd man out. But you're a xenobiologist, you might be able to figure things out about these aliens' systems that could help T'Var, especially given the radiation. You're also here because I saw exactly the kind of out-of-the-box thinking you're capable of when you searched for Ensign Kylah, not to mention her attackers. I also know you were the one to take down that psycho Palver guy. There's a radiation leak and you're an expert with sensors. I want someone who thinks in a... well, an alien way. I think that's you."

Nia takes another inhale. "And if you're all wondering just what the hell I'm doing here instead of Vargas or another security officer. I can't read Singh's mind, but I've known her for longer than the rest of you, and I can guess what she's thinking. The Naradraen hasn't moved since we got in visual range, despite being fired upon; they're not even trying to get out from the tractor beam of a ship that's its equal in size. I think it's dead in space, and that means either the pilot's incapacitated or dead, or the engines are shot.

"The Yorktown needs a clear shot at that Klingon ship, and as we saw, they're gonna keep playing hide and seek with us until the Naradraen gets moved. I'm a pilot first and foremost and I can fly just about any ship that's thrown at me, alien or not. And I'm a solid engineer as well. I don't know half of what you Security folks or Science folks know, but I'm damn quick to learn, and I take advice well. I'm good with a phaser, not so much at hand-to-hand. If I lose my phaser I'm probably dead meat. And that's my problem. Your jobs are to save the Naradraen and keep yourselves safe. I'm the last person to worry about, okay?" She flicks her gaze at Booker and Double-T for emphasis.

"Okay. Now you know my strengths and weaknesses, you can bitch about it later to Singh or Vargas. As of now, I want strategy suggestions from each of you. Graham's got one, he's on point. Any other recommendations, I want to hear one from each. Time's wasting: go."

"Securing the Naradraen, and getting its crew to safety should be the primary goal." Collins is trying to think of the bigger picture, rather than going with her gut desire to shoot all the Klingons and sort out the mess later.

Graham smoothly switches to parade rest at Nia's look and gesture, holding that pose - although flexing each leg in turn slightly - while she gives her briefing.

Graham has to resist nodding approvingly - she's got the role of mission leader down pat. Right or wrong, you have to be the one to make choices and enable your team to gain the initiative.

He does glance sideways at Rawlings just for a moment after she states that she's last person the team should worry about. "Losing your officers" has been bad mojo (and not losing them has been a point of pride) for not just in Starfleet but in military tradition for hundreds of years.

Rangin isn't sure whether its praise or an insult. Think in an alien way... This from someone with scales, a Sidonian, and yes he knew the details of that species and who now seems to be someone on familiar terms with Ens. Graham. Yeah, this was going to be a great boarding mission. Rangin hopes she is going to remain as reasonable as she was earlier, but given those comments he's not sure.

"Ma'am, there are some interesting readings from the ship, I'd better look into those first. No point clearing out the Klingons if it kills us in the process. I also have rough details on their boarding party and I may have better luck cutting through the interference once on board. It will help to know where they are precisely."

Rawlings grins and says, "I'm ready, Lieutenant. Let's get over there and teach the Klingons to pick on someone their own size."

Nia smiles back at Rawlings and nods at the others. "Excellent, thanks. If Rangin finds the radiation is damaging after all, I may send some or all of you back. I have some natural protection against toxic atmospheres that the rest of you don't." She turns to T'Var. "That leaves you, Lieutenant. Any prescriptions for us?"

It takes a Herculean effort for Graham to remain silent when Nia says hazardous conditions might cause her send some or all of the team back.

She may have natural protection against toxic atmospheres, but not against a half dozen goddamned Klingons...

Uh, unless there's something she hasn't shown me...

T'Var says, "I have reviewed the preliminary readings on the unknown radiation that Mr. Rangin discovered. It does not appear dangerous, Lieutenant, but I will continue monitoring it." She puts her thumb through the strap of her medical tricorder and squares her shoulders. "I am ready to proceed."

With another nod, at T'Var this time, Nia is satisfied. She checks her weapon to make sure it's ready for the job, and her tricorder too. "Thanks, everyone. I appreciate the input. If you have any ideas or corrections for my orders once we're down there, and I mean when you're certain I'm messing up, then let me know quickly and quietly. I want orders followed but I'm not proud.

"The mission's straightforward enough: Help everyone who's not a Klingon, stop the rest. It'd be nice if we knew what these aliens look like, but hopefully they're different enough so that we won't mistake one for the other. Be ready to lower your weapon and tell them we're here to help as soon as possible, so they won't feel too threatened. And hopefully the UT will do its job. In fact, let's make sure of that."

She snaps open her communicator. "Onn to Thalen and Kylah. How well are we gonna communicate on that ship? Will the UT be able to make sure the aliens can understand us, even in some form of pidgen version of their language? The most important phrase we want is 'we're here to help, we mean you no harm.' Will that come across?"

While she's waiting, she steps onto the transporter pad nearest her and gestures with her head to the team. "C'mon, take your places, please. Curtain's about to go up."

As the smallest of the group, Rangin waits to see where the others are standing before taking his place, not wanting to get knocked over in the eager rush of Security personnel just itching to get stuck into the Klingons. It will probably at the back, which is fine by him, as it lets the meat shields go play while he tries to determine what else is going on, on the ship.

It's not that he's afraid of the situation, indeed in the last two missions he has been on, Rangin was responsible for dealing with Chief Porr and Fellim Palver, but no doubt Graham will consider him a complete failure if he doesn't shoot at least once.

Looking at them, it's so different from previous times. They may be well drilled, experts in what they do, but Rangin doesn't feel the camaraderie he used to. He hopes it's not going to be indicative of the next few minutes. Regardless, he feels himself falling back into old patterns, gather data and disseminate it to those who need it. That is a role he is used to.

Kylah hears Onn's request and is not sure how accurate the UT is regarding instantaneous translations. However, she does have a solution--her knowledge of the language from the distress call.

"We already gave you as much as we know thus far, at least on my end. Lt. Thalen may know more than I. But just in case the translator cannot render your words quickly enough, I can send you something using their own language, untranslated." Her fingers work quickly on her keypad. "There. Your communicators should now have the phonetic version of the phrase We help and rescue the Naradraen. All your team should be able to pronounce it correctly." She hesitates and adds softly, "Good luck, ma'am."

Thalen says from the Communications Center, "Thank you, Mr. Kylah. Mr. Onn, from my review of it, the translation matrix for this alien language is at Stage 2, perhaps even Stage 3 or close to it, under Starfleet First Contact linguistic protocols. Basic concepts and preliminary communications should be no problem. The more you talk, and the more you hear from them, the better you should be able to communicate as the UT database grows."

At Onn's urging, the members of the boarding party all take their places on the transporter platform.

"Ready and standing by," Ferguson says from the transporter console.

Nia thanks Kylah and Lt. Thalen, then takes a steadying breath. "Excellent, Mr. Ferguson. Assuming your coordinates are updated with Lt. Cmdr. Roble's latest data regarding the Klingons' locations--and that the Naradraen's shields are still down," she adds suddenly, thinking, That'd be an anticlimactic end to this would-be rescue attempt, wouldn't it? "Then I'd say we're okay to go. Begin transport."

Graham turns and nods approvingly just ever so slightly toward Nia when she asks for confirmation about the latest sensor data on the Klingons' location.

When he taught at the Academy, he never failed to get questions on day of any training for tactical movement and approach on foot or fast drops in shuttles.

"Why can't e just beam where we need to be?" a cadet would always ask.

"Because if you're not sure where the bad guys are, the several seconds it takes for you to materialize in their immediate presence is a 100% guaranteed death sentence," he'd always answer.

"Energizing," Ferguson says as he works the controls.

The transporter effect rises up and overtakes you, and seconds later you rematerialize in a six-sided room about four meters across. No one else is in the room. The walls or bulkheads appear to be of the same orange-tinted metal as the exterior hull. The floor or deck is dark brown and has a slightly springy feel to it, almost like rubber. Four narrow corridors, each a little over a meter wide, lead from the room, perpendicular to and equidistant from each other. Each corridor runs about ten meters, ending in a single panel door not dissimilar from the Yorktown's.

A loud, regular, repeating flat tone fills the air - maybe an alarm of some kind. Collins notices that the air has a whiff of spice of some kind - oregano? Paprika? She can't quite decide. It is different from her ship's flavorless air, but not unpleasant.

T'Var unlimbers her tricorder and scans the area. "Radiation levels are still safe." She points. "Judging by the intensity, engineering is probably in that direction."

Moments later you hear muffled sounds of a struggle in the opposite direction, then what Graham instantly recognizes as the sound of a Klingon hand-disruptor blast.

Without even conscious thought requiring it, Nia's skin starts to scale over. She glances at the surrounding wall color and senses the familiarity of it; very much like her native desert land in sunset. Even without looking down at her hands, she knows her scales aren't their usual silver, but have blended in their chameleonic way to match the surroundings. Her hair will have done the same, although it's not as big a change. If she took off her uniform she'd be nearly invisible. She'll save that option for later, if necessary.

Hearing T'Var's assessment followed by the disrupter fire, she swallows back her nerves and nods at the team. She talks quietly but with resolve. "Saving lives is our priority. We worry about radiation later until we're sure it's a threat to the aliens." She pauses for a millisecond. "Rangin, can you get a reading on the number and composition of life signs ahead?""

Even as she speaks, Nia's mind is busy thinking of the line-up. Best and biggest fighters in front and back, sandwiching the rest, make sure we get no surprises from behind us.

Aloud: "Book, you're on point. Then Collins, me, Rangin, T'Var, and Rawlings to block anything from the rear. Everyone, phasers on highest stun--Once we see the enemy we stun first and announce who we are second. Stun doesn't work, go straight to kill."

To herself: Take deep breaths. Atmosphere--same as on our ship? Am I gonna run into problems? Don't wanna run around with my inhaler in my mouth like a pacifier. Deal with it.

Before she gives the order to go, she murmurs: "Rangin. Got a reading yet?"

Graham pivots toward the direction of the sound phaser in hand. Without turning--so he's still looking in that direction--he replies just loudly enough for his colleagues to hear "Yes ma'am."

"That was a Klingon disruptor, sure of it," he adds.

Kylah is breaking out into a sweat at the thought of Velir and the others entering such a dangerous situation. Radiation, unknown aliens, and of course the biggest threat, the Klingons. How can we disable that ship? And the tractor beam... what will happen to our team if the Klingons successfully pull the Naradraen into their clutches? How--

She stops her ruminating and swivels to stare at the viewscreen. "Captain," she blurts. "Our ship has its own tractor beam capability. Can we pull the Naradraen in?" Her gaze takes in Delaney at the Engineering station and she hurries on: "Not hard enough to cause too much stress, given that the Klingons are exerting their own force on it. But if we match their strength, we should at least be able to neutralize the Klingons and prevent them from succeeding in capturing the Naradraen."

Kylah returns to the Captain. "I know it means putting down our shields, ma'am. But the scout ship is equally as vulnerable--more so, against us. If they stop hiding and get in range to fire, they will give us the same opportunity to hit them."

As soon as they get on board Rangin gets his tricorder out and starts updating with the positions of the crew and Klingons in the immediate vicinity trying to counter the effects of any radiation on his ability to get an accurate reading. The sound of the struggle gives him more focus as to where to scan for.

But that's not the only thing that gives him cause for concern, the over familiar call from Lt Onn to Ens. Graham seemingly confirming what he is already thinking. Still he is going to be the model professional, even if they decide not to be.

"One moment ma'am." he responds to her call, "hoping to have an accurate reading on crew and intruders shortly."

Collins is mildly amazed watching Onn's skin change and adapt. She knew Sidonians were lizard-like, Onn told her as much, but to see that natural defense system in action is fascinating. At the sound of the scuffle and weapons fire beyond the door of their little closet, Collins becomes hyper alert. "Regular stun or heavy stun, sir? Given that they're Klingons, I'd suggest heavy stun."

Nia's focus sharpens on Collins. Is she nervous? Stupid question, they probably all are, to one extent or another. Maybe the adrenaline and noise made it hard for the junior officer to hear Nia's earlier order.

Nia doesn't want to bring attention to the issue--and besides, maybe it's her own fault for not enunciating enough while whispering. Humans' ears are likely less attuned than hers. One benefit of evolution as prey on her planet.

She speaks very clearly, but still softly, so that everyone will definitely hear. "Yes, heavy stun. We may only get two shots at them, let's make the first one count. If it doesn't bring 'em down, and our presence isn't enough to scare them off--and I doubt it, with Klingons--shoot to kill."

She shakes her head infinitesimally. These are not directions she likes giving. If only the Klingons would realize they've got no shot against the Yorktown and beam the hell out of there...

Then her eyes blink wide open. The transporter. Why the hell didn't I think of this sooner? Why didn't anyone think of this sooner? She aims her thoughts to everyone. "Wait. Why can't we beam them onto the Yorktown?"

Angry at herself, she flips open her communicator and rapidly sends a message: "Onn to Yorktown. About to engage. But: Science can distinguish Klingon lifesigns. Can you get a lock on them and beam them onto the ship? Using containment field or 20 armed officers?"

The Captain responds to Kylah and says thoughtfully, "We don't know enough about the interaction between our tractor beam and a Klingon one, or if that would put the alien ship under too much structural strain. They've both been damaged. Mr. Delaney, run a simulation, drawing on our sensor readings so far, and let me know what you think."

She then asks for Ferguson's reaction to Onn's proposal. The transporter operator says, "I was thinking the same thing, ma'am, but I can't seem to get a lock on the Klingons. Something is preventing it, a localized field distortion over there of some kind. It's not the radiation we noticed earlier, though. I'll keep trying."

"Please do," the Captain says. "Send a coded text to Onn to that effect, Mr. Kylah." She hits the comm button again. "Security, send a squad to Transporter Room 1 with phaser-2s set on heavy stun. I want to be ready if we're able to beam any Klingons over."

"Aye, Captain," says Ens. Three Crows from belowdecks. "On their way."

Rangin's tricorder scan, consistent with the earlier sensor readings as the Yorktown approached, shows five Klingons on the alien ship and 37 aliens. One alien and one Klingon appear to be just beyond the door from which the sounds of struggle now get a little louder. The Coridanite xenobiologist has some difficulty with radiation interference but, as he looks, another two alien lifesigns wink out elsewhere on the ship - aft and below the boarding party's current position, if T'Var's evaluation is correct.

Onn gets Kylah's text.

Graham remains focused on the door, sitting down the barrel of his phaser, modulating his breathing. Beauty of taking point. Very simple. Shoot anything Klingon before they have a chance to react.

He hears the conversation: if he weren't on point, he'd try to reassure Collins, who seems a little nervous. Hopefully "little sis" won't shoot me in the back of the head accidentally, he muses.

And he's finding he likes working with Nia as much as he liked...uh, "not working"...with her. No hesitation calling the shots. Although it registers after a moment she called him "Book." Not that he objects...Objects exactly...Well, it's weird to hear that nickname in this context..

Nia gets the text and grits her teeth. She sends back a quick reply to indicate she received the message, then stows the communicator in her duty belt.

All she says is, "Apparently some kind of field is preventing them from beaming the Klingons out." No sense in expressing her new concerns that this same field might prevent the Yorktown from beaming them back onto the ship. Hope equals morale. Despair is a leader's yoke to bear.

She lifts her phaser. "All right. We fight until the cavalry comes in the form of a transporter. I don't want to lose any more of those lifesigns unless they're Klingon-shaped." Deep steadying breath.

"Let's move."

Rangin gives out the details of the crew and Klingon positions and then waits for the order to go.

Collins follows Graham, phaser at the ready, a little to his left, so that she can cover the side of whatever room or corridor they enter that he cannot.

Graham tilts his head to the left. "L-T--on entry, stay behind my left shoulder. You cover left side field of fire. I'll cover right."

"Nia--odds are I'll take the hit if they get a shot off, so your targeting on entry should be center and right to take any shooter on that side."

He pauses before moving forward. "Everybody clear on this? It's important you use me for cover, Jeremi. Raises the odds they can only take just one of us down before you and Nia can drop two."

"I've got the door, we go on three," Graham says, starting to count down slowly and continuing ahead unless interrupted.

Collins smiles because she must have read Graham's mind. She nods in agreement with his orders.

"Hold on that, Graham," Nia says as sharply as possible given the need for quiet. "Soon as you see a Klingon, take your shot then move, duck and drop to a knee as far to the side as possible--each of us alternating right and left. This way you're not where you were a second ago and the rest of us have a clear shot, if necessary. No one's a phaser sponge for anyone--not yet." She meets Booker squarely in the eye. "You see a problem with that plan?"

Graham grudgingly takes his eyes off the door for a moment, as Nia's tone leaves little question she wants his attention. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise," he answers quietly and carefully. "But..." he glances briefly at Collins, who nerves or not seemed to be onboard--benefitting, of course, from the same Security training he's had.

"With all due respect ma'am--on entry, if we're walking into an ambush, the point man is there to...buy time...for the others to react. Been that way since Redcoats and muskets." He returns her gaze, wondering if she's been in this situation before, remembering the first time he could no longer volunteer to take the role on himself: Double-edged privilege of rank. Looking back from where she's standing at the kid who just volunteered...

No way around it without jeopardizing the team, he tries to convey, not wanting to get into a debate in front of the boarding party. "I know the job, ma'am," he says softly, taking pains to not use her first name and to make it sound like a gentle reminder that for better or worse it's who he is, rather than argumentative.

Staring balefully at Graham, Nia deeply regrets adding him onto the mission--either him or Collins. Obviously they've got some kind of sibling thing happening--and Nia knows all too well how he feels about his siblings. Damn overprotective bullshit. Would he be telling T'Var to hide behind him like a bunny rabbit? Fuck this, we're wasting time. "We're not being ambushed, we're doing the ambush. That's why I prefer a bounding overwatch tactic--it'll minimize our risk while still keeping the element of surprise."

She walks up to him and says quietly under her breath. "If you really think it's the right decision, and it has nothing to do with you thinking you need to sacrifice yourself or protect Collins--our ACOS, to refresh your memory--then move forward. Otherwise, I'll take point myself, and you can explain to the captain why her favorite pilot got fried on your watch." With a last look, she gets into place. "Count on, Ensign, and get moving."

Graham worries he may have to revise his opinion about...working...under Nia.

At first he simply thinks she's been overly sanguine about the risk of ambush.

Then she goes off in a whisper about protecting Collins and he's just confused.

But at least we're on the same page that they can't stand about bickering any longer.

I'm not sure I look forward to this conversation after the mission, he thinks, resuming position at the front of the group.

He checks his weapon one last time and re-starts his count, ready to go on "1."

The door behind which you have heard scuffling now thuds heavily as someone or something is slammed against it from the other side. A second or two later you hear another disruptor burst and then a shouted Klingon curse, which your communicators translate as "Dammit!"

Rangin watches in disbelief at what appear to be squabbles between Lt Onn and Ens Graham about the best way to get through a door and shoot the Klingon on the far side. Biting his tongue and resisting the urge to cross his arms and start tapping one foot in annoyance he considers what he does know.

Graham wasn't acting like a point man, just the idiot whose job it is to take the first hit and die gloriously while his companions try to overrun a position. Does he really have a such a death wish? The stupid thing was that the Klingons were no doubt well aware that a team of six Starfleet officers were now on board this ship. There were going to be no ambushes, no need for point, just a knock down drag-out fight through the corridors in which his group would have only two advantages, numbers and the good will of the remaining crew.

Perhaps there was a way to deal with that and tip the odds Starfleet's way. After all, the crew would know the ship better than the Klingons and in fact it may well be necessary. If they thought that all their people had gone down, they may just destroy the ship with them on it as lost, after all Klingon's would be dying in honour at that point.

But, if they couldn't tell...a cold hard smile crosses Rangin's face as he puts together an idea...maybe they could go dark using the Dr Brold's sensor. Then there would be no technological advantage, just skill in hunting through a close environment, with a friendly crew and six on four. Yeah, that could work and he would know if the tricorder stopped working. Of course, he would have a very small chance of adjusting it to ignore the sensor wave, but the Klingon's wouldn't have a clue and that might give them the time to manage the ship before the Klingon's realised.

Three...Rangin hears Graham call out quietly and focuses back on the door.

Two...Time seems to slow as takes one last breath and tenses ready for action.

Graham approaches the door, with the others behind. The door does not open. There is an ovoid panel on the doorframe to the right, with seven irregularly-shaped and colored buttons. One is larger than the others.

Graham holds up one hand, and tilts it till he is pointing at the panel. He counts up with his fingers...one, two, three..and on three presses the larger button.

Whoever's in there is gonna shoot the instant the door starts opening, Nia thinks, her heart slamming against her ribs in what must be an audible pounding. Her mind races. Door panel on the right, probably opens right to left. Then again it could go up and down, who the hell knows? Still, Booker and the rest of us should be shoved up against the left wall. No, we shouldn't be doing this at all. Is the alien in there still alive, anyway?

She gets to one knee and takes aim at the right side of the door, clear of Booker's body. The Klingon won't be able to aim toward both standing and kneeling targets.

The door opens immediately, straight up, revealing a room much like the one in which the boarding party arrived.

Two individuals are there, struggling hand-to-hand - or hand-to-paw, as one is a tall, muscular Klingon male in light combat armor and the other is an alien which at once reminds Graham of the snow leopards he saw years ago during a visit to a Tibetan wildlife preserve. The felinoid is slightly shorter than the Klingon, thinner and more wiry, but seems to move faster. It is gray with black striping, and wears a leatherlike harness on its upper body but no clothing. It is standing on its hind legs and baring its sharp fangs as it grapples with the Klingon, whose hand disruptor is on the deck, about two meters from the pair. The Klingon appears to be trying, at the moment, to keep the big cat from biting him.

Onn can see at a glance that the deck and one bulkhead are scorched from disruptor blasts.

http://www.ecorazzi.com/wp-content/u...ow-leopard.jpg
http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/...77_634x422.jpg
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snow_leopard

Nia's eyes open wide. An old instinct to flee, stemming from her race's evolution, rises in her, and like thousands of tiny doors slamming shut, scales erupt to cover her entire body. There are feline predators back home, large and dust-colored but otherwise very similar to this... creature. Especially in the fangs and claws, not to mention the rangy, taut body. Not nearly as furry, of course; the dejani on Sidonia are suited to the desert planet.

She takes in the sight for a second and then, already crouched, holsters her weapon and starts forward in a slinking crawl toward the disruptor. "Cover them both and announce yourselves," she orders in a near hiss to Graham and Collins. "I'm getting the weapon."

Graham would have preferred Nia hang back since the likelihood of either the Klingon or the alien reaching the weapon without being stunned is approximately zero, but the only course of action is to adapt to what she's already set in motion.

He gestures to Collins to move a little more to his left while he moves slightly to the right so they have a wider field of fire on the pair of aliens, then does his best to state calmly but with authority, lowering his weapon just slightly so the business end is not dead-on pointed at the cat-like alien, the phonetic translation Ens. Kylah sent over: "We help and rescue the Naradraen."

Both the Klingon and the alien are obviously aware of the Starfleet party's presence, but continue grappling with each other. The alien's ears flick towards Graham and it says, in a raspy voice distinctly translated by his communicator, "Then shoot this invader!" Its long, thick tail thrashes agitatedly as the pair fights.

The Klingon grunts as he grabs and tries to twist away the alien's head, avoiding its snapping jaws. Its claws scrape on his armor but do not pierce it.

The pair stumbles toward Onn.

If Graham feels he get off a clean shot that hits the Klingon rather than the feline invader, he stuns the Klingon.


Nice thing about dealing with Klingons. What's he going to do, file a diplomatic complaint?

Collins aims at the Klingon's knees, hoping to make him fall away from the dropped disrupter.

Nia grits her teeth and lunges for the disruptor, attempting to grab it with both hands.

Graham can't get a clear shot.

In the narrow corridor, Collins's view is obstructed by Graham.

Still grappling with the alien, the Klingon manages to kick the disruptor away from Onn, narrowly missing her, too.

All right, you son of a craggy-faced bitch, you wanna get close enough to dance? Nia yanks her phaser up and, aiming at the Klingon above her, squeezes off a shot--or two, if necessary.

Collins shifts to a crouched position to shoot around Graham's legs and again aims for the Klingon's knees.

The alien and the Klingon, struggling, turn, then turn again, and Onn and Graham see their shots at almost the same instant. They fire, and the Klingon is struck by two lambent blue beams. He falls to the deck like a sack of New Idaho potatoes.

The alien shakes itself for a moment, blinking its big eyes. Then it bounds over to the disruptor, picks it up and aims it at the Klingon's head.

"No!" Collins shouts at the Felinoid. She aims at the alien's hand to knock the disruptor away.

The felinoid's ears move again, and it instantly turns, crouches and points the disruptor at Collins.

"Stop!" Collins shouts. "He's down! We'll take him into custody!"

Nia slowly gets to her feet and makes sure to keep her phaser arm down. "Lt. Collins, lower your weapon immediately," she says calmly but firmly. She watches the alien the entire time. "We are not the enemy of the Naradraen."

She backs away slightly and moves until she's between Collins and the felinoid. "My name is Lt. Nia Onn. These are my teammates and we're from the Yorktown, a ship from the United Federation of Planets. We heard your distress call and came to help." She keeps her words soft but clear, wanting to give the translator time to work its magic. "We have fought this race--the Klingons--before. As my crewmate said, we will take them into custody rather than kill...when possible. I understand your anger and desire to seek revenge. But I only want to keep us all safe.

"Please," Nia adds respectfully, "could you stop pointing the weapon at my teammate? I'd be grateful to learn your name, and the name of your people. But most of all," she adds with urgency, "we want to help rid your ship of these intruders. We will fight by your side. As allies."

She falls silent and keeps her breathing as even as possible, waiting for the allen's response.

Collins lowers her phaser but keeps it at the ready.