Ens Stron & Tribunas Gault

[Enter Mr. Stron & Mr. Gault]

The interior of the cargo shuttle was freezing...almost literally. In order give themselves more range, its occupants had cut the environmental controls to the bare minimum. It would only buy them about an extra week or so, but both men figured that they'd be dead by that time anyway if they hadn't managed to locate a ship or station that was a little more capable than their current transport.

Occupying the flight deck was an unlikely pair. One, a meticulous Vulcan in the somehow still immaculate uniform of a Starfleet Ensign, the other a slightly disheveled civilian spacer. Circumstances had conspired such that Ensign Stron would not have made it off of McKinley Station without Tribunas Gault's assistance (or his ship). Neither of them knew precisely where they were going, but Gault had received a tip-off about a Federation redoubt in this sector. Stron wasn't about to ask questions about how that had happened...provided the tip off yielded results.

"If it's anywhere here, it's got to be in that nebula," Gault observed, "I can't see into it with the passives for sure - don't think active sensors would be much help either."

"A logical conclusion," Stron agreed, "We should not risk active emissions until we are inside. Can the ship's shields handle the radiation?"

"Yeah...should be able to anyway." Gault supposed, "Probably not my best idea ever to go in there, but could be a lot worse I suppose. Can't be much worse than the raiders anyhow."

The shuttle continued on its course. The raiders that Tribunas mentioned had hit his ship ten days ago. An old model Klingon Bird-of-Prey with a crew of opportunistic thugs had figured the S.S. Vercingetorix to be an easy target had decloaked as the ship made transit across a gravity well, trapping them in place. Stron had managed to configure the ship's missiles, outdated as they were, to hit the enemy as they were transporting boarders, crippling them, but the damage to Vercingetorix's own engines had been done. They'd been forced to abandon ship aboard one of Gault's long range cargo shuttles, a ship not designed for comfort or truly independent operation, as they left the Vercingetorix and the raiders adrift.

"Entering the outer envelope of the nebula...now" Stron reported. The shuttle gave a lurch on cue as the inertial compensators fought to find balance.

"Now we see if that information was worth anything. Think we're safe to go active?" Gault queried.

"Yes, provided our own emissions do not persuade Starfleet to shoot us down themselves." Stron replied.

"I didn't know you, I'd of thought that was a joke," Gault deadpanned as he activated the full array of the shuttle's admittedly limited sensors. "And we've got...nothing. Awesome. Lotta interference."

"And thus, an eminently logical place for a hideout." Stron countered.

"Yeah, yeah, 'logical.' Maybe you can 'logic' us out of this if there's no base, because I'm out of ideas."

The proximity alarm began to squawk.

"Ship dead ahead - distance, 1400 meters. Taking evasive action," Stron reported automatically.

"Talk about your short visibility, sensors had nothing until we were right on top of it - must be running dark. Let's hope they're friendly" Gault said, "Imma try and clean up the visual..."

Through the nebular interference, the saucer of a badly damaged Sovereign class starship came into view.

"NCC-...uh...wow, they took their lumps, looks like 7...8...1..that one's gone, last one is a dash A" Gault read off.

"78168-A. It is the USS Perseus." Stron supplied.

"Yeah, I don't know how you remember crap like that, but hopefully they're not in as bad a shape as they look."

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Chris Van Drimmelen


FCO Ens. Stron
USS Broadsword

chrisvandrimmelen@gmail.com