“Reyes to bridge. What’s going on?”
Instead of a reply from the Nowlan’s bridge, he received a response from Lieutenant Ket, the Bolian security guard stationed beyond his door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reyes, but your intercom has been programmed to connect only to the comm panel outside your quarters.”
Ignoring that, Reyes, asked, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Unknown, sir,”Ket replied. “I know only that Commander Easton has raised the alert level.”
Reyes felt his ire rising but forced it back down. Remembering that he no longer was the commander of any vessel or crew or even an officer deserving the time or respect of a subordinate, he suppressed the urge to respond more harshly to Ket’s seemingly dismissive comments. “I understand that, Lieutenant, but maybe you could contact the bridge and get more information? We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, after all.” It was not a thought that had consumed much of his time since the Nowlan’s departure from Starbase 47 for the prolonged journey to Earth, but there were only so many situations that might call for a ship’s commander to order his crew to their duty stations. Shipboard emergency was one such possibility, though Reyes’s gut told him that it was something else.
The room’s overhead lighting flickered at the same time as the drone of the ship’s engines changed, deepening as though being requested to generate more power.
That can’t be good.
The door to his quarters slid open, revealing the anguished face of Lieutenant Ket staring at him from the corridor.
“Commander Easton reports that they’ve picked up an unidentified vessel on sensors,” the Bolian said, an edge of fear now present in his voice. “It’s closing fast, and he’s requesting your presence on the bridge.”
Unidentified? Reyes wondered if it might be a Klingon ship. He would not put anything past them, not out here, considering the worsening diplomatic situation between the Federation and the Empire, to say nothing of the apparent price placed on his own head.
“Let’s get up there, then,” Reyes said, jogging to keep up with Ket as the lieutenant ran up the corridor. Antares-class transports only possessed three habitable decks to support what he remembered was a twenty-person crew complement, with the bulk of the ship’s interior volume dedicated to cargo storage. Rather than turbolifts, the three primary decks were connected by a series of ladders and Jefferies tubes. As they moved up the hallway toward one such access point, Reyes noted other members of the Nowlan’s crew moving with speed and purpose, presumably to their assigned station.
Then something slammed into the ship, and the bulkheads and deck plates trembled, groaning in protest. Everything pitched to starboard, and the deck went out from beneath Reyes’s feet, defying the vessel’s inertial dampening systems and throwing him into the bulkhead to his left. He winced in pain as his shoulder struck the wall, even as he flailed with his other hand to grab something for balance. Ahead of him, Ket fared better, managing to avoid being tossed off his feet and reaching for the entrance to a Jefferies tube to steady himself. All around them, alarm indicators flared harsh crimson, and Reyes heard the pitch of the ship’s engines waver yet again.
“Are you all right, sir?” the lieutenant asked as the deck leveled out beneath them.
Reyes nodded, rubbing his sore shoulder. “I’m fine. Let’s get up there.” If a vessel of any size and armament was indeed attacking them, he did not give the Nowlanmuch chance of surviving long after the initial salvo.
The berthing compartments were on the second deck near the aft section of the ship’s primary hull, and the bridge was one deck up and forward. They had only just begun the short ascent to the next deck when the ship shuddered around them yet again. Reyes felt his stomach lurch as the artificial gravity gave way for a moment, and he tightened his grip on the ladder as his feet left the rung on which he was perched. Darkness enveloped the narrow shaft, throwing off his equilibrium, but only for a moment before emergency lighting activated. Now long shadows stretched the length of the passageway, heightening his sense of confinement.
Prison sounds pretty good right about now.
It took only moments for Ket and Reyes to complete the transit to the bridge, climbing the ladder two rungs at a time and emerging at the rear of the Nowlan’s command center. Reyes pulled himself through the narrow, circular entry and onto the main deck, after which an ensign assigned to one of the aft stations moved to secure the hatch. At the front of the small, compact room, a large viewscreen dominated the forward bulkhead. The image on the screen was nothing but dense black space highlighted by a handful of distant stars. One of the stars was moving, growing larger by the second as it appeared to be coming closer.
Uh-oh.
Compared with its counterparts on larger Starfleet vessels, the Nowlan’s bridge was a sparse, utilitarian affair. Other than the set of consoles at the rear of the room—which seemed configured to handle engineering functions—the only other stations designed for manning by an actual member of the crew were housed in a free-standing console positioned in front of the main viewer and incorporating functionality for helm, navigation, and sensor control. A human female sat at the helm and navigation station, next to a human male manning the sensors. Both wore gold uniforms with lieutenant stripes, and their attention was focused on the status indicators and controls arrayed before them.
Hovering just over their shoulders was a large, muscled man of African descent, the ship’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Brandon Easton. A rivulet of sweat ran down the side of his smoothly shaved head, and his own gold uniform tunic stretched across his broad chest and shoulders. The man reached forward and slapped one of the controls on the helm console.
“Engineering, we need more power to the shields, now!” The only immediate response was static coming over the communications channel, to which Easton uttered what Reyes recognized as a particularly vile Andorian oath.
“Report,” Reyes commanded, reverting without hesitation to ingrained habits born from years of training and experience.
Easton turned from the consoles, and Reyes saw the look of anxiety on the younger man’s face. “We’re about to get our asses kicked by whoever that is out there,” he said. “It popped up on sensors coming at us like a bat out of hell and didn’t let up until it was in weapons range and started shooting at us. All of our attempts to hail it have been ignored. Data banks call it a civilian freighter, but whoever owns it has retrofitted that thing from stem to stern.”
Grunting in irritation, Reyes said, “Pirate vessel.” Out here, and particularly with larger, more powerful Starfleet vessels occupied with far larger problems, a slow-moving transport was easy pickings. “What’s your weapons status?”
“Standard phaser banks fore and aft,” the commander replied. “Not that it matters.” He waved a hand toward the viewscreen. “We’re no match for them. They’re armed to the teeth.” The man paused, clearing his throat. “This is more than a little out of my league, sir.”
Reyes nodded in understanding. The Nowlanmight be a low-profile transport ship with a crew smaller than the staff Reyes had been assigned while in command of Starbase 47, but Easton was still the one in charge and still the one responsible, no matter what happened. Knowing what it meant for the commander of a ship, anyship, to have to ask another officer for assistance or guidance while facing a tough situation, Reyes exchanged a knowing look with the younger officer before hooking a thumb over his shoulder and turning to Ket. “Get on that console, Lieutenant. Open a hailing frequency to that ship.”