170 Days, A limited series. Options

[Jobe]

This story takes place between the first episode of Federation ("Time and Tide") and the second episode of Venture Station ("Touching the Void"), and spans the period from stardate 2258.181 to 2258.351.

Day 2

"Where do we stand, Lieutenant?"

On a cerebral level, Julian Argyle knew the question was not intended to feel so… aggressive, but it did. The de facto chief engineer was worn out and running on momentum; a momentum that the uneventful ride in the turbolift had all but destroyed. Admiral Cash's question signaled the end of that wonderful, five minute vacation, and Argyle had quickly become intoxicated by the break. He shook his head sharply, trying to physically dislodge the imagined cobwebs that had lashed down his work ethic like Gulliver on the beach of Lilliput.

Admiral George Cash held his tongue as the man seated across the table from him began shaking his head violently for no apparent reason. 'Everyone has their ways of coping,' he reminded himself.

"Ah," Argyle began, and then started as though he just remembered that he'd been stabbed in the back. He reached behind him and withdrew a clipboard from the wound, sliding it neatly across the table as though it were infected with something. "The warp drive's in shambles, sir. We have a standard complement of spare parts, but that's just not sufficient for a ship this size."

"Bureaucracy at work," Cash muttered.

Argyle opened his mouth to speak, then promptly snapped it shut as though he'd trapped a fly in it.

"He's not an engineer, but Lieutenant Walker tells me that our communications are down because of some sort of 'interface problem.' The damage control team on the bridge seemed to agree with him. At any rate, long range communications should be working in just a few hours. I can call back to SB1 and have them ferry out whatever you need."

Argyle nodded as though he had expected the Admiral to say that all along, then said, "I'm afraid it's not that simple, sir. Even standardized parts have their own…" He searched for the words. "Personal idiosyncrasies. Given how much of the warp drive has to be rebuilt, it could take months of trial and error to construct a stable warp field for a vessel this size without adequate drydock facilities."

Cash inhaled deeply. "What are you telling me, Lieutenant?"

"Well, first of all, there is some good news. An unstable warp field is still usable if we don't exceed warp 1. I think we can minimize our travel time if we travel for 22 hours at warp 2, then stop for 8 hours to receive and test new equipment, then continue on for 22 hours and so on. The math is on the clipboard, though it does assume an good deal of efficiency in coordinating the transport of equipment."

Cash scanned the clipboard and blanched at the final numbers. "Thirteen months!?"

"Keep in mind that that's the maximum estimate," Argyle replied nervously. Every time a set of parts increases our warp potential, the travel time will be cut down significantly." Argyle watched as Cash nodded silently, never taking his eyes from the numbers in front of him.

Cash noticed that Argyle had something else on his mind, and looked at him expectantly. The Lieutenant saw the cue, took a breath so deep that it looked like he might float out of his chair, then spoke. "There is a non-engineering solution, of course."

Cash gave Argyle a curt nod. He knew what the engineer was getting at. "Have you served under Captain Azimov before, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

"I see. Well…" Cash considered how he might make this decision and justify it without becoming too personal, and potentially betraying his old friend's trust. But he saw no way, and Argyle (and the entire crew, whether they knew it or not) was waiting. "Lieutenant," Cash began, taking a stern tone. "What I am going to tell you is to remain strictly between us. Is that understood?"

Argyle blinked once. "Yes, sir."

"Captain Azimov is a good officer, but if he wakes up anywhere other than on this ship, I'm not sure he'll stay that way. Ships are at a premium, as I think you know, but good, experienced officers are an even rarer commodity these days.

"We could, as you're suggesting, Mister Argyle, ferry everyone off the ship and get a small fleet of tug vessels to bring her in after us. In a sense, that's the best solution. But we need to send a message that—even though this ship is in pieces, even though SB2 is gone—we were not defeated in this thing. Not just to Captain Azimov, but to the forces both domestic and intergalactic that are doubtlessly watching this system. We can't allow ourselves to be helped off the field this time; we have to warp off with our heads held high.

"We'll have transports for the wounded and nonessential personnel. The senior staff, their crew selections, Captain Azimov, once he wakes up, and I will remain on board until we arrive at Venture Station. Started deciding who you want to keep and who you want to let go, Lieutenant. I'll inform—"

The console embedded in the table chirped. Cash held down one of the keys and answered the call. "Yes?"

"Admiral, internal sensors are detecting an unauthorized use of the personnel transporter in Transporter Room 4. Lieutenant McColm has already dispatched a security team."

"I'll be right out," Cash replied, and Lieutenant Argyle found the change in the old man's tone jarring. He'd been different before; not soft, exactly, but thoughtful, at the very least. Now his voice was all steel. He lifted his finger from the console and looked squarely at Argyle. "Dismissed, Lieutenant."

[Jobe]

Day 2

Evard McColm tried not to think about the internal sensors, and how he wished they were working. 'Adjust,' he ordered himself. 'Adjust and advance.' Silently, he motioned to a member of the team he'd assembled, who took a position on the far side of the door to Transporter Room 4. It was a smaller group than McColm would've liked, but with all the hull breaches, collapsed sections, injuries, and—of course—casualties—

'Adjust. Adjust and advance.' He held up his free hand, the one not occupied by a phaser. Three fingers stood erect like soldiers. McColm lowered one, then another. With the last remaining soldier, he activated the door controls.

The lights in the hall flickered, and the Brazilian chief of security listened to the hiss of the door opening and the rustling of phasers being raised. The footsteps of one of the men he'd brought with him taking first position inside.

He moved in next. His gaze flashed past the only source of light in the room—the transporter pad, and the dark shape that occupied it and rested on the nearest corner of the room. He stared into the dark, trying to force his eyes to adjust to it through sheer force of will.

"Clear right!" a voice called from behind him.

"Clear left!" McColm said in a significantly more measured tone. It was dark, yes, but that didn't mean they weren't two feet away from—

"Bogey center!" the third man shouted, as McColm and the other red shirt brought their weapons to bear on the transporter pad. The dark shape came into focus immediately as McColm turned, as his grip unconsciously tightened on the phaser he realized that he recognized it.

"HOLD FIRE!" he shouted, but he knew the tone of voice of the man who'd called "bogey" well enough, even if he didn't know the man. The adrenaline might as well have been clogging his ears. Quickly, he jerked his right elbow up, making contact with the extended left forearm of the man standing just behind him. For a second, everything was white as the man's phaser went off.

It was all McColm could do to keep from belting his subordinate right then and there. 'If I'd had a chance to see how stupid—' The light of the phaser blast faded. The pad was flickering erratically now, and that meant that the idiot had missed. 'Adjust and advance.'

The door behind them was still open; another source of inconsistent light. But it was enough to guarantee that the man who'd fired his weapon against orders saw the withering glare his superior gave him, and know that he'd made a mistake that he was going to pay for.

Having issued an efficient, wordless notice of the reprimand to come, McColm slowly approached the transporter pad, and confirmed what he'd seen at first glance: a red tunic with the telltale cut of a Starfleet uniform. He could not see the delta that adorned the left breast; the figure was not facing him. There was sound, too, very soft. A sort of grunting—no; a sobbing?

McColm lowered his weapon, but did not loosen his grip on it. The figure's arms were not at its sides; he could make out no rank insignia. He took a lateral step, then another. He craned his neck to get a look at the face.

'I know that face.'

[Jobe]

Day 3

"This isn't my first… row-dee-oh, is it?"

"Rodeo, yes."

"Right," replied Pritulia Ranx. "This isn't my first rodeo, Mr. Walker. Fear not, I can synthesize a sample of the acid based on the readings I took of your burns, once the lab is back together again!"

Joseph Walker grimaced and shifted uncomfortably on the biobed. Sickbay was in shambles and overcrowded, but after 70 straight hours of post-battle chaos the din had finally given way to a semblance of normal behavior in a hellish environment, albeit with more complaining from all concerned.

"So unless you want to ask that sweat-coated charcoal sketch of a Lieutenant in Engineering to put the lab ahead of the warp drive, I suggest you wait." The portly Tellarite punctuated her statement by shoving her tricorder into its slot by another nearby biobed. "Just don't sit on your hands while you do it."

"Fair enough," Walker said, lifting himself off the bed on which he'd been sitting by rather awkwardly leaning forward, rather than putting any weight on his hands. "I'll go speak to Lieutenant Argyle now. The turbolifts still run to Main Engineering, after all."

"I'm sorry, I was being rhetorical. As Chief Medical Officer, I'd have to relieve you of duty if you did something so colossally stupid."

Walker sat down again. "He's a Starfleet officer; we're all Starfleet officers. Let's leave the childish rumor-mongering to the children."

"I," Ranx said, lifting a hand tipped with cloven fingernails and exposing the two stripes—one thick, one thin—around her cuff, "am the big sister here, Lieutenant Walker. I've seen the damage control schedule, and Mister Argyle's priorities are in order. Are yours?"

"That acid, whatever it is, was inserted and then released into the helm controls! Inserted and released, Commander!"

"Keep your voice down!" the Tellarite spat, her Suidaean nostrils flaring. "You are in the presence of a lady," she hissed. "And you will behave accordingly in the presence of her and of sick and injured people. Also, the lady's your superior officer."

I thought pushed itself to the front of Walker's mind, shoving aside all other thoughts. 'I do not understand this doctor.' The Human and the Tellarite stared at each other for a moment.

Ranx spoke first. "My point is, we all have our problems, Mister Walker. Me, you, Argyle, McColm, the Admiral, what's-his-face in science, even the Captain." She nodded to a biobed on the far side of the room.

Walker started to speak. "I—"

"I know how serious what you're suggesting is, Lieutenant, make no mistake. But if what you've told me is accurate, then this sabotage of yours was very carefully timed, and the time," she said, widening her eyes as she stared into his. "Has come, and gone, hasn't it?"

"Unless it was someone on board."

"Someone who felt like sticking around and getting blown up like the rest of us? Come on."

"Good point." Slowly, Walker got to his feet. "I'll see to my problems, Commander. Thank you for your help."

'All formal now,' Ranx though. 'All right.' She knew Walker's type: a mask of professionalism was his first-choice reaction when he was bested in an argument. But there was no trace of passive-aggressiveness in his voice. His thanks may not have been completely genuine, but the resignation was; he would take her advice to heart. "Lieutenant," she said, and he walked away.

"Who's sick?"

She turned, and he was still there. "Excuse me?"

"You said, 'sick and injured people,' earlier. Who's sick?"

Ranx straightened and spoke. "Lieutenant McColm and Admiral Cash expressed some concern over a…" She tried not to appear as though she was searching for the word. She failed. "…parasite getting in through one or some of the hull breaches. It's nothing serious, just a bug putting some people under the weather. Normally I'd have everyone inoculated by now but between the damage to sickbay and the injuries…"

"I see. I'll leave you to your problems, Commander. Thank you, again."