The USS Sentinel dropped out of warp as it slipped into the system. Órlaith rose from her chair and stepped into the center of the bridge while Dalon guided the ship through the drifting chunks of what used to be the moon of the second planet. Hands planted on her hips, she stared at the unremarkable blue world growing on the main viewer, the familiar twisting of her gut already forming to warn her of danger.

“Go to yellow alert. Shields to full.”

There was a series of beeps from the tactical station, and the bridge lights dimmed, bathed in the flashing amber of alert status. Órlaith bit her lower lip, the pinch between her teeth releasing a slight sting of pain. She could feel the familiar fluttering in her stomach as the anticipation of danger surged through her.

“Shields up, Captain,” her Scottish tactical officer, Lieutenant Dougal MacDonald, announced in his Highland brogue.

“Sensors are detecting alloys consistent with the construction of Klingon ships; however, we are not detecting any isotopes associated with the collapse of a warp core.  I am not detecting any disruptor signatures, but there are phased poloran beam discharge signatures,” Audren said from operations.

“Orbital weapons platforms?” Erin said as she climbed the steps to the back of the bridge and stood next to Audren.

“None detected, Commander. Ah’m no’ readin’ any energy signatures, even in a low-power standby state in orbit,” Dougal replied.

The captain sighed. Nothing about this added up. Something attacked a Klingon Bird-of-Prey. Something had shot down that same ship, yet sensors showed nothing.  “Mr. Dalon, take us into standard orbit. Commander Swiftblade, see if you can track the H’Poc’s trajectory as it entered the atmosphere.”

The tactical station blared, filling the bridge with a cacophony of discordant alarms. “Bloody hell! Orbital weapons platforms are powerin’ up. They’ve got a weapons lock!” Dougal exclaimed.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Órlaith shouted.

The ship shuddered, and Órlaith was tossed to the deck like a rag doll as consoles exploded and the lights dimmed. She fell hard, elbows slamming into the deck before her face hit the carpet, a sharp sting blooming into a rug burn on her left cheek. A rumble and a heavy pop echoed deep within the hull as system alarms blared from every station.

“Shields down to 58 percent, Captain,” Swiftblade reported. “Hull breaches on decks nine and ten. Emergency bulkheads are in place. Engineering is dispatching repair crews. Casualties are being reported all over the ship.”

“I am dispatching security teams to their stations,” Security Chief Astrid Vogler said from the rear of the bridge.

Órlaith pushed herself off the deck, staggered to her chair, and braced herself as she lowered into it. The planet slowly slipped away on the viewscreen. She bit her lower lip and leaned forward, urging her ship to move, but the attack had clearly damaged the engines.

Another blast slammed into the ship, and another round of alarms screamed in response. The helm console exploded, sending a shower of sparks into the air as an EPS relay overloaded. Ensign Dalon hit the deck, groaning, shards of glass embedded in his face as blood spattered into the carpet.

Damn it. C’mon, baby, hold together, she muttered to herself. What a fool I was to fall for the same damn trap Hur’agha fell victim to.

Smoke from burnt circuitry thickened the air, mixing with the sickly iron smell of blood and singed flesh. Sweat slicked her palms, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She gathered her legs beneath her to take over the helm, but they felt like rubber. Before she could will herself to move, Erin leaped into the seat, her fingers flying across what remained of the touch-screen panel.

She rerouted power to the console’s intact portion and rattled off a damage report. “Aft thrusters are offline. Starboard impulse engine took a direct hit and is disabled. Warp engines are offline, and the starboard nacelle is venting plasma. Rerouting emergency power to the impulse engines.”

The Sentinel shuddered and rumbled as Erin fought the helm, pushing the ship to its limits. Each beep of the computer was like a protest against what it was being asked to do. But slowly, but surely, they broke orbit and slid into open space. Audrin had changed to a viewscreen to a rearward view, and the planet slowly shrank as a trail of glowing blue plasma streamed behind them.

“Commander, I need to remind you that structural integrity fields are at minimal levels,” Swiftblade warned from operations.

“It won’t matter if we get hit again,” Órlaith said. “I’d rather split the hull apart than end up space dust.”

“Aye, Captain,” Audrin replied, a hint of smirk in her voice despite the circumstances.

Órlaith pushed herself upright, yanked open the compartment beside her chair, and pulled out a first-aid kit. As she did, she slapped her combadge.
“Bridge to Sickbay. Medical emergency.”

At Dalon’s side, she dropped the case with a clatter of polymer and pressed her fingers against his neck. His pulse was elevated but steady, her fingertips tacky with blood.

“Hang in there.”

The Bajoran helmsman groaned.

“We are clear of weapons range,” Audrin announced.

Órlaith flipped open the first-aid case, pulled out the tricorder, and scanned Dalon as the device whirred. Her fingers tapped across the controls, cycling through scanning modes. She tossed the tricorder aside with a clatter on the floor and dug through the kit until she found the hypospray. She adjusted the dose and pressed it to the Bajoran’s neck.

“Full stop,” Órlaith ordered, reaching down to retrieve the tricorder. “Damage report.”

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He was stable. Dalon would probably wake with one hell of a headache. That was nothing unusual after a jolt from an EPS overload. The cuts looked bad, as head wounds always bled like murder scenes, but they were all superficial.

“Hull breaches on decks five, nine, and ten. Warp engines are offline, and structural integrity is at minimum levels. Impulse drive is operating at fifty percent,” Audrin reported, a strand of blonde hair falling over her face.

“Weapons an’ shields are inoperative,” Dougal added. “Ah’m tryin’ tae reroute the wee buggers usin’ emergency power.”

Órlaith stayed at her helmsman’s side, directing her people until the medical team arrived. The medics moved with quick, efficient steps despite slumped shoulders, matted hair, and tired faces. Abstractly, Órlaith wasn’t looking forward to tallying the butcher’s bill after her hubris, but at least, before they got their teeth kicked in, they’d managed to get a decent scan of the planet.

“Ms. Swiftblade, update the Valhalla on our status.”

“Aye, Captain.”