U.S.S. WARSPITE

“We’ve lost contact with the Victory and Avalon sir, the Romulans are jamming all comm frequencies”

Lieutenant Cam Watson turns to her Captain as she relays the readout of her console to the bridge.

Flanigan sits back in his chair, a smirk creeping onto his face as the sight of the Prometheus grows ever larger on the main viewer.

“Well, we didn’t expect them to want to chat. We know our orders, and we know what we’re doing. Tactical. Keep those phasers firing. You don’t stop until we pass.”

“Yes sir”

“Helm, take us in on a direct approach, but veer off behind their aft quarter. They’re either playing possum, or the ship is in worse shape than it looks. Either way, if it’s anything like the other ships in the fleet its main weapons array will be best suited for taking targets head on.”

“Yes sir”

“Engineering, keep our power levels red lining but steady. We’re outmatched and out gunned, but this ship wasn’t built to go down without a fight. We need to have every terawatt of weapon, shield and engine power at our disposal. We can deal with the consequences of pushing her this hard when we’re out of the line of fire.”

“Yes sir”

With expert precision, the Warspite completes her first pass and disappears behind the Prometheus.

To Watson, orders have become almost a ceremonial gesture at this point. The ship’s lack of recreational facilities have meant that their only form of entertainment for the past weeks of convoy duty have been creating battle plans, running drills and designing tactical scenarios. They’ve practiced being in worse scenarios than this one, she knows that he has a concrete trust in his crew, but as he has been all too keen to remind them, complacency goes hand in hand with defeat.

A jolt. A harsh beam of Romulan disruptor fire strikes their starboard shield.

Ironic, she had been too complacent. Lost in thought. She should have seen that the Warspite had entered the disruptor arc of that second warbird.

No matter, the engines were singing. Her hands were conducting a ballet on the helm console, which the ship was only too happy to perform. Bank port, then starboard. Down 30 degrees, up 50. Cut engine power, let the Warbird pass in front.

“Come on, come on” she whispers under her breath, as the viewer lights up with the orange flashes of phaser fire from their forward cannons.

“Just like the simulations” she mutters under her breath tilting her head so she can see Nesheim, the ship’s tactical officer, in her peripheral vision. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, before they both return their full attention to the task at hand.

Another jolt. Her console glows. Overload. She dives to the left as the console showers the chair that she had been sitting in moments earlier in sparks.

The last maneuver she executed was still in motion. But she had only seconds before the helm demanded another input. She never liked to rely on lengthy pre-programmed flight sequences in battle. They were too inflexible, a battle can change in an instant. Every moment spent overriding or erasing a maneuver was a moment that a new maneuver could be being executed.

“Sir, the prototype has launched a Torpedo”. The report came from Nesheim.

Had her over confidence in her own abilities left the Warspite a sitting duck?

She pushes down against the deck plating where she had fallen. Pain surges through her left side. Broken rib. No time. The ship was leveling out above the battle. She had to get back to her post.

She grabs the edge of the console and falls back into her chair. Her hands move to the flight controls, and her eyes follow them.

“Oh no…”

She throws her fingers out to the port thruster ignition. Seconds too late. The torpedo hits the Warspite’s ventral shields.

As the ship veers to the right the impact ricochets through her systems, leaving a trail of blown out conduits and consoles.