Work Text:
Captain's Log, USS Bastogne NCC-93385
Commander Grunt recording.
The Bastogne has been detailed to a resupply run, ferrying quantum torpedoes to a task force investigating a rift into fluidic space in Pelia sector. Due to the risk factors, I've granted shore leave for the mission's duration to the majority of the crew - if we need more than a skeleton crew for anything, they probably wouldn't help anyway. There was a small scare as we crossed Gamma Orionis, but we managed to evade the Borg patrol. All systems are nominal at the moment, and long-range sensors are clear--
The ship shook, throwing people out of their seats across the bridge.
"What the hell was that?" Grunt demanded, climbing back into the command chair.
Roclak was bent over the science console. "Some sort of spatial distortion, sir," he reported. "Unrelated to the Fluidic Rift; might have been a temporary wormhole. There doesn't appear to be any major damage."
"Neutrino levels rising, sir," Gydap reported from the helm. "Gravimetric distortions, too. I think it might be coming ba-"
The ship tossed like a raft in a gale, throwing personnel about like dolls. The lighting flickered; the viewscreen showed space twisting and distorting, and a sudden flare of energy expanding rapidly around the cruiser. As Grunt clung desperately to the arm of his seat, he saw chaos and light, and little else. Panels exploded here and there, showering the space with sparks. After what seemed an eternity, the wormhole that had sucked them down spat them unceremoniously back into reality. A starfield showed on the screen briefly, before the lights flicked one last time and went completely dark.
"Is everyone all right?" Grunt called out.
"Every time!" Gydap complained bitterly. "Every karskat time Starfleet sends us on one of these 'milk runs', disaster strikes! 'Oh, just ferry this diplomat a few lightyears to P'jem. Oh yes, we forgot to mention he's an Undine.' 'Here, take these recruits to Task Force Omega. By the way, your ship might get destroyed by a Borg.' 'Have some shore leave - but first deal with a rogue time machine!' Commander, next time they offer you a milk run, could you please volunteer for something safer? Say, a diplomatic mission to the Borg Queen?"
The emergency lights blinked to life. Roclak was climbing back to his feet, a trickle of purple oozing down his ridged forehead. Gydap, miraculously, was still seated; Lt. Brel, the Bajoran ship's counselor, was tending to a dazed Shelana near the tactical console, which was little more than a mass of tangled wires and fried isolinear circuitry. Vovenek had already regained his feet, and was swearing in Paklit as he tried to get information from his engineering station.
"Status reports, anyone?" Grunt asked, probing gently at what promised to be a truly remarkable bruise on his head.
"Engines are dead, sir," Gydap replied. "Helm is completely unresponsive - we don't even seem to have thrusters. Comms are down, too."
"Sensors offline," Roclak reported. "Also, the computer seems damaged - reports received are incomplete in many respects. We also don't have turbolifts, and without a proper computer, there'll be no transporting around."
"Weapons are gone, sir," Shelana said shakily. "Or at least, the weapons console is. When I can contact someone else in Tactical, I can give you a better assessment."
"Vov?"
Vovonek slammed his fist against the console. "The pun'tak computer doesn't want to tell me anything!" he snarled. "It looks like there are microfractures in the warp chamber, the energizers are offline, and I think the dilithium crystals are broiled."
"Fried, Vov," Grunt said. "The human expression is 'they're fried'."
"Whatever. It won't go."
"What the hell happened, Rock?" Grunt demanded.
"As best I can tell, sir," the Klingon replied, "we were captured by a wormhole. Fortunately, it didn't deposit us in fluidic space; we're still in our own universe, although nowhere near where we started. Precise fixes won't be possible until power's restored to the sensors."
"So, what you're telling me is we're blind, we're deaf, the ship's lobotomized and dead in space, and we have no idea where we are. What's the bad news?"
"Actually, sir, I do know approximately where we are," Roclak said. "Just before we lost sensors, I was able to pick up a fringe broadcast from a Starfleet beacon. I was unable to pin down our precise location, but we seem to be somewhere in the Gamma Quadrant, probably within a thousand lightyears of the Bajoran wormhole."
"Oh, that's helpful," Grunt said sarcastically. "All we have to do is get out and walk a thousand lightyears or so, and we'll be fine!"
"I'm glad to see you're staying optimistic, sir," Roclak replied drily. "Also, we seem to be fairly near some artificial wreckage - from the preliminary scans, it looks like they might be ships of some sort, although that would take more data."
"That's an idea," Grunt said thoughtfully. "Might be something there we can use on the Bastard. Can anyone get hold of the hangar and see if we have any shuttles that can be used to check it out?"
He was answered by a loud hum and an azure glitter. A human form materialized out of the transporter beam. "Oh, thank the Maker," he gasped, "it worked! Without internal sensors, I wasn't sure a point-to-point transport would work from the emergency transporter in the runabout. But I saw a clear space here, at least I thought it was a clear space, and I figured, 'what the heck?' I mean, it wasn't like I'd get very far in a runabout with no warp drive, right? So I just--"
Grunt cleared his throat loudly. "And you are?" he asked pointedly.
"Oh, oh yes, sorry, sir, very sorry. Lt. Fitzsimmons, Jerry Fitzsimmons, sir, in charge of the hangar deck. In fact, just at the moment I'm the only one on the deck, only I'm not really on it right now, am I? because everybody else filed for shore leave when they heard about this run, and I guess someone's just auto-signing those forms these days, but I wanted to help, sir, and it's a good thing I--"
"Mr. Fitzsimmons. Is this running off at the mouth a human thing, or just you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I talk a lot when I'm nervous, and right now I'm not just nervous, I'm scared spitless. But I'll shut up now, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Now, I have a question for you, and I want you to answer me with a 'yes,' a 'no', or a 'kind of.' You say you got here using the runabout's emergency beamout. Is the runabout spaceworthy?"
"Kind of, sir." And with a visible effort, Fitzsimmons stopped.
Grunt relented. "Very well, Mr. Fitzsimmons, you may expand. What does 'kind of' mean in this case?"
"Well, sir, the hull's solid, and I'm pretty sure the impulse drive's working, and the sensors of course since I could find the bridge, but there aren't any dilithium crystals in the warp drive, although the warp reactor still seems to be functional, so it's got lots of power, even for the replicator, but of course one replicator won't feed the whole ship for long, not without organics put in, and a lot of the guys get a little grossed out when you tell them that solid wastes work as well as anything else for mass, so I guess that's kind of a limiting factor, and of course I didn't test the weapons, 'cause that might put a hole in the ship, and then it'd come out of my hide, at least that's what Mr. Vovonek said the last time a shuttle pilot dinged the deck, and he's a lot bigger than I am, so--"
"For Profits' sake, man, breathe! Next question: can you access the transporter from here? I don't really feel like crawling through Jeffries tubes to the hangar again."
"Again, sir? Oh, right, transporters. I don't think I can access the controls from here, sir, I was kind of counting on someone on the bridge knowing what was going on, and there was nothing I could do down there, and that is a long way to walk, sir, especially with the lifts not working, and--"
Grunt sighed. "Oh, well, it was a thought. Guess it's time to-" He was interrupted by the bridge lights coming on.
"Partial power restored, sir," Roclak observed. "Turbolifts are online. Still nothing from sensors, but if you'd still like to take a shuttle out and look over the situation, that's more doable now."
"Excellent. Rock, Vov, Mr. Fitzsimmons, join me in the turbolift, please. Gydap, you have the conn. Shelana, please let me know as soon as you get weapons back - I'd hate to be caught hanging out here if the Jem'Hadar paid us a visit. Gentlemen?" And the Ferengi led his team into the turbolift.
********
The runabout Puyallup slipped through the hangar doors of the Bastogne, circling around to survey the damage. Grunt winced. The starboard nacelle was battered and twisted; its companion was missing, just a bare strut jutting up from the engineering hull. The hull itself was rent in several places, and the arboretum was completely in vacuum. Grunt was happy the ship had been making this run with a bare minimum crew - with luck, he might not have lost anyone during the wormhole passage.
With an effort, he turned his gaze away from his poor tormented command. Nearby space seemed fairly littered with metallic debris - he could make out parts that seemed to belong to Federation, Klingon, and Ferengi designs, as well as quite a few too broken or strange to easily identify. His reverie was interrupted by Roclak. "I've gotten a better fix, sir. We would appear to be approximately 212 lightyears from the Gamma end of the Bajoran wormhole. If this ship had warp drive, we could go for help. As it is, I've also scanned the debris field, and located the remains of at least two Starfleet heavy cruisers, probably Dakota- or Stargazer-class."
"Probably?"
"They've been pretty badly damaged, sir. If our trip was anything to go by, the Bastogne was probably about the largest type of ship that could survive the journey at all. These would have been pretty well torn apart by gravitational shear. However, it's possible we can find enough functional parts to either repair our ship or cobble something together to get home on."
"Yes, thank the Great Vault for modular design. Keep looking for anything usable, Rock. We'll leave a marker here, too, so someone can come see what some of these other wrecks are." Grunt turned his attention to the communications console. "Puyallup to Bastogne," he said. "Bastogne, do you read?"
A moment, a hiss, scratching, distortion, and then the Andorian navigator's voice came through the static-ridden channel. "--ead you, Puyallup. What is ... condition?"
"The Bastard's in pretty sorry shape, Gydap. We have located parts of other Starfleet vessels in the debris, and we're going to try to find parts to repair her."
"Say again, Puy... other ships?"
"We've found the remains of some other ships, yes. We're surveying the wreckage looking for parts. Over."
"Acknowledged, sir. Bastogne stand..."
Grunt closed the channel. "All right, Rock, let's go prospecting.”
_____________________________________
Several hours later, in the Bastogne's ready room...
The command crew sat around the conference table in the ship's ready room. Grunt's voice carried easily over the mutter of the others comparing notes.
"Very well, gentlebeings, analysis, please. We'll start with the exec. Rock?"
"Sir, the Bastogne's been severely damaged - probably too badly to be repaired. I'm virtually certain that if we were able to reach a starbase, they'd finally be forced to scrap her. For starters, without a functional computer, it's too dangerous to use warp drive - our senses alone just don't operate fast enough to save us at faster-than-light speeds."
"Very well. Shelana, how's the arm?"
The Andorian woman stood, then winced. "It's kind of a mess, sir, but I'll get by. The doctor assures me that if the protoplaser were working, I wouldn't even know this had happened by now. As it is, the condition of the weapon systems hurts worse. The weapons themselves are fully functional, and could be transferred to another ship easily - but all connections to fire control have been interrupted. We couldn't shoot them, even if we had full power, which we don't."
"Ah, yes, the power situation. Mr. Vovonek?"
The half-Pakled looked embarrassed. "Sir, I can't bring the main reactor back online - there's less than a fifty percent chance antimatter containment would hold. It's a miracle the antimatter storage unit's still working. Good thing I hooked it up with a backup power supply after the Guardian incident. On the positive side, I've been studying the reports from the teams checking over the wreckage, and I think I can construct one ship out of all the parts here, including some of the Bastard. She won't be pretty, but she should at least get us as far as the wormhole."
"Just to the hole? Why not call for help?"
"Sir," Shelana interrupted, "I would strongly recommend against a distress call here. We are deep within Dominion territory, and while the Founders may have declared the war over, some of the reports I've gotten indicate that there are elements within the Jem'Hadar who are a bit harder to convince."
"Besides," Roclak continued smoothly, "the wormhole damage was too great for the subspace communications array. And the comm arrays on the other ships came out even worse. We'll have to get within range of sublight comms before we can call anyone."
"Hmm. Not ideal, but I suppose if that's what must be done, that's what must be done. Very well, let's get to it. Vov, you're hereby authorized to draw any resources necessary to work on our life-raft. What's our shortest supply?"
"Honestly, sir, it's skilled labor. The engineering staff, like the others, was pretty well stripped for this trip. And not that many people on board have experience with starship construction and modification - the starbase operations people have made it too easy."
Grunt stood and stretched. "Okay, find me an EV suit and a tool belt." He chuckled at Vovonek's expression. "I used to be an engineer, too, before they stuck me in a command chair. I think I still remember which end of a plasma torch to hold." He clapped his hands. "Come on, people, let's get to it! Time is latinum!”
__________________________________
It took three days of steady work before Vovonek pronounced himself satisfied. (Well, not "satisfied" - his exact words were, "Well, I suppose that'll have to do. We're almost out of ration packs anyway.") What floated there in the sky wasn't precisely like any other ship that had ever flown. Her primary and engineering hulls had once belonged to the Dakota-class heavy cruiser USS Hephaestus. Like most ships of her class, she boasted four warp nacelles - but the top two were from a Cheyenne-class heavy cruiser, while the bottom pair, while Starfleet issue, came from a ship too badly damaged to identify in any meaningful fashion. There were lumps on her hull where spare meteor patches from the Bastogne had been hastily welded, and where the old cruiser's weapons arrays had been implanted in the new craft. She was battle-scarred, and seared from her own passage through the wormhole; still, there she was.
"She's no beauty queen, is she?" Grunt mused from the refurbished command seat.
"I told you it wouldn't be pretty, sir," Vovonek said. "But she holds air, her warp reactor works, and I'm better than ninety percent certain I can make the warp drive light up without blowing us halfway to Sto'vo'kor."
"How comforting," Roclak grumbled.
"Very well, then. Mr. Gydap, best possible speed to the Bajoran Wormhole, please."
Gydap put one blue finger on the warp activation toggle, then paused and looked around. "I just wanted you all to know," he said, "that if this doesn't work, it's been an honor and a privilege to serve with you all. Except you, Vov - if this doesn't work, my spirit is going to kick your spirit square in the ass."
A chuckle went around the bridge, and Gydap pressed the toggle.
______________________________________
Aboard Starfleet Deep Space Station Nine, a bored technician yawned as he surveyed his instruments. "Nothing. There hasn't been any unscheduled traffic through that hole in years - you'd think they'd turn this job over to a computer."
"Careful, Johannsen," his coworker chided. "Too much talk like that, and Captain Kurland might decide you'd rather be a janitor or something."
"Maybe I would. At least the janitor gets to see more of the sta- Hey, wait a minute. Neutrino levels rising, increased verteron radiation - anything in the schedule?"
His coworker checked her screen. "No, nothing until the next ore shipment from Eldanifel. Looks like you're going to get that excitement you wanted after all."
The wormhole flared to life, and the speck of a starship could be seen exiting it. Johannsen activated his comm panel. "Attention, unscheduled craft," he said into it. "This is Deep Space Nine Traffic Control. Please identify yourself immediately."
The signal they got back was weak and staticky, but audible. "DS9 Control, this is the starship USS Hephaestus, more or less. Commander Grunt speaking. Please acknowledge."
"Hephaestus, we acknowledge. One moment, please." Johannsen's coworker was gesturing at him; he killed the mic. "What is it, Susan?"
"Check this out," she said, pointing at his data screen, which was now displaying the information she had just pulled up. Johannsen turned the mic back on. "Commander Grunt," he started, "we seem to have conflicting information here. The Hephaestus was listed as missing and presumed lost several years ago, while your last reported position was quite a fair distance from here."
Laughter came over the commset. "Yes, we were on a mission in Pelia sector. It's quite a story. After debriefing, I'll be happy to share it over a few glasses at Quark's." Grunt was interrupted by a stream of curses in English, Paklit, Klingon, and Romulan, a language Johannsen had scarcely ever heard until the founding of New Romulus. "Ah, my chief engineer advises me that the impulse drive has gone out again," Grunt's voice continued. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you send a tug out to bring us into port?"