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Lt. Commander
Join Date: Dec 2007
Posts: 120
# 72
06-02-2011, 06:58 AM
Head Hunted
The emergency klaxon in the transporter room of the USS Seattle rang in Ensign Kyle Tremayne’s ears as he beamed aboard from the Khitomer. The miasma of smoke stung at his eyes and as he stumbled down from transporter pad nearly tripped over the corpse of a dead Borg. A Bajoran crewman in a mustard and black uniform stepped from behind the control console to greet him.

“Welcome back sir! You better get to the bridge quick; we’re in a bad way.”

Kyle slapped his comm. Badge, “Ensign Tremayne to the bridge. Captain?”

“This is Yeoman T’Lara Sir, the Captain’s dead, Lieutenant Koja is dead. I tried... the Borg were... it looks like they deliberately targeted officers, sir. If these reports are correct, you are the highest-ranking officer aboard the Seattle, sir. That makes you the acting captain.” Kyle winced, even over the static, the yeoman sounded disturbed.

Kyle gestured for the crewman to follow him and set off for the bridge, “Ok Yeoman, I’m on my way. What’s our status?”

“Primary power is offline. Weapons, shields and long range sensors are inoperative. We have auxiliary impulse power and ship to ship communications. Short range sensors show all Borg vessels in range have been disabled or destroyed.”

“Ok, well at least we can manoeuvre.” Kyle turned to the crewman following him. “Crewman?”

“Jaro, sir, Jaro Antar.”

“Mister Jaro, get to main engineering and find out what’s going on down there. We need to know just how badly we’ve been hurt.”

Jaro nodded, turned and sprinted off down the corridor.


The Bridge looked like a battlefield, the fire suppression system seemed to be working and the smoke here was less dense. Kyle tried to resist the urge to look at the bodies; the Yeoman waiting alone in the middle of the bridge needed his attention first, she was still clinging to the scorched remains of her PADD like a shield.

“Sir I have the hospital ship USS Seacole on channel one. They are asking for assistance.”

Kyle tried to muster a reassuring look. “Open a channel.”

T’Lara scrambled into the Conn console chair and the comm. System chimed open.

“USS Seacole, this is Ensign Tremayne of the USS Seattle, how can we be of assistance?”

“U.S.S. Seattle, this is Captain Alcott of the U.S.S. Seacole. We are conducting search and rescue operations here, and we could use some help. We're still getting life signs from four other ships, but our transporters are down.
Our shuttlecraft are doing their best, but your ship's larger transport capacity could make the rescue efforts go much faster. We'll be waiting for you to bring the survivors to us on the Seacole. I’m relaying our coordinates to your helm control.”

Kyle scanned the tactical display on the bridge console by the uprooted captain’s chair. “Yes Captain. We’re reading the Oakland, Kelvin, Bohr and Montreal.”

“Copy that Seattle, hurry they're on borrowed time.”

The comm. channel chimed shut. Kyle scanned the bridge and tried to put a brave face on the numbing sensation in his gut. “Looks like it’s just you and me Yeoman. Have you even piloted a real starship before?”

T’Lara tapped at her console and looked around, “Twice sir, under instruction. I am authorised for shuttles.”

“Congratulations, you just made Helm Officer. Set course for the Oakland and engage at one quarter impulse power. Once we pass within range of the Oakland project a course to the Seacole that will pass within range of the Kelvin, Bohr and Montreal.”

“Aye Sir.”

Kyle glanced at the charred remains of the bridge’s engineering console painfully aware of the corpse sprawled beneath it, and slapped his comm. badge. “Tremayne to Jaro, what do we have down there?”

The crackle of static filled the bridge, Kyle noticed that T’Lara had paused, as he started to repeat his call the comm. channel squealed into life, “Jaro here. It’s a mess sir, I have what’s left of our security detail filling in as engineers.”

“Copy that. We’re on a search and rescue detail for now. Get back to transporter control helm will relay your targets.”

“Aye sir, on my way.” The comm. channel chimed off.

Kyle frowned at the wreckage strewn scene on the view-screen. Not a single surviving officer? This ship had been his home for over a year and now everyone he had looked up to was dead. The hulk of the Oakland loomed ahead, “No time for hand wringing now," he thought to himself, "got to focus, people are counting on me.”