Star Trek: The Lost Generation
Chapter Two:
Cannons to the Left, Cannons to the Right
by Todd Elsen & Andrew Johnson
(TsunamiKin@aol.com)

The ships from the alternate universe battle Klingons as Picard is torn between aiding these newcomers or sitting by watching them fight for their lives.

The bridge lights shone red, changing the color of the bridge from a metallic gray to a dull black. Worried faces were illuminated by the lights on the displays they studied. The warning flashes sparkled in the beads of sweat rolling down their cheeks. Dunham looked up at the tactical display above his command position and saw as the Klingon ships moved out of the event horizon of the fissure. They appeared on the screen as angry red in sharp contrast to the blue of the Federation ships.

Dunham ordered the decoy shuttles be launched to create ghosts on the Klingon sensors. Over the ship to ship communicator, Pierpoint interrupted Dunham’s train of thought. “I’ll take the two on the right, you can take the two on the left.”

Dunham shook his head and smiled, “The D-7 and the L-13 battleship. You are always doing this to me. Why do you always give me the hard ones?”

Pierpoint agreed, “It’s called delegating, Hendryx. Besides, you’re better at the hard ones.” He smiled a charming, if insincere, smile and waited for Dunham’s response.

Dunham rolled his eyes and cut off the line to the Poppleton. He ordered his ship on a course that would intercept the approaching Klingons. Dunham moved from the tactical display to the view screen and studied the task set out before him. The D-7 cruiser, the workhorse of the Imperial Klingon Navy. He couldn’t remember how many times he had been in battle with those ships since the war started. The other trapezoid-shaped ship loomed before him. The L-13 battleship, dubbed disparagingly by many at Star Fleet Command the “Fat Man,” had wreaked havoc on Federation forces over the last couple of months.

Without shifting his glare from the view screen, Dunham barked out commands to his science officer. “Baltok, I want reports about our targets and their status. Weapons, let’s light the fires. Prepare whip phasers. The war is on again, sailors, let’s take it to them.”

The Revolution moved towards the approaching Klingons. “Rig for silent running,” Dunham ordered. The lights that dimly illuminated the hull faded and the ship disappeared into the black of space.

On board the Enterprise, the bridge crew watched with Picard as the two ships disappeared.

“Captain? Should we move to assist?” Riker asked, moving closer towad the screen.

Picard watched intently to follow the ships’ progress through space. “No, not yet. This appears to be their fight. Besides, after what we went through in the last couple of minutes, I don’t want them to see us coming up behind them. I’m afraid they might see our attempt to help as an attack on them.” He leaned forward and tightened his hands into fists. All of his instincts told him to override his best judgment and dive into the fight, guns blazing, but he held back with supreme will power. This was not a situation he had encountered before. Who knew what kind of weapons these new ships might have? Despite his urge to prove himself as an ally by coming to their defense, he knew it was not wise to endanger the lives of his crew. He drew a deep breath and watched.

Pierpoint clung to his command chair as another disruptor bolt flew by the Poppleton. He could see the new color-absorbing paint was working. Star Fleet Intelligence had found out that the Klingon sensors were less advanced than their own. The Star Fleet spooks had discovered that Klingons relied on optical scans more than sensor information; their best guess was that it had something to do with the Klingon psyche about looking their enemy in the eye during battle. This was a welcome discovery, Pierpoint thought. He imagined those who had come before, outnumbered, undergunned and navigating huge white targets for the Klingons.

“Report,” said Pierpoint. The weapons fire from the two Klingon D-7s filled the screen with lines of green energy being thrown at them. “We have sustained hits to the forward shields. They are holding at 90%.” Pierpoint winced as a green bolt hit his ship. The shields absorbed most of the energy, dispersing it across the shields. A small green blemish remained behind, like a insect that hit the windshield of a moving car.

“Target the lead D-7’s bridge. I don’t want to be out here any longer than we have to,” Pierpoint said, a little too loudly. He said this to calm the crew and himself. He had seen far too many ships destroyed by taking a battle too lightly. Too many friends had died in this way, and he wasn’t planning on dying today. “Charge the whip phasers.”

A hum grew louder on the bridge as the whip phasers charged. Picard watched, confused, as the Poppleton began to dance with electric current. Blue tendrils moved across the shields and down to the body of the ship. Picard moved quickly to Data’s position, “Report! What is happening to the Poppleton? Check the status of their shields.”

Data looked at his readings, “Sir, the Poppleton’s shields are acting as a tractor beam on all particles surrounding the ship. They are being drawn to the shields, massing just above the primary hull.”

Riker looked at his display, “I have two huge energy readings on the shields of the Poppleton. They appear to be gathering elements, matter, anti-matter, space dust, you name it, they have it.” He stared hard at his display and then at the main view screen

“For what purpose?” asked Picard. Two glowing orbs formed above the primary hull. Like two small stars they sat on the shields. From the surface of the Poppleton, two bolts of lightning grabbed the orbs, pulled them along the shields to the back of the ship where they gathered more energy from the warp engines. They glowed with the energy of the universe. Then quickly, they shot across the shields and hurdled toward the D-7.

“Release whip phasers and fire a full spread of photon torpedos.” Pierpoint felt the ship tremble as six orbs of atomic fire released from the ship’s torpedo launchers. The gathered energy from the Poppleton’s shields, flew across the darkness, and struck the Klingon’s shields. The force of the impact forced the bow of the Klingon ship’s down. As the second orb hit the D-7, cracks spread across the shields and they collapsed in a cascade of sparks.

“Sir, Klingon shields are offline,” reported the tactical officer. Pierpoint watched with pleasure as the six photon torpedos ripped through the hull. “Like a hot knife through butter,” Pierpoint could imagine his father saying. He smiled at the oddly timed memory, and turned his attention back to the dying ship. Soon after the photon torpedos found their mark, fire from within the D-7 licked the edge of the holes. The fire grew from wisps to flares, burning the hull and escaping into space. Finally, the ship’s hull could no longer hold the energy and exploded outward. The bridge of the Poppleton cheered, but Pierpoint quieted them quickly, “Focus, people. It isn’t always that easy.” He was right. The second D-7 flew through was was left of its companion towards the Poppleton.

Dunham waved the smoke from his face and looked at the “Fat Man.” Black scar marks were visible on its hull, but that was it. “We have thrown everything we have at it and got nothing,” said Stancavich, Dunham’s first officer, almost in disbelief.

Dunham nodded grimly in agreement and turned to his science officer, “Baltok, report.”

“Sir, the L-13 has sustained minor damage to its shields. The wing D-7 is moving to intercept the Enterprise.”

Dunham whirled around and pointed at the communications officer, “Warn them to stay out of this!” He could hear the tension in his voice and hoped it didn’t sound as panicked as he felt. He figured it was only a matter of time before one of the Klingon ships spotted the observing Enterprise and half wondered if the Klingon on board had somehow contacted these D-7s, informing them of their position. A trap, he thought. We’ve wandered into a trap. He felt his stomach knot, then clenched his teeth. If we go down today, he told himself, we’ll go down swinging.

She quickly pressed some buttons and listened in her earpiece. “Sir, we can’t break through. The Klingons have jammed our signal.”

Dunham returned to the L-13 as a disruptor hit the Revolution. “We need to focus on the ‘Fat Man’. One step at a time. Tactical, we need to find some sort of weakness to exploit.” The Revolution bridge shook as another disrupter blast impacted the shields.

“One Klingon D-7 battlecruiser is closing in on the Enterprise, sir,” reported Data.

Picard sat up in his command chair and looked as the rust colored ship approached. He tugged down on his uniform jacket and leaned forward. “Battlestations.”

The bridge changed to the omnious red of battle. “Mr. Worf, stand by with phasers. Target their warp drive. I am assuming that it is located in the same area as the D-7s of this reality.”

Worf nodded, “Aye, sir.”

Soon the D-7 unleashed the fire power of his ship on the Enterprise. The weapons struck the ship, jarring them in their seats on the bridge.

Calmly, Picard said, “Fire.”

The orange beam of phased energy struck the engineering section of the D-7. It wheeled quickly away from the Enterprise, tumbling out of control.

Riker looked at Picard, and Picard back at Riker. “That was too easy. Mr. Worf, move to intercept and tractor it to Vega Base II.” As the Enterprise moved to carry out its orders, their target shimmered into nothingness.

“Cloaking device. Mr. Worf, can we track it?” asked Riker.

Worf moved his hands across his tactical screens, searching through every scanner in an attempt to find the now missing D-7. “Sir, the D-7 is not appearing on any of my screens. They must be using all of their power to cloak their ship.”

Picard nodded, “Contact Star Fleet Command. We are going to need reinforcements at Danubus III. We have a situation here.”

“Communications, open a channel to the L-13,” ordered Dunham. His communications officer looked at him, puzzled. “Sir?”

The bridge crew looked at him, shocked. Never in the history of the war had a Star Fleet officer asked to open a channel to the Klingons. Dunham could feel their eyes staring, wondering what he was thinking. He narrowed his eyes and barked, “What are you all just standing around for? You heard me, open a channel. Do it.”

“Channel open, sir,” she said, bewildered. Dunham cleared his throat, “Ka-shooj-A. Bi-jegh-BE-choogh vaj bi KHEGH!”

Stancavitch looked at him in awe, “What did you say to them?”

Dunham looked at him and gave a wicked smile. “It is always good to know one’s enemies. It is even better to know how to insult them in their own language.” Stancavich, mouth ajar, turned from Dunham to the view screen, a look of terror on his face. The crew had a pool going as to when Dunham would finally lose it. Surely he hadn’t lost his mind now, in the middle of battle, with Klingons. Stancavich felt a little sick feeling in his stomach. He had bet on next week.

The L-13, turned a wide circle and increased speed to intercept the Revolution. “Stand by for a short warp burst. Reroute all power to the shields and the inertial dampeners. Better lock yourselves down. This little plan is going to hurt a bit.” Dunham sat tight in his captain’s chair, eyes fixed on the view screen.

Aboard the L-13, the Klingons watched the Revolution disappear in a bright flash of light. Suddenly, the ship reappeared at warp speed, directly in front of the Klingon’s eyes, coming faster and faster. The bridge crews flinched and raised their hands in a fruitless effort to shield themselves from the imminent crash. The impact knocked the two ships backward. The Revolution’s sudden warp burst propelled it into the L-13 like two rams butting heads, knocking both ships off kilter. The L-13 drifted, listing to one side, lights flickering.

Dunham shook his head and looked around the bridge. Most of the bridge crew shook their heads and moaned in pain, but he could see there were no critical injuries, just a few bumps and bruises, no worse for wear. Dunham knew that they wouldn’t have much time to act. Klingons were built for battle and this little stunt would only knock them off for a few moments. “Weapons, target their engineering section. We need to knock it out while they are still punch drunk.”

The tactical officer moved as quickly as his aching body would allow. The Revolution’s phasers easily pierced the L-13’s weakened shield. Like a needle, the phasers found their mark, stabbing through deck plates and armor, opening the ship to the vacuum of space. Some of the engineering crew were flash frozen, others burned in the early stages of a warp core breach.

Dunham calculated as the L-13 continued to drift. “Move us closer. I want to finish it off. Target their bridge.” The Revolution inched closer, moving broadside with the L-13. “Prepare to fire,” ordered Dunham.

“Sir,” said Baltok, “I suggest we move away from the L-13 as quickly as possible. I am detecting a warp core breach in progess.” Dunham was surprised at how matter-of-factly the Vulcan delivered that information.

“All available power to the shields! All hands, prepare for collision. Helm, get us out of here, full impulse power!”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said as she scrambled to get power to the impulse engines. The Revolution’s playing bumper cars with the L-13 created a power drain on all systems and she was reacting slowly to orders. The engines fired and moved the Revolution, but not enough. She was caught in the explosion and was thrown, spinning out of control into deep space.

“Sir!” shouted the Poppleton’s first officer, “We’ve lost the Revolution! She was caught in the explosion of the L-13.”

“Is she intact?” Pierpoint asked cautiously. The idea of losing another friend to this war weighed heavily on his mind. The first officer used the ship’s scanners to find the course of the tumbling Revolution.

“Scanners have located the Revolution. She is now three-fourths of a parsec away, traveling at one quarter impulse speed.”

He took a moment to register this information, and his first officer anticipated his next question, although he didn’t know how to answer it without upsetting his captain. “Sir, our scans can’t detect any life signs. The L-13’s explosion must have been caused by a warp core breach, or at least ended in one, because our sensors can’t locate any life signs aboard the Revolution. There’s radiation, I think, disrupting our sensors. There may be survivors on board, but we can’t detect any. We’re too far away.” He paused and cleared his throat nervously before he continued gently. “Perhaps we should prepare the sick bay for...casualties?”

Pierpoint looked back blankly at the Klingon ship on the view screen. The D-7 hung lifeless in space, streams of plasma bleeding from fissures all over the ship. “What is the condition of the D-7?” he asked tiredly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Sir, the D-7 is functioning on batteries only. They have no power to either offensive or defensive systems.”

“End it. I don’t care how. Helm, plot an intercept course to catch the Revolution. Now.” The Poppleton fired a spread of photon torpedos at the bridge of the D-7 and watched as they beheaded the Klingon war machine. It drifted slowly into the atmosphere of Danubus III, and before the hull of the D-7 began to glow red from the heat of its entry, the Poppleton was well on her way to catch the Revolution.

After what seem like hours of chasing the drifting ship, the Poppleton caught up with the wounded Revolution.

“Are we in range for tractor beams?” asked Pierpoint, leaning forward in his seat. He was obviously deeply concerned about the condition of the Revolution.

“Aye, sir.”

“Activate tractor beams.”

The lights on the Poppleton’s bridge dimmed as all of her power concentrated on the Revolution. “Emergency crews, stand by for boarding,” ordered Pierpoint.

“Sir, she is beginning to stablize,” reported the first officer. Pierpoint watched the screen as the Revolution’s spinning slowed and she began to return to normal cruising position.

“I’m going over there,” stated Pierpoint matter-of-factly. He turned and walked toward the turbolift without looking back.

“Sir, she is still badly damaged, wait. Let us send over the rescue teams...,”pleaded the first officer.

Without hesitating, Pierpoint stepped into the turbolift. “Give me the signal transport as soon as you get that ship stabilized and in secure towing position.” With that, he entered the turbolift.

“But, sir. We need to send a rescue team over...”

He stepped out of the turbolift and turned to face his first officer. “Let me understand you, Cabot. You are disregarding a direct order from your captain. Did you misunderstand my instructions, or are you questioning my decision?”

The first officer shook his head sheepishly and looked down at his feet. “Your safety is my first concern, sir, and the situation on board the Revolution is...”

Pierpoint stared hard at the first officer’s forehead. “Don’t tell me what the situation is on the Revolution. The situation is that there is exactly one man in this quadrant who has given everything he has to protect my safety, put himself in harm’s way to do this, and now I don’t know if he is alive or dead. Well, Cabot,” he spat, “now I just may have the chance to change things and for once, protect him as he has always protected me. Don’t stand in my way, Commander, or I will go through you. Do I make myself clear?”

Cabot shook his head and wordlessly mouthed, “Yes, sir.”

“You have an order, Commander.” He entered the turbolift and the doors hissed closed behind him. Once the turbolift was in motion, the bridge crew took a breath. They had never seen Pierpoint that intense.

Cabot went to the center chair and sat down. He shook his head and coughed nervously. “Have emergency crews stand by for the Captain’s go-ahead.” Instinctively, he crossed himself and bowed his head for a moment.

Pierpoint stood on the transport pad alone. He could hear the Star Fleet Academy honor student inside him reciting General Order 15 and other directives forbidding captains from entering dangerous situations, especially alone, but this was something all the power in the Federation could not stop him from doing. Right now, the clock was ticking on the life expectancies of the crew of the Revolution, and Pierpoint knew that his partner Dunham would give his life to save any of the lives of his crewmen. If there were any injuries on board that ship, he could guarantee his friend was among the wounded...or worse. But each second he had to wait was one fewer second those crew members might have alive. Silently, he cursed the clock and the time it was taking for Cabot’s signal to be given.

“We have mooring stability, Captain. Should I have....” Before he could finish his sentence, Pierpoint had given the order to transport to the bridge of the crippled Revolution.

The transporter illuminated the bridge in a pale blue light for a brief moment. As soon as Pierpoint felt the bridge plates beneath his feet, the pungent odor of burned plastic filled his senses. He was standing where the view screen once was, now shattered with pieces cast across the bridge. The only visible light was the occasional flicker of sparks caused by still live wires crossing each other in the shambles of the electrical confusion. Pierpoint switched on his safety light for better vision.

The Revolution bridge crew was still safely cradled in their chairs. Star Fleet installed emergency lap clasps for a reason. The only member not fastened to his chair was the science officer, Baltok. Green blood was seeped from his forehead, forced into his damage control console sometime during the violent spinning of the starship. He had given up the security of his chair to stand at and report the damage control. Pierpoint closed his eyes and pictured the scene: Baltok standing valiantly reporting structural weaknesses to his captain even up to the last few seconds before the shock of the explosion threw the ship out into deep space. Pierpoint assumed that he advised his captain to take evasive action as the L-13’s warp core went critical, which saved the Revolution from total destruction.

Pierpoint’s light scanned the bridge until it fell upon the shell support beam which had dropped on to the deck of the bridge, crushing the communications console. He pushed away debris and a hand slipped out. He felt for a pulse, but finding none, he closed his eyes and sighed. Pierpoint’s hand lingered on the dead communications officer’s exposed shoulder as his light scanned the bridge. All around his were signs of pain. Crew members’ hands clenched in tight fists, support beams resting on arms and legs, shoulders forced through consoles, the sounds of the injured, only now beginning to regain consciousness moaning quietly.

He coughed as smoke rolled on the bridge. He walked towards the center chair, gingerly picking his way through the live wires and metal shards that littered the deck. The beam of his safety light shone on the crushed command console blinking mindlessly. He leaned back on the shell support beam to remove it from the console. It moved a few inches to reveal the tattered sleeve of a Star Fleet uniform. He pushed harder and strained every muscle to pull out the broken body of the helmsman. Her brown hair had fallen out from its tight bun and covered her rank insignia. Once he moved her hair from her face he recognized her. Her name was Johnson. She had spent time on the Poppleton, to train his crew on the new TI-55 command console. Pierpoint thought about how many soldiers like her had died over the last couple of years. This war was grinding up some of the brightest hopes for the Federation, like Johnson. He wondered what her life could have been.

As he stood and brushed himself off, his light pierced the smoke and shone on the center seat. He saw him there still in the seat of the command, unconscious and limp. Pierpoint pulled out his communicator, “Bridge, this is the captain...” He looked up as the tactical display screen above Dunham’s command chair gave way. Pierpoint covered Dunham’s body from the force of the falling piece of equipment. Pierpoint’s back bore the brunt of the force. It knocked Pierpoint into Dunham and broke the command chair off at the base and pinned the two to the deck. The communicator lay beside the silent captains.

“Go ahead, Captain,” answered the first officer. There was no response. The dark bridge was quiet.

“We are receiving you Captain Pierpoint. Go ahead,” came the voice again.

Aboard the Poppleton, the bridge officers were uneasy. “Perhaps the captain is occupied with rescue efforts and doesn’t wish to respond,” suggested the Poppleton’s navigator.

Mearok, the Vulcan science officer, interjected, “That is possible, Mr. Schestov, but we must consider the possibility that perhaps he is unable to respond.”

“Maybe he is right,” said Cabot as he stood up, “I have a gut feeling that the captain is in trouble.” He pressed a small button on the command chair. “Sickbay, prepare to receive wounded from the Revolution. Prepare for the worst.”

“Aye, sir. We are beaming over now.”

A bright light illuminated the bridge for a moment as the rescue team beamed aboard. The switched on their emergency lights and began their search for surviors.

“Ensign,” ordered an engineer, “try to get some power going in here, or at least find a way to regenerate the main batteries.” The engineer turned and saw a familiar face. “Captain!” He rushed to the beam holding the two men under it. He motioned to others to help him lift it off of the men.

“Easy does it...Okay.” He quickly pulled two temporary transporter locks from his kit and quickly put them on the captains. He flipped open his communicator and said, “Poppleton, beam these to directly to Sickbay. We will continue triage here and send the most critical cases to you.”

The business of reviving the bridge took the better part of ten minutes as the rescue and repair teams diligently worked to restore battery power. The engineer flipped up the antenna on his communicator.

“Rescue party to Poppleton,” he said

“This is Poppleton, go ahead,” answered Cabot.

He wiped grime and soot off his brow. “We should have the ship batteries operating in a few minutes, but we are going to need more engineers to get the mains back on line. Life support systems are operating at minimal, but they should begin function normally once we get the batteries repaired.”

“Understood. Injured parties are being beamed over to the Poppleton. We have engineering and medical teams transported to various decks, so the rescue and repair operations are moving ahead. Keep up the good work,” Cabot said, closing the channel.

The overhead lights on the bridge flickered and charged back to life to light the bridge once again. “Sir,” said a maintenance crewman, “they have got the main batteries working again.” The engineer smiled a little. One battle down, hundreds to go.

Aboard the Poppleton, Commander Cabot continued to oversee the return of the injured from the Revolution. Two of the ship’s doctors waited with him to attend to the crewmen when they arrived. Seconds later, accompanied by bright flashes of transporter light, nine injured personnel were lying on the transporter platform wrapped in various head, arm, and leg thermal dressings. They moaned and winced in pain as medical personnel helped them off the platform.

“Move them to sickbay. I’m sure more are on the way,” Cabot stated. In a another flash of light, more bodies appeared. These bodies unfortunately didn’t move. The away team had wrapped them in makeshift body bags. Blood from the dead had soaked through, making a very unpleasant sight. Cabot turned away as crewmen carefully picked up the bodies and moved them off the platform.

“Take them and any other dead to the empty storerooms on F-deck.”

Elsewhere in the darkness of space, the Enterprise’s view screen chirped. “We are being hailed by the Illuminanti of Starfleet Intelligence.” said Worf.

Picard looked at the screen as a small man’s face appeared. He was thin and pale and looked very nervous. “Captain Picard, I am Captain Penn from Starfleet Intelligence. We will arrive momentarily to secure the entire sector and will need to secure and interview these vistors.”

Confused, Picard looked at Riker and then back at the screen at Penn, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. When did all of this happen?”

“Captain Picard, did you not request assistance?”

Picard nodded, “Yes, we asked for help in finding a rogue Klingon ship from an alternate reality. What is this about interviewing the crews of the two ships?”

Penn shook his head, “Picard, how do you know that these vistors are friendly? I have also received the logs from your conversations with them. I don’t believe them to be friendly. In fact from what I saw, I believe them to be hostile. Not friendly at all. And until they prove themselves different, they will be considered threats. You might have put your ship, if not the entire sector in danger, Captain. That is very serious. Very serious, indeed.” Penn shook his head and glared from the view screen at Picard, who cast an uneasy but amused look sideways at Riker. “Very serious.”

Picard shifted in his seat and moved to respond, but was cut off by a musical tone from behind.

“Message from the Poppleton, sir,” said Riker. He looked from Picard to the glaring Penn and back to Picard again.

Picard cleared his throat and made a serious face. “Yes, Captain Penn, I understand the gravity of the situation. Please excuse me as I think about what I have done.” Penn’s mouth opened to object as the screen blinked away from him and opened again to Commander Cabot. “This is Commander Cabot, presently in command of the Poppleton, please come in, Enterprise.”

“We are receiving you, Commander,” responded Picard, “What news have you of the Revolution?”

“I am afraid it isn’t good at present. Captain Pierpoint was injured while attempting to ascertain the damage aboard the bridge of the Revolution. He and several of the Revolution’s crew are in critical but stable condition. Captain Picard, we are going to require access to your medical services and staff to help our wounded. According to the most recent damage and casualty reports, at least 98 percent of the Revolution’s crew will need medical attention within 24 hours. Structural damage to the Revolution is somewhere around 25 percent. Is there any chance that you have any engineers or maintenance crews that could help?”

Picard sat back in his chair and leaned over to Riker, “What do you think, Number One?”

“This could be the chance we have been waiting for to prove to them we are not a threat, Captain.”

Picard sat motionless. He thought about what to do next. Medically assisting and repairing two starships that seem to be alien to this reality would be a risk, and was he willing to answer to Starfleet Command for his actions? Could he justify a hunch?

Troi felt this tremendous weight upon Picard’s shoulders. She gently touched his arm and smiled reassuringly, “It is the right thing to do.”

Picard smiled back and tugged at his uniform, “Commander Cabot, we are not in a position to leave our present orbit. We have received word that there is a Federation task force securing the Danubus system searching for your missing D-7. We will send repair and emergency crews via shuttlecraft within the hour to assist you and the Revolution.”

Cabot nodded, “Captain Picard, on behalf of our two crews, I thank you.” The screen blinked off.

Picard gave orders, organizing who would be going to the wounded ship. “Data, I would like you to lead the efforts on the Revolution.” Data nodded and exited the bridge, getting his crews ready for their task.

“Poppleton, this is LaForge, we have managed to get the main engines on line. We should be ready to get underway soon.” A yellow glow and a low hum came from the matter/anti-matter mixing chambers as they began to once again function smoothly.

Cabot smiled as he watched the power levels aboard the Revolution rise to normal operational levels. He opened a channel to the Revolution, “Commander Data, this is Cabot. The Revolution’s power levels are returning to normal. I think we should be able to get underway soon. We’ll beam the replacement bridge crew over shortly.”

Data nodded, “Very well, Revolution out.” Data sat on the shattered and broken bridge of the Revolution. Most of wreckage that was on the bridge had been removed, but the tactical display that hung above the command chair still rested on the center seat. He had heard about how Pierpoint shielded the wounded Dunham as it fell from the ceiling.

As Data sat at the conn position, he watched as portable lights illuminated the bridge with a pale blue color. Soon multiple transport effects filled the bridge, announcing that the replacement bridge crew had arrived. He gave up his seat to the helmsman and walked to the upper deck, where he watched as the crew quickly got aquainted with their positions. Data tapped his communicator, “Bridge to engineering. Geordi, are you ready to give us impulse power?”

“Sure thing. We’re ready.”

Data tapped his communicator again, “Poppleton, we are ready here. Release tractor beams.” The ship shuddered as the hold of the Poppleton let the Revolution go. “Revolution, you are free to navigate.” Data stood in the command position, “Three quarters impulse power, helm.”

“Aye, sir, three quarters impulse power. Mains still holding. We have cleared the Poppleton. It’s looking good, sir!” The rejuvenated Revolution slowly passed the Poppleton and everyone aboard the two ships cheered.

He tapped his communicator, “This is Commander Data. We are well on our way to Danubus III and should get there within the next two hours. Keep working on your repair efforts. You have all done very well under trying circumstances.”

Holding back, the Poppleton constantly monitored the Revolution’s systems and structural integrity. Commander Cabot rubbed his face with his sweating hands. He looked up at the screen and at the battle cruiser gliding through space. He smiled a little, then got up from his chair.

“Mearok, you have the conn. I’m heading down to sickbay to see how things are going.” Mearok nodded and took the command chair as Cabot entered the turbolift.

Moments later, he stepped out onto the deck next to sickbay. The corridors were bustling with medical personnel and injured crewmembers from the Revolution. He asked a passing nurse where he might find Pierpoint. The nurse answered that he couldn’t see them, and that he was in surgery at that moment and wouldn’t be out before they reached Danubus III. Cabot nodded, walked to his quarters and lay down on his bed. After a few minutes, he was fast asleep.

The two starships continued their journey on course and maintained speed for the next hour, when they scanned the orbiting Enterprise and a small flotilla of Starfleet vessels.

Mearok, aboard the Poppleton looked at the ships gathered in orbit of Danubus III. He pressed a button on the command chair, “Commander Cabot, report to the bridge.”

A raspy voice answered, “What is it, Mearok?”

“Commander, it seems that our appearence in this reality is no longer restricted to this system. We have guests.”