Enterprise
On Any Other Day But Today
by John Scott
(johnnymoonuk@yahoo.co.uk)

On Any Other Day But Today

2181.

System M-132 had four planets; three were barren rocks, the fourth was a Class-J gas giant. The planet was unnamed, though it wasn't unlike Saturn in Sol system. Thick, frozen, rich minerals, mixed in with ice, ringed the green planet in concentric circles; it was the reason the Federation had taken an interest in the planet, not to mention its paradise M-class moon.

Five ships burst from warp: four bulging transports, and an NX-class Starfleet vessel. The Icarus NX-19 surged ahead of the colony ships, making sure the area was safe.

Captain Malcolm Reed, complete with a frosty beard, sat in deep contemplation on the bridge of his ship. Reed had been at Jonathan Archer's side throughout the Romulan Wars, and had stood as a witness at the signing of the Federation Constitution.

Now Malcolm had command of his own ship, the twenty-year old Icarus, now entering his seventh year as captain, and loving every minute of it. His chocolate-brown hair was still regulation length, though he had allowed himself a little indulgence with the thick beard. What annoyed him most was the grey flecks around his temples, though got a kick out of seeing father's face at the sight of his greying beard.

Icarus had been involved in the proposed colonisation of the M-class moon since the get-go. It had been the NX-19 that had spent a month carefully surveying the moon, making sure it had the necessary ecosystem to sustain a colony. Starfleet had sent their best engineers along with the colony ships, as well as medical personnel to kick-start the colony's proposed infirmary. Those specialists were on the primary transport.

He turned to his first officer, who sat at her beloved communications console.

"Commander," he began, his London accent ringing around the bridge. "Start the preparations for our landing party; I'll speak to Mister Thetis before joining you."

Hoshi Sato nodded, her petite Asian face wrinkling as she smiled. She headed for the lift beside the science officer's console, an eager, young Ensign taking her place at communications. Hoshi smiled again, remembering when she had been that way, all those years ago on the Enterprise, so stiff she could've sworn she'd worn starched-solid uniforms. Eager, and nervous.

The Enterprise's former crew had all changed from those days, some more than others, and most were now senior officers on other starships, or on Earth itself. T'Pol was on Vulcan, heading up the new Federation Science Council; Travis Mayweather was first officer on the Matthew Forrest, with Jonathan Archer now Starfleet commander-in-chief. The rest were... close by.

Reed watched his first officer disappear into the lift, and then turned to the young woman at the communications console.

"Put me through to Mister Thetis, please Ensign," Reed smiled.

The young woman nodded, touched a few buttons on her console, and moments later, the haggard face of Viktor Thetis appeared on the bridge's large viewscreen. The entire expedition had been the brainchild of this tired old man. Annoying, tired old man, Reed corrected.

"Captain Reed," Thetis exasperated through gritted teeth. There was no love lost between Reed and Thetis. Reed was simply too British to stand for the older man's eccentricities; Thetis could test the patience of even the calmest Vulcan. "What do you want?"

"I'm just about to send down my landing parties," Reed replied, through equally gritted teeth. He was using all his willpower not to shout at the viewscreen.

"How very nice for you, Captain," Thetis returned, his voice filled so bloody obviously with false sincerity.

"I only meant it as a courtesy," the Icarus' captain said defensively.

"I am not interested in your Starfleet politeness, Captain Reed. Good day." And with that, the colony's first governor cut the transmission from his end.

"Great," Reed sighed. He turned to his tactical officer, "Lieutenant, the bridge is yours." He strode to the lift, and pressed the control for E Deck, where the ship's launch bay was located. He loved his ship, loved the NX-class in fact; the Icarus was the last of her class, and had already been surpassed by the more advanced Daedalus-class. But for Malcolm Reed, the Enterprise NX-01's legacy was all he wanted or needed.

The small door opened, and he stepped out into the corridor. His chief engineer was waiting for him with an annoyingly large grin.

"Charlotte," he smiled suspiciously. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I called up to the Bridge, they told me you were on the way down, sir," Lieutenant Avishaye replied. At six foot four, the redhead was much taller than Reed, though she was still young, fresh off Captain Tucker's engineering specialist team. He gestured for her to walk with him, her long strides seeming strange next to his own.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked. She pushed a padd in front of him.

Despite her size, she suddenly looked awkwardly uncomfortable. "Could you possibly give that to Captain Tucker, if you see him, sir?"

Reed snorted, having worried it was another dreaded piece of paperwork for him to sign.

"Sure," he smiled. When they came to the launch bay doors, Avishaye plodded off back toward the lift, and to her beloved engine room. Cradling the silver padd in one hand, Reed opened the double doors, and walked out onto the launch bay's gangways. The ship's primary two Shuttlepods were currently being loaded with the necessary equipment for the mission.

Commander Sato was hurriedly overseeing the loading, with the two pilots going through their pre-flight checks. Despite is once propensity for order, Reed felt happy in this environment, with his crew working at their best to help others.

When the pods were finally ready, and Reed had tucked a communicator, and tricorder into his uniform pockets, and strapped a phase pistol to his hip, the pod doors were sealed, and the bay decompressed.

A small magnetic coupling arm lowered the two pods down past the opened swing doors, and into space. Blue sublight engines ignited, and the pods were away.

Either side of them, the transport ships began to make their own descent, their bigger engines pushing them ahead. The transports were of a new design, made to be disassembled into a colony of buildings upon arrival at the designated site. They were bulky, ugly, and entirely self-sustaining.

Reed still preferred the angular lines of the Icarus, any day of the week.

* * * * *

The moon was paradise; beaches that would put Australia and Hawaii to shame, forests rich with life, and grass plains that were greener than any human had seen before, almost as if they had been painted that way. A figure stood at the base of a ramp, pointing, and gesturing, holding a manifest.

He was whistling -a habit picked up from his friend Jonathan. He stopped, realising that he was still getting used to calling Archer that. Once upon a time, it would have been always "Cap'n". Now it was either "Admiral," "Jon," or "Jonathan".

An unusual turn of events, to be sure.

But it was all a day in the life of one Captain Charles 'Trip' Tucker III, engineering advisor to the Federation President, and lead Starfleet engineer specialist on the colonisation of the M-class moon.

The greying Trip was supervising the unloading of supplies, and equipment from the primary transport vessel. As more crates were carried from the ship's massive cargo hold, Trip heard a whoosh of small sublight engines pass overhead, in the sky.

Trip smiled, a brief sense of nostalgia overcoming; it wasn't often he found himself wishing for the old days to come back, serving under Captain Archer, during those testing times with the Klingons, Vulcans, and Xindi. Those first years had been both the best, and worst, exploring new territories, but making new enemies. He envied those friends on starships; he was tied down to a desk as a presidential advisor.

This expedition was his first foray out of the core Federation worlds since gaining the position. And he loved every minute of it.

Several mind-numbingly boring minutes later, two gruff men -farmers according to their files- were unloading a small power generator. There was a dark smudge on the casing, where a crate had obviously banged against it. Trip pulled out his handkerchief, bent to wipe it off, and was met by a familiar voice, like a blast from the past.

"I believe you missed a spot," the English voice chuckled.

Trip shook his head, turned, and a let out a loud chuckle.

Stood side-by-side, Captain Malcolm Reed, and Commander Hoshi Sato looked completely at odds: one, a stiff typically English gent, the other a relaxed, short Asian woman. And yet, Trip had been glued to the reports of their adventures.

"Keep ya shirt on, Cap'n," Charles Tucker III drawled, his thick southern accent about as unobvious as a Klingon at a women's water polo game.

"Trip," Reed smiled.

"Malcolm," Trip smiled back. The two friends embraced tightly, echoing each other's laughter. It had been too long since they had shared a good laugh. Trip turned to Hoshi, offering her a congratulatory handshake, and an equally tight hug. "Congratulations on your promotion, Commander," he grinned boyishly despite the grey hairs. "I'm sure your CO ain't too much of a hard-ass."

Reed rolled his eyes.

Trip leaned closer to Icarus' first officer, stage whispering conspiratorially, "Next time he gets upset, or angry, hit 'im with a pineapple cake."

"I'm the one who told you that, sir," Hoshi whispered back, just loud enough for Reed to hear.

"What's wrong, Trip? Losing your marbles at your age?"

The engineer threw a scalding look at his old friend. But Malcolm and Hoshi couldn't do anything but laugh. Trip couldn't help but join in the laughter, having to hold his belly as the laughter racked his body.

The joyful laughter was suddenly broken by an all-too-familiar voice.

"Captain Reed," Viktor Thetis called out. The tall, lanky human swaggered over the grass of the landing site, avoiding a toppling stack of food supplies.

Reed sighed, trying to avoid a conversation with the aggravating man.

"Captain Reed," Thetis repeated forcefully. Reed turned to face Thetis, regretting it instantly. "Your crew have weapons on them."

"Those weapons are called phase pistols," Reed replied, "do please stay away from them; they can be quite dangerous when they want to be."

"The crew, or the weapons?" Trip snorted.

Reed silently shook his head.

"I do not like weapons near my people, or my equipment," Thetis complained.

"I can see that," Reed said through gritted teeth. He'd seen the colonists staring and scowling at his crew's sidearms; they resented the military presence on this mission, and the phase pistols were simply another reminder of the fact. There was always the fact that the Starfleet crews were trained for combat, and the senior officers had seen such combat in the Romulan Wars, which made the civilians uneasy.

Hoshi spoke up, "The weapons are there because we are only ten light-years from Klingon space, and given the tensions with the Empire, they are a precautionary measure only." She almost added, be glad we didn't bring down a fully armed MACO team. There was a small unit residing on Icarus because of the ship's exploratory nature, a precautionary measure, as she'd said before, and because the captain had requested them.

"How likely is it that the Klingons will attack?" Thetis exclaimed.

"Just as likely as the Xindi building a weapon to destroy Earth?" Reed suggested.

"Or as likely as a four-year war with the Romulans?" Trip added.

Thetis just let out an exasperated breath, and walked off in a huff.

"Do you think anyone would notice if the colony's soon-to-be governor befell an accident of some sort?" Hoshi asked innocently. Reed snorted.

"Maybe if he was suddenly transported into a continent of ice?" Trip ventured. He saw Reed's sudden, almost unconscious shiver at the mention of the dreaded transporter. Reed was still, after all these years, afraid of the transporter, and refused to step onto it unless he truly needed to. Trip clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry Malcolm, we'll make sure you're well away from the transporter."

Reed's communicator suddenly chirped, demanding attention.

He unzipped the pocket, pulled the small unit out, and flipped it open.

"Reed."

"Captain," a panicked voice shouted through the tiny speaker. Reed swore he heard something explode in the background. "We're under attack. Three Klingon warships just warped into the system, and immediately opened fire; there was no provocation, sir."

"Can you hold your own, Lieutenant?"

"Negative, Captain. Warp core is offline, torpedoes not functioning. Our new shields are holding, but I don't know for how long."

"Stay out of their weapons' range, and get Lieutenant Avishaye's teams on the job immediately."

"What about you, Captain?"

"They'll have to land if they want us, and I've got an idea."

"We'll be back soon, sir," the tactical officer's voice stated.

"Reed out."

Reed, Sato, and Trip all shared a sudden worried look. If the Klingons were here, they knew why the Federation was here, and possibly wanted to colonise it for themselves.

Unbelievably, Viktor Thetis came stumbling up to the three Starfleet officers. His cheeks were red, and he was out of breath.

"Captain," he stammered, trying to control his breathing. "Captain, there are Klingons coming." Reed couldn't believe he was hearing this, having just told Thetis that his crew's sidearms were for just this situation, and Thetis denying any such event could happen.

"I'm bloody well aware of that," Reed shouted, finally losing his tolerance of the old man. He turned to his two friends, effectively ignoring Thetis. "Commander, prep the shuttlepods; we're going up. We need to run interference. We need to give the people on the ground to prepare." As the Icarus' first officer ran off, he turned to Trip, who was somewhat astounded at his friend's assertive confidence. "Trip, can you get some kind of defence together down here?"

"It's been a while," the engineer replied, "but sure."

Reed sprinted back toward the two auxiliary craft. Admittedly, they were small, but with Icarus wounded and out of range, the two pods were the only armed craft available. He left Enterprise's former chief engineer bellowing orders to anyone within range.

Reed found Commander Sato directing two Starfleet security personnel around the shuttlepods; the pilots were on the other side of the landing site. Reed didn't have time to collect the pilots, and get them to fly the pods.

"Hoshi, you and Kleister take Pod Two; Grumman, you're with me. Get these birds in the air, and try to stop those Klingon ships, or at the least slow them down." Hoshi nodded, and nodded the young Kleister with her.

Reed took the pilot's seat in Pod One, with the veteran Grumman in one of the secondary seats, monitoring the systems via computer terminal. The captain grabbed the control stick, inputting the code to override the pre-flight checks, and start up the engines.

The sublight engines roared to life, vibrations coursing through the pod. It reared up into the sky, singing the alien grass as Reed slapped it into full speed, with Pod Two close by.

"I have them on sensors," Grumman reported. "Three vessels confirmed as Raptor-class. I don't understand how they can pilot in the atmosphere."

"Some of their technology is ahead of ours by several centuries," Reed answered, having experienced a Raptor-class in the atmosphere of a gas giant. He saw them visually now, through the bubble canopy. The shapes, with their distinctive long neck, and delta-formation body, were growing larger, hideously quickly.

Reed activated the shuttlepod's communications, "Pod One to Pod Two; Hoshi, arm weapons, and polarise your hull plating." It was an obvious suggestion, but a sound one, and one that had been easily overlooked in the past, with disastrous consequences.

"Acknowledged, Pod One," Hoshi's high voice returned.

Reed didn't need to say anything to Grumman, who had already done as suggested.

"Pod One, suggest we bug out to port, come back in, and flank them."

"Agreed, Pod Two," Reed commed. He jammed the control stick to the left, and yawed it, bringing the shuttlepod around in a long lazy curve, that eventually pointed the nose of the craft toward the larger Klingon vessels.

"Captain, they're ignoring us," Grumman reported, confused.

"They don't think of two shuttlepods as a threat, and they'd be right." That didn't instil any confidence in the security officer, though he didn't show it.

"Pod Two, follow me in; aim for the lead ship's engines."

"Copy, Pod One."

Reed tried to goose more power to the engines, heading for the lead vessel. If they could destroy the lead ship, there was a chance it would interfere, or at least distract, the others; the Klingons were packed tightly enough for the Starfleet personnel to attempt such a manoeuvre.

The Klingon warships grew larger and larger in the canopy, engines glowing, shields flaring. A shuttlepod was no match for a Klingon warship, but in pairs with surprise on their side, it could be done.

"I've got a lock on their port nacelle, Captain," Grumman reported. Reed nodded.

"Fire," he ordered, relaying the order over the comms channel to Pod Two.

"Firing," Grumman announced.

"Firing," Sato announced over the channel.

Small pulses of orange plasma leapt out of the shuttlepods' small plasma cannons. The energy slapped against the warship's shields, colour flaring across the energy field.

"There's a hole opening," Reed called out. "Keep firing."

The energy weapons continued, now pounding against the warship's armour plating. The green hull began to blacken. Reed was amazed that the Klingons hadn't turned around, and simply blasted the two pods out of the sky. Was it possible they didn't detect Reed's pathetic assault team? Or were they waiting for the pods to get closer, and surprise them?

Reed got his answer when destructive green energy lanced out into the sky, searching for the pods. One struck Hoshi's pod amidships, smoke poured out of the craft's engines. It began to dip, diving for the ground.

"Hoshi," Reed bellowed into the comms unit.

"We're okay, Captain, but we're losing power quickly. Engines are out, but I think we can land on the thrusters. I'll try and get us down near the colony, sir."

"I'll see you down there."

"Good luck, Captain."

He was about to say, "To us all." But he was cut off when the shuttlepod rocked dangerously. Grumman was thrown from his seat, and Reed had to grip his console to keep himself from doing the same. The pod kept rocking, as it hit turbulence. Grumman had to wrestle himself back into his chair, before checking the sensors.

"The rear warship fired on us. The lead warship's shields are failing."

"Already?" Reed asked incredulously.

"I don't think they look after their ships as well as Avishaye does, sir," the old security guard snorted. Reed couldn't help but chuckle at that; Charlotte Avishaye was more in love with the Icarus' systems, than Trip had been with the Enterprise. A fact that Hoshi teased her about every chance she got.

"Keep firing," Reed repeated. He ignored the engine overheat light, pushing the pod to its limits, trying desperately to keep up with the Klingons, as they dashed underneath the smaller vessel. The lead vessel was trailing smoke, its shields breaking down as it continued to hurtle through the moon's atmosphere.

The pod's plasma weapons began to melt the nacelle housing. Then something blew as the warship's warp coil reacted violently with the extreme temperature change.

The warship's nacelle exploded, leaving a skeletal frame, and most of the nacelle support strut was in tatters. The fire continued up into the ship proper, and detonated the antimatter tanks. The back two-thirds of the warship vaporised, killing ninety Klingons, and flipping the front, end-over-end, into a lake, far away from the colony. Debris, and plasma fire from the wreckage slammed into the ship behind it, overwhelming its shields, and annihilating the front end.

* * * * *

Trip watched from the ground, as his friends fought against the odds in the sky above. The two tiny shuttlepods were blazing shot after shot into the back end of the lead warship. Then the rear warship opened fire, energy flashing, catching Pod Two in its midsection. Smoke spewed from the pod, and it dove toward the ground.

Trip desperately hoped Hoshi was alright.

He'd organised the Icarus' grounded crew into a defensive position around the edges of the proposed colony site. Some of the civilians -former Starfleet officers- joined the defence, but most were too scared, and retreated with their families and friends into the central transport ships.

In the sky above, the remains of the first vessel obliterated the second. Shuttlepod One had taken a glancing hit to its starboard side. But the pod kept firing at the rear vessel.

"That last vessel must be made of sterner stuff," Trip mused.

Someone -a science officer from the Icarus- nodded in agreement.

Could Duras still be alive? Trip wondered. That Klingon had a penchant for surviving, and eventually blaming his dishonour on someone else. Like he did to Cap'n Archer all those years ago.

As it turned out, it wasn't Duras in any of those ships, not that that was entirely important; nor did Trip really care all that much.

The thing he did care about was the fact that a dozen Klingon warriors, adorned in metallic armour, beamed into the middle of the Starfleet contingent's defences. All were brandishing the crude disruptor pistols Trip had seen them use in the past. Trip was first to react; reactions honed from too many years, too many battles.

He whipped out his phase pistol, and shot the nearest warrior without hesitation. He hadn't realised the pistol was on stun. The Klingon dropped like a sack of potatoes, hitting the ground with a thud.

The science officer next to him took a disruptor blast in the chest, and flew backwards.

Trip charged forward, hoping to at least get the Klingons' attention away from the colonists. He fired twice, hitting a Klingon in the stomach, and another in the leg. The wounded Klingon was then hit three times by shots from other Starfleet personnel, now joining the fight.

After several hard minutes of hand-to-hand, a Klingon warrior charged him, and body-checked him, sending him sprawling across the ground. Trip realised with some horror that his phase pistol had left his hand, and landed out of arm's reach.

Trip looked up into the Klingon's eyes, and saw a face he never expected to see: Klang, the warrior Enterprise had rescued from the Suliban, and delivered to the Klingon homeworld. The mission had succeeded, and Starfleet had authorised Enterprise's continuing exploration of deep space.

And now that same warrior stood over Trip, blade in one hand, and disruptor in the other.

"Klang," Trip exclaimed. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"For the Empire," Klang declared, pointing his disruptor at Trip.

He fired.

"It is a good day to die," Klang insisted, just before being crushed by a speeding Shuttlepod-sized chunk of metal.

But by then, it was too late.

* * * * *

Pod Two fell.

Commander Sato desperately tried to bring the shuttlepod down semi-safely. She'd seen her captain fighting against overwhelming odds: exactly the kind of situation Malcolm Reed's British ancestors would be proud of. Over countless dinners, Reed had told her all about Waterloo, Rourke's Drift, Gallipoli, Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain, Bosnia, and Kosovo. He was proud of his Great British heritage, and the honour that came with being a citizen of that small but strong island.

Hoshi wished she could have had that kind of cultural history.

That was, of course, seconds before Shuttlepod Two slammed nose-first into an unnamed hill range. The engines detonated, roasting the two officers inside. In the future, that wreckage would become one of many sites dedicated to the bravery of the Icarus' senior officers.

But Hoshi Sato would never know how much she would be revered, as the pod slammed into the hillside, unseen and unheard by anyone but the grass on the hill.

* * * * *

Reed brought the shuttlepod around in a tight circle; he'd pissed the final warship off, and his pod's weapons were not tough enough to crack the vessel's hull, or even its shields. And now the warship was on his tail.

The pod's engines were failing, the weapons overheating. Something inside the cabin was smoking.

"We could ram them, sir," Grumman suggested cautiously.

Reed was already considering that very action. He didn't particularly want to die, but sixteen hundred civilians were depending on his actions. There were also the lives of Icarus personnel on the moon's surface to consider, and the Starfleet and Federation personnel that had accompanied the transports.

"I'm game, sir," Grumman nodded sadly. Reed echoed the nod, equally as sadly.

He snapped the pod around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, pressing the left yaw control as hard as he could. Despite loss of engine power, the shuttlepod was at least still manoeuvrable; the one saving grace.

The Klingon warship hove into view in the canopy, nose-on. Its weapon ports began to glow, powering to full, ready to strike. Yet the Klingons hesitated. Reed didn't. He pumped everything the tiny craft had into the engines, powering as close to full speed as he could.

The Klingon warship was too big, too unwieldy in the moon's atmosphere. It couldn't turn quickly enough to move away from the oncoming projectile that was the shuttlepod.

A bright orange lance of energy flashed down from the heavens, catching the Klingon ship amidships. Its shields held for several microseconds, before disintegrating.

The shuttlepod's comms unit crackled to life.

"Icarus to Shuttlepod One," the voice practically shouted. It was Reed's tactical officer, whom Reed had left in charge of the ship.

"I thought I told you to get out of here," Reed warned.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but shut up, and get the hell out of the way."

Reed saw the Icarus flash down through the atmosphere, its shields catching fire as it hit air resistance. The Starfleet ship's forward phase cannons lashed out, and struck the Klingon vessel, again and again. Reed could do nothing but pull away.

The Klingon vessel exploded, though Grumman reported that the ship had transported a dozen soldiers to the surface before it was destroyed.

Debris from the wreckage was hurled at the shuttlepod, the craft's engines not powerful enough to speed it away from the danger zone in time.

The bulkhead where Grumman had sat caved in, exposing the cabin to the intense wind of the moon's atmosphere. Grumman was dead before he knew what had happened. Reed caught a piece of shrapnel in his back. It pierced his left lung. He was dead, and he knew it.

But there were still the Klingons on the surface. Reed set a course, ignoring his tactical officer's voice over the comms unit. The shuttlepod slammed down through the atmosphere, on a course for where the Klingon warriors had apparently beamed in.

The ground came nearer, and nearer. Gravity took over when the engines finally packed in.

But it was too late: Captain Malcolm Reed, of the Starship Icarus, was dead before the shuttlepod came even close to the ground.

His last thoughts were of his oldest, and dearest friend.

Trip, you owe me my friend.

* * * * *

The shuttlepod slammed into the ground, crushing the giant Klang, along with three other Klingon warriors that were stupid enough to stand near him. The remains of the pod tumbled end over end, spinning like a top, carving gouges out of the ground, and throwing soil, and shrapnel into the air.

Someone was shouting for a medic.

He couldn't move, couldn't do anything but breathe raggedly, and watch as the shuttlepod burned. Someone shouted his name, practically screamed, but he stood stock-still. Why couldn't he do anything? Was it so long since he had served in the Denobulan infantry, as a medic? Or was it that his friend was in that flaming pyre.

The screaming for a medic continued.

"Doctor," a voice cried. He turned to see one of Icarus' security guards shouting in his face.

Phlox shook his head, clearing his mind.

The guard pointed to a crumpled body, lying where the trail of shuttlepod wreckage began. Phlox's heart sank. He ran to the uniformed body, and screamed something in his native Denobulan. Even Phlox was unaware of what exactly he screamed. He couldn't help it; his age was getting to him, not to mention that two of Enterprise's old crew were now dead.

A deep, burning hole in his chest where Klang's disruptor had struck him, the body wore the red department stripes of an engineer, and the four square rank pips of a Starfleet captain.

Phlox scanned the lifeless form.

But it was too late: Captain Charles "Trip" Tucker III was dead.

* * * * *

Earth.

Starfleet Command, San Francisco.

The Admiral was crying, sobbing, his shoulders bobbing up and down. His aide had tried to comfort him, even going so far as to call his wife. But the Admiral was ignoring all calls, ever since he had received the report from the Icarus. The ship's tactical officer, chief engineer, and Doctor Phlox had laid out the entire incident piece-by-piece.

Trip, Malcolm, and Hoshi had died heroes. Even the pompous Viktor Thetis had nothing but good things to say about them.

But they were still dead; the Admiral would never see his friends again. Having survived the year of hell fighting the Xindi, and survived the hideous Romulan Wars, they had been killed in a simple border dispute. There would be repercussions, and many of the Admiral's subordinates would want retribution for the incident, especially Admiral Shran.

The ramifications of the incident could send ripples between the Federation, and the Klingon Empire.

But the Admiral would still mourn the loss of his friends.

Right then, he didn't care.

Starfleet Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Jonathan Archer, stared out of his office window, and the tears came back, wracking his body.

Oh god, why did it have to be them?

* * * * *

Vulcan.

Professor T'Pol collapsed.

She didn't cry upon hearing the news, but she simply couldn't stand, her legs buckling, and sending her to the floor. Several of her students ran to her side, some of them Vulcans, some of them humans. The padd she had been holding clattered to the floor with her.

Despite being married, T'Pol had, as humans would say, always held a candle for Captain Tucker. They had shared plenty of intimate moments on Enterprise, and she had grieved for his late sister, when the Xindi attacked Earth, and gouged a massive chunk out of Florida. For years, despite her Vulcan training, she had loved Trip.

Now he was gone, killed defending a new colony from Klingons, along with Captain Reed, Commander Sato, and half a dozen Starfleet personnel.

Surak forgive me; why Trip?

* * * * *

Andor.

Starship Matthew Forrest.

Commander Travis Mayweather -the ship's first officer- threw the padd against the nearest bulkhead. Captain Redfoot, an American Indian from Dakota, flinched. He had never seen his friend so angry, or upset, not even when his mother had passed on.

Redfoot knew how close Travis had been to Reed, Tucker, and Commander Sato. They had served together through the most trying times, and come out of them in one piece, and sane. Now the three friends had been killed in a minor dispute.

When he asked the stupid question, "Are you alright?" Travis simply ignored his captain. Redfoot didn't blame him, nor could he. Travis had lost a lot already: his brothers had been killed during the Romulan Wars; their freighter was caught in a firefight between Earth and Romulan forces.

Redfoot left him to it; with time, Travis would stop mourning, and overcome his grief. He would always carry a small amount of grief in his heart; there was nothing to be done about that. Not that anyone should -that kind of grief can be made into something good.

Even after Captain Redfoot left Travis' quarters, the ship's executive officer continued staring into space.

Bastard Klingons, why them?