Final Flight of the Starship Warspite

Posted on Wed Jun 10th, 2020 @ 11:01am by Lieutenant Commander P’rel M.D

Mission: Character Development
Location: USS Warspite, Deck 3.
Timeline: Operation Return, 2374.
1152 words - 2.3 OF Standard Post Measure

On: USS Warspite, Centaur Class Starship, Operation Return.

P’rel grabbed the bleeding blue head of the officer on the floor in front her, as she knelt over him. She pulled his head to her chest as she leaned forward to shield him from a burst of sparking and white hot deck plate nearby. The red lit air was thick with dank smoke and the contents of various conduits as the life support systems struggled to keep up with the battering the Warspite was taking. Feeling the head go limp in her arms, she looked down as the deck bucked beneath her knees once again; the Bolian Commander was dead; blue blood bubbled over a gold uniform collar and P”rel supposed he was a C3 Tactical Officer, assigned for the battle, seeing as she didn’t recognise him.

A distant thud resounded through the metal corridors followed by a hard leap to her left, less violent than before, and P’rel made a note that at least some of the shields must still be up. Flipping a medical tricorder out confirmed what she knew, and P’rel moved on towards the turbo lift. Though assigned to Warspite as an intelligence officer, she was ultimately a medical doctor, and battle stations called for her to attend to that role; based on Deck 3 for the battle, P’rel had responded to the call for a bridge medical team. The Vulcan officer had barely made it beyond her base room though; the same damage to the bridge which necessitated a medical team appeared to have been somewhat calamitous and had caused severe power eruptions at least as far down as her deck. She had so far stabilised, or been unable to help, 4 crew members and she hadn’t made it to the turbo lift yet.

Stepping into the turbo lift, she noticed the abnormal whine of the magnetic systems as the lift moved up the two decks to the bridge, the power systems on this old ship must have been under unbelievable strain trying to keep the tactical and engineering systems running, let alone relative luxuries like turbo lifts. The doors opened, sluggishly, and thick white plasma coolant, tinged red by the alert klaxons, billowed into the small lift space. P’rel stepped forward onto the bridge as the ship lurched suddenly to the right causing her to lose balance and fall to the floor, though at least out of the flow of the ruptured conduit.

“They”re on us!” a voice toward the front of the bridge called out, barely audible above the din of weapons fire crashing against the shields and the rumbling of the hull, being desperately held together with structural integrity fields as Warspite’s helm officer flung the ship through manoeuvres she was never designed to undertake.

P’rel, ducking low to help her balance, quickly crossed the deck to a young human man on the floor in the port fore quarter of the bridge, she whipped out a medical tricorder and begun a triage scan, her Vulcan heart beating with such force that her temples ached with the rhythmic thud. She didn’t know this man well, but knew him to be a security petty officer named Mickey, no doubt posted to the bridge in the event of being boarded.

Another sharp crash and her teeth rattled against each other in her head - “Full power to ventral shields!” came a tired call from the middle of the bridge. Another sharp pitch to her left as the triage readings began to fill the screen. “Axial rotation starboard, protect the core!”. Another crash; her tricorder dropped, another crash; she put a hand out to steady herself. “Peel us away! Fall back and inform Galaxy lead!” The laboured voice once again called out, as she turned to look at Captain Tarry in the central chair. He was old, human and with burns up his left side, clearly from the overloaded relay in the floor just off the Captain’s chair; small pieces of shrapnel peppered his left side and he was clutching at a bleeding wound in his mid chest. Normally relaxed and even a little maverick, to see him so gravely wounded and still in command of his bridge was as devastating as it was inspiring.

P’rel turned on the balls of her feet towards the Captain, and stumbled to the floor as another violent rocking took her balance. It was dispassionate but logical, whomever the young man on the floor was he wasn’t as valuable to the survival of the vessel as the Captain. Within the two steps it took to reach the command platform, Tarry had already seen her coming and raised a hand to say ‘no’. She withdrew back to Mickey on the floor as their heroic Captain pointed her back in that direction.

P’rel’s left hand found her dropped tricorder on the floor and as she lookex confirm Mickey’s massive chest injuries there was a deafening crash above her, she instinctively whipped her head round towards the noise as she was lifted clear off the floor and thrown into a supporting bulkhead between two consoles. Her cry of pain was drowned by the terrible metallic groan on the bridge, a freezing cold crushed her chest briefly and she dropped to the floor coughing in the thin air. P’rel looked up, to see that Captain Tarry’s chair was buried beneath a pile of twisted hull plates and broken support beams, whether he was under there or if he had been taken through the torn ceiling was unclear. A struggling force field shimmered over a large jagged hole which otherwise exposed the smashed bridge to space. Presently not in control of her emotions, her eyes filled with as much fear and shock as those of the other dishevelled crew around the bridge whose own eyes she met.

The momentary stillness was broken, as a shrill alarm filled the air and the remaining functional consoles began to flash directional arrows. “Abandon Ship. Abandon Ship” came the unnervingly calm voice of the ship’s computer. “All hands abandon ship”. She looked down at Mickey’s face, dirty with debris, she squeezed his shoulder goodbye as she stood and made for an escape hatch, unable to move him and illogical to slow herself and others down to attempt to save someone who would likely die regardless. She noted three others moving towards the escape doors at aft as she solemnly began to run away from her home.

“Abandon Ship”

Her hand found that of another.

“Abandon Ship”

The hand closed around hers and began to pull.

“All hands...”

She succumbed to the overwhelming disaster around her, and just allowed the unknown comrade to lead her through the burning broken corridors.

“...abandon ship...”

OFF.

Lieutenant Junior Grade P’rel
Biological Counter-Warfare Officer
USS Warspite