Smoke and Silence
Posted on Wed Jul 23rd, 2025 @ 5:07pm by Major Hastios Eilfaren
Edited on on Wed Jul 23rd, 2025 @ 5:26pm
941 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
In The Nick Of Time
Location: Bridge, USS Moriarty
Timeline: MD004, 0313 hrs (Stardate 44002.3 — Battle of Wolf 359)
The red alert klaxons screamed louder than any thought in his head.
Smoke already curled along the seams of the ceiling, and the acrid stench of burning circuitry hit him first—hot, sharp, and unforgiving. Tactical console sparking. Fire suppression systems cycling like they couldn’t keep up.
The Moriarty shook hard. Another blast. Another direct hit from the Borg Cube looming like a goddamned monolith in the void.
“Shields at thirty-eight percent!” called Lieutenant Sera from ops, her voice barely heard over the screeching metal and sparks cascading across the upper bulkhead.
“Evasive pattern Delta-Epsilon!” barked Captain Vos, bracing himself against the railing between helm and tactical.
“They’re adapting!” someone else called from engineering support.
Of course they were. They always did.
Another rumble. This one deeper—bone deep. A plasma conduit blew behind them, and two officers were flung across the deck. One hit the bulkhead with a sickening crunch. Didn’t move.
Three ships down already, Hastios thought grimly. He could hear it through fleet comms—dying voices, static crackling with final screams. The Roosevelt’s gone... Melbourne crippled... Kyushu breaking up—
“Direct fire, port nacelle!” he shouted from tactical. “We’ve lost impulse flow!”
Captain Vos was moving fast now—shoulder-to-shoulder with his XO, Major Veran, conferring quick, decisive orders. They’d trained for this. Every Marine aboard had.
But nothing—nothing—prepared you for staring death in the face and watching it look back, blank and unstoppable.
The Borg Cube loomed across the viewscreen. Green lances carved through Federation hulls like butter. The debris field outside was filling with bodies.
“Target their primary tractor emitter,” Veran shouted, voice tight. “High-yield phaser burst, full spread!”
“Aye, sir—firing!” Hastios snapped back.
Beams lit up from the Moriarty’s forward arrays, lancing into the Cube. They bit, burned. For a second—just a second—the Cube shuddered.
“Confirmed damage!” Sera yelled, eyes wide.
Then came the response. Not a warning. Not a delay.
Just pain.
A beam sliced through the forward hull like a knife through meat. The Moriarty howled.
The deck lifted beneath their feet. Something exploded behind the captain. He turned, stunned—eyes wide—then his chest was gone in a flash of plasma. Vaporised.
Veran had half a second to shout before the same beam caught the upper level and dropped burning debris onto him. The XO collapsed—crushed under steel and flame.
Silence, then chaos. Screams. Sparks. Blood. Consoles exploding. The helm was unmanned. The bridge filled with smoke and fire.
Hastios pulled himself upright. He felt the weight of command settle over him not with ceremony, but with smoke and blood and no one else left standing.
He didn’t hesitate.
“This is Master Sergeant Eilfaren,” he barked across the comm. “I have the conn.”
“Auxiliary helm to standby. Route controls to tactical. Reroute main power from life support if you have to—I want phasers online!”
Crew scrambled. They obeyed. Trust came fast when there was no other choice.
He moved to the centre seat—not with pride, but necessity. “Sera, casualty report.”
“Twenty confirmed, more unaccounted for. Medical is—shields at five percent!”
“Weapons?”
“Two forward arrays. Photon tubes one and two, armed.”
“Lock them. Fire on my mark.”
Another blast rocked the ship. One of the overhead beams cracked and fell beside him, missing his head by inches. The ship groaned like a dying animal.
“Weapons locked!”
“Mark!”
The torpedoes launched.
Two seconds of silence. Then, a burst. They hit. Not hard enough to cripple, but enough to push the Cube’s attention elsewhere.
“Power down all but life support,” Hastios ordered. “Emergency mode. No emissions. Make us look dead.”
The lights dimmed. Consoles flickered. The bridge fell quiet.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Sera asked softly.
Hastios didn’t answer. Not yet. He stood at the centre of a battlefield, surrounded by his dead, the blood still warm, the smoke still biting.
But as the Borg Cube drifted away—choosing another target—he exhaled. Just once.
They weren’t heroes. They weren’t even victors.
But they were still alive.
And for now, that was enough.
The deck beneath him vanished.
In its place—black.
Then breath.
Then light.
He woke hard.
Sheets damp. Jaw clenched. The Herodotus ceiling above him, not the burning wreckage of the Moriarty. His chest rose and fell once—twice—before he sat upright, hand reflexively brushing the spot where his side had taken shrapnel thirty-one years ago.
It still ached in the cold.
The room was quiet but tense, like his body still hadn't caught up to the fact the war was over. His quarters were sparse: weights stacked in one corner, a blade hanging on the wall, a shelf of old medals he never asked for. He scrubbed a hand over his face, took a breath, and let the ghosts settle back down again.
They never left.
He dressed without ceremony. Black tank, grey trousers, boots laced tight. The scars were still there—inside and out.
By the time he stepped into the corridor, the mask was back on. Quiet confidence. Measured strength. A man you followed, without ever asking why.
But inside?
He still heard the screams. Still smelled the fire. Still felt the blood cooling on his hands.
And some part of him, still sitting in that command chair, kept the count of the dead.
He carried them all.
Every day.
A Post By
Major Hastios Eilfaren
Chief Security & Tactical Officer
Second Officer
USS Herodotus DTI-30656
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