Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Chapter Text

April 5th, 2321
Varpathi System

“We are secured from warp speed,” Ensign Naifeh announced from the Helm station. “We are steady on course at one-quarter impulse, sir.”

“Weaps,” Trujillo called back to Jarrod at Tactical, “give me eyes, 2D.”

A two-dimensional representation of the parsec they had just warped into came to life on the viewer. Approximately one-million kilometers from Reykjavík was a dense field of drifting space vessels and debris, the likely aftermath of a savage battle.

Nearby, the asteroid facility DMS-0149 sat quietly, its crew monitoring the unexpected arrival of these intruders.

“Detecting several semi-intact vessels amidst the flotsam, Captain,” DeSilva noted from Operations.

“I’m seeing alloys consistent with Federation designs, sir,” Garrett noted, undisguised surprise in her voice.

Trujillo shot a concerned look at Glal. There had been no notice of any incursion into Federation space in this region, nor the dispatching of starships to the area.

“Hail the dilithium station,” Trujillo instructed.

A moment later DeSilva advised, “Channel open to the station commander, sir, audio only.”

“This is Captain Trujillo of Reykjavík.”

“Hello, Captain. This is Commander Bai Huang of DMS-0149,” a woman’s voice responded. “Thank you for responding so quickly. This whole scenario has us mystified and a bit spooked, to be perfectly honest. We’ve got robust tactical systems, but we’re stationary and sitting on top of quite a bit of refined dilithium. A fire-fight here would be problematic.”

“I can imagine, Commander,” Trujillo empathized. “Reports have it that whatever this is, it just appeared?”

“Correct, sir. We’re equipped with a Class-IV sensor suite. Nothing that isn’t very well cloaked should be able to sneak up on us from within three light-years, but this whole debris field just popped into existence on our doorstep less than four hours ago.”

“No response to your hails?” Trujillo asked.

“Nothing so far, aside from what we believe to be an automated distress beacon. We detected some movement shortly after it’s arrival, but the whole area was bathed in some kind of chronometric radiation that’s since dissipated. If there was something moving out there, it either left the area while our sensors were occluded or it shut down.”

“Understood. We’ll go check it out, Commander Huang. Keep your sensors on us and be ready to call for the other ships on route to expedite if we manage to kick over the proverbial hornet’s nest.”

“Copy that, Reykjavík.”

Trujillo closed the channel. “Ahead one-eighth impulse.” She pulled her swing-arm console from the side of her command chair and up into her lap, punching in a series of course adjustments. “Mister Naifeh, follow this course around the periphery of the debris zone.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Ops, Science, what are you seeing?” Trujillo prompted.

“I’m picking up at least one Excelsior-class, or what’s left of it, sir,” DeSilva noted, careful to keep her tone neutral.

“And a warp nacelle and strut from a Miranda…” Garrett added.

“Visual,” Trujillo ordered.

The viewscreen magnified the carnage of the presumed battle’s aftermath. Clouds of wreckage floated lazily while the hulks of several ships could be seen adrift in the debris field, some of them still glowing with furious unquenched plasma fires.

“Find me the source of that distress beacon,” Trujillo said.

“Got it, sir.” DeSilva adjusted the viewscreen to display a sizeable vessel which looked to Trujillo like a much larger and bulkier version of a Miranda-class with an under-slung deflector dish and secondary hull nestled between its ventral-mounted nacelles. The ship’s hull was pockmarked with what appeared to be weapons impacts, with several visible hull breaches and a streamer of drive plasma trailing from its port nacelle.

“And we still can’t read the distress signal’s substrate?” Jarrod asked.

“Negative,” DeSilva replied. “Who sends a coded distress signal?”

“Someone at war,” Glal answered gruffly as Trujillo nodded in silent assent.

“I can read their livery from here, sir,” Garrett offered. “USS Bedivere, NCC-62845.”

Glal rose from his station and descended into the well, leaning in to whisper, “Check that against our records, Lieutenant,” to DeSilva.

“No such vessel listed in the Starfleet registry, Commander,” DeSilva noted with more than a hint of skepticism as she looked askance at the XO.

“Open a channel,” Trujillo instructed.

“Channel open,” DeSilva confirmed.

“Unidentified vessel, this is Captain Nandi Trujillo of the Federation warship Reykjavík. We have responded to your distress call and stand ready to assist with rescue and recovery operations.”

While they awaited a reply, Trujillo looked from Ops to Tactical. “DeSilva, Jarrod, I want to know who they were fighting. Find me something intact, or failing that, enough wreckage to give us some idea who or what can dish out this kind of damage.”

Meanwhile, Ensign Garrett had been compiling a list of registry numbers gleaned from pieces of wreckage large enough for them to be read. She turned to Trujillo from the Science station. “Captain, one of the registries I’m seeing is for the Chandigarh. I got the number off a piece of her dorsal saucer.”

Trujillo returned the younger woman’s gaze evenly. “What about it, Mister Garrett?”

“She’s a Constellation-class ship, sir, and according to our records, she’s currently under construction at Starbase 17. Not expected to begin shakedown and speed trials for another six months. Hers is the numerically lowest registry of those I’ve been able to identify.”

Trujillo just stared, the bottom dropping out of her stomach as the reality of what Garrett was telling her hit home. “Thank you, Ensign.”

“This is Captain Bonnie Steenburg of the Federation Starship Bedivere,” came the response. “Reykjavík, be advised Jem’Hadar vessels are likely still active in the debris field. Approach with caution. Our warp engines are down and we are on emergency power. We have just restored comms, and our sensors are still down–what’s the status of the station?”

Trujillo cast a glance at Garrett, who was already on the ball. After a few moments of fruitless searching of various databases, Garrett shook her head as Trujillo prepared to open the comms channel. “Nothing on ‘Jem’Hadar’ in our database, sir, unless this task force was attacked by an Orion frozen dessert. Jan’Ha-da… that’s as close as it gets.”

Trujillo toggled the comms open on her armrest interface. “Bedivere, the station appears intact. We stand ready to transport over engineering and medical personnel, should you require such. Can you send along visual referents for the Jem’Hadar vessels, as they may be difficult to recognize in all this debris.”

There was a significant pause before the response, and when it came, it sounded puzzled. “Sending now. Medical and engineering teams would be welcome, but we’re sitting ducks in here. You’ll be putting your own personnel at significant risk.”

“Understood, Captain, but risk is what we do. I’ll start sending our teams over now, and then we’ll raise shields and make a circuit of the debris field looking for any more… Jem’Hadar.”

Trujillo looked up to see Glal staring daggers at her from his auxiliary console on the upper level of the bridge.

She assiduously ignored him.

The viewer shifted to display a strange-looking, compact vessel, identified by the accompanying script as a Scarab-class Jem’Hadar heavy fighter.

“At least we know what to look for now, sir,” Jarrod observed dryly.

“What’s a poleron-cannon?” DeSilva queried, still digesting the technical brief that accompanied the visuals from Bedivere.

Glal rose from his station and came over to the captain’s chair, leaning in to speak in a whisper. “This has all the makings of a cross-temporal event, Captain. There are protocols for this, and you know that.”

She replied in an equally conspiratorial tone. “And I’m sure they have the same protocols, which is why I’m fishing for as much information as we can get before they realize their mistake and clam up like an Aldebaran shellmouth.”

In a louder tone she said, “Mister Glal, I’d like you to lead the team over to Bedivere to assist with medical and engineering support.”

Trujillo turned her attention back to the comms. “We’ve received your data-packet, Captain. Thank you. We’re a bit late to the party. Can you tell us what happened here?”

* * *

“Well, Commander, I have good news at last.”

Commander Diane Chester paused in her repairs, peering down over her shoulder at Lt. Commander Var Bena. Chester was a tall human of mixed Chinese and European ancestry, at thirty young for an executive officer. Her long black hair had pulled its way out of her tight bun over the course of the battle and subsequent, giving off flyaways in every direction, and her dark eyes were red-rimmed. She’d been the officer of the watch when they’d gotten the distress call from the dilithium refinery; she’d definitely been up for at least twenty-six hours, but had stopped counting some time ago.

Bena didn’t look good, either. The usually affable Bolian was all but drooping with exhaustion, but a very tired grimace that bore some resemblance to a smile was playing around his mouth. “Help’s arrived. The USS Reykjavík under Captain Trujillo’s sending over engineering and medical teams as we speak. The Captain needs you back on the Bridge.”

Chester very carefully secured the hatch she’d been working on, and equally carefully secured her tools. The only sign of the tension Bena’s remark had provoked was the tightness around her mouth. “Captain Trujillo? You’re sure about that?”

Bena shrugged. “As sure as I can be, with comms in their current condition.” That was, only a few lines functioning, and none of the commbadges.

Chester looked at the closed hatch, and said, “Fuck,” to it very quietly, then slid the rest of the way out of the Jeffries tube. This she did with some care; at a lanky six feet, she’d had way too much experience banging her head on crawlway ceilings.

Bena watched her with some concern, not unreasonable–it wasn’t the kind of news he expected to be received so grimly. “Commander?”

“Tell Captain Steenburg I’m on my way,” she said, “and not to talk too much!”

Then she bolted for the remaining functional turbolift.

* * *

Chester had caught her breath by the time the turbolift doors opened on the Bridge, which stank just as badly of burnt carpet as it had when she’d headed down to deal with damage to the engines. The smoke had cleared a little, though, and the wavering static on the viewscreen had begun to resemble an image. She pulled her uniform jacket into some kind of order, looked around, and inwardly winced.

Captain Steenburg was indeed talking too much. As Chester hurried down to the center seat, she was saying, “We were defending DMS-0149 from a Dominion attack. They’ve been pushing hard in this sector. An attack wing got through our line; as far as we can tell, they destroyed the facility. The explosion did a hell of a lot more damage than the original attack did.”

“Sir,” said Chester, sliding into her seat next to Steenburg’s. “A word.”

Steenburg glanced at her, a not now, I’m on a call look.

“Sir,” said Chester again, a little more firmly. “If you’re speaking to Captain Trujillo there, we’ve gone back in time by at least fifty years.” Unspoken: please, sir. Stop talking. Right now.

Steenburg gave her a long expressionless look, then turned her attention back to the viewscreen. “Reykjavík, you have probably heard my remarkably suspicious XO’s concern. What year is it?”

Trujillo expelled a sigh, as though having been caught by the principal. She touched a control interface, adjusting the audio-only transmission to a visual feed.

Trujillo stood wearing what by the late 24th century would be known by more modern Starfleet personnel as the classic ‘monster maroons.’

“It’s… 2321 by the Terran Julian calendar, Captain. Your XO is correct, it appears your task force and the remains of the ships you were fighting have somehow traveled back in time.”

“The explosion,” said Chester, resigned. “That much dilithium going up at once…”

“We’re lucky it was only fifty years,” said Steenburg. “Thank you, Captain. Unfortunately, the stardate doesn’t make us any less in need of help.”

Chester flashed her a look of alarm at the same time the viewer cleared. She tried to smooth her reaction away, but it was probably too late.

Trujillo smirked, gesturing towards Chester on the viewscreen while looking to her own exec. “See, Commander, she’s no happier than you are. You could form a club. Maybe get matching shirts?”

“Commander Chester is our resident history buff,” Steenburg explained. “And therefore our officer best qualified to determine how to carry out this operation with the minimum of outrage from the Department of Temporal Investigations.”

This time, Chester didn’t even bother covering the appalled look she shot her captain.

Trujillo frowned. “Those bookish time researchers? You have to worry about angering them in the future?” She shrugged. “Regardless, I have personnel ready to beam over, but given the circumstances I can understand if you don’t want them poking around on your ship. Our medical facilities are at your disposal, Captain.”

“Unfortunately, in the future, the nerds have teeth,” said Steenburg with a grin. “Be damned to them; I’ve got a lot of hurting people here and a badly damaged ship. We’ll take any assistance you can give, Captain. Transmitting our casualty list and preliminary damage reports now.”

Trujillo looked to DeSilva, who nodded to the captain as the aforementioned data began to arrive. She gestured to Glal. “Commander, lead the rescue teams over and make sure we’re adhering to temporal-encounter protocols.”

“You mean aside from boarding the starship from the future which contains technology significantly more advanced than our own, sir?” he asked acerbically.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Chester, in much the same tone.

Trujillo produced a genuine smile. “I can tell already, you two are going to get along wonderfully.”

* * *