Star Trek: A Runners Conviction

A distressing situation

   A bright light awoke Enrake as he found himself lying on a cold table. He squinted, trying to block out the effects of the light but soon found something worse than the light. A headache. “Ugh, what happened?” He asked, putting a hand on his head.
   “You hit your head.” Dr. Voss replied, running a scan withm a device on him. Enrake turned to face him with his eyes only. “This seems to be a very literal crew.” He put his head back down and groaned.
   “I do not understand, a literal? Do we not all exist?” Voss replied, finishing his scan. If Enrake could audibly roll his eyes, he would. “Nevermind, doctor. I will just have to take some time getting used to the crew. Am I free to go?”
   “Not quite yet, Captain. Your cranium took a significant blow. I am still waiting to get results of your MRI, until then you are unfit for command.” Voss walked through a door in the medical office and Enrake shot up. “Unfit for command! Who are you to make that decision?” Enrake sat up in the bed to face Voss.
The doctor came back through the door, holding a datapad with information on it. “I am the chief medical officer, as such, the only person on this vessel who can order you to stand down until further notice.” He looked down at the datapad. “Remarkable, that blow to the head would have significantly damaged a lesser being, but your Betazoid DNA is likely the only reason you are in as great condition as you are.”
The headache still lingered, but Enrake could not sit still. “It has its uses. I understand your concern, Doctor, but without a first officer, there is no one to command the bridge, therefore-”
   “Incorrect. Lieutenant Commander Matheson is currently presiding in your absence.” Enrake grew impatient. First we barely make it out of the dock, and now this vulcan thinks he can restrain me. “I am going to relieve him of duty. If you’ll excuse me, doctor.”
   Enrake stood up, balanced himself as he almost fell over once his feet hit the floor and started to walk towards the exit to a corridor when he felt something that could only be described as a clamp attach to his neck. He tried to take a step forward, but felt himself black out again.
   “Daniel, how much longer until we reach Algon?” Matheson asked with a scowl. He ran his fingers along his chin line and awaited an answer.
   “3 hours and 12 minutes. All systems are still green.” Helmsman Daniel Marley responded, monitoring things on his switchboard.
   “Good. The sooner we get there, the better. I look forward to leading an away team and getting away from this Vulcan.” LT Marley turned around to face Matheson. “You are not fit for an away mission, sir. The Captain is incapacitated and we have no first officer. Leading an away team would be delegated to next in command.” Matheson continued to scowl. “Rules, rules. Where is the passion? Where is the glory in all of that?”
   “You are with the wrong people if you are looking for an abolishing of rules, sir. I thought that is why you defected?” Ensign Johnson replied.
   Matheson quickly retorted. “My defection reasons are my own, ensign! One thing that Romulans and the Federation have in common is we will not tolerate insubordination!” The bridge quieted, but thankfully the captains chair buzzed. “This is the bridge!” Matheson answered, his voice elevated.
   “Ah, LCDR Matheson. I do not see the need for the hostility in your voice.” Matheson took a moment to respond and hit the button again. “What do you want, vulcan?” Several of the crew members glanced over their shoulders to look at Matheson. “The Captain will be down for longer than expected, but should make a full recovery and be fit to return in no more than 24 hours.”
   “Acknowledged, Matheson out.” He pounded the communicator once more and almost everyone on the bridge sighed. It is if they collectively non verbally said, dang it!. Matheson stood up and looked around. “What? Do you have problems with my style of command? Then come, speak up!” The deafening silence seemed to take the spirit out of everyone on the bridge. “Now, if nobody seems to have a problem anymore, let us continue on our course. Marley, continue course, increase to warp 8.”
   “Aye, sir.” The helmsman slid his finger up slightly and the ship accelerated in response. Matheson leaned back in his the chair and slipped into a deep thought.
   A crowd of people filled the recreation room. There were still some seats open at the bar, but most people tried to get a window seat and stare out into the unknown. It wasn’t as pretty looking out the window while in warp, but it was still an odd feeling watching as the galaxy passed you by as you accelerated faster than light.
   A man in a red uniform took a seat, far removed from the patrons in the room. He lifted his glass to his mouth and savored a drink. The aroma tingled his tastebuds before he swallowed it. It was cherry flavored lager. The lager part of it was very strong, but the cherry slowly moved it's way in to subtly transition from lager to a tart taste. There wasn't much he enjoyed in life, but this was one.
   It had been 3 weeks since his last combat mission and 2 weeks since his operation. Everything was proceeding well throughout the operation until the squad realized they had planned for Gorn, not Klingon. No casualties occurred, but Brent had only tangled with a Klingon once before. The scar on his chest told the tale.
Brent switched from a heavy phasers rifle to a short, double bladed weapon to meet the need to go hand to hand with the much more physically stronger Klingon.
   Klingons were not known for their finesse with a sword, but more their brute force and extremly powerful attacks. The difficult part was evading the attacks, not parrying them. The Klingon roared a battle cry and quickly slashed right to left and then changing to a double slash at Brent. Brent jumped back evading the first attack and then throwing his blade up horizontally the block the second. The sheer force of the Klingon sent him stumbling back.
   Brent grounded his foot to get a footing, but the Klingon came with another volley of attacks. A powerful uppercut knocked Brent off of his feet and flying backwards. When he landed, the Klingon began another charge and leapt onto Brent, pounding at his chest. Brent threw his sword up, catching the Klingons hands and ripping his hands apart, but this just seemed to anger him more. With a swipe, the Klingon knocked the sword out of Brents hand, and also shattering his wrist.
   The pain instantly shot up Brents arm, almost to the point that it went numb. His hand crippled into a loosely balled fist, but he had to find a way to survive this attack. The Klingon shouted another battle cry and sent his fist crashing down into Brents chest. One single blow wasn't enough to encave his chest, but he could feel his ribcage begin to shift inward. A few more volleys and he would be pounding a pile of mush.
   Brent coughed up blood and tried to bring his other arm up to defend, but the violent Klingon swiped it away and raised his fists to finish the job. In a desperate measure, Brent was able to grab his short knife and dig it into the Klingons side. He jostled him off of Brent, but not for long. The Klingon reached for the dagger in a rage, missing with his hands a few times because they were shaking so hard. After he finally grabbed it, he wiped the blood on his hand and threw it aside. In a language Brent did not understand, the Klingon shouted again and jumped on top of him again, this time taking a new strategy.
   The dark op Lieutenant experienced a new pain as the Klingon dug both of his thumbs into Brents eyes, crushing them. There were so many sensations-all painful-that Brent felt. The pressure on his skull, the feeling of his eyes tearing and being squished like a grape, pressure being applied to his nasal area. He squired and screamed in agony, trying to escape the Klingon. His legs kicked out and he flung his arms doing anything to escape the grasp. A bzzzt echoed against the rocks and the Klingon stopped.
   The large warrior stumped forward, and a second barrage of phaser attacks shot through the night, hitting him in the chest, this time at a higher setting, piercing and creating an exit wound. Brent heard him the Klingon fall to one knee and one last phaser blast stuck him in the back of the head. Klingon or not, no one was going to withstand that strong of a phaser assault and live. The Klingon fell to the ground, dead.
   Brent exhaled and began living in the present again, taking another sip of his lager. He slowly and cautiously reached his hand up to his face, bringing his index and pointer finger along the scar that formed along his cheekbone and up his eye. Next to his right eye was a small, cold button. He wasn't able to bring himself to using it yet. He felt so helpless using it. It was a handicap; something he had to use in order to lead a normal life. He took another drink of his lager.
   Would today be the day he pressed the button? Would he finally be too tired of walking into walls, tripping over chairs and cautiously reaching out to make sure his path was clear? Or would he persist on refusing to live his life differently from before the accident? His finger shook with anxiety. He had such an inner battle going on inside his head. He wanted to live again. He wanted to feel normal again, but he wanted to be the same still. A small voice in his head told him that would never be the case again. A larger voice in his head told him the small voice was right. He sighed and dropped his hand. He was disappointed, he was angry, he was frustrated. The next time he came in contact with a Klingon again, he would be ready.
   "Helmsman, status." Matheson queried, leaning forward in the captains chair. It had been a quiet trip since the Vulcan gave an update on the Captain. Either people didn't have anything to say or they would be afraid of what the Romulan would do if they talked.
   "ETA 1 hour out from planet Algon, sir." Helmsman Marley responded, checking his board. "We are picking up a distress signal from a nearby system, sir. Audio only." Matheson tilted his head, his curiosty piqued.
   "Put it through, LT."
   Static started the transmission, but after a few seconds a womans voice came on the line.
   "Please, anyone, we need immediate medical assistance. Our colony was attacked suddenly and violently! They bombared us from orbit and then descended on us without any warning or reason! Please, we have children down here dying!"
   Matheson reclined in his chair, putting his hands together. "Ensign, are we able to determine what species they are from their message?" Marley scoffed to himself as to why that even mattered.
   "They are Vulcan, sir. It is an established outpost in this sector, and the message was transmitted within the last 12 hours."
   "Disregard message, ensign and continue course to Algon."
   Daniel lifted his head and moved his helms board aside. "Computer, contact sick bay."
   "Belay that order, computer. Marley, do you have a problem with my orders?" Matheson asked, standing from his chair.
   "Those people need our help, and that is the mission of Starfleet! To seek out new lifeforms and to explore the galaxy! We can't just abandon these people!"
   "We can and we will, LT! My people do not trust th-" Before Matheson could finish Daniel interjected.
   "I don't give a damn about your people. You are not WITH your people anymore, you are on a Starfleet mission, on a Starfleet vessel wearing a Starfleet uniform." The room grew silent once more as the confrontation between the two got more heated than before. Daniel took two steps closer, going nose to nose with Matheson, an individual who was both taller and with a bigger physique than him. "When you put that uniform on it is with the expectation that you earned it."
   Matheson took a few deep, silent breathes before speaking. "Ensign," Matheson started, without averting his gaze from Daniel. "Set a course for the Clay system and to the origin of that distress signal. Warp 7."