It came to Charlie MacColgan, there in USS Melbourne‘s stripped-bare captain’s ready room, that this was the third ship of the same era that she’d served on in a row. And it was the noise that brought this to her attention- the steady, humming thrum of old engines propelling this old ship through the black. She’d never noticed it, now that she thought back on it, aboard the older Jouett– the old scout ran dead-silent at warp until something broke with the engines, and then she was a rattling, shaking mess. It’d been dulled on Oakland, overhauls over the years keeping her somewhat more up to date, but it was still there, that identical ever-present hum that she heard as clearly on Melbourne as she did on Alceste.

Melbourne‘s last captain had done a good job of clearing out the ready room. She could almost smell the sanitizer clinging to the desk, the scent of a deep-cleaned carpet under her soles. The shelves were sad and bare, even dust removed from their barren, shining-clean surfaces. All but one of the pictures hanging on the walls had been removed, empty hooks left where they used to be. The desk left sparse except for an old-fashioned communications terminal, something she was almost surprised to see was still installed at all.

But it was the sole remaining picture, hanging on the back of the room, that constantly caught her eye. An Excelsior-class, before a backdrop of two stars turning the gas of a nebula a rich blue. Even a still portrait almost made the sleek, long cruiser seem as though she was dancing through the nebula.

Carved into the bottom of the frame with a reverent hand, a name and dates. USS MELBOURNE. NCC-62043. 2354-2367.

2367. What an ominous year to lose a starship in.

The door chimed, snapping the provisional captain out of her reverie- she blinked, cleared her throat, adjusted her collar. “Enter.”

Internally, she let out a small sigh of relief when the visage of, not a new junior officer coming to meet their temporary CO, but a familiar hulking Andorian stepped through the door. “Captain,” she announced, then paused. “… Commander? One of those is right.”

“Aye, good enough.” She let one corner of her lips twitch up into a half-smile before gesturing for her friend to sit, dropping into her own chair on the other side of the desk. “Take a seat. Nae reason ta’ waste a comfy chair, eh?”

“Better than the ones on Oakland, for sure.” Shymel sank into the seat and leaned back in it, her eyes glancing around the almost-empty yet still comfortable room. “This ship feels like a time capsule. Warm wall paint, comfortable seat cushions, the carpet. When are we, the 2360s?”

“Enjoy it while ye can,” Charlie replied with a huff of a laugh. “We’ll be back on a modern ship ‘fore ye know it. Back tae steel walls, hard floors, ‘n overusin’ the holodecks. ‘s a right shame- I was lookin’ forward tae checkin’ out the lounges.”

“Maybe on the way back.” Shymel paused, let the silence hang, and then huffed out a reluctant sigh. If only they weren’t in such a rush. “Anyways… report on the ship’s condition. It’s not exactly good. Not bad, but Melbourne isn’t exactly fresh from the shipyard.”

Charlie had to ignore the mounting feeling of dread in her gut. “Lay it on me, Commander. What’s th’ damage?”

“The main ventral phaser’s out- power’s cut by a patched-over hull breach on Deck 19 and we don’t have the supplies to fix it on the ship. Starboard pylon phaser’s running on reduced power, but half the thing got disintegrated and nobody’s even bothered to patch over the hole in the pylon, which, fair enough. Not like anyone lives there.” The Andorian paused just long enough to shrug. “Shields are at half-power because someone had disassembled the generator to fix something internal, and there’s only so much T’Vara can do to get it back up and running on the fly. Impulse engines are all set, but T’Vara says we should limit ourselves to Warp 8 unless absolutely necessary- something something, doesn’t want to overload the starboard nacelle power conduits. Basically, big hole in the pylon is being a pain in the ass.”

“… aye, pre’ey sure they usually are.” Charlie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “An’ the crew?”

“486 out of a standard crew of 750.” Shymel grimaced at that. “Most of them were supposed to be with us on Omaha, and another 200 or so were scared up from ships either lost in the Blackout or otherwise stuck in dock for repairs. But we’re still running with about two-thirds the crew we should have.”

The silence that settled was punctuated, eventually, by a quiet muttered curse and a sigh. Charlie knew this was a hash job, but just how bad off they were was only just about becoming apparent. “… sae, we got a reduced crew and reduced armaments and reduced speed and reduced shields, runnin’ off tae answer a distress call, an’ we’re the only Starfleet ship in range?”

“Yep. Just about.” Shymel’s face suddenly perked up, a stressed grin forming as she remembered yet another bout of bad news. “Oh yeah. And, to top it all off: we have no torpedoes. Melbourne had her magazines emptied and offloaded for safety, and we didn’t have the time to load any back on.”

“Bloody wonderful.” Charlie rose from her seat with a subdued wince, legs twinging for a moment before she snatched her cane off the armrest. “We’re sure nae fightin’ our way outta this one, Shy. We’re gonna have tae do this the ol’-fashioned way.”

“Diplomacy?” the towering, newly-minted XO asked, standing up with her.

“… an’ maybe a spot ‘a bluffin’, if that doesnae work. We’ll see when we get there.” She sucked in a breath, steeled her nerves. Her first mission as captain of anything, and it was in a damaged heavy cruiser with half her main battery disabled, no torpedoes, reduced shields, and a skeleton crew. Their best bet now would be to talk their way out. “How long ’til we arrive?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes, give or take,” Shymel replied cooly, almost nonchalant- burying her own worries well beneath the facade. “I hope your dictation is good.”

“Aye,” Charlie called after her, as the door slid open and the Andorian departed, “so do I.”