As the Captain informed her of the First Officer’s condition, Viska nodded and prepared to go to the Medbay. As her leg continued to burn, Viska snarled at a passing Ensign.

“If you have time to gape at your betters, you have time to assist me,” she growled. She knew, from all too painful experience, that most young bucks of the Empire’s fleet would rather she dig out their eyes with dull spoons than make them do the smelly, dirty, glory-free work of fixing bodies. Fortunately, her current state was far fiercer looking than normal. As she entered the Medbay, unhappy Ensign in tow, she thanked her foresight in recruiting an assistant. The First Officer was a mess of shrapnel and burns, with a particularly nasty lump over his eye distorting his normally flawless eyebrow in a grotesque parody of a brow ridge. In this state, she couldn’t risk a pain killer, and that concussion was unlikely to have left him with his usual self-control.

“You will hold Maleth down as I work, if he flinches, he will die on my table, no weapon in his hand. You now stand between him, and a dishonorable death. Do. Not. Fail. Him.”

“Yes Ma’am,” the Ensign squeaked. Viska snorted, downed a shot of potent alcohol from the bottom drawer of her desk, and retrieved her surgical kit.

“Let’s clean up the mess you’ve made of yourself, eh, Warrior?” she asked Maleth, his eyes hazily locking onto a spot maybe a hands-breadth from her face.

“It is a good day to die,” he mumbled, the words slurring as she prepared to cut free a jagged chunk of steel.

“It’s a terrible day to die,” Viska shot back. “I was on an away mission; you know the Medbay goes to Gre’thor in a shipping crate whenever I leave. I don’t even know where my supply of weapons for you to hold is. You’ll just have to live.”

“Ha,” Maleth laughed, then shook in a spasm of pain. Viska snapped and the Ensign held the officer still as another fragment slid free. Viska nodded at her impromptu aide and focused once more on the mass of meat in front of her that should be a warrior.

They had work to do.

Ta’Koth led the blademaster down to the torpedo tubes. Klaxons echoeded as they sprinted through the passageways dancing with blinking alert lights. They passed wounded Klingons lazily lying on the deck instead of performing their battle duties.

Soon they were in the torpedo bay.

“The standard yield may not suffice for these cowards,” Ta’Koth said as he pulled a toolkit off of the wall. “If we program the detonation for tighter compression the force should increase again by half. That should be sufficient to destroy the Romulans.”

He opened the panel and began to work.

“Aye, Captain.” Tate said, while moving for the science station. Had the Klingon ship been the Yamaguchi or the Bolivar, Tactical would have served her purpose just fine. However Klingon tech, especially in sensors lagged behind Starfleet. To actually hit a cloaked ship, she’d have to work directly at Science.

Taking the empty chair and ignoring the splatter of purple blood on the deck and lower station casing, the Andorian began typing furiously. “K’vok, I need you at Gunner. We’re going to flood space with a metrion pulse. It will momentary irradiate any tachyon particles for a few seconds, the fresher, the brighter. But we can only pull this trick once because the tachyons will have shifted on the spectrum. When you see a flare-up over….17 alums, fire. Don’t wait for a targeting lock, fire with torpedoes to wide detonation.”

Admittedly, Garg did not know too much about how to program photon torpedo yields. His preference for combat was up close and personal. However, what he did know plenty about was battle– not the specifics of this kind of battle, but battle in general.

As they passed the wounded Klingons, Garg stopped, banging his fist against the wall with a loud thud. “Why do you lie there as if the end has already come? Warriors, rise! Fight to your last breath! There is still glory and honor to be won on this day, come with me and seize it!”

He pulled a crewman up who is badly wounded. “Brother, you will see Sto-vo-kor soon. Onward!”

He managed to rouse the wounded Klingons enough that they are able to shuffle back to their stations, making Ta’Koth’s job easier.

Garg himself followed closely behind, arriving in the torpedo bay. Things were rather damaged here, too, and it seemed that the loading mechanism for the torpedoes was one of the casualties.

No matter, for Garg. Good thing that brute strength is another of his specialties. He picked up one of the sleek torpedoes with a loud grunt, shoving it into the tube himself. “Here we are. Prepare to taste Klingon fury, Romulan scum! Qapla!!”

At the weapons console K’vok was already reassessing the situation the Remorseless was in. Many warriors had been harmed, but that was Viska’s department, K’vok on the hand had his concerns with the safety of the ship. He already had a lot of work ahead of him. The Romulans would pay for what they did to a Klingon ship, to his ship.

As the tachyons started lighting up K’vok punched in the commands for a cluster spread of torpedoes. The ship decloaked for a few seconds to fire, luckily they were too close for the Romulans to have enough time to act. As the torpedoes detonated the bridge crew watched as the Romulan ship detonated with an implosion. K’vok gave a smug grin before heading for engineering. Another glorious battle had been won and now he had at least a week’s worth of work ahead of him.