There'll Be Time Later
Posted on Sun Jun 7th, 2026 @ 4:02pm by Lieutenant Jean-Baptiste Dorsainvil
1,019 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Peril at the Unification Accords
Location: Starfighter Hangar Bay, USS Astrea
Timeline: MD011, 1355 Hours
The rumble of Astrea’s impulse reactors and the hiss of hydraulic systems created a symphony of sounds on the hangar deck despite the red alert status reflecting off the grim faces of the deck crew.
Third Squadron’s starfighters sat in a crooked line on the hangar deck, tractor crews towing them into their assigned maintenance positions alongside Reaper and his one remaining wingman. Fresh scoring marked the hulls of several craft. Spectre’s bird bore a long black gouge across the starboard wing. Foxglove’s starfighter looked worse, one maneuvering thruster assembly hanging open where a disruptor blast had nearly torn it apart.
The pilots climbed down from their cockpits without a word. The joking and the swagger from early were now gone–it had been only twenty minutes ago they were trading insults over the comms.
Now Hydra and Fire Dancer were dead.
Foxglove ripped her helmet off so hard that her curls exploded free around her shoulders.
“No.” She shook her head violently. “No. No, that’s bullshit.”
Two hangar deck crewmembers gave her a wide berth as they approached her wounded bird.
“They didn’t even have a chance.” She began to pace back and forth with gloved hands on her hips, her brow furrowed and her eyes hardened and fixed on something in front of her that seemed invisible to everyone else.
“They didn’t even see the damned thing.”
A nearby toolkit caught the full force of her boot. It skidded across the deck, the force of the impact throwing it open when it hit the bulkhead, sockets and spanners scattering across the grated deck plating.
No one stopped her because no one had the energy to.
This was a common reaction for Foxglove–known to everyone else as Ensign Maria Ramos Quintero. Her outbursts were completely in-line with her reputed short temper.
Several meters away, Spectre–Ensign Randy Rourke–sat heavily on the mobile access stairs leading to his cockpit. His flight suit was soaked with sweat and his face had gone pale beneath the freckles, giving him a sickly appearance.
His thousand-yard stare was only punctuated by his flight helmet slipping from his fingers. The hard shell struck the deck with a hollow sound and rolled away. Nobody made a move to retrieve it.
“I saw them.” His words were hoarse and barely above a whisper. “I saw that warbird decloak… and I saw the energy discharge hit them.”
Astrea suddenly shuddered beneath their feet. A deep vibration rolled through the hangar deck. Somewhere outside the ship’s bulkheads and struts, Astrea’s weapons were answering the Romulan warbird’s.
Foxglove seemed oblivious to the red alert lighting bouncing off her face and deepening the strands of auburn hair matted to her forehead. She turned and kicked a cargo crate. The impact sent pain shooting up her leg.
She kicked it again anyway.
“They were right there!”
Another kick.
“We were right there!”
Another.
“Maria.”
Taqqiq’s voice cut through the hangar. It wasn’t loud nor was it angry, but it was softly firm.
Foxglove ended her tirade, chest still heaving and eyes red. For a long moment, it seemed as though her head might pop off like a champagne cork. Instead, she simply looked away–perhaps to hide the unbidden tears.
Taqqiq stood near her own fighter, helmet tucked beneath one arm. Her expression had not changed since they made their combat landing. She was a stone. Controlled and cold. Exactly what a squadron leader was supposed to be.
“There’ll be time for this later.”
Foxglove laughed bitterly, still turned away and facing the bulkhead with her hands planted neatly on her hips.
“Later?”
“Yes.”
The deck trembled again. Another weapons discharge in all likelihood, she thought.
Taqqiq’s eyes lifted to the ceiling of the hangar bay.
“They’re still engaged.” She crossed to where Foxglove stood. “Hydra and Fire Dancer don’t need us standing around feeling sorry for ourselves while the ship is under attack.”
Foxglove swallowed hard enough for the others to see her body tremble slightly.
A few meters away, Taqqiq shifted her attention to Ensign Rourke.
“Spectre.”
There was no response.
“Randy.”
Slowly, Spectre looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and he seemed dazed.
Taqqiq pointed toward the helmet resting across the deck.
“Grab your helmet. Let’s go.”
He stared at her for a moment and there was no argument and no smart-ass remark. The young man had been melted-down and all that remained was a boy who had lost two friends in an instant.
Spectre stood, wiping his nose on his sleeve and crossed the deck to retrieve his helmet.
Nearby, Tuilax stood silently beside his unscathed starfighter. The Bolian’s face revealed almost nothing, but his eyes followed Spectre as he reached down to gently pick up his helmet.
Hydra had been one of his closest friends and the silence around him seemed heavier than the rest.
A hatch at the far end of the hangar bay was opened and a team of Starfleet Marines entered at a brisk pace, phaser rifles at the ready. One of the marines spotted the gathered pilots and raised a hand.
“Lieutenant,” a gruff forty-something marine sergeant said, surveying the bay. “You and your pilots are to move to the Ward Room for debriefing. We’ve been ordered to secure the Hangar Bay.”
The sergeant glanced toward the ceiling as another distant tremor rolled through the ship.
“Now, Lieutenant.”
Taqqiq nodded and motioned for her pilots to follow her. One by one, they shuffled out of the hangar deck and began the long walk to join Reaper and the others–and if they survived the current stand-off with the Romulan Warbird, perhaps they could find time to mourn their fallen friends.
Lieutenant JG Taqqiq Allooloo
Leader, Fighter Squadron 3
USS Astrea
(NPC of JB Dorsainvil)
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