A Leader's Burden, Part I
Posted on Mon Nov 3rd, 2025 @ 2:35pm by Commander Kytolos Sh'reyva
Edited on on Tue Nov 4th, 2025 @ 6:23pm
1,291 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Tales of the War
Location: Bridge, IGS Vorchal
Timeline: 2156 (Two months into the War)
The stars slid past them like pencil-thin scratches of light, the long burn of warp making them appear tired and stretched. The convoy held formation--six freighters, a pair of Tellarite tugs, and three Andorian Imperial Guard frigates at the perimeter like sentinels guarding their charge.
Commander Kytolos Sh'reyva stood at the forward viewport of the Vorchal and watched it all with the tacit possession of a man who'd hung the stars himself. His ship hummed along as if it were a living thing--reactor harmonics deep in her bones, coolant pumps cycling through the decks. Every tremor beneath his boots was known to him. Every groan of the hull, every change in tone of the air recirculators.
The Vorchal was not new. She bore the faint asymmetry of a ship that had been repaired and refit too many times in too many places, her forward sensor pod patched with three different types of alloy after skirmishes during previous assignments. She was one of the previous generation frigates from nearly two decades ago--the failed Uvachor-class, of which only five were ever produced. Originally meant for patrolling the borders of Andorian space, they were quickly overtaken by newer designs--the vaunted Tanathooef-class--the current frigate class still being produced on Andoria.
He moved toward the command chair, brushing a calloused thumb against the rail. "Status?"
"Convoy maintaining bearing three-four-seven mark two," reported Junior Lieutenant Indora from the tactical station. "All systems nominal. The Niben and the Keth report no contact."
"Good," Kytolos said. His voice carried that crisp, clipped cadence the Guard was known for--no wasted syllables, no softness. Yet his tone did hold something quieter beneath, an old devotion that had calcified into habit.
Outside, space unfolded as it always did. Somewhere ahead lay Cherath Outpost--an old station of duranium ribs and tired welds, orbiting a gas giant whose storms had the power to pain half the sky violet. Beyond that: Vulcan patrol space, safety, and silence.
Then came the soft crackle of a signal.
"Commander," Junior Lieutenant Vorel said from communicatons. "Freighter Tivornik is reporting engine irregularities. Starboard manifold coil is misfiring. They say they need to drop out of warp for repairs."
The Vorchal's First Officer, Senior Lieutenant Eubol, interjected animatedly. "If they break formation here, they are as good as dead."
Kytolos exhaled, ignoring his First Officer's comment. "Location?" he inquired, short and sharp.
"Rear of formation. Coordinates seven-nine-nine mark three-zero-one."
Eubol turned. "The Niben requests permission to break formation and assist the Tivornik."
Kytolos studied the tactical feed--tiny motes of light, each one carrying hundreds of lives. "Negative," he said. "Maintain cohesion. The Vorchal will handle it."
"Yes, Commander."
The bridge was all motion now--hands gliding across control surfaces, soft beeps and data pulses moving throughout like nervous energy.
The Vorchal and the Tivornik dropped from warp in unison. The streaks of stars resolved into steady the constellations they were all used to. The rest of the convoy carried on toward Cherath, a slow procession of blue and orange vessels vanishing one by one into the darkness of space.
The freighter was listing precariously, her hull throwing back the reflected light of her own drive plume. From here, she looked peaceful--almost elegant--until the sensor returns began to show what her plating had been hiding: thermal stress fractures, uneven power distribution, and coolant loss along aft column.
"Dispatch and engineering team," Kytolos ordered. "Four technicians, full EVA gear. Have them take pod two."
"Aye, Commander," Vorel answered.
He turned to his first officer. "Lieutenant Eubol, prepare the Vorchal for standby defense pattern thfalgus three. If we're sitting still, I want out teeth ready."
Eubol's antennae twitched acknowledgment. "Understood."
For a time, there was only the sound of the bridge's air systems and the usual hum of bridge activity. The Vorchal's lights had dimmed to a cool blue of standby readiness.
On the external feed, the small pod glided from the Vorchal's ventral bay--a tiny white seed drifting toward the massive freighter that was the Tivornik.
Kytolos watched it until the range markers merged, until the voices of his own engineers piped through the comms: "Contact made... opening access hatch... initiation coil realignment..."
He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. The muscle in his jaw flexed several times. He'd spent most of his life keeping others alive by predicting the ways in which things might go awry. But the Romulans--there was no predicting them. They were shadows pretending at order.
An hour passed.
"Commander," the voice of his chief engineer came through again, weary but sounding proud. "Repairs complete. Warp capability restored. We're returning to the pod."
Kytolos nodded once. "Acknowledged. Good work, Thirash. Bring your team home."
Eubol allowed himself small smile. "Assuming we leave in the next few minutes, we can rejoin the convoy within the hour, sir."
But Kytolos did not smile. He had learned to distrust relief--it was too often a prelude to something else. Something potentially worse. He opened his mouth to reply when the sensor officer's antennae snapped upright.
"Contact!"
A tremor of static filled the air as the feed lit up.
"Decloaking signature--port side!"
The viewport flared white, then green. A Romulan bird-of-prey, heavy and crude, appeared from nowhere and fired before its form had fully resolved. Plasma bolts tore through the black, slamming into the tiny pod carrying Thirash and his team.
Kytolos watched helplessly as it vanished in a bloom of blinding light.
"Alert the convoy," he snapped, voice raw. "Signal Cherath Outpost--we are under attack!"
Even before the transmission left the ship, two more signatures bloomed into existence on sensors--both behind the Tivornik.
"Two additional birds of prey, bearing zero-eight-two," Indora shouted.
"Then we make them earn it," Kytolos said.
He rose to his full height. "Helm, evasive pattern thjagna seven. Bring us between the Tivornik and the enemy. Weapons--target the first vessel and fire at will."
The bridge shook as Vorchal's particle cannons opened up, spitting blue-white energy. The bird-of-prey rolled to avoid it, the underbelly of its hull showing a sickly green. Plasma torpedoes arced back, striking the Vorchal's dorsal plating. Alarms flared.
"Shields at sixty-eight percent!"
"Reroute auxiliary to forward emitters," Kytolos ordered. "Keep firing!"
Outside, space turned into a slow-motion storm of vibrant colours and wreckage. The Tivornik's cargo modules burst like glass, spilling thousands of containers of precious freight into space, each one tumbling end of end, flashing briefly before freezing in shadow.
The first bird-of-prey swung too close. The Vorchal's gunners tracked it perfectly. "Direct hit!" Indora called. The enemy ship's midsection ruptured, spulling molten metal before it broke apart entirely.
The cheer that had wanted to rise throughout the bridge never materialized. There were still two more enemies.
Kytolos leaned over the railing. "Maintain fire. We hold this line."
The Vorchal's hull groaned--a long, wrenching sound like an ancient tree splitting in the wind. Another plasma strike sheared through Deck Four. Reports cascaded through the bridge.
"Breaches on three decks--containment holding--warp drive offline--"
The lights dimmed and went out completely. It was a moment before the emergency lighting came to life, a greenish-blue pattern of floor lighting the cast the bridge in an eerie scene.
Kytolos steadied himself on the chair. "Get me engine status."
"Nothing left but thrusters, sir. Auxiliary fading."
He nodded, not in defeat but acknowledgment. "Then we fight on thrusters."
Commander Kytolos sh'Sh'reyva
Commanding Officer
IGS Vorchal
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