Arrival at Starbase 343

Posted on Fri Sep 26th, 2025 @ 3:02am by Captain M'Raz & Lieutenant Commander Jason Reeves & Lieutenant Elias McEntyre & Lieutenant H'iri & Lieutenant Richard Pierce MD & Ensign Kaelun Merak & Crewman Michał Lipinski

2,883 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Collating Data
Location: Bridge | Deck 1 | USS Crazy Horse
Timeline: MD004 - 1050

"Starbase 343," the on-duty Helm Officer said quietly. The Bridge went silent as Raz leaned forward, watchful. "Scan for life signs and weaponry," Raz said. "Ours or the Borg?"

Elias quickly ran his fingers across the controls. More snappy, more responsive than the Jane Addams had been. It was a little jarring to see all the information display at near instantaneous speeds instead of the few seconds that it took to buffer on the Jane Addams.

"Sensor shows the starbase directly ahead. Friendly contacts only, no enemy signatures for the moment," Elias replied a few moments later.

"Very good," Raz said. "Hail the station and request permission for the crew to visit when they're off-duty." He turned to his First Officer and added, "I think they all deserve a bit of down time while we get our orders."

Commander Reeves nodded in agreement. "Who knows when the crew will get another opportunity like this in the near future. "

H'iri opened the channel and said, "Permission requested, Captain. It sounds like a bit of excitement on the other end from what I can hear."

"Sir," the helm officer said. "Incoming message from Admiral Stillwell. You're to report to Conference Room 12 at 1130 for debrief and assignment."

"Acknowledge the message," Raz answered. "Tell him we'll be there." He rose to his feet and headed for his Ready Room. There would be time to get cleaned up and possibly get a strong cup of coffee before the meeting. He thought of contacting Lipinski but decided, as he often did when it came to disappearing yeomen, to just do it all himself.

"Acknowledging," H'iri responded with a small, sly smile. "Anything else that I should add?"

Raz's gaze lightened for the barest second as he turned toward H'iri. "Best not," he said. "Admirals can be a bit ... touchy."

"As you wish; however, I think that right now, there probably is a lot of leeway just because we exist." She shrugged apologetically, wondering if she said too much. Would the crew pick up on that? Perhaps she should have kept her statement more professional.

"A fact I fully intend to make use of should the conversation with the Admiral not go the way I want it to," Raz said as he rose to his feet. "I don't expect this to take long. The Admiral has a thing for brevity when it comes to meetings."

H'iri was not certain that she liked the sound of that; however, as she digested the words, she realized that Raz was hoping for the best and planning for the worst. "Any orders while we wait?"

"Anyone who's not on duty is welcome to visit the starbase," Raz said. "All transporter rooms are to be manned. Any problems, immediate recall. Me personally, I'm hoping for a good meal that didn't come out of a replicator."

[Ensign Kaelun's Quarters]

The announcement rippled quietly through the decks: Starbase 343 in visual range....

For most of the crew, the thought of stepping onto the station carried the promise of air that wasn’t recycled, food that wasn’t replicated, and conversations not framed by the constant weight of the Borg.

Ensign Kaelun Merak sat in his quarters, staring at the half-packed bag on his bunk. He wasn’t used to downtime. Research had filled every waking hour at Memory Alpha, and since boarding the Crazy Horse, the debates and long shifts in the labs had left little space for rest. But Raz had ordered the crew to take shore leave, and Kaelun wasn’t in a position to argue with a Caitian captain who carried battle scars like second skin.

The bag lay open, a curious mix of things. PADDs stacked with half-finished models of biological systems — work he swore he wouldn’t touch on leave, though he knew he would. A spare uniform, crisp but unfamiliar, still carrying the scent of the replicator. And tucked beside it, a simple keepsake: a stylus one of his past hosts, Toval, had used in lectures on virology. Kaelun found himself running his thumb over the worn barrel, comforted by its weight.

As he slung the bag over his shoulder, Kaelun kept his face composed, his stride steady. To anyone watching, he looked like just another officer grateful for a break. But beneath the practiced calm, memories pressed against him like a tide — the chaos on Earth, the way a man could be breathing one moment and then, impossibly, cold and unrecognizable the next. He remembered the panic in the corridors of the transport, the hollow-eyed fear of survivors who didn’t yet know they carried the seeds of something worse inside them.

His stomach turned at the thought, but outwardly, he smoothed his expression. He couldn’t let it show. Not here. Not when others needed to believe in the uniform he wore, in the idea that Starfleet could still protect them. If the mask cracked — if they saw how deeply the chaos had marked him — it might chip away at the fragile hope they were clinging to.

[Sickbay]

Sickbay had grown quiet after the announcement, the usual hum of tricorders and quiet chatter replaced by an almost collective breath held. Shore leave — the words carried weight. For some, it meant relief; for others, a chance to pretend the shadows weren’t always following.

Pierce leaned back in his chair, a steaming mug cradled in his hands, the bitter scent of raktajino curling into the sterile air. He wasn’t fool enough to believe in downtime, not really. You didn’t stitch flesh through a Borg attack and just… switch it off because the view shifted to a starbase instead of a cube. But still — there was something about the thought of air that wasn’t scrubbed, of laughter that wasn’t laced with nerves, that tugged at him.

“Starbase 343,” he muttered, testing the words aloud. It sounded like a promise. It sounded like a trap.

He pushed to his feet, joints popping in protest. His department would need to prep for whatever orders Admiral Stillwell thought worth dragging Raz and the senior staff into. Brevity, the Captain said. Pierce had never known admirals to be brief, but maybe this one was an exception. He snorted softly at the thought, setting the mug down before heading for the nearest console.

As much as he told himself shore leave was for the others, his hand still drifted toward the comm controls. Maybe, just maybe, he could carve out a sliver of space for a drink, a story, something that felt human again. The crew needed it. Hell, he needed it.

“Alright, Starbase 343,” he murmured under his breath, as though the station could hear him. “Let’s see if you’ve got a decent bar.”

[MacQuoid's Bar and All Night Soiree]

The only bar on Starbase 343 went by the name 'MacQuoid's Bar and All Night Soiree'; so named because the base commander had lost (badly) at poker with one Alastair MacQuoid. A deal had been struck that, in lieu of payment, the commander had agreed not to limit the bar's hours provided things didn't get out of hand. For that, MacQuoid read 'nothing that would alert security.' And thus, MacQuoid's was born complete with bouncers at the door, a well-trained wait staff, and an air of colorful gaiety achieved through sound-proofed walls, an absence of PADDs and screens, and no apparent view into the corridor.

A square bar, it's rich, golden patina bearing layers of wax, dominated the center of the space with three full-time bartenders who poured drinks, judged bar bets, and acted as the occasional bouncer. Dabo. Holosuites. Poker. Dancing. A house band. And a tax paid by patrons of the bar - enter in uniform and you had to surrender part of said uniform if you wanted to stay.

Elena Mao, Chief of Flight Operations for the USS Crazy Horse, dressed in all-black, with pants tucked into boots, a black camisole top and black jacket, entered the bar, her dark eyed gaze quartering the room and smiling when she noticed MacQuoid holding court in a corner booth at the back. Generally, he sat alone, doing books, watching the room, but occasionally, he would permit someone to join him. When he saw Elena, he gestured with one hand for her to approach.

Michał Lipinski traveled light, not by choice, but by circumstances. A refugee turned Captain's Yeoman, most of his belongings were like those individuals he had known were lost to the Borg. He had some luggage, but not nearly what he had once had and certainly nothing compared to what he left behind on Risa.

He found himself on the station at MacQuoid's knowing well that he had been left out of things. The Captain had been pulled away, in his Ready Room or some office. Lipinski settled into a seat at the bar looking sullen as he admired the green hue of the midori sour, practically pouting.

Having spoken with MacQuoid, Elena walked away with a warning about troublesome pilots, more of a flyby than a flight plan to her mind. She headed over to the bar and dropped into a seat next to the Captain's minion, Lip-something, and ordered Aldebaran Whiskey neat. She turned toward him, taking in his demeanor and the expression on his face, and said, "so ... who peed in your corn flakes?"

"I wish someone would. Cornflakes are disgusting," replied Michał. He looked at Elena. "Captain M'Raz. I couldn't find him earlier, and I heard it through the grapevine that he had a meeting. I don't know with who or what for, but I wasn't given so much as a 'you're not needed' from him. He just goes on doing whatever," explained the Yeoman.

"That is what's bothering me. The First Officer asked me to be the Captain's Yeoman but the Captain makes it abundantly clear that he doesn't need a Yeoman. So, why am I here?"

"You have it sort of backwards, you know," Elena said as she accepted the whiskey and took an appreciative sip. "Good stuff. You should try this."

Before Michał could respond, a weathered man with hollow eyes and unsteady movements stumbled over to the bar beside them. His cargo hauler's jacket was stained and worn, and he reeked of alcohol and something deeper—the kind of despair that clung to a person like smoke. He slid onto the stool next to them, close enough that they could smell the liquor on his breath.

"Well, well," he slurred, his voice carrying that dangerous edge of someone who's had too much to drink and too much pain. "More Starfleet officers having themselves a nice, safe little drink." His bloodshot eyes fixed on Michał first, then Elena. "You know what? Good for you. Really. Must be nice to sit here and complain about your problems while some of us are trying to figure out how to live with what's left."

The stranger took a long pull from his drink, then continued, his voice getting louder: "I was at Arcturus during the second attack. You remember Arcturus, don't you? Lost my wife there. My two kids. Eight and twelve years old." His voice cracked slightly before hardening again. "You want to know where Starfleet was when the Borg came back? Running. Just like at Earth. Just like everywhere else."

Cozying up to a despairing drunk looking for a fight was not something Elena was wired to do; she rose to her feet and straightened her civilian jacket. Early training helped her slip into a role that had nothing to do with her own feelings. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said quietly.

The man's laugh was bitter and harsh. "Sorry? That's it? That's all you've got?" He swayed slightly, gripping his glass tighter. "My kids called me right before—" His voice caught, and he took another gulp of his drink. "They were scared. Asking when Daddy was coming home. When the heroes in the red and gold uniforms were going to save them with all their damn phasers and torpedoes."

"You know what I told them?" the stranger continued, his voice rising again as he turned his attention back to both officers. "I told them to be brave. That Starfleet was coming. That everything would be okay." He slammed his glass down hard enough that amber liquid sloshed onto the bar. "But it wasn't, was it? Because when push came to shove, you people looked out for yourselves first."

"You're drunk," she said quietly, "and we're not doing this." She turned, gesturing for Lipinski to join her, ready to walk away from the fight brewing in the depths of the man's grief-stricken eyes.

Lipinski shook his head. This was the problem with people who couldn't handle themselves. "Don't provoke," the Yeoman cautioned.

But the stranger wasn't finished. He lunged forward, grabbing Elena's arm with surprising force for someone so intoxicated. "My family is dead because of people like you!" he snarled, his face inches from hers, alcohol and rage making him reckless.

"You can dress in all the black civilian clothes you want, but I know what you are underneath! You think you can just sit here drinking your fancy whiskey while we pick up the pieces of our shattered lives?"

"You don't know my life," she snarled, stepping in close as she shrugged off his grip, "and you don't know what I've been through. You think you're the only one whose lost someone? The only one whose seen too much? Think again. Now, I'm sorry for what you've through but back off or you're going to get hurt."

The stranger staggered back a step, but his eyes blazed with renewed fury. "Oh, you lost someone too? What, a fellow officer? A boyfriend? Someone who chose to wear the uniform?" He laughed bitterly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Try losing your whole world while the people who swore to protect it ran with their tails between their legs!"

Great thought Michał Lipinski. This was becoming a scene, something he wanted to avoid. There was no reason for it other than grief and spirits. Alcohol and emotional pain often did not mix well.

The crowd around them had grown thicker, drawn by the confrontation. Some nodded in agreement with the stranger's words, their own faces bearing the haunted look of survivors. Others watched Elena with wariness, as if seeing her civilian clothes for the disguise he claimed they were.

"My eight-year-old daughter asked me if Starfleet was coming to save them," he continued, his voice cracking again. "And I said yes, because that's what we're supposed to believe, right? That you people are heroes?" He took a shaky step forward despite her warning. "But when it mattered most, you saved yourselves first."

"We died," Elena said quietly. "By the thousands. Whole ships died to cover civilian rescue. That's why I survived Sol System because we took away everyone we could. I get that you're hurting but my grief? I don't owe you that. I don't owe anyone that. That's mine. And now, you're done."

The stranger's face contorted with rage and disbelief. "Liar!" he screamed, and his fist came swinging toward her face with all the desperate fury of a broken man. "You're all liars!"

She readied herself, lightly balanced on the balls of her feet, hands brought up into striking position. She ducked under his swing, came up on the other side and kicked out at his knee sending him stumbling to the ground. She spun quickly, ready for his next move, but there was no need; MacQuoid's bouncers had already moved in to secure him.

Hoisted back up to his feet, with one arm twisted up behind his back, the bouncers prepared to walk him out the front entrance to the bar. "You know the rules, man," the older of the two bouncers said. "One month for disrupting the peace and six months for fighting."

As he was dragged away by the bouncers, the Stranger strained his neck to face the two Officers as was forcifully pulled. "YOU THINK YOU'RE HEROS, HUH!?!"

The bouncers pushed through the door, but his voice carried back one final time, broken and hollow: "She called out for Starfleet with her last breath! For you! AND WHERE WERE YOU!?"

The door swung shut with a heavy thud, leaving behind only the uncomfortable silence of a room full of people who had all heard too much truth in a broken man's words.

Lipinski looked at the woman. "Is this what hanging around you is like? Seems risky and potentially a bad influence," commented the Yeoman. "I don't want to be getting into bar fights every port we stop at."

Elena gave him a look, pitying mixed in equal parts with disgust, and shook her head. "Captain didn't go out of his way to find you ... you don't want to be involved in bar fights ... You really don't have even the beginning of a clue, do you?" She settled her debt at the bar, waved to MacQuoid, and headed out into the corridor. What I need, she thought, is the quiet of space. Not clueless kids or sad drunks. Just ... something to fly ...

 

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