Arrival at Starbase 47

Posted on Wednesday July 8th, 2020 @ 3:19pm by Captain Franklin Johnson

1,112 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: S1-A1-Ep. 1: Spectrophobia
Location: Starbase 47 - Several Lightyears from Cardassian Space, within Federation Space.
Timeline: The Year 2394

[START]

By some miracle, none of the critical supplies being ferried on the Poseidon had been lost in the battle between the rogue elements of Starfleet. It was a small blessing to be had amongst the several dozens of good cadets, crewmen, and officers now dead; families torn too soon and veterans promised an easy run to retirement broken upon the words of traitors and photon torpedoes. During their flight towards 47, Franklin had taken a shuttle to personally view the damage on his ship. Most of it had been superficial, but a large hole where the original photon torpedo fired from the USS Abel - a now-destroyed rogue Sabre-class ship - on the port side of the Poseidon marked the destruction where the portside of deck 6 and 5 was left open to space. He had seen then what had caused such loss of life, roughly around twenty-five crew altogether killed.

Along the portside of the USS Poseidon, directly near the epicenter of where the photon torpedo had struck, was once the portside crew mess. The scar visible from the explosion extended partially sternward, breaching the Arboretum. The majority of the dead, those sucked out into space originally, had come from the crew mess hall. The subsequent casualties afterwards had resulted from contained explosions and fires. The gash in the hull additionally extended aftward, and up, breaching deck 5 at where the gymnasium was. That had been where some of the cadet leaders had been conducting classes with a few senior crew, teaching the newer generation the ins and outs of whatever had been the theme of the class.

It had been a brutally hard thing to look at for the Commander. In his minds eye he could make out the cadets, still fresh from the Academy yet yearning to graduate, never the wiser as their entire faith had been placed into him to keep them safe. A deck below, his crew had equal faith in their Commander, knowing that they had been safe in that crew mess hall. Even those few in the Arboretum, off duty or otherwise. All of them had the faith necessary to excuse the dangers of the moment and conduct their business knowing that he, Commander Franklin Johnson, would protect them.

And he had failed them. All twenty-five of them. Eight cadets and seventeen crew and officers. Gone in a flurry of explosive decompression, fire and flames, and a few slowly dying from burns or worse. He had almost broken down in the shuttle as he was given the tour by one of his engineers. Somehow, Franklin had held the tears back.

In the interim between that moment and reaching Starbase 47, Franklin had been busy writing up the messages necessary to alert family of the conditions of the deceased. Every single one had received his undivided attention, uniquely written replies given under the best understandings of the individual passed. It had been, for lack of better words, a heartbreaking and humbling experience. As the Poseidon pulled up to and into the space surrounding Starbase 47, her battle-scarred hull was clear to see. The gaping hole in her side patched up due to shielding, for the moment, and other monuments to her affair visible.

They would all be fixed, accordingly, to the best possible degree. The only thing that couldn't be fixed was those lost, and quite possibly the trust that had broken on that fateful day. Still, something nagged at him. Something obvious yet overlooked. Franklin made a note to go over those events one more time, to observe the recording of the discussions with the Pitchfork, to watch internal sensors as they recorded the firefights. Something nagged at him about it, more than what the Commodore had explained to him.

"They were rogue elements," Gregory had said in reference to Starfleets response to the incident. "Nothing more. You did well."

I did well, reflected Franklin as he observed the viewscreen, watching as the gaping maw of 47 opened her berthing docks to accept the Miranda into her folks. Not as good as my crew did, he reflected further. And he meant it too.

Later, he made a note to visit Gregory, to possibly convince the Commodore to go over with him everything that had happened so he could put to rest the pained feeling in his gut. As the Poseidon was properly berthed thanks to none other than Freya, an excellent pilot if the Commander had seen any, he announced leave for the crew. Around a month, if not less, as the ship underwent repairs. In that time it would be determined if their cargo would stay on or be transported on another vessel. Until then the crew was free to do as they wished.

To announce their leave, the Commander left these words for his crew over the ships comms.

"I am very proud of each and every one of you. In our first month we have underwent some harrowing trails and tribulations that has tested our resolve. We have experienced much in such a small amount of time, lost many of our friends to the misfortunes of battle, and stood by our crew as we fought off a vicious assault. I want to remind each and every one of you, cadets and crew alike, that I know that without your efforts a few days ago during the Battle of the Bright Nebula, we would not have survived.

In you all I find my strength. I hope that, in turn, I provide a shoulder for you all to keep moving forward. Let us then look forward now, to your leave. Starfleet has said that the repairs will take anywhere from a week to a month, so plan for the shorter but have supplies for the longer. The ship will be docked here accordingly awaiting your return, but if you choose to stay on board the dock engineers have the right of way. I wish you the best, and good luck. I'll see you all when you return. Franklin, out."

As he had ended the communications, he had internally reflected how he never felt he lived up to the responsibility of Command. Nodding to his XO and 2XO, he had stood to leave the bridge, entering the privacy of his Ready Room. There, Franklin Shane Johnson, the 5th Commanding Officer of the USS Poseidon in her history, broke down in tears and sobs behind his desk at the shame and dejection he felt at failing those they left behind.

[END]

Commander Franklin Johnson
Commanding Officer
USS Poseidon

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