“You heard correctly, Sam. No refit.” The chief engineer’s face screwed up as she prepared a dozen objections.
“With all due respect to the Admiralty. . . the ship needs that refit. We’ve been in space for a long time, Captain, and the Hood isn’t as young as she used to be.” Wallace patiently waited out the engineer’s protests. Samantha Byrne was as professional an officer as he had met, with a talent for getting the job done with a minimum of fuss and, apparently, effort. She was also Wallace’s closest friend on the ship.
“Finished, Sam?” he asked patiently. He expected his officers to keep him apprised of their concerns and Byrne certainly wasn’t shy in that respect.
“I realise that the ship could do with a refit,” Wallace began as he held up a hand to silence further protests, “but we just don’t have the time. There’s an emergency situation and Starfleet needs us out in space, not sat in a spacedock. Sorry, Sam.”
“Ah. What the hell. Hey, wait a minute,” Byrne’s eyes lit up as cogs turned around in her head. “Does this mean that you’re staying on as Captain?”
“I’m afraid so,” Wallace nodded gravely.
“Well well. No refit AND we have to put up with you for a bit longer!”
“I get no respect on this ship. I suppose you want that sextant back?” Byrne smiled.
“No no, you keep it, Les. . . so how long have we got before this bucket needs to be spaceside again?”
“Three days, Sam. Will she be ready?”
“Well, seeing as it’s for you. . . no problem.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Staff meeting at eighteen hundred hours.” As he left main engineering, he heard Byrne barking out orders to her soon to be overworked crew. She never did anything by halves.
As he walked the corridors of the ship, smiles and courteous looks acknowledged him, yet a certain curiosity lurked behind those faces. No matter. The grapevine would no doubt do its usual sterling job of spreading the news. Already, the gossip would be spreading throughout the Starbase AND the Hood’s engineering decks at warp factor ten. There was nothing Wallace could do to stop it, nor would he want to. The ship’s grapevine was as vital a part of the communications network as any official channel.
Besides, the orders would be filtering down from the various department heads as they found out about the cancelled refit. The crew knew something was up . . .it was time that Wallace told them exactly what. He reached a turbolift, entered and announced “Bridge,” to the turbolift sensors. Ever since he first took command of his first ship, a familiar shiver had gone up his spine when he said that word and even now, that sensation still lingered. When he failed to feel that tingle of anticipation, he would know that the time had come to vacate the centre seat.
The doors whooshed open, revealing a bridge that was almost empty. A junior lieutenant sat in the centre seat; he jumped up out of it as he turned and saw his Captain.
“At ease, Lieutenant Smith. Put me on ship-wide speakers.” The lieutenant smartly toggled the intercom.
“You’re on, Captain.” Wallace cleared his throat and spoke in a clear voice.
“This is the Captain. I’m sure you’ll all be delighted to learn that our refit has been cancelled. Instead, we are to resupply and resume patrol. Unfortunately, this means that all shore leave is cancelled. I’m sorry, but we have a critical situation and we all have our duty to perform.” He paused to allow the information to sink in, then continued. “This also means that you’re stuck with me, for now at any rate. I know none of us expected this, but we’re all Hoods - let’s do the old girl proud.” Wallace knew that invoking the ship’s name would remind the crew that they were the best - not that they really needed reminding.

The Hood’s senior staff sat around the table in the spartan briefing room. Wallace glanced around at the familiar faces. Sat to his left was Peter Drake, his dependable chief helmsman. He was young, ambitious and cheerful, a man who always had something positive to contribute.
Next to him sat Surell, the Vulcan navigator. It was unusual to see a Vulcan in this position, indeed, there were still relatively few Vulcans in the whole fleet. Yet Surell brought all the renowned logic of his race to his department and the Hood always knew where it was going.
The Chief Medical Officer was sat opposite Wallace. Doctor Rebecca Swift was originally a research physician based on Earth. However, she became bored with the planetside routine and enlisted into Starfleet in her late twenties. It wasn’t that uncommon for Doctors to enter Starfleet after they had started their career elsewhere; the Medical corps welcomed the opportunity to add experienced staff to their roster. Swift operated equally well as an everyday physician.
Next around the table was Lisa Frost, the communications officer. Diminutive and almost fragile looking, she made up for her lack of size with a fearsome vitality that blazed like a Sun. Wallace had never seen someone so determined to meet life head on and a bright future was predicted for the ambitious young officer.
The final staff member seated was Sam Byrne. The seat between her and the Captain was empty; the ship’s first officer, Daniel Watkins, had rushed back to Earth some weeks earlier to be with his dying mother. Since the Hood was scheduled for a refit that would be overseen by Byrne, Wallace had seen no reason to request a replacement, preferring instead to temporarily appoint Frost as acting First Officer. The experience had done her good, in Wallace’s opinion; she was learning to temper her enthusiasm with patience and wisdom.
The science officer’s seat was also empty; that was another department where there was a very large hole to fill. The chief science officer, Lt. Commander Darwin, had been transferred to the USS Africa two weeks previously, and command hadn’t thought to replace him. After all, the Hood was due to sit in the reserve and a science officer would be unnecessary. Of course, now that the ship was needed once more, there was no one available to fill the slot.
“Good evening,” he began, eyeing each of them in turn. “Well, here we are again, back to do our duty for King and Country.” Wry smiles appeared on the faces around the table. “You’re all aware of the situation regarding New Prussia. I gather Ms. Frost has forwarded the latest updated information to you all?” Frost nodded and Wallace continued. “We are required to be a presence. Starfleet obviously feels that a show of arms is required in the area to act as a deterrent.”
“A deterrent to New Prussia?” Drake chipped in.
“Absolutely. We’re going to fly the flag. Comments?” Byrne was the first to respond.
“Isn’t there a danger that we could actually provoke a response? Maybe a show of force is the wrong thing to do.” Wallace looked at Surell, who had raised an eyebrow.
“Captain, neither side has committed any breach of negotiated treaties. Hostilities have not been declared and we are not at war. However, some demonstration of our strength would seem to be a logical course of action.”
“That may be, but I can’t help feeling that this whole situation has been blown out of proportion,” Doctor Swift interjected. “Haven’t we given up on a diplomatic solution too quickly?”
“In my opinion?” Wallace asked. “Yes. I know people in the Prussian fleet, I’m sure most of this crew does. We’ve been pushing out our boundaries towards their space; they’ve been doing the same, in reverse. It was inevitable that arguments would ensue. Our job is to ensure that the New Prussians see us and know that the Federation can’t be pushed around. Their fleet will be doing the same job and the effect will be to get the diplomats back to the table.”
“Do you think there will be a diplomatic solution, Captain?” Frost asked.
“I hope so. Things are bad enough with the Klingons. The last thing we need is a war with people who should be our allies.” There were murmurs of agreement at that. “One more thing,” Wallace said, capturing their attention again, “we are short of one First Officer.” He noticed that Frost’s gaze went down to the table. No doubt she was expecting to hear that her stint in the job was over. “I have decided that as Ms. Frost has performed so admirably, she will continue to act as First Officer, with a view to a permanent promotion.” Frost’s head shot up sharply, delighted shock on her face. Every person around the table looked more than happy at the news.
“Thank you Captain!” she spluttered, breathlessly.
“Don’t thank me yet, Commander,” Wallace replied with a note of humour in his voice, “wait until the paperwork catches up with you. Oh, Ms. Frost, as our acting First Officer, who do you recommend for the Chief Science Officer’s berth?” Wallace was interested as to Frost’s reply; if she was as good as he though she was, she would already have lined someone up for the job. She didn’t disappoint him.
“Actually Captain, I’ve given it some thought and the best thing to do is simply to promote Lt. Newton. He’s been the deputy chief anyway, and he’s been filling in since Lieutenant Commander Darwin left. Given the shortness of time, I think we should keep it simple. AND he’ll do the job well.” Wallace smiled and nodded.
“Very well, Ms. Frost. I’ll allow you to tell Lt. Newton the good news. Dismissed, everyone.”

It had been a hard three days, but the ship was ready on schedule. Supplies had been taken on board, urgent repairs carried out and necessary crew rotations had been implemented. Wallace was justifiably proud of his crew. There had been not one complaint at the lack of shore leave or the massive workload, no grumbles at all. At least, none that had reached the Captain’s ears.
If the Hood was old, she was still sturdy and besides, Wallace didn’t expect to take her into battle. It was in neither the Federation’s or the New Prussian’s interests to start a war and the Hood’s deployment was a necessary bit of sabre-rattling. Still . . . it felt good to be heading out to space again.
The bridge was a fully staffed whirlwind of activity. Displays blinked brightly, comm channels buzzed and the scene reminded Wallace of a hive of bees. The atmosphere quietened somewhat as people noted the presence of their Captain.
“Status, Ms. Frost?” he enquired calmly.
“Ready to depart, Captain. Starbase signals all clear.” Frost delivered the information concisely, from her proper position at the Captain’s elbow. She looked comfortable, as if she belonged there. Wallace had every confidence in her.
“Very well. Signal the Starbase that we are leaving port. Helm, thrusters ahead.” The Hood was berthed close by the entrance and he could already see the star-pricked expanse beyond the opening doors. He never failed to become excited at this moment; it was what he and his ship were made for - space travel. That was why Wallace hated the idea of a desk job so much. Oh, he knew that squadron or fleet command may come his way eventually; but the number of flag officers on groundside duty far outnumbered the flag officers in space.
Besides, Wallace had commanded a Constitution class ship, the thoroughbred of space exploration, often operating alone and far into deep space.
That kind of autonomy and freedom was rare for a Starfleet officer and Wallace would miss it more than he cared to admit. As the doors slid away to either side of the viewscreen, Wallace knew that it would be the last time he departed port as a ship’s captain.
“Heading, Captain?” Frost asked politely.
“The Federation/New Prussian border. I’ll give you something more specific when I’ve opened my orders. You have the bridge.”
When he was safely in his own quarters, Wallace used his data terminal to access his orders. They were fairly routine; the Hood was to proceed to the border’s hot spot, right in the central zone. It was where the action was likely to be thickest, if there was any action at all. Wallace contacted the Bridge and relayed the new co-ordinates, before settling down to the delights of paperwork.
The one downside of rushing the ship back into action was that it generated a mountain of orders, countermanded orders and half a million miles of Starfleet red tape. Fortunately, Wallace had a highly efficient Yeoman who organised the whole mess into a manageable mess. However, it would still take the whole of the voyage to the border to get it finished . . .

The alarm siren woke Wallace with a start. He’d slumped asleep over his desk - paperwork often had that effect on him - and he felt the adrenaline generated by the siren coursing through him. It was a Yellow Alert, which meant that the ship was in no immediate danger, but that a serious situation was developing. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and toggled the bridge intercom switch.
“What’s up, bridge?” he asked, as patiently as he could.
“All points alert from Command,” a worried looking Frost replied, “I think you’d better see this, Captain.” The image of Frost was replaced by the crest of the Federation, and then the Federation President himself. He spoke gravely.
“We have just received a communiqué from the New Prussian leadership. They have denounced our “attacks” on their shipping. Starfleet Command assures me that there have been no such attacks; however, I can confirm that our merchant shipping in the new Prussian sector has been raided. In any event, the New Prussians have declared war on the United Federation of Planets.” The message ended and Wallace’s mood became grim. War. The last thing anyone wanted.
Minutes later, he was sat in his command chair, radiating as much calm as he could. He pitied the communications officer, Lt. Dean, who had taken over from Frost, as the comm channels were spewing out an enormous tangle of panicked gibberish. Frost had gone to the comm station to lend a hand. Every Federation freighter in the vicinity of the border was screaming out for instructions and, as the senior Starfleet vessel in the area, it was the Hood’s job to instruct them.
It was mainly a case of reminding the alarmed skippers to keep their heads and return to port with all speed. Frost and Dean seemed to have everything in hand, though, and Wallace concentrated on the tactical displays on the viewscreen. Every sensor scan that they had run revealed no New Prussians in the vicinity, though it was always possible that they were illegally using cloaking technology. All the Hood could do was to continue on course and patrol the Federation’s side of the border. Because of the declaration of war, the ship would have to maintain a constant state of yellow alert, which would test the nerves of the crew - not to mention the captain’s - to the limit.
Captain?” Lt. Newton peered up from his science station.
“What have you got?” Wallace replied, rising from his chair.
“Contact with a ship, sir. No recognisable signals . . . not one of ours.” Wallace looked at the readouts, and he had to admit, they were puzzling. A ship was out there, travelling at warp speed, parallel with the border. A Federation ship would have an identification beacon, but given the new state of war . . . the ship could conceivably be New Prussian.
“Lt. Dean, hailing frequencies. Ask who they are and what their business is inside Federation territory.” Dean nodded and set to work.
“Could be trouble, Captain,” Frost said in a low voice at Wallace’s elbow.
“Let’s not jump the gun, Lisa,” (Frost smiled at the use of her first name), “at a time like this, mistakes are made, people panic - there’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation for this.” He smiled back with a twinkle in his eye, which suggested that there was anything but an innocent explanation for an unknown ship in a potential warzone.
“Captain, no response to standard hails. I’ve tried all frequencies.”
“Very well. Put me on, Lieutenant.” Wallace paused for a moment, cleared his throat and called up his most stern and dignified speaking manner. “This is Captain Leslie Wallace, commanding the Starship Hood. Please identify yourself and state your purpose for entering Federation territory.” There was a drawn-out pause, as the seconds ticked by.
“You know, Ms. Frost, I don’t think they’re going to answer!” Wallace announced.
“No Captain, looks like they want to be unfriendly.”
“Well, we can’t allow that. Helm? Set an intercept course. Warp factor three.”
“Battle stations, Captain?” Frost asked. Wallace shook his head.
“Not yet. If this is a mistake, I don’t want to provoke anyone unnecessarily. We’ll maintain yellow alert for the time being.” Drake turned round from the helm.
“Course ready Captain, estimating twenty minutes to intercept.” Wallace nodded.
“Very well. Execute.”

As they drew closer to the mysterious ship, sensor readings became no clearer. Wallace didn’t like it; he’d heard rumours that the New Prussians had been experimenting with new stealth systems that they had incorporated into their ship designs. He didn’t particularly want to take part in the opening battle of a war. As he was studying the displays at the science station, he noticed a change in the intruder’s course.
“They’ve come about to an intercept course, Captain,” Newton reported immediately.
“They’re intercepting us?” Wallace scratched his nose. “I really don’t like this. Battle stations, please.” The red alert sirens blared out and the crew hurried to obey, preparing the ship for possible confrontation. The bridge was already fully staffed, but the increased air of tension that the red alert signalled was tangible.
“The ship is at battle stations, Captain,” Frost reported. Wallace nodded.
“Good. Keep trying to hail them, Lt. Dean. I’ve not given up on a diplomatic solution to this - not yet, anyway.” He turned to the helm. “Mr. Drake, how long until we intercept now?”
“Six minutes. They’re coming on at quite a rate.” Eight minutes. It seemed all too brief a time for good sense to prevail.
“Captain, getting a long-range visual now,” Newton reported, at the same time putting it up on the main screen. The image was small and dark, and difficult to make out, until Newton enhanced and enlarged it.
“The Iron Chancellor,” Wallace said grimly. The ship on the screen was large, sleek and powerful - and unmistakably the recently launched flagship of the New Prussian fleet. Starfleet’s intelligence on the new ship was worryingly limited; however, the Iron Chancellor was reckoned to be nearly as powerful as the Excelsior. The Hood was decidedly out-matched.
“Captain, detecting weapons fire from the Chancellor. Looks like photon torpedoes.” Wallace blinked in disbelief at his science officer.
“Torpedoes? At this range?” He looked at Frost who wore an expression of disbelieving surprise. “Analysis, quickly. Auxiliary power to the shields. Mr. Drake, continue to close the range. Increase speed to Warp seven.” Things were happening much too quickly. What had begun as an investigation of a strange sensor blip had rapidly turned into a full-on engagement with the New Prussian’s most powerful warship.
“Analysis complete, Captain,” Newton announced, “they're long-range torpedoes, fitted with proximity fuses.” (In other words, set to detonate close to their target.) “They’ve got much greater range than our torpedoes. We may be able to pick them off with phasers - but only if we’re really lucky.” Wallace nodded at Newton.
“Time to impact?” The Chancellor was firing off salvoes with alarming speed, and the first of those was bearing down on the Hood, despite the great range.
“Twenty five seconds.”
“Mr. Drake, stand by on phasers. All hands, brace for impact.” Wallace left it to Drake to judge the best moment to fire; the helm officer was a dab hand with phasers. The torpedoes seemed to creep towards them. Then twin beams of phased energy lanced out from the Hood, and missed their targets completely. The first two torpedoes exploded close to the Hood, rocking the ship.
“Any damage, Lisa?” Wallace enquired.
“The shields handled it, Captain, but if those torpedoes get any closer, they’re going to hurt us.”
“Understood. Time to our weapons range?”
“Another two minutes.” They both looked concerned. Two minutes for those torpedoes to damage the Hood and not a thing to be done. There came a sudden cry of triumph as the next incoming salvo was picked off by Drake; however, the next two salvoes got through. The Hood pitched more violently, as the Chancellor’s torpedoes found their range. Damage alerts began to light up all over the bridge.
“Damage to decks thirteen, fourteen and sixteen, shield strength down to ninety per cent,” reported Frost. More explosions, more damage alarms . . . Wallace could hear frantic chatter from the engineering decks, as Sam Byrne and her staff laboured to keep the ship in one piece.
“Come on old girl, hold together!” Wallace muttered. He looked at Frost.
“Damage to most decks, Captain. Minor buckling on the port nacelle. Transporters and comm systems off-line. Shields down to eighty per cent.”
“Damn it . . . how soon ‘til weapons range now?”
“Weapons range . . . NOW!” Wallace smiled grimly.
“Mr. Drake, open fire on the Iron Chancellor. Phasers and torpedoes, maximum firing rates.” Of course, the Hood was now inside the Chancellor’s phaser range too, and it hit back. The two ships pounded each other with ferocious broadsides, each straining the other’s shields to breaking point.
“A hit on the Chancellor!” Frost said excitedly. “Amidships! See it?” Wallace could see where a torpedo had struck the other ship; it appeared to be a major blow. He began to believe that the Hood might be able to force the Chancellor off. That thought was proven horribly wrong by the Chancellor’s next salvo.
A chink had opened up in the Hood’s shields, a small hole but large enough for a photon torpedo to whistle through. And a torpedo did get through. It penetrated the ship’s hull, detonating deep inside, near main engineering. The ship staggered drunkenly to port, pitching to port. All power failed, plunging the ship into a terrifying blackout. And people died. As the Hood tumbled helplessly in space, it seemed that the ship had died too.

There was total darkness. Not a light shone, nor a display flickered. From the outside, the Hood looked finished, and the Iron Chancellor made off at high speed. The Starfleet vessel slouched over to one side, the glow from its warp nacelles gone, the running lights off. Yet miraculously, the ship’s emergency systems began to respond; firstly, the environmental back-ups came on-line, followed by auxiliary power.
On the bridge, people picked themselves up, coughing as they breathed in the acrid atmosphere, thick with the stench of burning circuits. Wallace looked around and saw that this part of the ship, at least, had survived the cataclysmic explosion. Frost was already at Dean’s communications panel, attempting to restore internal links. Wallace left them to it and crossed to the helm.
“Any power?” he asked Drake.
“Just enough to stabilise us, sir. We’re listing to port.”
Wallace held up a cautionary hand.
“Leave her as she is, Mr. Drake. We don’t know what state the old girl’s in yet. Any movement could buckle us.” He turned to Frost.
“Any luck with comms?”
“Communications are down for the time being. We have no way of knowing what state the rest of the ship’s in - turbolifts are out too. I could try to get down to engineering.”
“Do that, Lisa. Get me a damage report as quickly as possible. And . . . be careful.” Frost managed a small smile, as she went to the emergency hatchway and disappeared. It wasn’t a foregone conclusion that she would even reach engineering; there could be any number of obstacles in the way. Wallace had an idea where they had been hit and before the power had come back on, he had feared that engineering was completely gone. Now he knew that somewhere, someone was doing their best to bandage the wounded Hood.
He was also afraid that the Iron Chancellor would close in and finish them off. He had no way of knowing that the other ship was far away; he simply hoped that they would acknowledge that the Hood was beaten and they would render assistance. Without sensors and communications, though, the ship was deaf ,blind and mute. Not a happy mixture.
All the bridge crew could do was to concentrate on patching the fried consoles as best they could. Cables and conduits hung from ceiling panels; half the displays didn’t work and there was a lot of work to do.
Half an hour later, a worried looking Frost returned. She beckoned Wallace over to a relatively quiet corner of the bridge and spoke in a low voice.
“It’s terrible down there, Captain. There’s a hull breach in main engineering - emergency forcefields are in place. We should be able to close it. The warp core came within a hair’s breadth of being hit - it’s still functional but warp power is off line. There’s a lot of dead people down there . . . and Captain . . .” Frost paused, her voice catching – “Lieutenant Commander Byrne is among the casualties.” Wallace lowered his eyes and took in a deep breath. Sam. Dead. One of his oldest friends. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury grieving now - he was the Captain and they were in trouble. There would be time for grief later, assuming any of them lived.
“I see. Who is in charge down there now?” he asked, his voice level and controlled.
“JJ. I mean, Lt, Austin, sir.” Everyone on board knew the assistant chief engineer well - JJ was a popular figure. She would need to be to galvanise morale in the shattered engineering section.
“How are we looking structurally?”
“Not too bad. We took a torpedo hit in the secondary hull - which caused all the damage in engineering – but we were lucky. We’ve retained our structural integrity.” Wallace looked relieved.
“Well . . . at least the ship isn’t going to fall apart beneath us.” He smiled at Frost. “Take a break Lisa . . . we’re going to need all our strength.”
Within the hour, internal communications were restored and Wallace had a much better idea of the damage they had sustained. The hull breach in the engineering section was well on the way to being sealed and the main power relays were well on the way to being repaired. All in all, things could have been a lot worse.

A full day later, the Hood was approaching operational status again. The warp drive was fully up, the hull was intact; however, the one thing they couldn’t remedy was the appalling loss of life – fifty-seven in all, with another sixty injured to some degree or other. Wallace knew every face, every name, and he felt like he’d been kicked in the groin. The remainder of the crew had pulled together and had performed miracles and Wallace had posted numerous citations for outstanding performance in his log, including mentions for Frost, JJ and the late Sam Byrne.
The bridge was nearly normal, save for a few patches here and there and scorch marks on some of the surfaces. The mood was one of grim determination. Exhaustion wasn’t a factor; they were all too angry to be tired. Instead, each member of the crew concentrated on their jobs, doing their bit to pull the old Hood through.
A beep came from the communications station. Every head on the bridge turned towards it.
“Communications restored, Captain,” Dean reported, “and we’re getting something from Command.”
“On screen, Lt. Dean.” The main viewscreen flickered and the image of Admiral Partridge appeared.
“There you are!” he said in an immensely relieved tone. “When we couldn’t contact you, we feared the worse . . . we know the Iron Chancellor is in your area.” Wallace attempted a wry smile, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“We’ve engaged her, about a solar day ago. We were badly hit - we lost a lot of people. We’re still operational.”
“We have no idea as to her location, only that she’s somewhere in our space – we detected her slipping across the border – and while she remains out there, she’s a threat to our shipping.”
“And there are no other ships around to deal with her . . . correct?”
“I’m afraid so.” Wallace paced around the deck.
“You realise that this ship has been through hell in the past twenty four hours?” Partridge looked down.
“Les . . . we’ve got border incursions all over the place. The Klingons are sending up battlecruiser divisions to the front and God knows what the Romulans are up to. I’m afraid that it falls on to you to find the Iron Chancellor. I’m sorry.”
“If that’s the way things stand, then you can rely on the Hood to do its duty, Admiral. Wallace out.” He turned and looked around the bridge, searching for any hint of resentment that a berth at a repair base had been denied them. There was none. He crossed to his chair and toggled the intercom switch.
“All hands, this is the Captain. I know how hard these hours have been for you all - for us all - and the ship could be in a lot better shape than it is. However, the Iron chancellor is still out there, and it’s up to us to stop her. We know what we’re up against now, and next time . . . we’ll be ready. That is all.” He turned to Newton at the science station.
“Can you track the Chancellor’s course?” The officer stabbed at buttons.
“She’s left a faint emission trail, Captain - but it’s trackable.”
“Good. Feed the course into the helm. Mr Drake, ahead Warp five.” The ship’s entry into warp didn’t feel as smooth as usual, but the Hood stood up to it. Not for the first time, Wallace felt immensely proud of his ship.

“Captain Wallace, compliments from Commander Frost and will you please join her in the forward torpedo bay.” Wallace had been getting his hands dirty in engineering, working in a Jefferies tube as the repair effort went on. He slid down to the intercom and acknowledged the signal. As he collected his uniform jacket, he smiled at an ensign, unused to seeing his Captain working on power conduits in his shirt sleeves.
“All finished in there, Ensign,” Wallace said cheerily, “carry on with those couplings, you’re doing well!” The ensign - Cunningham was his name - grinned and set to his work with a renewed vigour. Wallace was well aware of the effect a Captain had on his or her crew, the capacity to either motivate or demoralise. By working alongside them, Wallace hoped that it would demonstrate that they were all in it together, working as a team. He didn’t realise that it was helping to elevate his already revered status to near god-hood.
He entered the bay and saw Frost and JJ deep in discussion.
“Captain!” Frost exclaimed, in an excited mood. “We’ve been discussing modifying our torpedoes to increase their range. We think we’ve found a way to do it.” Wallace’s curiosity was piqued. In their first engagement, the fact that the Chancellor had been able to open fire so much sooner than the Hood had cost them dearly. If there was a way to reset that balance . . . Frost continued.
“I suggested to JJ that we increase the range of our torpedoes. I’ll let JJ herself explain.”
“Well, if we cannibalise the propulsion systems from some of our torpedoes and pack them into others, we can increase the range greatly. Unfortunately, the payoff will be that we’ll have to reduce the size of the warhead to make room and they won’t be as accurate as we’d like.” JJ looked askance at Wallace, nervously biting her lip. She was unused to making suggestions directly to the Captain and it was a risk to make alterations to a weapons system at such a critical time.
“We’ll have to cannibalise some of our torpedoes, you say?” Wallace mused, his eyes narrow in thought. Frost answered. “Yes . . . but given the fact that we may well engage the Chancellor with those long-range weapons again, I think we have to do it.” Wallace looked up.
“Agreed. Set to work on modifying one quarter of our torpedoes. Taking into account the ones we’ll lose when you strip them down, that’ll leave us half our remaining stock. And well done. This is a first-rate solution to a difficult tactical problem. I’m pleased with both of you.” As he left, he could feel the delighted glow from the two young officers. He chuckled once out of the room, as he remembered himself at that age, just as eager and keen. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Ten hours later, the trail was growing warmer. The emissions from the Chancellor’s engines were becoming stronger and they were obviously closing in on the New Prussian ship. Wallace felt a familiar mixture of excitement and trepidation, the latter sensation heightened by the terrible devastation wrought on the Hood previously. The torpedo modifications had been just about completed and the ship was in a much better state. Whether she was ready to take on the Chancellor again was another matter entirely. The mood of quiet concentration was shattered by an excited shout from Newton.
“Contact, sir! Fifteen degrees off the starboard bow.” Wallace’s lips tightened.
“Intercept course, helm. Warp six.” The starfield shifted as the ship turned and accelerated.
“Captain, the Chancellor is turning to meet us,” Newton said in a more sombre tone. So be it. The two ships would clash again - and this time, Hood would be ready.

The range continued to close between the two ships. The crew of the Hood forgot their anxieties, their fears and their need to avenge their dead shipmates; the professionalism instilled into them took over. They were in trouble, they all knew that. Yet, they also were convinced of the ruggedness of their ship, which had been tested in the most severe of examinations. Most of all, they trusted their Captain with their lives and they would have followed him anywhere.
“Mr. Drake, stand by for defensive phaser fire,” Wallace ordered.
“Firing patterns computed and ready, Captain,” Drake replied instantly, with a glint in his eye. Wallace stood up and peered at the readouts.
“What’s this?” he asked, puzzled.
“I’ve been working with the phaser chief to improve on our last performance. I reckon we’ll be able to mount fifty per cent better fire against their torpedoes.”
“Good work. Good work!” Wallace said happily. He sat back in his chair, pleased at the ingenuity of his crew. He was less pleased at having to expose them to the Iron Chancellor’s murderous fire again.
“Time to firing range?” he asked Frost.
“Two minutes, Captain, for our new torpedoes, five minutes for conventional weapons.”
“Can we match the range they opened up at last time?” “I think so - that’s what we planned for when we devised the modifications.” Wallace nodded.
“A level playing field. Good. Let’s see how the Chancellor fares when the odds are even.” He thought for a moment.
“Stand by, long-range photon torpedoes. Don’t fire until I give the order. Lisa, we’ll let them get off a couple of salvoes first, let them think that they’ve still got the range advantage.”
“Understood.”
An alarm sounded from the science station.
“Incoming fire, dead ahead.” And there they were, torpedoes streaking toward them from the New Prussians. Drake’s brow furrowed as he fine-tuned his firing programmes, until the range dropped to optimum and the phasers fired.
“GOT ‘em!” he shouted in triumph, before concentrating once more on the second salvo. It was a small victory, but Wallace hoped it was a good omen. He decided the time was right.
“Open fire.” A full salvo of photon torpedoes erupted from the forward tubes, racing towards the Chancellor. Another salvo followed, and a third. Now, it was simply a question of how accurate their fire was, and how surprised the Chancellor would be. As he watched the screen intently, he saw flashes on the Chancellor’s flanks,indicating good hits against their shields. The Hood herself rocked to the impacts as torpedoes inevitably found their way through Drake’s fire, but they were more than holding their own.
“Continue to close the range!” he ordered, their rate of fire undiminished. They were hitting their target regularly now, and soon they would be in phaser range. Wallace sat bolt upright in his seat as another torpedo flew toward the Chancellor, homing in on her starboard side. The impact set off a tremendous explosion that seemed to engulf the ship. The Chancellor reeled, still intact but grievously damaged down one side.
“We’ve knocked out all her starboard weaponry, “Frost breathlessly reported, “Sensors show that her propulsion systems are badly damaged. their shields are all but gone on that side but life support seems to be holding.” Despite her injuries, however, she continued to bravely return fire. Wallace shook his head in admiration. The fighting abilities of the New Prussians had not been over-estimated.
“Close to phaser range and concentrate fire on her engines. No sense in increasing casualties unnecessarily.” Drake nodded and targeted the Chancellor’s engineering. As he prepared to fire, all fire ceased and the enemy ship rolled, running lights dropping.
“Her main power’s failed, Captain. Life support too.” Wallace looked at Frost.
“This could be a trap.” Frost appeared to be unhappy.
“It could, Captain . . . but if it isn’t, we’re obliged to assist.” Wallace paced the deck.
“This needn’t have happened at all but for the damned diplomats dragging their feet. As usual, it’s up to us to fight and die. Well, we’re not dead yet. The New Prussians may have abandoned us when they beat us . . . but I’m not prepared to leave them. Mr. Drake . . .approach course. Maintain shields.” He hit the switch to put him on ship’s speakers and cleared his throat.
“The Iron Chancellor is in trouble. She looks dead, and we’re going to assist her. Now I know that we may harbour feelings of personal animosity towards the New Prussians; nevertheless, they need our help and we’re going to give it. Captain out.” He glanced at Frost.
“Any sign of activity?”
“She’s sent out a general distress signal, very weak. I don’t think that anyone besides ourselves could have heard it.”
“Very well. Continue to close. How long until we reach transporter range?”
“Two minutes.”
“Right. Lt. Dean, hail them.” This time, they answered. The face that appeared on the screen was handsome, late middle-aged and worried. Wallace spoke first.
“I’m Captain Wallace, commanding the Starship Hood. Do you require assistance?”
“Kapitan Braun. Our life sustaining systems have failed and we are struggling to prevent our warp core from collapsing. Your assistance would be greatly welcomed.” Wallace paused before speaking, wondering whether the question he wanted to ask could wait. He decided that it couldn’t.
“After our first engagement - when we were crippled - why didn’t you help us?” The New Prussian looked down for a moment before answering.
“We were going to assist you - until we received an urgent call for help from a convoy of our freighters, heading back into our space. Ten unarmed merchantmen, butchered.” His face turned angry. “So you will forgive me, perhaps, if I chose to help my own ships rather than the people who murdered innocent civilians.”
“Now wait a minute. No Federation ship would attack unarmed merchantmen. Besides, there aren’t any other Starfleet ships in this sector.” Braun frowned.
“You speak with sincerity, yet our ships have been attacked. I have seen the results with my own eyes.”
“Our shipping has been attacked too, we assume by your forces. But you have my word . . . if Starfleet ships have carried out the acts you described, they will be punished. In the meanwhile, I suggest that we evacuate your crew.” Braun nodded.
“Agreed. My transporter systems are non-operational. Are yours functioning?”
“Yes. Transmit us co-ordinates that we can lock onto and we’ll begin to beam your people aboard. I’m afraid they’ll have to be under armed guard, Kapitan.”
“Of course. After all, we are at war.” He smiled grimly. Wallace motioned at Dean to cut the transmission and spoke to Frost.
“I want the New Prussians taken to the recreation deck, there should be plenty of room in there for them. Post all our available security personnel to the transporter rooms and the rec deck. And quickly, Lisa.” Frost immediately began organising the rescue effort over the comm channels, before hurrying down to the transporter room. Wallace scrutinised the displays at science.
“Mr. Newton, from what I can see, it looks as though they’re losing their fight with their warp core.”
“Yes, Captain. If they can’t control it, the whole ship will go up. Us too.”
“How long?” Newton grimaced.
“Hard to say, sir. Put it this way . . .if it begins to go, I can give you five minute’s warning.”
“Five minutes? Long enough to have a cup of tea, eh?” His weak attempt at humour seemed to calm Newton, who had performed admirably throughout the last couple of days. He hit the intercom switch again.
“Transporter room - Lisa, you’d better speed it up. Things don’t look too good over there. There structural integrity is dicey and the warp core is increasingly unstable.”
“Right, Captain, we’ll move as fast as we can.”
“Mr. Drake, get ready to pull us out of here if their engines go.” Drake nodded. Now, all Wallace could do was wait.

Ten minutes later, the evacuation was nearly complete. The Chancellor’s warp core, though unstable, remained intact and only the bridge crew remained to be rescued. Wallace decided that he should be there to welcome Kapitan Braun on board, and he went to the transporter room, leaving Drake in charge of the bridge.
As he hurried along, he wondered what kind of a man Braun was. Over the commlink, he seemed sincere and passionate and his explanation as to why the Chancellor abandoned the Hood had a ring of authenticity about it. Still, Federation ships would never destroy freighters. Maybe there was a third possibility . . . maybe somebody else was responsible. Wallace didn’t want to think about that and his train of thought was broken by his arrival at the transporter room.
He entered into an atmosphere of consternation.
“You can’t get a lock?” Frost asked the transporter chief. There were several New Prussians in the room, along with six burly security guards. The transporter chief shook his head.
“There’s too much disruption from their engines, ma’am.” Drake’s voice cut in from the bridge.
“Their warp core is collapsing. We’ve got under five minutes.” Wallace thought quickly. They would never be able to beam the remaining New Prussians out - but with a pattern enhancer to boost the transporter, it might just be possible. He crossed to a wall panel, opened it and grabbed three enhancers.
“I’m going over there. We can beam in, can’t we?”
“Well, yes,” answered the chief, “but it’s risky, sir.” Frost looked aghast.
“But Captain! They’re going to blow apart any moment!” Wallace strode onto the transporter pads.
“There’s plenty of time. And there are people over there. You’re in command, Miss Frost.” She lowered her eyes, then murmured an acknowledgement. She knew that he couldn’t be dissuaded.
“Chief - energize,” Wallace ordered, his voice firm and determined. He shimmered from the platform and vanished.
He materialised on the smoky bridge of the Chancellor. It was darker but larger than his own bridge, with a layout that was typically New Prussian. He could see the last six members of the crew working feverishly at what he presumed to be the engineering console, attempting to prevent the inevitable warp core breach. A man he recognised as Braun looked up in surprise.
“Captain! what are you doing here?” he shouted. Wallace began to place the enhancers down.
“We lost your signals, so in order for us to beam you out, I’ve brought these enhancers.”
“But our engines . . . they’re about to go!”
“I know! So hurry over here!” Braun gestured to his officers and they ran across to Wallace.
“We can take six at a time - you go, I’ll stay to make sure everything is working.”
“No!” Braun protested, “It should be me to be the last!”
Wallace lost his temper.
“Look, if these enhancers fail, I can fix them, you can’t. Now get ready for transport!” Braun reluctantly stepped in between the enhancers, fixed Wallace with a gaze and saluted.
“Thank you, Captain,” he said simply. Wallace signalled to the Hood and the New Prussians vanished.
On board the Hood, the transporter chief prepared to beam Wallace up. Braun led his shipmates off the pads and Frost signalled to Wallace.
“Ready to beam, sir.”
“I’m in position, Hood. Whenever you’re ready.” “Energize,” Frost ordered. Nothing happened. The chief frantically worked controls, before thumping a fist down in frustration.
“We’ve got no power!” he yelled. Frost opened the intercom.
“Engineering! We need transporter power NOW!” JJ’s voice answered.
“Systems overloaded! I’ll try to get power back!” Wallace’s voice cut in.
“Hood, what’s the problem?”
“Just a minute, Captain, we’re having a few problems.” Frost felt mounting pressure, added to by another announcement from the bridge.
“Drake here! Thirty seconds until she blows!” Wallace had kept the channel open and heard. He knew what he had to do. In that instant, everything was crystal clear and he felt a strange sort of peace.
“Ms Frost, get the ship out of there!” he said calmly and firmly.
“We can’t leave you!” Frost half sobbed.
“That’s an order! Save my ship!” Wallace thundered. Frost paused for a moment, then turned to the intercom.
“Mr. Drake, warp us out of here.” Wallace smiled. His ship would be safe and maybe, just maybe, a Federation ship helping a crippled new Prussian ship would bring people to their senses. Not a bad way to end your career. Better than rotting away behind a desk. No Admiral’s stars for him, no quiet retirement. He sat down, accepting his fate.
The Hood accelerated away in a rainbow of colours, seconds before the Chancellor blew apart. There was nothing left; no debris, no hull plates . . . and no life. Nothing.

The Hood lay at rest inside Starbase one-eleven, her battered hull finally sheltered from the harsh environment of space. She wouldn’t see any more action, fight any more battles or explore any more strange new worlds; an honoured place in the fleet museum awaited her. Other vessels would bear her name, maintaining her proud tradition. The wounded were looked after, Federation and New Prussian alike and the prisoners of war were treated well.
At a memorial service for Captain Wallace and the dead of both ships, peace broke out. It had been revealed that the shipping attacks had been carried out by Klingon Birds of Prey, sitting cloaked in the spacelanes. The Enterprise-A had caught one red-handed attacking a Federation freighter. The Klingons had denied all knowledge of the attacks, blaming it on a dissident faction.
The governments of Federation and New Prussia saw it differently. It was obviously an attempt to provoke war between them, with the Klingons the only winners. The plot had failed. As news of Wallace’s sacrifice and the terrible battles between the Hood and the Iron Chancellor reached the news services, Wallace’s wish that it would shock people came true. At a ceremony just before the memorial service, the heads of the two governments signed a new, genuinely warm peace treaty - there would never be war again between the powers.
Admiral Partridge conducted the service. He concluded with a personal address about his friend. Looking on from were those of the Hood’s crew who were able to attend, along with the survivors from the Iron Chancellor. Frost, Drake, JJ, Newton, Dean, Surell, Swift; all sat alongside Braun and his crew. They listened intently as Partridge began his final address.
“This service is to commemorate the lives lost in the engagements between two ships of war. Some would say that the battle should never have been fought, but that is a matter for politicians to decide. What is important is that their sacrifice was not in vain. Our two peoples are now closer than ever and old ties, long broken, have been reaffirmed.” He paused to look around the vast hall. (Was that James T. Kirk and Spock he saw at the back?) He thought of his friend, then continued.
“Those who died will be remembered. All of them. But for me particularly . . . I will miss my old friend, Les Wallace. He was a man who inspired loyalty and dedication in those who served under him. He was kind and decent, firm and logical. He was a born explorer and long resisted all attempts to drag him, kicking and screaming, out of the Captain’s chair.” There were a few smiles from the Hood’s crew at that. Partridge smiled himself.
“He epitomised everything a Starfleet officer should be about. If people thought me to be half the man he is, I would count myself fortunate. For as long as Starfleet endures, his name - and all the honoured dead, will be remembered.” He finished and stepped down from the dais. Sombre music began to play and people filed out.
Frost walked out and found herself, for a moment at least, alone. She thought about Wallace and all the dead and a wave of grief swept over her. Her gaze drifted to a portal, filled with stars. Her future lay out there, where Wallace had spent his life. She felt he was still out there, watching over his protégé . . . and that was fine with her.