In principio: What Nico Believed Part 1

Posted on Tue Jul 14th, 2026 @ 4:35pm by Master Chief Petty Officer Julian Trent

2,721 words; about a 14 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Murmansk
Timeline: 2375

USS Murmansk, 2375

The Tactical Operations room had lost two overhead lights, one console and most of the panel covering the starboard power junction, but it was still functioning, which placed it ahead of several other parts of the Murmansk. The deck shifted beneath Julian’s boots each time the ship took another hit, never far enough to throw him, though the repeated movement had turned balance into something deliberate. He kept one hand against the edge of the console while the other moved through fire-control reports, isolating damaged systems, checking ammunition loads and passing anything the bridge needed upwards before they had time to ask twice.

There were too many voices. Tactical personnel reporting from damaged phaser control rooms, Operations demanding revised power priorities, the bridge requesting firing solutions while Engineering insisted that the port arrays could not sustain another full discharge without welding half their relays together. Somewhere beyond the bulkhead, an alarm repeated the same three-note warning until somebody either silenced it or the system carrying it finally failed.

Julian read the latest weapons diagnostic, dismissed one torpedo tube as unavailable and rerouted the next firing sequence through the remaining launcher. “Tube three is no longer responding to remote commands,” he said, pitching his voice above the noise as he sent the updated status to the bridge. His fingers continued moving across the controls while he added, “Mark it unavailable before somebody tries to load another torpedo into something that might kill us all.”

Petty Officer Sella Rourke glanced towards him from the neighbouring console, the red emergency lighting cutting hard shadows across her face. Blood had dried near one ear from a cut Julian had not seen happen, though she did not appear aware of it. “Tube three reports loaded,” she said, one hand moving quickly across her controls as she checked the data again. Her mouth tightened when the same contradictory status returned. “It just isn’t admitting whether the loading cradle completed its cycle.”

“Well, isn’t it just inconvenient...” Julian replied, watching the power distribution change as another phaser array came online. He locked the tube out remotely before the system could object. “Seal it locally and send someone after the battle. Preferably someone with a toolkit and no attachment to their fingers.”

Rourke’s mouth moved briefly despite the strain around it before she returned to the damage feed. Her shoulders eased by a fraction as the port array finally answered. “Port phasers report ready at sixty-two per cent,” she said, pulling the status towards Julian.

“Tell them they have fifty,” Julian said, redirecting power before the bridge could take the optimistic figure seriously. He watched the projected load settle just below the failure threshold and added, “Remind the Chief that burning out the emitter does not count as exceeding expectations.”

The deck rolled again, harder this time, and a burst of static swallowed the reply from one of the forward control stations. Julian caught himself against the console, waited for the inertial dampeners to remember their purpose and looked down at the internal systems display when a new cluster of damage warnings appeared across decks seven and eight: pressure loss, structural breach, emergency containment attempting to engage. He opened the affected area long enough to see which tactical systems ran through it. Two secondary power conduits, one targeting sensor relay and the backup feed to a starboard phaser bank. He marked all three compromised, sent the changes to the bridge and moved on before the internal schematic finished turning red.

There was no room for anything else. Not right now. Not in all this. The battle had narrowed until the ship existed only as damaged systems, ammunition counts and the next order arriving before the previous one had been completed. Julian had checked during almost every engagement since the war began, quietly and quickly, with the practised efficiency of someone pretending the information belonged to the work. A triage report signed by PO2 N. Canto. A surgical transfer authorised through his medical clearance. A commbadge moving between Sickbay and whichever casualty collection point needed another pair of hands. Not today. Not in this battle. Today there had been no spare second to disguise as routine.

“Tactical Operations, bridge,” the Department Head’s voice broke across the comm, distorted by interference. There was shouting somewhere behind them before the channel cleared enough for the question. “Confirm torpedo readiness.”

Julian pulled the current status towards him, eyes moving quickly through the available launchers and remaining load. The bridge’s direct tactical feed had been unreliable for days, leaving Tactical Operations to verify weapons status manually before routing it back. “Two launchers available, one unreliable and one pretending not to exist,” he said, calculating the viable spread as he spoke. “Twenty-three torpedoes accessible. Recommend alternating tubes one and four until somebody gives us reason to regret it.”

“Understood,” the Lieutenant replied, their voice clipped by another impact. A burst of static briefly erased the next words before they returned. “Prepare spread pattern niner-four and stand by.”

Julian entered the pattern, watched the targeting sequence build and felt the familiar narrowing inside him as everything unnecessary fell away. Range. Speed. Shield harmonics. The enemy vessel’s damaged port side rotating into view. He passed the firing solution to the bridge and braced as the Murmansk discharged. The inertial dampeners were still struggling, and he swore he could feel the ship tremble as the photon torpedoes fired. The room flashed white through the damaged overhead panel, and a second later the tactical display reported a collapse in the enemy’s forward shielding, followed by a rise in debris and radiation where one of its weapon emplacements had been. Nobody cheered. There was too much still happening.

Rourke sent a revised casualty report to the department display and reached for the next damage summary, her hand moving with the automatic precision of exhaustion. Then her fingers stopped above the console. It was not dramatic. Her shoulders did not jerk, and she did not make a sound. She simply became still in a room where nobody was allowed to be still.

Julian continued working for several seconds before he noticed the silence beside him. “Rourke,” he said, checking the starboard power feed as another warning appeared. He kept his eyes on the display while he added, “If the station has frozen, strike it with something expensive. They respond to hierarchy.”

She did not answer, and Julian looked across. Rourke was staring at the casualty update. The blood near her ear had reached the edge of her collar now, a narrow dark line against the gold fabric. Her eyes moved once across the display, then back, as though repetition might change whatever she had read.

“What?” Julian asked, irritation arriving first because the battle was still moving and they could not afford stillness. His hand remained poised over the controls, waiting for her to return to herself.

Rourke looked towards him, and the expression on her face removed the rest of the room from Julian’s attention. “Julian,” she said, using his first name in a place where she never did. Her voice had dropped enough that he almost failed to hear it beneath the alarms.

His fingers became still against the console. “What?” he repeated, turning towards her fully now.

Rourke swallowed and turned the casualty list towards him, though she kept one hand against the edge of the display as if she could prevent it from moving any closer. “Casualty update,” she said, forcing the words through a throat which no longer seemed willing to cooperate. “Section eight-twelve vented after the secondary explosion.”

Julian looked at the highlighted entry without reading it. His mind reached for the technical meaning because that was still something he could understand. “I know,” he said, glancing towards the compromised power map. “It took out the backup feed to the starboard array.”

Rourke’s expression tightened, and she shook her head once. “Julian, there were wounded there,” she said, her voice catching before she forced herself onwards. “Nico…Nico went there to evacuate people.”

Something around him should have changed in that moment. The universe, or some higher power, should have opened its eyes and stared at him. He should have felt the world change. But it didn’t. The room didn’t change, the alarms were still blaring, people around him were still providing tactical information to various decks and the ship shuddered against another attack.

Julian looked at her as though she had spoken too quietly. “What?” he asked, though he had heard every word.

“Petty Officer Nico Canto,” Rourke said, and her voice nearly failed on the name before she forced it level. She touched one finger to the highlighted entry without looking away from Julian. “He was assigned to the casualty team in that section.”

Julian turned towards his console before he understood that he had moved. His fingers opened the internal sensor network, bypassed the general status display and entered Nico’s identification code with enough force that the panel protested the second touch. There was no active commbadge signal. He ran it again, but the result did not change. He tried to isolate Nico’s biosignature instead, only for the damaged sensor network to refuse the search, citing insufficient processing capacity.

“Sensor interference,” Julian said, though Rourke had not offered an explanation. He widened the search to the adjacent sections, then to the entire deck, his hands moving faster as every variation returned the same answer. “The breach took several internal relays offline.”

Rourke stepped closer but did not touch him. Her hands hovered uselessly near her sides before one curled into a fist. “Damage Control confirmed complete pressure loss,” she said, watching Julian open the containment record.

“Emergency containment engaged,” Julian replied, dragging the field status towards him as though the statement itself could alter what the display showed.

“It failed for fourteen seconds,” Rourke said quietly, lowering her eyes towards the console because she could no longer bear to watch his face.

Julian opened the containment record. The forcefield had activated, collapsed and restored itself after the atmosphere was already gone. The report was very clear. Starfleet systems liked clarity once there was nothing left to save.

“Transporters?” he asked, pulling up the emergency acquisition log. His voice remained controlled, but his fingers trembled once against the edge of the display.

“No lock,” Rourke said, closing her eyes briefly before looking at him again. “They tried, but the power fluctuations…” Her voice faltered before she could finish.

Julian searched the log anyway. Six attempted acquisitions. Four failures. Two partial patterns rejected by the safety system as too unstable to reconstruct. Operations had tried. Nico’s commbadge identification appeared beside one of the failed locks, and Julian stared at it until the symbols blurred and sharpened again.

“Status?” he asked, because the word missing appeared beside Nico’s name and missing was not the same as dead. His hand gripped the edge of the console hard enough for the damaged casing to press into his palm.

Rourke hesitated, her mouth opening before the words came. “Missing, presumed dead,” she said, and her eyes shone beneath the red light.

“Presumed is not confirmed,” Julian said, looking back at the sensor display as though the correct combination of commands might force the ship to admit it had made a mistake.

“No,” she agreed, and the gentleness in her voice made something hot and furious move through him. She drew a slow breath before adding, “It isn’t.”

The bridge requested the next firing solution, and Julian’s console flashed insistently beneath his hands. For a moment, he could not remember what the controls meant.

Rourke moved towards the weapons display, one hand reaching for the active pattern. “I can take this,” she said, keeping her movements slow as though approaching something injured.

“No,” Julian said, the answer coming too quickly as he closed the casualty update. He straightened his shoulders and forced his hands back towards the controls. “You have your own station.”

“Julian…” Rourke began, her fingers tightening around the edge of the console as she searched his face.

“We are still in combat,” he said, hearing the coldness enter his voice and allowing it because coldness worked. He pulled the target information back into place, covering Nico’s name beneath range and shield data. “Pattern niner-four is already loaded. The target’s forward shields are down to nineteen per cent and the bridge is waiting.”

Rourke watched him, grief and concern sitting openly across her face in a way Julian could not bear to acknowledge. Her jaw tightened before she turned back towards her own console.

Julian looked down at the firing solution, though the figures refused to hold still for the first second. “Send them the updated pattern,” he said once the numbers became numbers again.

Rourke returned to her station because there was nothing else she could do. “Sending now,” she replied, her voice careful as her hands completed the transmission.

Julian monitored the remaining arrays, rerouted power, confirmed ammunition and answered every request placed in front of him. His hands knew the work even when the rest of him had become something distant and badly connected. He did not check Nico’s signal again because he knew what it would say. He closed the casualty layer beneath the firing solution and continued working.

The battle continued for thirty-seven minutes. The enemy vessel withdrew after the Murmansk disabled its primary weapons and a second Federation ship entered the system. The order to stand down came through the bridge in a voice which sounded too tired to belong to anyone Julian knew. Tactical systems shifted from combat to damage assessment, and the room slowly filled with the different noise of survival: people breathing, chairs moving, reports being spoken more quietly because nobody needed to fight the alarms anymore.

Julian remained at his station until his Department Head entered Tactical Operations several minutes later with a bandage pressed across one temple and one sleeve torn open near the shoulder. The Lieutenant spoke to Rourke first, their expression tightening at whatever she said, then looked towards Julian with the careful attention of someone who had already been told.

“Trent,” they said, approaching until they stood beside the damaged console. Their voice was quieter than it had been over the battle channel. “You’re relieved.”

Julian kept his attention on the damage summary, scrolling through a report he had already read twice. “The torpedo inventory is incomplete,” he said, refusing to look away from the figures.

“Rourke can finish it,” the Lieutenant replied, glancing towards the neighbouring station before returning their attention to him.

“Tube three may still contain a loaded weapon,” Julian said, opening the launcher status as though the problem had not already been isolated.

“Engineering has secured the mechanism,” the Lieutenant told him, placing one hand against the edge of the console without touching Julian.

“The bridge needs the revised tactical capacity before we decide whether to remain in the system,” Julian continued, moving to the next unfinished report before they could answer.

“They have it,” the Lieutenant said, their tone remaining calm despite the refusal. “I sent the preliminary assessment myself.”

Julian’s hand rested on the console, fingers spread against the warm surface. There was no task left which required him specifically, but he searched for one anyway.

The Lieutenant waited, allowing the silence to settle before speaking again. “Go,” they said, the order gentler than Julian wanted it to be.

Julian looked at them then, not because the instruction was unclear, but because he did not know where they expected him to go.

Their expression softened as understanding moved between them. “That is an order, Petty Officer,” they said, straightening slightly to give him something formal enough to obey.

Julian nodded once, closed the active display and stepped away from the console. His hand remained against the edge for a second longer than necessary before he forced it to release. Rourke watched him cross the room, her mouth opening as if she intended to say something, but Julian did not slow enough to let her try.

To be continued in part 2

 

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