Thunder Rolls

Thunder grabbed the railing, pulling himself to his feet.  The ship's command center was a shambles, full of smoke and the dead or dying.  He panned a look along the consoles within view, now operating on aux batteries.  Fire suppression had kicked in, as designed, keeping the ship's interior from being engulfed, while sealing bulkheads with forcefields from freestanding generators, or good old-fashioned steel doors where generators failed.  Only life support remained, and it wouldn't last forever.

"No one ever listens."

He'd tried warning everyone.  Quietly, of course.  Speak the truth... no matter how controversial... and you'd be called a rebel, an extremist, or worse.  A terrorist.  An 'enemy sympathizer'.  Problem was, too few in the Federation knew who their enemies truly were.  That included Starfleet, a microcosm for everything that was happening – everything that had gone wrong in the Federation.

Everyone in the Federation was blind.  They were sheep, going along with the rest, eating whatever was fed to them, whether it be truth or lies.  Most of it was lies.  Leaders telling them 'everything is fine', 'we know what we're doing', 'we're in no danger', 'the situation is under control'....  Bunch of damned fools.  When would people start using their brains?

No, he did not sympathize with the enemy – not the real enemy.  He tried telling others who those enemies were, and they just didn't want to hear it.  They simply wanted to go on with their happy little lives, oblivious.  They were lazy – and to make it worse, as the saying went: If you aren't part of the solution, you're part of the problem.

The real enemies of the Federation were the ones who put them in this mess.

Fumes on the bridge reached his nostrils, noxious and awful, and shot straight to his stomach, threatening to make him vomit.

He stumbled around the rail, to where Commander Jones had ripped open a panel, and was pulling out breathing filters.

"Lieutenant."  Jones thrust a handful of the breathers at him.  The first officer had a bleeding gash on his head.  "Start handing these out."

Thunder turned, scanning the smoke, trying to discern who was alive, who wasn't.  Comtacts would have told instantly who was which... if not for the fact that he had removed them, and his complant.  Most comtact lenses used the cochlear implant to function.  Mind control – that was the true purpose of complants, according to underground news sources.  It sounded outlandish.  Not in the Federation.  Oh no.  Of course not.  But not everyone blindly believed what they were told.

Buying time to cover his hesitation, he said over his shoulder, "Sir, shouldn't we separate the bridge?"

"If we have time."  Jones pushed him into action.  "First confirm our casualties."

The captain was dead.  Most everyone was, on the bridge.  Only two others survived.  Panel readings indicated the rest of the ship's crew shared an equal outcome.  Jones slapped his com-badge, opening the ship's intercom to whoever lived.  "This is the XO.  Report to your escape pods."  Everyone on board knew Jones' voice.

The Bartokians and Khalindarians might blow them out of the stars, but they stood a better chance out there.  The warp core hadn't gone critical yet, but another shot could change that.  It should have auto-ejected by now: a built-in safety feature to prevent explosions and total loss of ships in these situations.  Even if it had, that didn't keep the inside from becoming a toxic nightmare.  The surviving crew would need medical attention.

Jones, Thunder and Reed – Ensign Stemple, the other survivor, was unconscious – opened manual access controls, and moments later, the Tokyo's bridge module separated from the ship.  Maneuvering thrusters kicked in, pushing the module away from the crippled vessel.  On limited sensors, the Khalindarian ships had been destroyed, along with the Orion and Birmingham.