There was something in Song that was glad they were meeting in person- something in her that found Wasp‘s bridge too quiet, like a foxhole after the artillery has ceased fire. That horrible, anxious silence, waiting for another shoe to drop, waiting for another misfortune to fall. The waiting, as before, was what always killed her.

Not that the scene aboard the freighter was much better, but it was at least a reassurance to see how quickly the Starfleet-Klingon force sprang into action. Before either she or Kurino could speak a word to them, medical officers were already rushing off to the worst of the wounded, T’Vara ‘s ragtag collection of engineers rushing down stairwells towards main engineering. Despite everything, the pride still managed to linger in her heart.

What was more surprising were the people aboard… because what Song had expected to be a refugee ship of a single species turned out to be far from it. Representatives of a half-dozem different Expanse species, none of which she’d ever seen before, shambled about as best they could, lending what aid to the engineering and medical teams they could muster.

At least six were of the same species- uniformed, as best she could tell, and probably the proper operators of the vessel. One strode towards her, awkward and stiff, as though it was trying to copy her posture. A friendly attempt at appeasement, Song hoped.

“You are the Arbiter of your people?” the alien asked, its voice a rumbling hiss that somehow managed to convey gratitude on a level Song couldn’t quite grasp at first. It took her a moment to realize it hadn’t spoken aloud, but directly into her head.

“… uhm-” Song almost yelped as Kurino elbowed her in the ribs, her stare saying everything it needed to- stop being self-conscious and get it together. “… yes, I suppose. I am Lieutenant Commander Song, of the Federation starship Wasp. We picked up your distress call and made best speed here- I’m glad we weren’t too late.”

“This One is in your debt,” the alien rumbled. “This One is the Shipmaster of All Truths, of Nihor. This One herself responded to a distress call of these, many peoples hated by the Old Enemy. They attacked us in turn. Had it not been for your arrival, a great many lives would have been lost.”

Song’s eyes drifted to the crowd that’d grown around them, fell upon the weathered face of a little girl peeking from behind another alien’s leg, her hand holding that of a woman slumped against the nearest wall, a medical officer beside her. The silhouettes in the window engrained themselves in her mind again. “… it was no problem at all,” Song slowly replied, forcing her attention back to the Shipmaster. “One of the Federation’s core values is to help those who ask of it.”

“We must journey immediately to Nihor,” the Shipmaster stated, unease washing into Song’s mind like a dam breaking. “The Old Enemy will return for their survivors, and find us. We cannot allow the lives we have endeavoured to save be lost now.”

“My team’s working on your engines now,” Song assured, before tapping her commbadge. “T’Vara, sitrep?”

“Provided we have the time, Captain, we should be able to repair most of the engine damage with relative ease,” the Vulcan’s response hummed, tinny through the comms. “It would appear that, after the initial damage inflicted to force them out of warp, the Draxans contented themselves with simply bombarding the ship without care. They could not have run in any case, nor were they expecting reinforcements, and thus the damage to the engine systems is, at best, moderate.”

“That’s reassuring- if we have the time.” Song let herself breathe for what felt like the first time in forever. “Do you have an ETA on that?”

“Disregarding the chance of catastrophic failure and/or significant mistakes, I would not estimate much more than an hour.”

An hour. Either easily achievable, or a death sentence. The pit in her stomach returned as soon as it’d left. “Understood. Keep the hard work going. Song, out.”

The Nihari rumbled in what… hopefully was a pleased manner. “Your crew brings this One great relief. This One would ask if you would escort us to Nihor once repairs are complete? The Old Enemy seems resurgent, and surely the gratitude of the High Arbiter would be upon you.”

Just as Song went to reply, her commbadge chirped- incoming, this time, not outgoing. She could almost feel Kurino raise an eyebrow next to her. “Song here.”

“Skip, you’re not gonna like this,” Az’s voice responded, tense as a wire drawn taut. “Just got commed by Hypatia. Captain Noli wants us to rendezvous with the squadron at the Nihor system ASAP. Didn’t really give us room for argument, said the Draxans are moving in.”

The anxiety spiked so hard in her mind that Song wasn’t sure if it was hers or the Shipmaster’s or both. “Come again, Az? Did you say Nihor?”

“Affirm, why?”

“That’s the home system of the ship we’ve rescued, and they’re not going anywhere for about an hour.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then, “… shhhit. Alright. Do we have a plan?”

Oh, how Song wished she could say yes- just snap her fingers and pull another snap-second decision out of thin air. Not this time. If she ran off to help Hypatia, she’d leave these refugees stranded in space and at the mercy of the Draxans. If she stayed, not only would that be a direct violation of orders, it’d be depriving the squadron of its most powerful combat vessel.

“So-mi.”

She snapped back out of her head with a jolt, blinked, found Kurino’s own eyes boring into her soul. The Klingon’s hand clasped gently on her shoulder. “Go. Leave an engineering detachment, and go. Mok’tal will handle things here.”

Song’s mouth hung open for a minute. “Kurino… wouldn’t you want to go after the fight?”

“They need a Defiant much more than a Bird of Prey,” she insisted. “Our honor would be stained, to leave these people defenseless. Mok’tal will stand guard, and if we must, die a warrior’s death to ensure their survival. Ride to Nihor, and if you must… die with honor.”

A pause. “… but it would be more agreeable for you to return victorious and alive.”

That was probably the closest any Klingon had ever come to saying don’t die on me. Song’s heart lodged in her throat for a moment… but she nodded, tapped her commbadge again. “T’Vara, we’ve gotta run back to the squadron. Kurino’s staying here- when you’re done, hitch a ride on Mok’tal.”

“Affirmative, Captain. Live long and prosper.”

“Peace and long life, Lieutenant. Song, out.” She straightened, looked the Shipmaster dead-on with renewed confidence. “We’ll protect your world with our lives, Shipmaster. And Kurino will protect you with hers. Trust me…” Her eyes locked with Kurino’s one last time. “… there’s nobody else I trust more. Wasp, beam us up.”

It was only once she’d disappeared in a flash of light that Song answered her own question. The anxiety was hers.