Ensign Theridion Grallator - Blue moon

[Boris Stefanovski]

(( Bridge ))

Grallator, it must be said, had not joined Starfleet to become the protagonist of a haunted‑starship melodrama. He had joined to fix things, preferably with tools, occasionally with chewing gum, and ideally without the floor humming at him like a Vulcan throat‑singer with indigestion.

So far, however, his first away mission had involved: 

1. A derelict Vulcan ship that was less “dead hulk” and more “ancient relative who won’t stop sighing dramatically.” 

2. A corridor that had opinions, which is never a good sign in architecture. 

3. A junction box that behaved less like a power relay and more like a philosopher waiting for applause. 

4. A priestess‑shaped apparition who accused him of carrying “the spark,” which was deeply unfair, since the only spark he’d ever carried was from a miswired replicator and it had set his eyebrows on fire. 

5. An artifact that wanted to kill somebody. 

Through it all, Grallator had clung to his tricorder, his Quantum Hex Wrench of Dubious Purpose, and the faint hope that the universe would eventually remember he was an engineer, not a mystic. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans, and they seemed to involve turning him into the lead actor in a Vulcan passion play.

In short: Grallator had wanted a quiet day of diagnostics. What he got was a ship that breathed, ghosts with opinions, and the creeping suspicion that he was about to be promoted from “Ensign” to “Unwilling Prophet of Haunted Hardware.”

By some miracle, or possibly clerical error, Grallator and his team reached the Bridge—a feat in itself, given the ship’s talent for turning corridors into detours.

The door peeled open with the kind of theatrical timing that made Grallator instantly suspicious. When Ada glanced over her shoulder at V’Nille, Grallator caught the look and felt his stomach sink. Doors, in his experience, only ever paused for dramatic effect when they were about to ruin someone’s day. And if the ship was staging a performance, he had the distinct feeling he’d been cast as the understudy in a play titled ‘Things That Shouldn’t Be Touched.’

Ada: Ready?

Grallator: Ready as I can always be, ::he said, which in his case meant somewhere between ‘absolutely not’ and ‘already regretting it.’ He adjusted his grip on the tricorder like a man preparing to duel with a filing cabinet and added, mostly to himself:: Though in fairness, that’s about as ready as I ever get.

V’Nille: We’re committed now. Let’s see what awaits us.

Xiron: As ready as I can be with all the other unknowns we have seen today.

Ada: I'll go first, I have the most direct contact with the ship.

Grallator stepped onto the bridge behind Ada, boots clicking with the kind of caution reserved for rooms that looked too ready. The space was dark, deserted, and—he was almost certain—smug. Not eerie, not hostile. Just smug. Like a stage that had been swept clean for a performance nobody had rehearsed.

The consoles were quiet, but not dead. They had that look—like they’d been recently dusted by something that didn’t have hands. One console glowed softly, casting a pale light across the floor like a spotlight waiting for its actor. “Orbital Planning,” it announced, in translated text that felt a little too convenient. Grallator squinted at it, suspicious. The layout was simple. Too simple. Like a trap disguised as a user interface.

He scanned the options: Lagrange points, geosynchronous slots, and one labeled “standard orbit.” Vulcan standard could mean anything—from mathematically optimal to spiritually aligned with the third syllable of Surak’s favorite poem. And if this ship had been calculating its own orbits for millennia, it might have developed preferences. Possibly grudges.

Ada seemed drawn to the console, like it had whispered her name. Grallator, meanwhile, kept his distance. He didn’t trust consoles that lit themselves. Especially not on ships that hummed like they were remembering something.

Grallator: With everything this ship’s thrown at us, I was honestly expecting a few more dead Vulcan spirits to pop up on the bridge. Maybe holding a staff meeting. Or rehearsing a dramatic sigh.

V’Nille: Honestly, I’m surprised we didn’t get that. I figured we’d see a replay of them taking up station or something. ::glances at Ada:: What are you thinking, Commander Ada?

Xiron: There is still time for that Ensign. The console looks to be in standby. Maybe it came back on when we cleared that zero-point energy blockage? Or there is a reserve power.::In a voice barely hiding frustration.:: Or some spectral energy source unknown to our science.

Ada: How about "standard orbit"?

Grallator approached the console where Ada stood, with the cautious optimism of someone who’d once asked a replicator for tea and received a philosophical debate instead. The console blinked at him in that Vulcan way—quietly smug, faintly judgmental, and entirely too well-preserved for something that had spent two thousand years sulking in orbit. He gave it a nod, the kind engineers reserved for machinery they didn’t trust but had to negotiate with anyway

Grallator: Shouldn’t we at least run a quick diagnostic before pushing buttons, Sub‑Commander? :: He gave a faint smile :: Call me cautious, but I like to know whether I’m about to activate life support… or the self‑destruct poetry recital function. :: looked at the console once again:: I know that it says “standard orbit” but nothing is Standard for this ship.

Grallator watched as Ada ran her tricorder over the console with the calm precision of someone coaxing sense out of a very old, very stubborn filing cabinet. The device chirped obligingly, confirming not only her translation but also that the control circuits obediently marched aft toward engineering—exactly where Grallator suspected they’d be hiding, like misbehaving children caught in the act of rewiring the house.

Ada: Alacrity and caution in equal measure, Ensign.

Xiron: I agree a level one diagnostic would not take much time.

V’Nille: I’m with Ensign Grallator here, Commander. We need to know exactly what it is we’re getting into. Rushing into anything won’t help anyone, regardless of what they’re made of.

Grallator: I know there are people down there who need our help. But we’ll be about as useful as a burnt‑out fuse if we blow ourselves up simply because we trusted a ship that hums like it’s plotting against us. And it will take just a couple of minutes more I guess.

Ada: It's suffering, Ensign. And so are our people on the planet below. If it wanted to hurt us, it could have easily by now, in any number of ways. Besides ::she waved the tricorder:: this confirmed the translation of the console.

V’Nille: I understand, Commander, and I am right there wanting to take action now but this ship has given us one surprise after another. Grallator, Xiron, run some diagnostics and see what else you can find. Let’s confirm this ship’s own calculations if we can. Once we’re sure it’s not going to lead to anything catastrophic, then we can push the button

Xiron: There is no way to know how it…the ship will react. Let's hope the benevolence of the ship continues.

Grallator: All right Commander. Will do.

Grallator watched Ada press the button for “standard orbit” with the serene confidence of someone who had never personally been betrayed by a control panel.

For a moment, the universe held its breath. Silence stretched out—long enough for Grallator to wonder if perhaps “standard orbit” was just Vulcan for “absolutely nothing happens.”

Then the ship responded. Not politely, not efficiently, but with the sort of theatrical hum that suggested it had been waiting three millennia for an audience. The sound came from everywhere at once, as though the bulkheads had decided to form a choir.

And then came the ka‑thunk, ka‑thunk, ka‑thunk—the unmistakable rhythm of ancient machinery either heroically engaging or catastrophically remembering arthritis. To Grallator’s ears, it was less “orbit achieved” and more “bridge crew, please prepare your wills.”

He tightened his grip on the Quantum Hex Wrench of Dubious Purpose, because if the ship was going to start making noises like a Vulcan drum circle, someone was going to have to pretend they knew what to do about it.

Ada: What? That almost sounded like explosive stembolts–

Grallator had just enough time to think “Well, at least nothing’s exploded yet” before the ship decided to audition for the role of “cosmic rodeo bull.”

The deck bucked, the ceiling swerved, and Grallator found himself briefly airborne—an experience he did not recommend for Bolians with fragile dignity. He landed in a graceless heap against the nearest console, his toolbox and wrench clattering across the floor like they were trying to escape the plot.

His envirosuit absorbed most of the impact, though his ribs filed a formal complaint and his left knee began humming a tune that suggested it would not be participating in brisk jogs for the foreseeable future.

As klaxons wailed and the bridge tilted at an angle best described as “unhelpful,” Grallator scrambled upright, clutching the railing with the grim determination of a man who had once been betrayed by a faulty grav‑plating system and wasn’t about to let history repeat itself.

He glanced toward Ada—saw her cradling her mangled hand—and immediately decided that, compared to her, he’d gotten off lightly. His only real injuries were bruised pride, a dented knee, and the knowledge that the ship was clearly not finished with its dramatic flourishes

V’Nille: Ugh. Status report!

Xiron: My suit is good, but it says I have a concussion.

Grallator: Suit integrity holding, ribs muttering dark poetry, and my left knee has filed for early retirement. Toolbox attempted desertion but was recaptured. In summary: bruised, dented, but still operational. Recommend we add ‘ship with a grudge’ to the official mission log.

Ada: Suit integrity holding, but I have some broken fingers. What the hell happened?

V’Nille: Well, if my eyes don’t deceive me, I daresay a piece of the ship has been launched into the atmosphere and our ship’s own trajectory has been changed due to the machine’s meddling. ::grimly:: I need information about the ship’s status. Now.

oO Did the ship just give birth? Oo

The thought arrived in Grallator’s head with all the subtlety of a tribble in a tuba. Because really, what else did you call it when a several‑kilometer‑long relic suddenly ejected a cylindrical section into the atmosphere with the weary determination of someone finally getting rid of an unwanted houseguest?

It wasn’t in any Starfleet manual he’d ever skimmed (and he had skimmed many, usually while hiding from actual work), but he was fairly certain “shipbirth” was not a standard engineering term. Still, the evidence was hard to ignore: the Vulcan vessel had just produced offspring, and if that wasn’t alarming enough, it had done so without so much as a baby shower or a polite warning.

Grallator tightened his grip on the railing, wondering if he was now expected to send a congratulatory card, or perhaps just log it under “cosmic events best left unmentioned at staff meetings.”

Xiron: It looks ::winching she started again.:: It looks like a section of the engineering hull has detached and is falling out of orbit. I will try to plot its descent.

Grallator: :: looking at his tricorder:: Confirming: yes, a large chunk of the ship has decided to pursue a solo career in atmospheric re‑entry. Trajectory looks terminal, dramatic, and very much not in the brochure. As for our own course—well, the good news is we’re still in orbit. The bad news is that you won’t like the outcome. I’ll keep scanning, but I recommend we prepare for further… interpretive dance from the hull.

Ada: I don't know, I don't know! Some kind of... Wait, do you feel it? The ship is different now. And that ::she motioned toward the viewscreen:: feels like the ship did.

V’Nille: Different or not, the reality is that helm control doesn’t seem to be responding anymore. Xiron, Grallator, any luck?

Xiron: The derelict, rather our section of the derelict is deorbiting. We will be entering the upper mesosphere in minutes.

Grallator: My tricorder confirms we’re on a one‑way sightseeing tour of the mesosphere, with complimentary turbulence and no return ticket. Helm’s as responsive as a Vulcan at a comedy show, and the EPS relays are sulking like they’ve just been asked to work overtime. I can try a manual bypass, but unless this ship suddenly remembers how to cooperate, we may need to start practicing our atmospheric re‑entry faces.

Ada: It used me? Tricked me to release it?

Xiron: We need to get the thrusters back online. Maybe the deflector, hell a cargo bay to vent to space anything to push the ship higher.

V’Nille: You work on that. I am going to try to get in touch with the ship.

 

Grallator: I’ll see what I can coax out of the thrusters, though right now they’re about as responsive as a Vulcan at a surprise party. If the deflector’s still wired in, I might be able to reroute enough juice to give us a polite shove upward—assuming the ship doesn’t decide to reinterpret that as modern dance. And for the record, if this thing did trick Commander Ada into setting it free, I’d like to officially state that I signed up to fix warp manifolds, not midwife ancient starships with trust issues.

V’Nille: =/\= V’Nille to Chin’toka. Can you hear me? =/\=

Callahan: =/\= Chin’toka. This is Callahan. Go ahead, Commander. =/\=

V’Nille: =/\= Wonderful. It looks like our communications were restored. Where’s the Captain? =/\=

Callahan: =/\= She’s gone planetside, Commander, to lead the rescue operations. =/\=

V’Nille: =/\= I see…. Are you tracking the object that the derelict ship just ejected? It looks like it’s going to hit where that weird signal we were tracking is coming from. My team will continue to try to get this ship to not hit the planet, so… let the Captain know. Good luck! =/\=

Callahan: =/\= Confirmed, Commander. We’re on it. =/\=

While V’Nille conversed crisply with the Chin’toka, Grallator applied the time‑honored engineering technique of “hitting the thing until it behaves.” To his mild horror, the console actually obliged. Lights blinked to life with the enthusiasm of a bureaucrat discovering overtime pay, and—against all known laws of probability—it was already set to engineering.

This, of course, terrified him. Consoles were never supposed to cooperate on the first try. When they did, it usually meant they were plotting something.

V’Nille: Not to be the one to state the obvious here, but this ship is going to hit the planet with us on it if we don’t do something about it. Tell me we have good news.

Grallator: Good news, Commander? Well, the EPS grid is still technically a grid, the ODN relays haven’t burst into interpretive dance yet, and my tricorder insists we’re only mostly doomed. I can try to reroute auxiliary power through the secondary plasma manifolds, but that’s a bit like asking a candle to impersonate a warp core.

Ada/Xiron: Response

V’Nille: That’s not good news, but sure, anything helps. There has to be a way to override this lockout.

Grallator: Override the lockout? Aye, I can try a Level‑Three bypass on the isolinear circuits. Of course, given their age, they’ll either cooperate or explode in a way that makes future archeologists very cross. Still, if I can trick the command subroutines into thinking we’re a maintenance crew instead of trespassers, we might just get helm control back.

Ada/Xiron: Response

V’Nille: Go for it. Worst case scenario, we need this ship to avoid any population centers because I have the feeling our host was not gracious enough to include that possibility in its calculations.

Grallator: Understood, Commander. I’ll attempt a manual EPS shunt to the RCS thrusters. If the relays hold, we can nudge the ship’s vector away from anything resembling a population center. If they don’t hold, well… we’ll be providing the planet with a very large, very ancient lawn ornament.

Grallator hammered at the console with the wild abandon of a man trying to out‑type destiny itself. It wasn’t so much “operating the controls” as “conducting a very loud argument with them,” but at this point it was either that or accompany the ship in its final, fiery audition as a shooting star.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he regretted not bringing a cowboy hat. It would have lent a certain dignity to the proceedings—at least the kind of dignity one saw in that old black‑and‑white film where a man rode a nuclear bomb into oblivion like it was a particularly stubborn rodeo bull. Grallator couldn’t remember the title, but he was fairly certain the moral of the story had been “don’t do this.”

Still, if the ship insisted on turning him into a cinematic cliché, he supposed he might as well look the part.

Ada/Xiron/V’Nille: Response

Grallator: Commander, I am reasonably—well, let’s say optimistically—certain we can nudge ourselves… I mean, the ship… back into a stable orbit. ::he squinted at the console, which immediately began blinking at him in a tone he did not appreciate; one firm smack and it thought better of it:: There. Controls are responding again. We’ve got just enough fuel reserves to make the burn, but it’s a one‑shot deal. If it works, we’re heroes. If it doesn’t, we’ll be atmospheric confetti. No pressure.

Ada/Xiron/V’Nille: Response

The console gave up again with all the enthusiasm of a sulking teenager. Grallator, resorting to the universal engineering solution, smacked it a few times. It blinked resentfully, as though weighing the merits of cooperation against the joy of spite.

Then the screen went blue. Not the calm, reassuring blue of a Earths sky, but the cold, electric blue of something that had been waiting a very long time to be noticed.

Grallator: Well, the console isn’t working. In fact, it’s doing the opposite of working, which is plotting. And I don’t like the way it’s blinking at me.

Ada/Xiron/V’Nille: Response 

Ensign Theridion Grallator

Engineering Officer

USS Chin'toka NCC-97187

C240207TG3