Wake

After the round of celebratory drinks, the Captain and the other chief of staff gathered in Sick Bay, as nurses and Two of Three mended wounds, cuts, and scrapes.

"Now that we've had time to settle down a bit," Anzyl stated, sitting in a chair and massaging his injured legs, "I want a full damage report. Engineering, you're up first."

"The nanite hull plating has closed up all external hull breaches," Tey'un explained. "Decks 1 through 15 are under repair, starting with the most critical decks. However, the full extent of internal damage has yet to be fully reported. We need a spacedock for full repairs. Badly."

"How are our engines, shields, and other primary systems holding up?" Anzyl inquired.

"Engines are relatively unscathed; we have full warp capabilities. Shields are back up at 63% and charging. Weapons are currently at 72% power. We can reduce weapons and reroute that power to the Borg nanite generator, which will assist in structural repairs," Tey'un elucidated.

Two of Three piped in, "The Borg nanites will assist in the internal structural repairs, but blood-stained carpets, shredded pictures, and broken families are harder to repair."

Anzyl sighed, bracing for the worst of news, "On that note, T, casualty report, please."

Two of Three began, his voice laden with solemnity, "As of this moment," he said, his finger pressing a button that illuminated a console screen with a blue line graph escalating at an alarming rate, "We have 2,851 injury reports. They range from simple scrapes and bruises, all the way up to intensive care, where some are holding onto their lives by a thread. Holodecks 1-5 have been converted into hospitals and are quickly approaching capacity." Another button press revealed a dark red line, smaller than the injuries but still on a distressing upward trajectory, "And as of now, the computer has reported 1,784 deaths. Holodeck 6 has been converted into a morgue, reaching capacity over two hours ago."

The numbers permeated the room, casting a pall of shock, terror, and horror among the crew. Gasps and covered mouths were the involuntary reactions that echoed through the space.

"1,784... dead," Anzyl's face turned as white as a ghost, "2,851 injured..." He couldn't fathom the magnitude of the numbers he was hearing.

Neil continued with the tactical damage report, but Anzyl could only perceive muffled sounds and faint noise as the catastrophic death toll reverberated in his mind. The shock, terror, and horror of the casualty report weighed heavily on his soul, an overwhelming wave of grief crashing upon him. So many lives lost, and the weight of each lost soul bore down on his shoulders.

Diela, sensing the captain's anguish, reached out telepathically, "At least we still have the ship and over 3,000 survivors. You must be strong and courageous. For your crew."

As each department presented their reports, the captain dismissed them, his mind consumed by the magnitude of the tragedy. Lumbering in pain, Anzyl made his way towards holodeck 6, took a deep breath, and allowed the doorway to open. The scene that unfolded before him would be forever etched into his memory.

A colossal cold storage warehouse stretched for hundreds of meters in every direction. Rows and rows of black body bags, each containing a life extinguished in the chaos. Holographic nurses moved through the warehouse, checking combadges and other identifying marks, a haunting image of loss and devastation.

Anzyl gasped in horror; not even in the darkest days of the Dominion War had he witnessed such a sight. Overwhelmed, he backed away into the hallway, closing the doorway to shut out the gut-wrenching scene. The weight of the loss settled on his chest, and he shook his head, recalling Diela's words. With a heavy heart, he made his way to a transport pad and vanished, reappearing in his quarters.

His heart raced, and pain throbbed within him. Collapsing onto his couch, Anzyl gazed at his reflection on the main display console. He was a disheveled mess, with ragged hair and a torn uniform. The events of the day had caught up with him, and he bent down, dropping his face into his hands, allowing the tears to flow freely. The captain wept bitterly, the emotional toll of the day's tragedy unrelenting.

---

The following evening, atop a solemn podium in the heart of the Melting Pot, Captain Anzyl donned his formal dress uniform. The gathered remnants of his crew, adorned in a diverse array of dress uniforms representing their unique cultures, stood before him. Simultaneously, the captain's composed figure was broadcast across every display console on the ship.

A somber hush fell over the assembly as Captain Anzyl, bearing the weight of both a facade and the collective grief of his crew, cleared his throat. With a determined resolve, he began to address his crew and the entire ship.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Crew of the USS Nexus, today we gather not merely as a crew but as a family, bound together by the shared pain of losing 1,784 lives in the recent Fek'ihri attack. Each of those lives was a story, a friend, a loved one, and their absence leaves an indescribable void in our hearts.

This tragedy is a heavy burden, and we feel the weight of it collectively. We mourn the loss of our comrades, our shipmates, our friends. Their absence is a great travesty, and their memories will forever be etched in our minds.

Yet, even in the face of such sorrow, we stand together, united by the strength that emanates from each one of you. It's during these moments of darkness that we find the true power within ourselves and our community. The bonds we share are not weakened by loss; they are strengthened by the indomitable spirit that resides within each of us." 

Scenes of solemn remembrance and quiet faces filled the ship. Whether it was those present, looking at their leader speaking in the Melting Pot, the hundreds standing by, diligently working to repair the ship's critical systems, or the thousands resting in hospital beds across the five holographic hospitals, not a single word was uttered.

"Today, we remember the laughter, the camaraderie, and the unique qualities that made each departed soul special. We celebrate the lives they lived, the impact they had on us, and the memories that will forever be a part of our journey.

As we look around at the faces here, we see strength, resilience, and unity. We will not let this tragedy define us; instead, we will let it bind us together. The flame of hope, determination, and solidarity burns within us, unstoppable and unwavering.

Our journey does not end with despair; it continues with purpose. Purpose to honor the memory of those we've lost, to carry their legacy forward in every step we take. We are more than a crew; we are a force, unyielding against the adversities of the cosmos.

In the face of this darkness, we will find the light within ourselves and each other. We will emerge from this stronger, more united, and more resilient. The Fek'ihri may have taken lives, but they cannot take our spirit, our resolve, and our commitment to explore the vast unknown.

So, my fellow crewmates, let us wipe away our tears, stand tall, and move forward. Let the memory of our fallen friends propel us into the future, where their spirits will guide us. Our journey continues, fueled by the memories of those we've lost, and together, we shall prevail." 

Turning to the giant windows behind him and raising a glass high, the captain declared, "As the naval ships of our history's past once did, we commit these 1,784 souls to the endless expanse of space. This symbolic gesture echoes the ancient naval funeral rites, and we carry on this tradition as a testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirit. May their memories be our strength, and their legacy, our compass. Onward, my friends, onward!"

Slowly, from the main docking bay, 1,784 black, torpedo-shaped coffins drifted out and away from the ship. They spread out, moving apart like fire lanterns on a calm pond beneath a starry night.

The ship's crew watched in silence; some with eyes filled with tears, others with faces beaming with pride and courage. Yet, every face carried a smile of determination, a shared commitment to journey onward in the face of this profound loss.

As the wake's festivities unfolded in the Melting Pot, Keten nervously approached the captain, who had been engrossed in exchanging handshakes and expressions of gratitude with the diverse array of races and cultures present.

"Um, excuse me, Captain…" Keten tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

"Keten," the Captain said softly, "Are you alright? What can I do for you?"

"I have a request. It's a bit odd and might be challenging for the crew to address, but, as you know, I am Kobali now." He fidgeted with his hands, glancing down and away from the captain, avoiding eye contact.

Sensing the nature of this request and understanding the Kobali method of reproduction, Anzyl decided to address the matter directly. "Let me stop you there, Keten, before you have a heart attack," he said, standing tall and firm. "I am aware that your race sustains its population by finding deceased bodies, infecting them with a virus, reanimating the dead, altering their physiology, and assimilating them into your race and culture. I also understand that, with the Vaadwaur war, your species is on the brink of extinction."

Keten nodded slowly. The Kobali method of reproduction was considered grotesque and disturbing by many races, but for the Kobali, it was a second chance at life and the literal lifeblood of their species. Having lost their ability to reproduce conventionally thousands of years ago, a group of scientists created the Kobali Necro-virus, saving their race. Since then, they scouted large wars, virulent plagues, and apocalyptic events to further their population.

Taking a deep breath, Anzyl continued, "I, at the very least, have to perform the naval funeral rites. I understand that many races have their own funeral rites and customs, but accommodating them all is not possible. What's done is done."

Keten nodded solemnly.

"But…" the Captain continued, "I do know that Kobali Prime is only one sector away."

Keten looked up in surprise.

"And what happens to these 1,784 victims after they have been committed to space, who knows. Not to mention the thousands of Fek'ihri bodies we also have to remove." The captain shrugged, "Also, have you had a chance to meet Heluna yet? She is a fantastic communications officer." Patting his shoulder and walking away.

Keten looked at the Captain with immense pride and gratitude, an act unspoken, and a gesture undone that will never be forgotten by the Kobali people.