Resham blinked slowly, one set of eyes after the other. “And the shock drive?”
“Engineering’s first estimates are, uh... not good.”
“How ‘not good’, submissive?”
“Three weeks, patron. That’s our best-case scenario.”
“I see.” Resham stroked his chin. “Coordinate with the Group Leader, Submissive for damage control. Prioritize the fires and any ongoing hazards, especially threats to hull integrity and environmental status. Lock down any air leaks we have as fast as possible. For systems restoration, I want augurs given priority. Operations,” his senior Ops officer was back on his feet, dazed but aware. “You’re first officer now. All personnel not assigned to primary ship functions I want to assist in damage control, search and rescue and medical aid. Coordinate with the decks we can reach to find out what they need and get people there to do it. Guns,” he let out a sigh. “Shut down the defences.”
“You don’t think there’s anyone still out there, patron?”
“I think whether we have the defences firing or not won’t make any difference at this point, submissive. Repair systems need that power right now. We’ll just have to hope that they think we’re dead.” For all intents and purposes, they were. He glanced back at the fallen form of his first officer. He knelt next to her. Her two large almond-shaped eyes stared through him. He carefully closed them. Blood dripped from his face onto her neck and uniform. He wiped it away, looking around the cruiser’s bridge. There were other injured and at least one more dead, a Didact augur analyst whose name Resham couldn’t remember. Most of the casualties were from the non-Tribune members of the crew. “I want the dead and injured taken to Medical,” he said.
“Patron,” Engineering said. “You should get that wound looked at, too.”
“I’m fine, submissive.”
“Patron,” his subordinate pressed, “I can see bone.”
Resham paused. He didn’t feel pain, only a throbbing ache. He touched his fingers to his head. They came away bloody. He looked to one of the ratings, a woman with corpsman’s training. “Get one of the medkits,” he told her. "Give me sutures, stitches, cauterization; whatever so long as it stops the bleeding.”
“Are you sure? This won’t be pretty, leader,” the rating said as she picked up a thermal binder, holding a flap of Resham’s skin in place to start cauterizing it.
“Do it.” It seemed fitting that he be scarred like his ship. He kept waiting for another and this time final impact to tear his vessel asunder, but it never came. When scopes were finally restored, Black Garrote found itself alone and drifting aimlessly in the system. Three weeks, Resham mused. Three weeks at best before they could limp back to base. Three weeks to figure out just what had hit them and find a way to explain how his ship had been crippled by a pair of freighters.