Polk normally hated seatbelts. They put wrinkles in his uniform, preventing him from shifting in his seat, and of course left ugly red marks across his lap when he wore them for long periods. All that didn’t seem to matter now, since the same seatbelt he’d hated for months probably saved his life.

As it was, the impact of the missiles hurled him into the back of his seat, knocking his breath away and cracking one of his ribs. He knew it was a rib because the fiery pain prevented him from catching his breath when the impact subsided, the out-of-place bone jabbing into his side like a hot needle. For a moment he just sat there, concentrating on nothing other than forcing air into and out of his lungs. Once he was confident that he could breathe without consciously directing it, he got back to work.

About half of Polk’s precious helm controls were either dead or nonresponsive. When he tried a few of the maneuvering thrusters to see what did work, the ship groaned with the effort as it turned like it had a broken leg. In a sense she (the Galaxie was definitely a she) did. The sound seemed to awaken the bridge crew, who overcame their initial shock and began checking in. The ship also seemed to kick back to life, with red emergency lights flickering on. It revealed the full extent of the damage; Polk counted three consoles spewing sparks and another two dead silent. The main viewer, too, was all but shattered, chunks of it scattered across the bridge.

“Captain,” someone shouted in the dimness. “We’ve sustained damage to engines one, four and six. Three stern compartments are breached and safety protocols have been properly engaged. Captain?”

Polk threw one last glance over his station, then swiveled around. Casillo was sagging in his seat, his head drooped forward and his arms limp. Even through the crimson glow caused by the lights, Polk could see the thin trail of blood trickling down the captain’s chin and onto his uniform.

“Denys!” he called, unbuckling his seat belt and standing up. “Give me a hand here!”

He lifted one of Casillo’s limp arms and checked for a pulse. Weak, but present. Next, with Denys’s help, Polk unbuckled the captain’s seat belt, lifted him out of the chair, and set him down on the hover-thing he’d entered the bridge on.

Denys whipped out a medical scanner, then went about checking the captain’s vitals. After a moment he hissed what sounded like a curse. Or maybe it was just a hiss; Polk didn’t speak Sarvolyar. Then the captain stirred.

“I’m all right,” he breathed. “I’m all right. Polk… Denys, help me get back in my chair.”

“You took a piece of viewscreen to the head,” Denys replied, holding up the glass shard in question. Polk winced, then turned away. He wasn’t squeamish at the sight of blood; he just didn’t want the mental image of that little saber of glass hitting the captain’s head. Sailing right over his own head, too.

“I need to test you for a concussion,” the medic finished. Casillo gave a wheezy chuckle/

“No you don’t,” he said, laughing and trying to catch his breath at the same time. “I’m not going back to sickbay. Yet,” he added, seeing Denys’s sharp look. Wanting to avoid another high-stakes staring contest, Polk stepped in.

“You’re probably needed in sickbay,” he told Denys. “Go. I’ll be here, and if the captain needs relieving I can do it.”

“Exactly,” Casillo agreed. “I’ll be fine. Send us the casualty reports when you get them. In the meantime,” he called to the rest of the bridge. “I want contact with every part of this ship, I want repair teams sent where they’re most needed, and a headcount.”

Ignoring the captain, Denys gave Polk a searching look. Those obsidian-black eyes of his were lasers, boring a hole through Polk’s skull to see the pink, squishy brain within. Polk did his best to return the gaze, trying to hold his ground. After a moment, Denys gave an approving nod, then broke eye contact and left the bridge.

“Captain,” someone called. “Engineering reports no sign of antimatter breach, repeat no sign of antimatter breach.”

“What about plasma or coolant leaks?” Polk called back. “I’m not moving this ship again until we’ve found and sealed up everything.”

He caught Casillo’s raised eyebrow and nodded his apology. He wasn’t too sorry though. Protocol or not, the ship wasn’t budging until he knew it wouldn’t explode under him.

“Sorry,” he said. The captain shook his head in response, a wry smile crossing his face.

“No reason to be,” Casillo replied. “You’re right of course. You were also right about the noisemakers. I should’ve listened to you.”

“I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t work,” Polk hastened to add. “I just knew that they never seem to work when you need them to, and I-

“And you trusted your piloting skills,” Casillo finished. “As I should have. But there’s no time for that now,” he added, straightening his uniform and glancing around the bridge.

“How’s the damage report coming along?” he called, gesturing for Polk to lean in closer.

“Three things to know about being captain,” he murmured. “Keep your uniform neat, go down with the ship, and keep your mind on the present. After-action reports are called after-action for a reason.”

Polk nodded, then returned to his post at the helm. As he saw a few controls pulse back to life, he kept an eye on Casillo as the captain started to direct repair and recovery efforts. He didn’t look concussed, although come to think of it Polk didn’t know what the exact symptoms were. General incoherence, he guessed. Whatever they were, he’d keep an eye on it.

Ten minutes later, the engineers confirmed what Polk had already suspected; while there wasn’t a coolant or plasma leak, the hull integrity was shot. That accounted for the horrible groaning that the ship made; it was a cry of pain to Polk, and his heart ached with sympathy. Nonetheless, the engineers said that they could make temporary repairs to get the ship ready to fly again. The helmsman sighed in relief at this; if anyone could fix it, they could.

Then the casualty reports came in, and his heart sank once again. Thirty-three injuries, seven deaths. Out of a crew of about 150, it was devastating news. Casillo handled it about as well as one could, staying silent for a few moments before nodding his acknowledgement. Then his face clouded over in something Polk had never seen him express before; rage.

“We’re getting them now,” the captain said, more to himself than to the bridge. Bridge activity paused for a second, so he repeated himself.

“We’re getting them now,” he said, swiveling his chair to face the comm officer. “Tell the docking bay to prep the lander for launch. Oh, and put me through to Denys.”

It seemed like an odd request; the comm officer’s black slit pupils dilated for a moment, before the blue-skinned alien nodded and hailed the medbay.

“Denys here,” the CMO said. In the background, Polk could make out the clatter of equipment, in addition to a few groans from the wounded. “We’re a bit busy, captain.”

“I’m assembling the landing party,” Casillo said, his voice clipped and dangerously low. “I need a doctor. Who can you spare?”

“I’ll do it, if you don’t mind,” Denys said, his voice echoing the captain’s.

“Very well,” the captain acknowledged. “You can pick the team. This isn’t an exploration party,” he added. “It’s an extraction from hostile territory. Tell the rest of the landing party to treat it as such.”

He signaled for the comm officer to close the channel, then surveyed the bridge crew. Polk noticed that most of them seemed to be in agreement; in all fairness, they had just been shot at, and had already sustained casualties.

A few, himself included, were a bit uneasy at the prospect. Denys’s description of ‘bombing the planet into glass’, was fresh in his mind. He didn’t think the reptilian doctor was capable of that, but looking at Casillo’s expression, Polk realized that the captain might be.