Precision Work

In the sterile, pristine, and immaculate hospital that was the Nexus sickbay, dozens of white flashes of light appeared. Wounded Jem'Hadar warriors, bleeding enslaved women from different races and backgrounds, Tactical officer Veirik, First Officer Neil O'Reilly, and Chief Medical Officer—borg drone holding a jar of liquid—Two of Three materialized.

Walking steadily, calm, cool, and collected, the borg medical officer issued orders. "Trauma and emergency staff attend to all Jem'Hadar and Cruiser staff. Medical teams, attend to the First and Tactical officers. Surgery team to Surgery bay 1." He walked with purpose, cool as a block of ice. "Computer, activate a sterile environment in Surgery 1."

A blip of a force field shimmered as the surgery room was sterilized of all foreign particles. The Borg drone placed the jar next to an empty surgical bed. "Computer, locate Captain Anzyl's pattern in the transporter buffer, remove and sterilize all foreign particulates, and transport directly to Surgical bed 1."

A bare Captain Anzyl materialized on the bed, immediately convulsing in physical pain and mental anguish. To him, no more than 10 minutes had passed since Praxas was torn from him, even though hours had gone by. The transporter suspension surely saved his life.

Neil, Veirik, and Zide'Mok sat on beds not far away, their wounds being tended to by the medical staff, all peering through the surgery window. Hope and worry adorned their faces.

Two, noticing the prying eyes, and wanting to afford the captain some privacy, looked up. "Computer, privacy for surgery," and the light of the force fields distorted and hazed the room, rendering it unable to be seen through.

---

During the surgery process, recognizing that this was beyond his purview and expertise, Neil decided to get up and visit the no longer enslaved female crew.

"Who among you would you consider your leader?" he asked, scanning the room. Several women, now dressed in hospital gowns and scrubs, looked around and at him. Faces displayed fear, worry, thankfulness, and freedom.

"I suppose that would be me," an Orion woman stepped forward off her bed. Smooth and sultry green skin, raven-black wavy hair, piercing yellow eyes. "Call me Jaidaa," she bowed to the man. "Thank you, Commander, for saving us. I'm not going to lie and say we will miss the DaiMon; the universe is a better place with that worm no longer taking up oxygen."

"What will you do now?" Neil asked, folding his hands in his usual stout and burly stance.

"We," she looked at the women around her, "have a ship now. We are free; under Ferengi law, all possessions of the DaiMon go to the highest bidder. And the poor sap always sung like a songbird whenever he got oo-mox." Putting her hands on her hips, she grinned, "I know every password and bank account number. His wealth is ours now, and no one will bid against us if we never tell the Ferengi Commerce that the DaiMon is dead."

"A Risian cruise vessel run by an all-female crew, sounds like several Ferengi's dreams come true." Neil grinned.

"And we plan to make it their worst nightmare. We are not the only ship filled with women sold into slavery and ripped from our homes and loved ones." She devilishly grinned, "After we clean up the DaiMon's mess, of course."

Nodding, Neil smirked, "Well, the Nexus would be happy to lend any assistance and supplies you may need. We have no current assignment, so we can stay as long as you need us."

"The women and daughters of Liberia's Grace thank you, Commander." She thanked him by bowing her head.

"Liberia's Grace?" Neil smiled, "That's a much better name for a ship than Full Consortium."

"I thought so too," Jaidaa winked.. 

---

The surgery in-progress light chimed from red to green, and Two of Three stepped through the hazy, distorted barrier. His eyes met the First and Tactical officer, along with other members of the concerned crew. They gasped, hanging on the next words of the Borg drone.

"Surgery was a complete success," Two of Three smiled softly, and the crew exhaled in relief. "I had to clean up the nasty cutting that the pirate doctor did, but other than that, the Symbiote and host are back together, as they should be for the next 60 years or so." He then looked at his disheveled, exhausted crew. "The captain needs his rest, as do you all. It has been a very long day, and every one of you should take a nice warm shower, have a cup of something warm, and head off to sleep. Doctor's orders."

No one argued with that order, and they all slowly meandered out of sickbay.

---

Later that night, unable to sleep, Veirik entered Sick Bay in his workout shorts and tank top, guilt and worry etched across his face.

He approached the captain's bedside, where Anzyl lay unconscious, breathing slowly. A camera on the far wall displayed the morgue, revealing six black body bags lining the tables. Whether Jem'Hadar warriors or liberated women of Liberia's Grace, it mattered not to Veirik. His actions, or lack thereof, set in motion those six body bags and the fate of the Captain, the man he looked up to, and could have been a clone of his beloved brother.

The weight of guilt became unbearable. Kneeling beside the Captain's bed, Veirik broke down into tears—a soft, vulnerable side he concealed from others. The accumulated emotions erupted, releasing the pent-up turmoil.

Veirik wept silently in the dark medical bay until he felt a gentle tap on his head. "For someone who is a master at the gun range, you sure cry a lot," Anzyl moaned, smiling softly, eyes still closed.

Veirik hastily stood up, wiping his tears. "I'm sorry, Captain. I thought you were out. And I'm sorry for failing you today. It was all my fault."

"No need to apologize. What's done is done, and the Temporal Prime Directive prevents me from going back and changing things in the past," Anzyl smirked, wincing in pain.

Veirik nodded, sniffing loudly, resetting his composure.

"Veirik," Anzyl said softly, opening his eyes and patting the man's hand, "I'm sorry about your brother. I never knew..."

Taken by surprise and dumbfounded, Veirik stuttered, "How did you?... How'd you know? I never said anything to you about my family."

Forcing himself to sit up and placing his hand on the large man's shoulder, Anzyl looked Veirik in the eyes. "Neil turned his combadge on, recording the entire story as his personal log. He played it for me after everyone left. I heard every word." He smiled softly. The small but touching gesture pierced Veirik to his inner core.

"Your family would be proud of you, Veirik." Anzyl clenched his hand on the man's shoulder, affirmation of his brotherly bond, "Your brother would be proud of the man you've become."

Veirik fell to his knees once more, letting his head drop, tears of gratitude flowing again as the burden of years of guilt and remorse slowly lifted from his soul.