A constant subsonic thrum resonated through the winter’s air that particular morning as a lone figure in the warmest of thermal garments stood several hundred feet away from the edge of the ice shelf, simply watching from beneath the leaden sky. Massive tractor emitters had been rigged just that morning, targeting the calm ocean waves before being activated. In the hours since then, the solitary figure had watched from beneath her hood as the rhythmic pulsation of the initial activation and lock on to their target had been replaced by the low, droning sound that now echoed across the Andorian peninsula. She wasn’t sure what she was going to see at first, or if they would even be able to achieve their aim of dragging Columbia’s carcass from the depths of the ocean, but as the battered and scarred saucer section emerged, tears fell, melting tiny divots in the snow beneath her feet, mimicking the icy water cascading from the fallen angel’s broken hull.

Behind her, a gust of air threatened to destabilise her; a vibrating whirr followed by the groan of hydraulics gave the clearest indication that she was no longer alone. As the shuttle’s engines disturbed the freshly fallen snow, it created a whistling vortex that only ceased once the metallic landing struts braced against the snow and the engines finally fell silent. Still and focused, she watched the scene continue to unfold, choosing to ignore the hissing of decompressed air and mechanical grinding of components, of footsteps crunching in the snow behind her.

Sidling up beside the figure, an elder woman rubbed her hands together for warmth before tucking them into the pockets of her own winter coat. It was the first time in days that Rear Admiral Theron had set foot on the planet’s surface, but a tragedy such as that of Columbia required her attention even if, at first, she tried to feign otherwise.

“The Blackout has lifted,” she told The Watcher, her own eyes trained on the mammoth task ahead of them. “We’re not sure how, but we’ve received our first transmissions from command, and reinforcements are on the way.”

“The Vaadwaur?” The Watcher finally verbalised her thoughts, but she remained still and focused.

“Gone,” Kelsa sighed, dancing up and down on the balls of her feet to keep warm. “They fled days ago. Reports are slowly coming in, but we think they orchestrated everything. Why, we don’t know. But they’re gone,” and for the first time in what felt like an age, the Admiral allowed herself a little smile. Now that she had said the words out loud, it became real; the fight was over.

The Watcher, though, wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she simply watched the water continuing to pour from the twisted and blackened hull of the emerging stardrive section.

“A victory against all odds. But the odds were too steep, this time. I’ll never forget the price you all paid for the defence of my world,” the Admiral whispered, turning to look at the face of The Watcher at last. “Without you and your crew, Andoria would have fallen to the Vaadwaur. We owe you a debt that can never be repaid,” the Admiral snivelled and removed a hand from her pocket to wipe her nose.

Finally, The Watcher made eye contact with the Admiral, her eyes dripping and sad. Even though they had only met a matter of days ago, the two now shared a bond that many could not. And both felt the pain and emptiness of the other. And together they shared a warm embrace against the backdrop of the salvage team bringing Columbia to rest upon the ice shelf.

Winter had eased slightly in recent days, making the salvage operation easier on the teams that combed the wreckage, with the Columbia’s battered frame surrounded by dozens of mission pods and shuttlecraft. Commander Noli had done her best to stress the need for respect and consideration from the teams as they searched the final resting place of many of her colleagues. Almost a hundred people across dozens of search teams respectfully searched the wreckage, and against all odds, several survivors had already been located in sealed compartments that had protected them from a watery grave. Many had not been so lucky. Over two hundred crewmates remained unaccounted for, whilst a further one hundred and thirty-three had been identified and pronounced dead. Leandra Nunez had joined the list of the senior staff who had been killed along with Onsas and T’Kir. Vashara was still unaccounted for, along with several others.

Standing in the mission headquarters, against the recommendations of Admiral Theron, the Commander perused the casualty list for the fifth time that morning, only to see a live update come in as a new slew of bodies were identified. Names, people. Many she knew by name only, but some she knew well, like the name that suddenly appeared at the top of the list, but someone she had already lost.

Lieutenant Commander Henry Mitchell.

Henry had given his life to steer Columbia to the surface, ensuring the ship made it as far as it did, giving everyone a fighting chance to live. Without him, the ship would have burned up in the atmosphere, a fireball crashing from the heavens.

“A hero until the end…”

Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket, she found herself smiling and nodding. There was no way she could disagree as she locked eyes with another hero. The loss of Henry was painful; they’d been together since their own time on the Santa Fe, and they’d become good friends. She trusted him to pilot her starship on multiple occasions, and no one would ever earn her respect in the same way as he had.

Prida didn’t have to, of course. They were family. Which made what she was about to do all the more difficult.

Arm bandaged and in a sling, the engineer had managed to escape with most of her team, thanks to some of their crewmates on another of the shuttles. A dull ache in her spine from a clash with a bulkhead had hobbled her significantly. But that was good, because the last thing she wanted to do was deliver the news she was about to relay.

When she eventually closed the gap and took hold of Noli’s hand, the diminutive blonde felt something appear in her grip. Pulling away, she opened her palm to reveal a single gold pip and a bloodied commbadge.

“Giarvar’s dead,” she whispered, confirming something she already suspected, much as she had with Henry, but this time it hit harder. Harder for reasons only the sisters would ever know. Together, they embraced under the shelter, heads pressed against each other as the tears flowed freely and in remembrance of all they had lost…

…and for some, those they had loved.