We're from the Alpha Quadrant and we're here to help.

The refugee ships in the first wave were in bad shape. Many of them were Terran warships driven back from the battle. The others were work-ships, filled with their slaves of a plethora of other races. "Hail the Sparta," Dekospos ordered, some bile in his mouth.

On screen appeared a bearded mad-man. His tunic lay in shreds, and his bare skin was covered with unattended and suppurating wounds. A wild beard sprouted unevenly and his hair stood at ends. The other crew on the bridge didn't look much better.

"You're going the wrong way, fool," he said. "Death is all that is behind us."

Dekospos paused for a moment, taking in the scene. "We have medical supplies. Doctors."

The mad-man nodded, but his face was blank. "So? What good are they?"

Dekospos shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I would think you want your crews tended to."

"Perhaps..." he admitted.