Race on the Edge
By tremor3258
For ULC 21 on the main forums – prompt 1, dealing with a rival to the captain.
Timeline: Before the run-up to "The Doomsday Machine" and "City of the Edge of Never", after "Kuvagh'Magh' (B'Vat's attempt to irrevocably escalate the Klingon-Federation War) – also before 'Second Star to the Right' – the KDF raid on Utopia Planitia
First City was smoky, dusky, and, from the symbols everywhere, certainly Klingon. The inhabitants were not only the Imperials alone of previous times. Gorns and Nausicaans wrestled on the challenge floor or moved in formation, troops on review or headed out. Letheans and Orions offered goods and people for sale, and dozens of other species, some more bizarre than others strode about on their or the Empire's business. Even if Qo'nos was more cosmopolitan than before, most still lived in the permanently shadowed slums far from the sight of the High Council's majestic Great Hall.
An Orion female dressed in their usual amount of clothing looked even more undressed than usual among so much uniformed pomp, headed past the taverns thronging the First City's barracks, headed to those darker streets. But this was a well-travelled part of the Great City, and even carefully arranged clothing to draw and taunt the eye in barely drew notice. Merely another store girl off a shift. The scarring on the face forebode the other common Orion profession.
There was an unusual splash of light when she reached her block, which gave her some pause. Several lights had been set up on the street, with a crude stage set up. Vaguely interested, she headed in that direction, joining several Nausicaans. A Klingon was on the stage giving some sort of speech.
"-for we are Klingons! We will be resolute! The trickeries and dissolutions of qa'meh Quv have no place here in the First City!" roared a Klingon, elderly but still vital – white hair yes, but still muscular and fierce. Instead of the ubiquitous armor, he was wearing the gold tunic of a century ago, though his campaign ribbons indicated the Dominion War. "The Empire resurges against the Federation! The homeworld has no need of your kinds!" He pointed at several in the crowd, stopping on the Orion. "You! You being here without chains dishonors our proud traditions!"
Several Klingons had sensibly been positioned in front of the stage. They were in armor, including disruptors. From the symbols on their baldrics, they were the old man's grandsons, and no fools, since they'd unstrapped their holsters. The Orion's eyes did not narrow, or even react, but there was a sudden surge of muttering from the group of Nausicaans, who had been previously bemused.
"You think our agreements are without virtue?" one said, and the muttering got up more. "The Orions hold to all their contracts to the letter! Is there no honor in that?!"
The Klingon, to his credit, did not back down. "Putting oneself above- to think one the master and not the servant, is corrosive to the very spirit of such agreements, mercenary!" he said. "Klingon science is on the verge of rendering you unnecessary as troops – with only Klingons needing for our valiant weapons. B'Vat is bringing our spirit back. In the interests of the Empire I come – to warn you to seek new contracts, safely off-world where your kind belong." He gave a well-practiced leer. "Or safely in a concubine's bedchamber."
One thing the guards hadn't taken into account: the Nausicaans were bonded warriors, mercenaries, yes, but still afforded warrior rights. They had disruptors as well, and they crossed their arms to make sure they were displayed prominently. More were starting to come out, attracted by the noise, and the Orion slipped away quietly, not even smiling.
She reached her apartment on the block, heading upstream as shouts rose in volume behind her – putting a code into a lock which was far more complex than it appeared, and then stopped short, finally showing surprise in entering the small apartment.
Like a rose among garbage, an Orion Matron, supernaturally beautiful and poised sat at D'ellian's better chair, to her irritation. It looked as hard-backed and uncomfortable as the guest chair, but had been carefully and exotically constructed to actually be quite nicely padded. Also – she was petting the mastiff she'd adopted on Rura Penthe, and it was soaking up the attention. She was starting to suspect its loyalty was not so much her kindness as a love of Orions.
"I apologize for not calling ahead," Matrel, D'ellian's second oldest sister said in a carefully modulated tones, "But I didn't have much time available for Qo'nos, and didn't want to waste it having you break out the silks and perfumes on my behalf. I know the KDF frowns on those." She looked D'ellian over and frowned, "You are still in the KDF? I know the uniform policy has gotten liberal, but… it's far too drab to suit you. You wear it well, of course," she finished hastily.
"Thank you," D'ellian said dryly, "As long as I've got a weapon on me, I think that fills KDF uniform policy right now, but no one looks at this on First City, and after the recent chaos with House Torg, too high ranked for staying in the barracks to be proper. And it's sometimes nice to wear something comfortable."
"But you can't get a decent apartment, though this is an excellent chair," Matrel said, sinking into it. She snapped her fingers in front of herself. "Sorry- because you're an Orion, not a Klingon." She looked at the chair, "You have to get me the supplier, these will make negotiations with Klingons much easier."
"The bed is custom too," D'ellian said, "It just looks like a slab." She and Martel shuddered a little. "But yes – that isn't the first 'Klingon first' demonstration this week – it's just not neighborly to show up in full KDF leathers, captains' tokens, and the Lieutenant Commander marks. It just made the demonstrations worse."
"And your little addition just now?" Martel said with a faint smile.
"Keeping in practice," D'ellian responded, "And it means the backers keep having to find new speakers – there's some resources there, this is part of a larger campaign of some kind."
"There's some sort of big push going on, though the House hasn't figured out why," Martel said, "Tremendous orders for all sorts of resources and equipment; not for occupation, almost all sorts of space-based weaponry, even heavily outmoded ones. And fabricator specs, pre-replicator age equipment designs."
"I agree – even with clear sign of the Chancellor's favor, the market for enhanced weaponry and systems seems to have dried up, even though production is continuing to improve," D'ellian said. "Since it was the High Council who approved my transfer, the obvious reasoning doesn't apply."
Martel brought out a small computer, "It is a pain, we were trying to take advantage of the alliance you engineered to sell some new topaline refining equipment to the House of Noq'it. Fierce they may be, but they're not miners. But we can't arrange transport." She sighed, perfectly. "Anything you have – I'll take with me, a useful distraction to back home. Mother gives her congratulations, by the way."
D'ellian looked skeptical even as she dug out several chips. "She didn't have quite so many… useless siblings as we do, D'ellian," Martel said softly. "She was able to drive past the sensorium and stay focused, and didn't have to see the alternative, wasting away on a dozen small outposts without realizing it." She smiled, more genuinely and not so perfectly, "Though I do appreciate your drive led to you stabbing some other leader in the back and not me."
"I keep saying," D'ellian said with a growl, "It's really not funny to joke about that. The KDF has no sense of humor in that regard."
"I'm not sure Klingons have any sense of humor as we understand it," Martel said. "Or they'd understand the joke about outsourcing so much production. I'm sorry about your ship – I understand what you're looking for, but all the House 'strings' are tied up right now."
"That's fine, my private accounts were able to cover a little, just not as much advantage as I like – there's a lot of prototypes being rushed out with wartime. Some of them even work," D'ellian said.
"If you're in such a rush - can you talk about your next mission?" Martel asked, luxuriating in the chair.
D'ellian struggled not to hit her with it, and Martel smiled. They were seven years and five siblings apart – Shera was enjoying her security – but they'd been able to read each other well even past their training. "Privateer patrol – not discretionary, yet, but a lot of latitude from command – a lot of good routes are opening up too," she added, concerned, "But not one rumor of a major offensive taking all those ships."
"Well, the Federation has been on top of our pushes lately – maybe things will be undefended, easy payday," Martel counselled. "All we can do is our best and try to look inoffensive and work for a future – and maybe have some fun. Try to bring back some transports, will you?"
The sight of her recently granted QulDun bird of prey was a delightful sight – especially the honor of it being docked at the shipyard main core instead of farther out, so all could see, unusual for a ship being produced so rapidly. But the game of Houses had a massive power shift – the war had been going on long enough the pressure was starting to boil over. The House of Torg had conspired with the vile Tal Shiar, and were paying the price – the proscriptions were still going on.
And for the brave Orion and her noble crew who had risked her own personal honor? A slightly bigger and fiercer Bird of Prey. And even that gift came with strings; the attention of the Chancellor. A very perilous gift, but no one could deny she had earned it on Klingon merits, and she could win more the same way. That was what was important.
She turned to look at the officers who had followed her. The crew would come aboard soon – new recruits from across the Empire- still mainly from the Klingon colonies so close to the homeworld, and the best of their tired old ship's crew. Right now the builders were still aboard, for the ship's status at being handed over was its first entry in its record of honor.
Her officers looked eager – she thought. Thraak was still a bit of an enigma, the lizardman simply had a different kinesthetic reaction set she wasn't trained on. He looked calm, with folded arms, studying their new home. And he was certainly better skilled as a sensor officer than anyone who had been on the little Bloodwrath. Whatever shame he'd done to end up as a prison guard in spite of his clear skills and drive, D'ellian was content to leave it in the past. Perhaps it was simply not being Klingon.
K'Gan was the same as ever – reliable, gung-ho, a solid weapons officer and steady shot on the ground. His eyes were wide with excitement. He was a perfect sounding board for the expected reaction for Klingons; useful for her still, despite all her practice. And he was, to his own surprise, a good administrator. He'd handled his introduction to department-level paperwork with ease.
Ch'gren looked nervous. He'd been happily working for a commercial concern on the First City before getting caught up in D'ellian's investigation that led to House Torg's dishonor after finishing a tour of duty. More importantly, his wife, Doran, had been D'ellian's superior officer, before she was cut down from behind by a traitor. He'd joined in anger initially; but he had two children in advanced schools – engineers drew much better pay in combat.
It could also make them dead. The QulDun was larger, stronger, far better stealth, and had better weapons than a B'rel, but it was still a frigate, dozens of them on each side were being destroyed each day along the hundreds of light-years that made the warfront. She'd greased palms and pulled what little influence she had to give it some edge beyond standard disruptors, but it would be up to them to make something of it.
But all she could do had been done; it was time to tell what they would do with it. She looked over all them again – not all friends, but certainly comrades. Thraak, surprisingly, gave her a nod. She smiled, fleetingly, and pulled a sheet of parchment out. Jm'pok's seal was visible through the sheet, the Chancellor's office was sometimes very traditional.
"Brave warriors," she intoned, pitching her voice down. "Soon the dockyard will finish working the ship up, and it will be our weapon for glory and honor. We will be joining K'rek and B'ran and their ships on a raiding mission into Federation territory." That was a fine plum for a new ship, and everyone perked up at that. Except Thraak.
"I know K'rek, Captain," the Gorn rumbled, "He is a fine fighter, but greedy – he overreaches."
D'ellian glanced at K'Gan briefly, who shrugged. She didn't know K'rek, but they'd spent most of the last two years on patrol. She did say, "B'ran, though, has a long and steady record in fleet and individual actions – he will be in command, and we can trust him." Thraak nodded at that, and said no more.
"Now," she said more briskly, "Before the bloodwine… comes the paperwork." The groans in reply were half-hearted, but required.
A day later, after the changeover ceremony, D'ellian was greeting the crew coming on board as her officers were handling supply loadings and writing out watch rotations. As tight as the shifts were on a bird-of-prey, experience had told her it was vital to have the name, face, and a few facts memorized about every one of them. Every crew was like some sort of family, and this, the first she'd put together, she would not let be as dysfunctional as her last had been before her promotion.
"Master of the Nok'dao, report to the frontier planning office," came over her communicator.
"Is this immediate?" she replied. She began typing immediately, regardless of reply.
"Yes," came back after several seconds of hesitation.
"Commander D'ellian to K'Gan – take over crew greeting, please – I have been called to the division's office," she said, and finished rigging a copy of the ship's airlock security feed to her office to make up the time later.
Naturally, despite being immediate, the division commander was busy when she made it there – perhaps it was merely handing over sealed orders for the squadron. There was another face that was a bit of a surprise though.
"Lieutenant Commander T'rel," she said, fist on chest, "Congratulations on your promotion."
The Klingon, his ridges whorls, but his sash nearly bare, pointed to one item in particular. "Shipmaster as well, of the Devastation." His teeth bared, "It seems that ship captaincies are more available than we were led to believe… something about the House of Torg's assets being appropriated into the KDF, by order of our wise Chancellor."
He held out his arm, and D'ellian grabbed it in the Klingon style and squeezed. She counted the seconds off until release. "Four years from the Academy – your family must be very proud!" she said. T'rel was of no noble House, to be an officer without that backing was difficult, but possible. Captaincy without the House fleets or patronage was competing for a very narrow handful of ships, and that was after Martok's reforms.
War, however, had a way of removing the fat and letting the hungry rise. And a 'noble' Orion and a commoner Klingon had about the same chances when they'd both started. T'rel's eyes widened as he took in her commendations. "And it seems we are even despite our best efforts, again. Last I heard you'd been put on that fat cur's ship as second officer."
"That was true, but a Federation attack required a warrior's initiative," she said neutrally. T'rel's eyes widened briefly, nodding.
"You'll have to tell me over some bloodwine later," T'rel demanded more loudly. D'ellian nodded at that – Orions always could put more away than they looked. They spent several minutes catching up on more minor recent events and boasting about their ships before the attaché brought them into the division leader's room.
General An'shok was celebrated as a warrior, and to D'ellian's eyes, obviously a wily old fox, though they'd not met in person. The man in operational charge of privateering assignments for the Federation border was, in many ways, one of the single most powerful men in the quadrant, able to change the fortunes of millions of people on both sides of the border. Moving him into position had been one of the first signs of how Jm'pok's coalition was gaining ascendancy on the High Council.
He was also generally too busy to give individual assignments, and was granite-faced enough even D'ellian couldn't get any inclinations as to the path of the meeting.
"Your previous squadron assignments are cancelled – you two will be placed under K'rek in a new mission of a general raid on the assigned sector," An'shok said simply.
"K'rek?" T'rel said with clear disdain.
An'shok looked startled, and said more dangerously, "Ah, you two are new – I will deign to explain. K'rek has seniority and has been preparing for this raid for weeks. You two are both in ships just released from the shipyard; you have better priorities than squadron management." He smiled, briefly. "I'd also rather not have you two dueling to the death over the position; the Empire appreciates competition, but we need to focus on external enemies – Starfleet's young blood has thrown out their tactics manual."
"Was our mission reassigned because of the smaller number of ships?" D'ellian asked. That may be worth challenging, if they were considered more secondary.
"No, I think the mission would be possible, but operational type," An'shok said. "But K'rek had acquired some special equipment – it, and his mastery of it, were required in other operations." An'shok sighed. "A shame, it may have pulled off the complete acquisition of a picket ship. The panic to their operations could let us secure three sectors."
"Think how many raids a ship could pull off while Starfleet was out of position," K'rek said.
"Think what the computer core could be used for if captured intact," D'ellian said with a sigh.
"Enough!" An'shok said, "If the enemy were that easy to defeat, they would be mere cattle to be collected. New operational plans will be delivered – you are under K'rek's command and expected to behave well – as subordinates. Do well, and you will have the chance to be superiors."
"Log of master of Nok'dao, proceeding on squadron mission," D'ellian said, a few days later in her office. "The crew has found their assigned positions and our drill schedule has begun. Our allotment from the shipyard has been excellent and individual efficiency is such my officers are finding it difficult to perform the expected critiques. Our operational mission for target of opportunities will provide excellent opportunities to blood ourselves on enemy commerce."
She looked at the map of the frontier sector – KDF ships were generally shown sharply, Federation ships were shown in a haze of probabilities based on intelligence intercepts and the Klingon's own long-range sensor outposts. Their own sensors at high warp could only see a hash at that distance. She'd overlaid the most efficient routes for freighters for her own benefit.
"K'rek has not given us an exact target yet," she added, keeping irritation out of her voice, "But we are still a day away from any contact with the Federation sufficient to force us to drop speed and cloak. We pray for good hunting."
K'rek had actually given very little – only a course and speed, besides a few barely polite brusque words of greetings. That wasn't for the log, naturally. They were one big happy fleet. And K'rek hadn't been expecting command, but a few inspiring words to repeat over the PA wouldn't go amiss. He should know that.
"I am currently concentrating on boarding drills and short-range gunnery for combat preparations," she finished, "Fuel consumption is four-percent below fleet average. I have made a note in the engineer's log."
Business finished, she called up the science lab. "D'ellian to Sensors Officer Thraak," she said, "Requesting update."
"I have retrieved close-up astrometric surveys from KDF databanks; they are from the Federation perspective, but usable," the Gorn replied calmly. "No inhabitable planets exist within a day's travel of the border. A system near the border intersects our course directly. It is a protostar with a high degree of heavy element debris and radiation."
"You have my permission to seek conflict records related to that system," D'ellian said.
This time, she was pretty sure there was humor. "With your apologies, Commander, I anticipated your request and retrieved the logs. The most recent operation was less than a week ago – a heavy raid including three Raptors that also surveyed the inner reaches of the system. That information has not yet appeared on the general starcharts, however."
"Well done," she said approvingly. "I commend your initiative. I think you have done everything for the moment barring word from our squadron commander about our final destination. Please take command of lab 2 and ready it for mineralogical analysis." Loot assaying, in other words.
"Thank you Commander," Thraak said, "I will require assistance from engineering to configure the power taps, from past experience."
"Please contact Engineer Ch'gren with my compliments," D'ellian said, "Remind him as well I need a selection of an assistance to dine at our mess at evening watch."
"Yes, Commander," The Gorn said, and signed off. She allowed herself a sigh – she'd get this group comfortable with each other eventually. Hopefully.
Two days later, little had changed, besides dropping to a sedate warp 6 and raising their cloaks as they started to pick up active sensor signals. "Message from squadron commander," Thraak reported. "Distribution and tactical pattern for ambush in upcoming system."
D'ellian pulled it up, absorbing it a glance – weapons officer training was a lot more than stabbing things or pushing a button. The patrol looked pretty standard – though odd. Focusing on the largest collection of planetoids, it was splitting the squadron to check several highlighted points on the sun-facing side of the collection.
"Navigation – is the field dense enough these are access points?" she asked, "It doesn't look like it's expecting sensor probes or turret defenses here."
K'Gan pulled up the charts, "The field is chaotic, previous missions have not performed a full gravimetric evaluation of the orbital paths. High radiation and collisions are changing the field."
"D'ellian to Engineer," she said, "Could we synthesize some defense turrets? The operation plan doesn't indicate it but they may be useful."
Ch'gren replied, "Our fabricator bays are small; even for short-term power-cell models, we'd have to do most of the assembly ourselves." And though Ch'gren would do his best if asked, she'd overload the raider's small engineering team right before battle if she asked for too many.
"It's an energetic system, we're sending down the data, I know particle shielding may be a concern – weapon system diagnostics are the first concern," she said with a fierce grin, "But perhaps a couple short-term disruptor turrets?"
Ch'gren was silent for a while, studying, and said, "I think we can do a couple. Interesting dispersion on the system," he said, "You could set up some passive power collectors and with those points, set up a harmonic subspace power dampening field without worrying about your own generators."
"Apologies for my surprise, Engineer, I hadn't known you were engaged in that research," D'ellian glanced at K'Gan. He shrugged, it'd never something their old friend had said.
"Oh, field broadcasting was never my field," Ch'gren said, "There's been a lot of power dampening equipment moving through the exchanges lately. It requires special handling and packaging, very delicate."
"I've configured deflectors for a lesser version before in training, Commander," Thraak said, "Almost any waveform is successful in the short term before a counter is found. Anyone attempting to corner the market is underestimating Starfleet or attempting to blockade a star system."
"In either case, a fool," D'ellian said, "But K'rek must have brought some – otherwise we would go in for an immediate strike from cloak. Engineer, cloak status?"
"Still stable – fuel consumption is within expected limits. Reactor maintaining steady output at 91.47. We have three days before we will need to refuel or acquire more, thanks to the more efficient dilithium matrix we were able to install."
"Excellent, keep me informed," D'ellian said, "Thraak – see if you can send a burst transmission and set up a tightbeam to T'rel's ship from my office. We will serve the Empire better if we are both ready for the dampening field." The Gorn nodded.
Three Birds-of-Prey dropped out of warp into a system still forming, the star haloed by its hot shell of uncaptured gasses. A sharp burst of subspace noise followed before the three disappeared again under cloak. Technically, they were intruding on to space still claimed by the Federation, but there were far easier places to mine, and any stellar research probes observing system formation had failed or been removed in the five years of war.
It was a waypoint onto more interesting things, normally.
Thraak was keeping a tentative track on the other two ships, having had some time to track their cloaked emissions exactly. On passive themselves, that just meant a blob on tactical that indicated a ship somewhere within a million killikams.
"Helm, two more degrees to starboard – trying to keep formation under emissions silence is brauva, not skill," D'elliean said. The bekk adjusted. D'ellian shifted in her chair. K'rek had given no further instructions on deployment, even when asked, simply to hold to the plan.
"Shuttle-bay, begin loading turret warheads. Communications - any directed EM or subspace communication originating in the area?" D'ellian asked. Ch'gren had done better under pressure than he'd thought, and they had two automated photon torpedo turrets ready to kick out of the ship's tiny shuttle bay.
T'rel, somehow, had managed three from his engineering teams, which must be stacked like cordwood in his bunks. Though the revelation that K'rek seemed to be planning a power-drain ambush caught him by surprise, so D'ellian still mentally had them even.
Thraak reported, "Nothing originating in system is detected. We are reading the Federation navigation buoy system – I have adjusted our chronometers on those readings. Galactic north has a lot of communication – high-level general broadcasts near the Imaga System. I am seeing some bounce on tight-beams, but they are too scrambled. I have recorders on to send to Intelligence later. Commercial traffic seems at a low-point."
"Imaga's populated by weak-willed pacifists," K'Gan said, "They've never given warriors of any sort trouble – they'll be just as simpering under Starfleet as our occupation; why would the Federation waste their time on an offensive?
"Elections?" D'ellian said aloud, prompting some laughter. "Keep recording, of course."
"Captain, we have passed our first patrol point," helm reported.
"Compare to recent records – any planetary fragments on short-term orbits or thermal trails?" D'ellian said.
"Negative," Thraak said, "No change to planetary clustering. No residual gravitation or thermal passage remaining. Measuring unusual neutrino decay pattern – seems to be reflection from the protostar. We have little information on it. Nothing has moved through on deflectors in the last eighteen hours."
"Continue to second point," D'ellian said. "I hope K'rek remembers where he dropped his satellites."
"Burst transmission from squadron leader," K'Gan indicated. "Approaching first point." He waited a minute. "No request on our status."
She tapped a note down to Ch'gren on her console for keeping the impulse engines happy. Upgraded systems could take some work to integrate into a spaceframe; especially one as lightly built as theirs, but it seemed to be paying off if they were beating a ship that had time to fully work out.
"Hold position at arrival on second point," D'ellian ordered. "Sensors?"
"Still some odd neutrino patterns – there's plenty of radiation and debris, but it doesn't appear to be artificially generated," Thraak said, his rumble being matched as the ship's drives powered down to station-keeping levels.
D'ellian stared at the main viewer. It showed fire and chaos, but that of nature's for once, a pale shadow of what battle could generate.
"Another burst transmission. K'rek is reaching the second point – setting a time-on-target to approach the center of the asteroid cluster. He'll send the final countdown timer soon" K'Gan reported.
Thraak said, "That's a sloppy way of being precise." The small bridge's functionaries at the standing stations turned, and even D'ellian turned on the throne-like main chair. It was a perfectly reasonable point to raise. Burst transmissions were hard to read, hard to decrypt, but so many would be a detectable pattern to a half-awake sensors technician. But unusually forward for a non-Imperial.
She frowned, but not at the challenge. "It must be a training exercise," she said, "To familiarize ourselves with being part of a larger group. We should not disappoint if we ever wish to be part of a fleet." She said aloud.
"That's disappointing," K'Gan said, "We certainly wouldn't have this ship if we didn't understand the larger implications behind orders." His console beeped. "Sending time to start and time-to-target to helm," he reported.
"Confirmed. Yes, but that hasn't been widely spoken of by the bards yet," D'ellian said. "Torg still has forces. He's being very controlling about following orders, but I've never heard of him being very imaginative. He may be expecting the same – things following as they're written"
She stopped, and could feel the blood drain from her face. "All-hands," she ordered, and stood.
"Prepare for immediate combat with a superior force," she said. "We may be going into the teeth of a Starfleet task force, and we will show them again why the Empire is the greatest force in the galaxy! Q'Plah!"
She sat down, cancelling all hands. "Computer priority to attack pattern coordination between helm and weapons. Ready for full speed upon go-time. Load torpedo salvo."
"Commander," the helm said, "We will get their ahead of the others!"
"This is my time to question orders, helm, not yours," she said coldly. "Do not confuse the two again on the eve of combat." Chastened, he hunkered at his controls. She made a note she would have to fight the young officer later to clear the air. To his credit, he thought he was hiding his bristling.
The timer hit zero, and Nok'dao roared to life, racing though what was suddenly a decently dense asteroid belt at the speeds a starship could come to, as they raced to the largest clear area within the forming planet.
The reports started to come fast.
"Neutrino deterioration spiking," Thraak said, "Tachyon traces!" the science officer said, "They're resolving to real particles in the medium density."
"Reading sensor pulses penetrating hull with forty-percent rate," K'Gan said, "Probable weapon lock by enemy – sensor pattern is Starfleet!"
"Warp signature ahead!" Thraak said, "Masking dropping on Nebula-class cruiser!" It dropped onto the tactical plot. A fat confident spider, and well it should be, with its shields already up.
"We are within the tachyon grid," D'ellian said, "Launch torpedoes. Emergency evasive behind debris. Keep cloak up and adjust against sensor detection." She held the grips on the thrones tightly as the ship turned; faster than the damping could keep up.
Tactical resolved, two B'rels, dropping out of cloak and racing to get their shields up. Their transponders weren't on yet, but one was also closer, about their distance… and torpedoes were racing from the Nebula to the third, scheduled perfectly for time on target… and Starfleet wanted all three in the trap once it was triggered. Their torpedoes splashed against the Nebula's
"Bring up visual communication from K'rek!" D'ellian said.
"Visual communication from-" the communication officer paused, "On screen."
"You are out of position for the attack plan! Gather up on my ship and –" the communication cut out.
"K'rek's ship destroyed," Thraak added, "No escape pods."
"No, the plan was a simultaneous overwhelming flank attack on a Starfleet picket ship," D'ellian said bitterly. "Get me T'rel."
The connection was set briefly. "That fool took B'ran's plan without understanding what had changed," T'rel said, cursing. "Do you see an escape route?"
"Not directly," D'ellian said, "We're well within tachyon grid range, and a Nebula on picket duty would have some sort of exotic spatial capacity or heavy tachyon beams. Two of us may have enough firepower to hammer down the shields, but gathering together would be difficult." It would also, certainly, crush one of them at least in direct combat.
"Captain, recommend emergency twenty degree turn. Tachyon pulses ahead!" Thraak interrupted. The tactical plot updated the Nebula's estimated position – it'd nearly gotten them out of cover.
"Confirmed, helm!" D'ellian said. The ship turned – and the edge of the planetoid they were using for cover glowed and vanished as phasers angrily ate at it, denied their real prize. "T'rel, we need to convince him we are already destroyed."
"We have enough munitions to look like a warp core breach, but they will certainly confirm," T'rel said, "Unless you have a unique spatial phenomenon to distract them with so they'll wander off."
"Well, ideally," D'ellian said, "We'd storm and board, and solve the problem by hand and blade, since we don't have a dampening field to interfere with transporters. I'd have to do more research about securing a Starfleet ship that quickly, though, and we don't have time for something so elaborate. However, the Empire provides even for humble captains such as ourselves. Starfleet seems to think we are doing something major, so we will obligate them." She turned, "Thraak, send the recorded transmissions on Imaga to my console."
"I am good, Commander," Thraak hissed, "But they are still encrypted."
"True, but we can at least manipulate the message routers – and try to make him rush. Helm, take us to grid point four-two at half-impulse, plot immediate one-seven-five degree turn to port and accelerate. Gunner, heavy barrage at targets available," D'ellian ordered. K'Gan nodded at the last – the ship wasn't that much bigger, but they'd managed to stuff a few extra tricks in over a B'rel.
T'rel said, "Intriguing idea, you seem to have remembered maneuvering training – if the Nebula leaves the field to go to warp, they'll need to drop their shields, however briefly."
D'ellian said, "Said, yes – we can at least light the way for our dead."
The Orion was one of the dozens of workhorse Nebulas – upgraded to the more modular construction, they helped hold the line for Starfleet for the threats that had crawled out of the woodwork, and Captain Darius found dealing with Klingons, who had engineered a reason for war and killed thousands of Starfleet crewmen and terrorized worlds; the most righteous to deal with.
Back-tracing this system as a point where cloaked raiders gathered and organized to prey on merchant shipping had been relatively easy. They'd mapped the system carefully, all its radiation and countless objects, to be able to easily spot the anomalies of ships dropping out of warp and into cloak. Their tachyon system was almost extraneous.
They'd crushed one Bird-of-Prey with contemptuous ease. Now Orion was barely quivering as the deflectors absorbed cannon fire, attenuated to the point of contempt by distance as the Birds of Prey, apparently unable to conceive of surrender, futilely continued to attack. A clear shot would finish it, locking them in with the tractor beam and pounding them down, but was proving difficult.
Still, the actual battle was only about a hundred seconds at this point, though it seemed longer. One more raider band not enriching the Empire at the Federation's expense, and Starfleet's counter-offensive rolled that much farther forward.
"Sir," his science officer reported, "Reading high-powered subspace transmissions coming from the larger Bird-of-Prey." The Bolian looked up, "She's slowing to pull it off – thruster output off six percent."
"Captain, high-priority traffic from Sirius Sector command," reported his communication officer. "Fleet gathering for an attack on the Imaga system, some sort of high priority target. Message is a little garbled – long-range general broadcast."
"They already pulled our frigate group," Darius noted. "We'll send an acknowledgement when this is done. Tactical – cool the phasers a little, let them get closer together, and we'll slam their cover right into them with the tractor beam repulsors."
The Tellarite running tactical gave an irritated look as he very deliberately stabbed at the console. The ship's capacitors trilled, phasers brushing the Birds-of-Prey with the faintest hint of Cherenkov radiation from the dispersion. Repeatedly, at roughly the same miss distance.
"A little less exact on the misses, tactical," Darius said. "Helm, bring us in closer – we'll try to get a firing angle on the bigger one – if the little one takes the bait to flank, tractor on standby."
The Orion jetted forward on impulse, seemingly ignoring the smaller of the two- phasers punching through the pieces of debris too large for the navigational deflector to clear in their path. The science department had already been promised first crack at the effect of a starship's subspace fields on planetary formation.
They took the bait, the smaller swinging into the clear zone – spectrometer readings indicated heavier particle densities vectoring such they had a good idea of which way the impulse engines on the tentatively-identified QulDun were pointed. The two were trying to gain formation.
"Reverse impulse," Darius said with a grin, "All beam arrays, fire at will as targets bear. Flush reserve coolant. Align tractor beams, graviton generators to combat strength – fish me up a B'rel, tactical."
This had the Tellarite looking much more enthused, as he got to hammer on the console – multiple capacitor banks discharging as the warp core repowered them, with the ship fairly humming to the sound of multiple banks firing. Darius could feel his inner ear fluctuate as the graviton generators has a tremendous demand put on them; enough power to hold a starship still in its tracks.
The tractor beam licked out a steady, if ghostly blue beam. The Bird of Prey suddenly gleamed. Tractor energy wavered and spilled from the ship, bouncing off. "Hull plating showing graviton polarization!" reported Darius's science officer.
"Tactical!" Darius said urgently, not panicked, "All guns, fire as they bear – helm, bring us fifteen degrees to port – give it the broadside."
The Bird of Prey reached another piece of debris blocking it from sight, but not before its port shield collapsed under the pressure, its hull scarred by phaser blasts. Another round would finish it. Tactical suddenly wavered, showing the larger ship briefly as it darted – they were out of position to target it, phasers in cooldown cycle from the other ship. But the two ships were in the same arc of each other now.
"Not bad tactical," Darius said, calming down. "Deflector control, stand by graviton pulse."
"Captain – we're getting more messages – I'm getting requests to have us report to two different rendezvous points," Communication said, "We'll need to get clear to verify."
"Extra subspace activity on Klingon communication bands originating – we're seeing the backscatter," Darius's science officer added.
"Record what you can for analysis," Darius said, "But it's clear we've spent enough time on the ambush – let's finish these raiders and get where Starfleet needs us, yes? Deflector control, initiate gravity well centered on the other side of that large piece of debris. When the tractor emitters have finished cooling, use them to fling that rock at -180 bearing right at them. Tactical, if they have enough maneuvering reserve to escape, we'll see it."
The gravity well tore at local space – they were aligned for it, and compensated. The debris field curved, new paths opening up as rocks collided into dust, million-year-old orbits disturbed.
"Significant increase in subspace – thermal readings. There's a lot of energy being outputted, if they're running we're not seeing it," the sensor officer reported.
"Drop tachyon grid and stand by to scan for escape pods," Darius ordered. "Tactical – hit it." The lights dimmed briefly as a pulse went out from the Orion's saucer section – driving away rocks and other debris- the main piece of cover the Klingon's largest ship had been lurking behind snapped under the strain, breaking into several pieces… and then fell backwards where they'd came as they broke into more pieces under the stress as an anti-matter/matter explosion drove them backwards. As the gravity well's acceleration claimed them again, it was nothing but pebbles.
Darius watched the destruction quietly. "Confirmed explosion size?"
The sensor officer said, "Either they had forty photon torpedoes ready to go, or that was two warp cores going up. Reading additional duranium, and oxy-nitrogen atoms on the spectroscope, along with elevated hydrocarbons. Looks like Bird-of-Prey droppings, sir."
"Excellent – get us out of the debris field and contact sector command," Darius said, "Go to yellow alert."
The ship's sirens chimed briefly to indicate the lighter status, dropping weapons to standby as they reached their power out for real-time communication on Starfleet's buoy system. It was thinner than Darius would like; they were an easy target.
"Captain Darius," Commander Sulu answered, "Good to hear from you – things have gotten serious – the Klingons have found a planet-wrecking weapon system and it's being refurbished in Imaga. We need every ship for the strike force. Did the operation go well?"
Darius answered, "I'd like to confirm mass but we have one confirmed, two tentative kills."
"Well enough, you are ordered to transwarp to the Risa sector gate and join the task force there," Sulu said. "We're sending tactical and operational data now."
Darius simply said, "We're on our way." Even if the Klingons had dumped their warp cores and ran, they'd be crippled and less of a threat.
Orion behaved as smoothly as expected – he was pleased with his crew. Officers were being poached for command courses all over the place but he'd managed to keep his best. Even if Nebulas would never win maneuvering awards, their sensors were good enough to find the new pathways their chaos had developed, and they soon made it clear.
"Helm, plot course to nearest transwarp gate," Darius said. "Make ship ready for warp."
As expected, helm had been ready. "Course plotted, seven minutest at warp nine point four," the helmsman said.
"Initiate warp," Darius said, and the ship began to hum as the warp core started to spike. He leaned back and began to pull up the operational data Commander Sulu had sent.
That's when it all went wrong – he could hear the sensor officer began to scream before the ship lurched. A deep howl came from in the bones of the Orion he'd never heard before. Suddenly… the bridge was full of smoke, screams and the lights were off. His head felt odd… he felt the back of it and was sticky. He'd been unconscious apparently. He staggered to his feet, towards the bridge emergency medical kit, wondering what had happened.
D'ellian joined in the bridge chants, as the flash of the Nebula's warp grills was matched with the flashes of three solid photon hits on their viewer. The ship gave a flash of pseudomotion, but instead of linear, it had started to corkscrew. Almost 800 people on those usually, at least it was quick.
T'rel appeared on the viewer again. "It appears you have not forgotten everything on maneuvering at the Academy, commander," he said. "Holding to their impulse wake to stay in firing range was well done."
"Your engineers should be commended – the turrets were rigged well to appear as a warp core overload," D'ellian complimented, "And their work on our drive signatures to still appear to be at close range to the cover debris was well done." They'd ducked farther back, keeping the Nebula inferring their process… and using a tractor beam of their own to help drag T'rel's ship clear of the gravity well.
"Yes, will you need your help to refill volatiles?" T'rel asked. They'd dumped all their reserve atmosphere, replicator feedstock, and most of their manufactured spare parts to add to the debris field. Environmental didn't have enough capacity to keep the ship breathing for more than about three hours on either ship.
"We just fought singularities, planetoids, and Starfleet," D'ellian said, and gave a hearty laugh. "Comets hold no fear. Shall we rejoin here in four hours? If they thought they were protected, surely the Tellarites, at least, are routing freighters. We'll let you have our scraps."
"Q'plah, and good hunting," T'rel said with a laugh, dropping off.
"All departments," D'ellian said, "Will prepare requirements for repairs from gravimetric shear and for restocking our reserves where possible. Include non-replicated components, the Tellarites will assist us." There was another round of happy laughing. They were blooded, and survived. D'ellian nodded to K'Gan, and stood – the paperwork of the after-action report called. After she left, unnoticed, the Gorn followed.
She was not, however, surprised, when Thraak knocked on her office door. One did not, even on a happy Klingon ship, keep unaware of movement near the captain's presence if one wished to remain captain.
"Enter," she said. She wondered what the issue was. Thraak came in as the door slid open, saluted, and waited for the door to close behind him. She waited. There were, after all, contingencies in place if he'd gone mad.
"Commander," Thraak said, "I appreciate you not asking to confirm the kill on the bridge, but I wished to make sure our logs would match."
D'ellian for once, felt the surprise show on her face. "What kill?" D'ellian said, "Unless Kahless himself promised it, I wouldn't assume it was dead from just that, though its warp drive is probably scattered over a million kilikams by now. Starfleet builds well, and we'd never find a crippled ship with our sensors with its warp drive off."
Thraak stood silent for a moment. "I have had… captains who have been willing, uncertain if they measure up to other," He stopped and took a breath, "Klingon officers, who would confirm the kill. There has been disagreements to some effect, though these, obviously were not on record."
"I see," D'ellian said, and did. "I am well aware of the responsibilities I am under, Sensor Officer. But I do not believe that I need to lie to myself and my crew to do well under those responsibilities. There will be future kills, and don't forget, T'rel, as an officer of the Klingon Empire, was there as well for any blame to the death of K'rek."
Thraak stood silent for ten seconds, at the point D'ellian was starting to toy with the idea of shooting him to get a reaction he could read. "Thank you," Thraak said. "You show more clarity than some Klingons I have known." And his mouth dropped open, and D'ellian was, for once, sure this was a grin. "And sadly, many Gorn. I will take no more of your time, Commander – I have freighters to find." He saluted again, opened the door, and left.
D'ellian stared for a bit at the bulkhead, then, recomposing herself, went to writing the report. The KDF's work continued, even if it was an ideal that sometimes felt a long way away.
Author's Notes: Longer than originally anticipated (again). And, timing wise Antonine (my Federation hero captain) is off being a young eager Starfleet hero stopping the Doomsday machine, while D'ellian, as a young KDF hero captain, shoots up some freighters.
The Empire's sometimes weird from a human perspective.