Paint and Powder

A Star Trek anthology by Andrew Joshua Talon

DISCLAIMER: This is a non-profit fan based work of prose. Star Trek: The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager et al are the property of CBS Television, and creation of Gene Roddenberry. Please support the official release.

WARSPITE: RETURN TO FORM

By FreakOTU

2368
Stardate 45832.1

Borderlands between Kzinti Empire and Klingon Empire had long been considered a disputed zone between two Expansionistic, Militaristic polities; while the Treaty of Sirius of 2260 had ostensibly defanged the Felinoid raice's spacefaring forces, leaving the Kzin Empire with only 'police forces'. Naturally, that treaty had been broken within a decade, as the crew of the Enterprise (The original one), had discovered.

And now, in the throes of a Civil War, the Klingon Empire was unable, or unwilling to police the Demilitarized Zone between the two interstellar nations, leaving the Federation to pick up the Slack.

And as such, with the newly-commissioned Broadsword class Heavy Cruisers coming into the field, Starfleet Intelligence, working in Cooperation with Klingon Houses of good repute, suggested that the Broadswords shakedown in the De-militarized Patrol Zone.

This was one such encounter.

The Kzin Flotilla was one of several, prepared to conquer worlds to end the centuries of dispute between the Proper Empire and the Wrinkle-heads. A Dozen cruisers, led by two of the New 'Ripping Claw' class Battleships, clustered loosely around a full convoy of heavy troop transports, preparing to invade the colonies and feast upon new flesh.

And in return, four ships, so far distant as to only be echoes on sensor sweeps, stood in the flotilla's way.

Aboard the Serrated Claw, flagship of the Kzin invasion, the Trag-Communicator reported to his Khron-Commander, who followed up that report to the Kzaargh-Commodore.

"The Enemy has sent communication."

The Commodore, slouching in the command seat, twitched his muzzle in anticipation, before gesturing for the message to be read to him.

The Communicator paused, grasping the hard copy of the message in two digits, before dutifully reciting in turn, clearly concerned over the possibility of being slain on the spot for being the bearer of news.

"This is the Federation Warship USS Warspite. Kzinti raiding party, this is your only warning. Return to your territory at best speed and I will not be forced to demolish you."

Again, the Commodore's muzzle twitched, before one baleful yellow eye looked at the Communicator. With a deep rumble, he sat up, clearly pondering the words.

"The Federation? Pff. Those weak-fleshed fools dare use computers, in the guise of Females, to fight. We have nothing to fear from them. Respond accordingly. 'You and What Army?'"

The Communicator bowed deeply and left to send the response.

The warship hummed around the command room, leaving the Commodore to his thoughts. His Crew of three thousand males were young but skilled, blooded warriors ready to fight and claim their trophy in the meat harvested from the colonies they were to attack by orders from the Highest of the Kzin.

He would cover his Fleet in glory, or be fed to the Highest's children.

Raising a hand, he toggled shipwide communication, his bass rumble filling the halls and his crew's ears.

"We are Kzin. We shall claim this world and feast. All Light Escorts, launch and prepare attack. Heavy ships, the enemy has begged for help from the Federation, which has sent one of their Pitiful Machine Females to Interfere. We Shall destroy them and feast upon human as well."

"Now, attack!"

To the roar of its crew, the Serrated Claw surged forth, engines flaring with power, right before a Sensor screeched alarm.

"Enemy Fire!"

They were far out of range. Sensors could not lock onto the Federation Squadron. Weapons were online, but their range was dictated by the sensors, and without a lock, there would be no accurate fire. Shields were down to facilitate the launch of the hulking vessel's strikecraft contingent, but even if the enemy attack hit, the attenuation would have heated some hull plates and done nothing more.

And then a Bussard Scoop Exploded, a Ravening beam of energy meters wide coring through the particle collector and traveling the length of the plasma conduits powering that section of the battleship's warp field, setting off a conflagration that blew apart the entire Nacelle; leaking drive plasma and suddenly tumbling, the battleship veered away from the impact and sudden debris field created from its own damage.

The strike craft; several dozen fighters and heavy gunships that had launched, immediately veered away from the fleet and moved to intercept, sensors tracing the residual energy of the blast.

Alarms screamed for attention, crew clamouring over each other as Damage control set to work; the Commodore merely growled, watching the video feeds from his fighters get erased, one by one with precise, nearly-invisible bolts of energy from the same weapon that had reached out so far across the void.

The last dozen strike craft were the gunships, made to batter shields and hulls with high-yield, short-range torpedoes and disruptors stolen from Klingon wrecks; they had used the flaming deaths of the interceptors to shield their movements, as all good predators did, just in time to get a good look at the Federation starship that sat in orbit over the magnetic pole of the planet.

A dark blue saucer, bristling with heavy weapons; the video feeds showed at least six phaser arrays and a quartet of torpedo launchers, but the intimidating cannon protruding from a recessed pit in the ship's belly suggested exactly where the focused long-range attack had come from.

Moments later, in a flurry of red pulses that lit up everything around it, the video feeds cut out, the gunships having been eradicated in a display of firepower and pulses of energy that set the Commodore's fangs on edge.

"All Ships. Turn back. Our Enemy is More than Capable of destroying us. I will report this personally to the Highest."

And so, the first of dozens of raids was turned back, with a single exchange of fire.

"All Kzin ships are retreating at best speed. We will stay until we have confirmed that they are not planning to turn back for a second go at it."

Captain Davis Roope nodded, one finger scratching the small scar on his cheek; while normally concealed by his facial hair, he had trimmed back to a goatee to let the livid purple mark be visible as he communicated with the Colonies his ship was patrolling. Turns out Klingons were more amenable to chatting when you showed off that you've been in a scrap.

Nearby, lounging in the Commander's chair, the Ship's AI continued with her gaze on the screen ahead of her, though the far-off look in her piercing violet eyes suggested she was occupied wrangling the three destroyers that crowded around the much larger warship like ducklings to a hen.

After a moment of silence, he turned, looking at the scarred woman. Her blonde hair fell in a loose wave down her back, concealing the partially-exposed artificial spine. The pearl-hued shoulderless gown she wore concealed the multitude of scars over her torso and arms, leaving only her shoulders, neck, and face bare. And yet, the small curl of a smile was all she allowed herself in public that this battle had been won with so little damage.

"So, 'Spite. How did you manage to hit their flagship beyond sensor lock range?"

Her smile grew just a little, before she tapped a slender fingertip against the side of her head.

"It's all about Practice. And Math. Now, if you'll excuse me, our companions are asking the same question."

Second later, in the Electronic Borderlands used by All Federation AIs...

"Awright ya wee Bawbag Wankin Shites! C'mere and get'cher lessons on 'How to shoot straight' Taught by ME!"

Written by FreakOTU. And a continuation of Woden: First Blood.