Councillor Darg was cursing steadily under his breath as he stormed into the First City bar. "Bloodwine!" he shouted to the barman. He caught his breath, and looked around him.
K'tag, sitting at a table with the Gorn Ambassador, raised one eyebrow at his colleague, and pointed at a vacant chair nearby. Still fuming, Darg took a seat.
"You seem distressed," said S'taass. "I take it that whatever caused you to leave the High Council meeting was... bad news?"
"Seven ships!" Darg shouted. "Three in Pi Canis sectors, and an entire squadron in Eta Eridani! Destroyed!"
"Privateers?" K'tag asked. Darg nodded. "Well, it is to be expected, I fear. The Federation has brought up substantial reinforcements behind the front lines, to prevent any immediate repetition of the Bercera... incident. As a consequence, many previously soft targets will be unexpectedly hardened." He took a sip of his own raktajino. "I foresee lean pickings for our privateers, even though the Council has not agreed to the moratorium."
"It is a sad blow to my House," grumbled Darg. "Oh, they died well enough, as Klingons... but dead men and destroyed ships bring no profits to the House's coffers. One must be realistic."
"Indeed," said K'tag. "Such was the final decision of the High Council, you may be interested to hear - since you were called away before the conclusion of the debate."
Darg scowled and took a deep pull at his bloodwine. "How much Federation insolence must we stomach?"
"Considerable," said K'tag. "If your House has commercial interests in the region protected by Dasus Prime, they must now attend to their own protection. And the Thidasians and Yll-Toricans will shortly celebrate their liberation - or what they think of as liberation. The Valtothi have, it seems, already anticipated events. The rebels' celebrations have already included mass executions among the native civil administration, and the formation of an honour guard of corvette-class starships to, as they put it, escort the Klingon governor out of free Valtothi space."
Darg snarled. "The Governor should have destroyed them rather than endure such humiliation!"
"Not a very politic move," S'taass observed, "under the guns of the Federation Sixth Fleet."
"Sixth Fleet?" Darg's eyes narrowed. "I did not realize Sixth Fleet was operating near Valtoth Alpha."
"Nobody did," said K'tag. "Admiral Gref's movements are causing considerable speculation. We have at least some idea of the disposition of most of the Feds' main forces - but Sixth Fleet constitutes a strong and highly mobile force, operating closer to our strategic centres than is comfortable. Our thinking is that Aznetkur remains his main objective, but it is only the most probable estimate of many."
"Where does the Federation find so many ships?" Darg demanded. The bloodwine was not improving his disposition.
"They are stripping their reserves in Beta Ursae," S'taass said, "hoping that their allies in Cardassian space will contain any hostile elements. A calculated risk."
"It is not right," said Darg. "We should not be expected to swallow these insults! There will come a reckoning," he muttered darkly.
"Ah, yes," said K'tag. "A reckoning. You missed the most amusing part of the meeting. The Ferengi Alliance is to calculate the approximate economic value of Bercera IV, and issue us with an appropriate financial penalty?"
"What?"
"Amusing, is it not?" K'tag took another sip of raktajino.
"The Ferengi are but tools of the Federation!" Darg shouted.
"Curious, is it not?" said S'taass. "After all, the Ferengi mercantile ideology conflicts with Federation social values on so many points, one would hardly expect them to be natural allies."
"It is in the nature of things," K'tag said, ignoring Darg's sputterings. "The Federation taxes Ferengi interests where it can, and uses the resources to constructive social ends. We, on the other hand, rob them and shoot them. There are, to be sure, many Ferengi still who would prefer, on ideological grounds, to be robbed and shot... but their influence wanes, because the poor and the dead carry little weight in the councils of the Ferengi. A conundrum that I lack the wit to resolve."
"The Ferengi will mulct us of every strip of latinum in the Empire!" Darg shouted.
"Probably," said K'tag. "It is a high price, and it is but part of a greater price... but the alternative is an incalculable price, and the wise man will choose the known evil over the unknown."
"What do you mean? What price?"
"There is a story I heard from a human once," said S'taass, "of a great empire on their world that was called... Azziria? Something like that. In any case, this empire was technologically and militarily superior to its neighbours, and ruled over them with a fist of iron."
"Naturally," said Darg. "What of it?"
"Eventually, those neighbours all came to the same conclusion: that whatever differences they had among themselves, they were all united in one thing - the overwhelming need to be free from the Azzirians. So they gathered all their forces, and made total war upon the empire. The human told me," S'taass continued, "that, generations later, a conqueror whose name translates as Great Leader of Men came by the ruins of the empire's capital, and that he asked what name those ruins bore, and that no one could tell him."
"You take the point, I hope," said K'tag. "If our Empire becomes known as a state which will devastate whole worlds at will... then the paramount interest of all our neighbours will be to stop us, no matter what the cost. They will fight us, and we will fall. The battle would be glorious, and we would fight like true Klingons, and songs would be sung of it for ten thousand generations thereafter. And, at the end of it, we would all be dead." He drained his mug of raktajino and stood. "You must excuse me. I have some minor matters of business to attend to."
The atmosphere aboard the DujHod Chariot was tense, and more than a little foul. Tayaira carefully refrained from wrinkling her nose. If only Klingons and Nausicaans - especially Nausicaans - could be persuaded to bathe more regularly....
"Still nothing," reported Warrior Ch'gama from the comms station. Tayaira sighed, and stared out of the viewport, towards the blue-grey bulk of the planet Mageptis. They had been in orbit, now, for some twenty hours... in transit from the QIb laH'e''s hiding place for another thirty... and not one of the Klingons had thought to wash in all that time.
"I think we must give up on this one, too," she said. She consulted her datapad. "Try Factor Cysitra Cira'tenis, at the Galpor spaceport. Transferring codes to your console now." She touched the pad, made the necessary connections. The list of former contacts of the House of Sinoom was looking perilously thin, now.
"Transmitting comms request," said Ch'gama. Beside him, the newly-minted Lieutenant Jikkur sat silent in his Nausicaan bladed armour, his red eyes watchful. Tayaira had thought long and hard about including him on this mission, had decided in the end that she could watch him aboard the Chariot just as effectively as Klur could aboard the ship... and that, if he proved disloyal, he could do less damage here than back on the QIb laH'e'.
"Request sent, response pending -" Ch'gama's head jerked up. "I have something!"
"On screen."
The face that appeared on the Chariot's viewscreen was green and hairless, with wide shimmering eyes and a headcrest that unfolded as Tayaira looked, and flushed with a multitude of colours. She had never known what species Cysitra was, had never thought to ask. "Tayaira!" the factor said in a fluting voice. "Well, this is a pleasure unlooked for."
"It has been too long since I last visited this world," said Tayaira. "Is all well with you?"
"My life is full of joys and travails, as is every life," said Cysitra. "How may I oblige you, lady of the House of Sinoom?"
"For a start, we require landing clearance. Traffic control around Mageptis has grown strict."
"A most regrettable consequence of the war. You command, I see, a Klingon Chariot? I am intrigued. They are normally allocated to respected commanders...."
"I obtained it from a respected commander. You should not enquire too closely into the circumstances."
"Nonetheless, we are technically in Federation territory and you are technically an enemy vessel. But arrangements may be made. Your other needs, lady?"
"I have an encrypted isolinear chip whose contents need secure transmission on a particular subspace frequency."
"May one speculate as to the contents?"
"One may. I often do myself."
"I see." Cysitra's headcrest faded to pastel colours. "I deeply regret, of course, that the credit of the House of Sinoom is no longer what it was. In these trying times of ours -"
"It is natural that you should require payment in hard cash, in advance." Tayaira reached into her belt pouch, brought out a sparkling red crystal, held it up to the screen. "Kinarian flame jewels. Non-replicateable, and difficult to obtain in the Federation, due to the war. I have... a sufficiency." A very small, hard-won, personal reserve... she only hoped it would be enough.
"Such beauty," Cysitra sighed. "Certainly, also, payment hard enough to meet the most stringent requirements."
"Better payment than you might expect from the Federation," Tayaira said. "They pay only in promises and goodwill."
"How true. Let me make appropriate arrangements." Cysitra looked to one side, at something out of Tayaira's field of vision. "One moment. There. I am transmitting clearances now for your approach to a private landing pad. You will encounter no difficulties. Once there, we will arrange for the fulfillment of your other requirements, lady. Clearances and coordinates are being transmitted on our data channel even as we speak."
Tayaira looked down at her command console. "Confirmed. We will speak, then, in person, within the hour."
"My joy at that will know no bounds. Until that time, then." The screen went dark.
"That went well," said Ch'gama.
"You think so?" said Tayaira. "Let us make some arrangements, for contingencies that may arise."
The shuttlecraft dropped through the murky air of Mageptis.
---
Cysitra's landing pad was on the fringes of the Galpor spaceport, next to a pressurized dome that served as the factor's business office. The alien was there on the pad to greet them, robes fluttering in the cold wind that blew on the world's surface. In the bleak, industrial setting of the decrepit port, she looked exotic, out of place.
"Such a pleasure to see you once more in the flesh," she said, taking Tayaira's hand in hers. Her fingers were moist and webbed; the touch was clammy, but Tayaira steeled herself not to shudder or recoil. "Let us go to my private office, where we may arrange your most pressing business. Your valiant crew may amuse themselves, no doubt?"
"Of course," said Tayaira. She turned to the others. "Wait while our business is transacted," she said. "Explore the port, by all means, but do not stray out of communication range."
"There is much here to divert," said Cysitra, "though Galpor may appear less than aesthetic. Let us repair within." And she led Tayaira to the dome.
Inside, it was cool, humid, and brightly lit, the walls painted with abstract designs in colours that soothed the eye. "Will you take refreshment?" Cysitra asked. "I have spirits and elixirs from all over the galaxy in my private supply."
"Perhaps later," said Tayaira. Was there something different about the alien's face? "I must attend to my most immediate needs, first." She held up her hands. In her left, she held the isolinear chip Klur had given her - the one he said would get them rescued. In the other, the flame jewels glittered. Cysitra caught her breath.
"By all means," she said, "business first." She led Tayaira through a doorway, to a communications console. "This subspace communicator should meet your needs."
"Eminently suitable," Tayaira said. She sat down at the machine, slotted in the datachip, and keyed the transmission sequence. "Confirmation will be registered directly," she said, turning her head to look at Cysitra.
"I am gratified to be of assistance," said the alien. Was there something about her speech, too? Tayaira thought hard.
Her nose. That was it. Cysitra's nostrils were... distended, and fixed. She was wearing some sort of nose plugs. Most likely, Tayaira thought, filters against Orion pheromones. And that meant she expected a pheromonal attack....
Unobtrusively, Tayaira tapped at her wrist communicator, sending the prearranged short sequence of pulses. The one that meant betrayal.
"Is there someone outside the door?" she asked, though she had heard nothing. She had heard nothing, but as the alien's headcrest turned white and folded down, she knew she had guessed correctly.
"Ah," said Cysitra sadly, "I had hoped to avoid unpleasantness. But you must realize that the gratitude of the Federation is, perhaps, harder currency than you might think."
"Oh," said Tayaira, "I understand completely." Her hand dropped to the top of her boot, to the disruptor pistol concealed there. "It is simply a matter of good business, after all."
That makes 15 chapters so far. And hopefully at least that many again in the future.
One would almost think that you'd visited the time/places you write about, and then came back to the year 2013 to report it to the rest of us. CBS/Paramount should hire you to write the scripts for a new "Star Trek" series based on your story. I really mean that.
I stamp irritably up and down the bridge, turning things over in my head.
So far, everything is going pretty smoothly. The cynic in me keeps saying that's due for a change. But Sixth Fleet has not even seen combat yet - the situation at Valtoth Alpha was as close as it got - and, despite all the zooming around at high warp speeds, the Virtue is holding up pretty well. Chief Engineer Ahepkur isn't happy, though. But she's a Klingon */*species 5008*/*, and a discommendated Klingon at that, so she's never happy.
Perhaps it's simply that things are going too smoothly. I don't have enough to occupy my mind, it gives me time to brood and worry at ideas. Playing with phantoms, mostly. Still, some of them are worrying phantoms.
"I'm restless," I say aloud.
"Get some sleep, sir," says Tallasa.
"Can't sleep when I'm restless, can I? I've got too little to do and too much to think about. Energies bombinating in a vacuum breed chimeras."
I've been waiting for ages to work that quote in somewhere, but Tallasa just says, "And what about Admirals bombinating in a Chimera, sir?" I shoot her a dirty look.
"I'm working it all out in my head," I say, "and some of the possible answers I come up with - I don't like at all. Look. Taking it that this Kysang was a Federation agent -"
"For which you have no proof," says Tallasa.
"Well, if I had proof, he'd have been a lousy agent, wouldn't he? But anyway. Federation agents don't operate in a vacuum." Tallasa doesn't even speak, just glances meaningfully at the ocean of stars on the viewscreen. "Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. They have networks, contacts, all that good stuff. The stuff I got from Memory Alpha suggests he had links to one of the big commercial concerns in the Empire."
"So?" says Tallasa. "Starfleet Intelligence is undoubtedly trying to track the movement of resources within the Empire. It's exactly the sort of low-level statistical information that it's vital to know."
"Quite. But Kysang's contacts must have enabled him to get stuff. Not just information, actual goods and services. Like, for instance, the huge amounts of tricobalt and other nastiness Klur used on Bercera IV."
"Hence your suspicion that Klur acted on orders from some individual or group in the High Council," says Tallasa. "The owner of the shipping concerns?"
"That's one possibility. The other, much nastier one... well, we've just taken a huge chunk out of the Klink front line, mostly without firing a shot. The High Council is almost falling over itself to make concessions and reparations - and, even so, the Klinks' name is still mud with half the frontier systems. We've benefited from Bercera IV. So, bearing that in mind, can you see why I might be a bit worried that there was a Federation agent involved in the attack?"
It makes Tallasa's jaw drop, which is something. "You think Section 31 arranged the destruction of Bercera IV?"
"They're the ones who defend the Federation 'by any means necessary'. Would you put something like that past Franklin Drake?"
"I -" Tallasa closes her mouth. She's thinking. That's good.
"I don't want to believe it," I say. "It just worries me. And now I guess it's worrying you. Sorry about that." I really don't want to believe it. But Franklin Drake and Boris Savinkov are brothers under the skin, and that bothers me.
Anyway, there's nothing I can do about any of it just now. The Virtue is following the leader, Admiral Gref's massive Jupiter-class battleship Taras Bulba, as the fleet hurtles deeper into Klingon territory, away from the newly-liberated Valtothi */*species 191*/* -
Hold on a minute. How did a minor Alpha Quadrant species like the Valtothi get a designation number as low as 191?
*/*retrieving data
---data not in local storage
---connection to main data archives not functional
---reconnect---priority---reconnect---reconnect---reconnect*/*
- OK, I don't need to know that badly. Anyway. Away from Valtoth Alpha, and towards the Klingons.
"Incoming message from the flagship," says the comms ensign.
"OK, let's have it," I say.
"Uh," says the ensign, "it says all commanding officers to report to ready rooms for a conference briefing."
"Oh, joy," I say. "All right, tell them I'm on my way, then pipe it through."
---
Admiral Gref doesn't look happy. He has sound reasons not to, and anyway he never did. He is short and squat even by Tellarite */*species 4897*/* standards, and he glowers out of the screen now, clearly in a more than usually dyspeptic mood.
"We have reports from the Yll-Torican homeworld," he says. "Three hours ago, a squadron of Klingon raptors crossed the system at high impulse speeds, destroyed two civil defence corvettes, and carried out a series of orbital strikes on ground targets. So far, we have no firm figures on casualties. First word is that they aren't heavy - but it doesn't matter how light they are, there should not have been any."
"Were the raiders identified?" asks Rear Admiral Stuvek from the USS Niobe.
"Not as far as I know," says Gref. His mouth works. "This shows the kind of people we're dealing with. They're not even serious about their own reparations - as soon as they agree to pull out of Yll-Torica, they attack the place!"
"Well," I say, "the reparations have got a lot of the Klingons pretty worked up - my guess is, this is an isolated privateering raid, by some hotheads out to make a point."
"I concur with Vice Admiral Grau's analysis," says Stuvek. Gref looks even more unhappy.
"Hotheads," he says. "Every time the Klingons perpetrate some kind of atrocity, their High Council jumps up to say it's hotheads, rogue elements, captains exceeding their authority. Well, it's more than time we stopped letting them get away with that. I know these - Viking expeditions - of theirs are part of Klingon culture, and you know what? I don't care. Let them express their cultural values on their own people. They can leave us, and the neutral worlds, strictly alone."
"So what do you suggest, sir?" asks Captain Weymouth of the USS Warspite.
"I suggest nothing," snaps Gref. "I am going to carry out my orders, which are to take Sixth Fleet into Klingon space and carry out retributive action against the KDF. So far we've not seen combat. That is about to change." He takes a deep breath. "The Klingon High Council rejected the Federation's demand for the removal of their military station at Aznetkur. So, we're going to take it away from them anyway. The Fleet will proceed at maximum safe warp to that system, and we don't stop until that planetary fortress is reduced." Another deep breath. "We will now begin reviewing the system assault plans."
There was one waiting by the door as Tayaira charged out - human, from the look of him. He was aiming a plasma pistol at the doorway, but the concentrated burst of pheromones caught him before he could fire, and he staggered, his eyes suddenly swimming with tears. He had no time to recover before Tayaira drove her dagger through his throat.
She never broke stride, running for cover as a plasma bolt hissed past her from somewhere nearby. She ducked behind a big metal thing, some piece of spaceport machinery, sheathed her blade, and pulled out her tricorder. Somehow, she had to take stock of the situation -
Footsteps nearby: she whirled and brought up her disruptor, then relaxed. Ch'gama, and the big Nausicaan marine, Hrchie. The Klingon was spattered with blood of several different colours; some of it, Tayaira realized with dismay, was his own. But he grinned at her as he crouched down beside her.
"What happened?" she asked.
"We got separated," Ch'gama said. "They tried to bottle us up in the ship." His finger stabbed at a blunt concrete-and-metal turret, one of several such that ringed the landing pad. "Tractor and damping field emitters, with those running, the Chariot's going nowhere. So we broke out before they could bring can openers." He shrugged, and winced. "Didn't quite go to plan. They got Durrog, and the rest of us scattered in the crossfire. What about you?"
"I got the Captain's message off," Tayaira said. "Confirmation signal came back. I suppose that's all that matters, but personally I'd like to live to see what happens next."
"What about the alien witch?"
"Oh," said Tayaira, "I paid her off. In full." Something was moving, off to one side. She checked her tricorder. Human life signs. She sighted her disruptor, fired, was rewarded with a yell of pain. "They're trying to flank us."
"Not much honour in dying at those hands," said Tayaira, "so let's not. How do we take these dampers out?"
"They're armoured." Ch'gama spat. "Durrog was trying to break one when they roasted him. But I don't think hand weapons'll do the job. Sir, these goons will have called for reinforcements -"
"I see R'rorro," Hrchie interrupted. Tayaira peered around the corner of their shelter.
The Ferasan warrior, R'rorro, was moving on the other side of the pad, with the speed and grace of his species. Bolts of green light flamed from his twin disruptor pistols. He seemed to catch sight of them, changed direction, ran straight across the landing pad. As he came to the wing of the shuttle, he gathered himself and leapt, clearing the obstacle in a single graceful bound. It was a breathtaking jump, a heroic jump -
Three plasma beams picked him off in mid-leap, and he crashed to the ground in a motionless smouldering heap.
Tayaira swore. She thought furiously. "Cover me," she said, and ran for the human she'd killed. Plasma beams hissed across the air, none coming near her. She snatched up the dead man's handgun, turned, and sprinted back to cover.
"You wanted a souvenir, sir?" said Ch'gama with a grin.
"Not quite. Those emitter turrets must have a power supply, yes? My guess is, they're tied in to the city power grid. My further guess is, that's a commercial grade EPS network, and just as clapped out as the rest of this place." She held up the captured weapon. "So, let's see what happens when we put a plasma weapon into the grid, set on overload."
Ch'gama's grin widened. "Oh, that's beautiful, sir. No wonder they pay you the big money."
They don't pay me enough for this, Tayaira thought, as she scanned the landing pad quickly. Those dome buildings were constructed to a standard pattern -
She saw the EPS connection point, ran for it, opened the access panel. Behind her, more gunshots crackled. The EPS channel buzzed angrily as she forced the plasma pistol into the waveguide. She set the gun for a force chamber explosion, turned, and sprinted back once more to the shelter of the machine.
"Did it -" Ch'gama started to ask.
Behind her, the EPS channel erupted. The hardened electroplasma system of a starship could pass a power surge along it, dissipating it harmlessly save for the occasional flash-bang of a transient overload. This commercial-grade system didn't have that facility. The explosion turned the EPS hookup into a column of sparks sixty metres high, and all around the spaceport, more columns like it burst up, as the power surge blasted through the network.
Tayaira barely needed a glance at her tricorder. "Power's down! Move!"
Suddenly, everyone was running towards the shuttle, friend and foe alike. Tayaira snapped off shots from her disruptor at any figure in an unfamiliar uniform, and tried not to worry about the returning plasma fire that scorched the air around her. She was first to reach the Chariot, slammed her palm down on the biometric lock, turned to shoot an approaching security goon. Ch'gama and Hrchie piled past her into the airlock; then there was a mad scrimmage, a sudden crush of bodies in which knives flashed and guns blazed. Somehow, she fought her way in, and hit the button to close the door. Someone reached through, trying to block the door with his arm; Tayaira burned the limb off with her disruptor before it could trip the door's safeties.
She dashed for the cockpit, hurled herself into the pilot's seat, ignoring the confused melee behind her. "Computer! Combat emergency. Skip all preflight checks and lift!"
It seemed to take an age, though it could only have been seconds, before the guttural voice of the machine said, "Confirmed," and the controls came alive under her hands. There was a sudden thump on the viewport before her. One of the security guards, an Andorian, had leapt onto the shuttle's nose and was aiming a plasma pistol at the port. Tayaira hit the thrusters, and the shuttle leaped up and forwards. The Andorian staggered, lost his pistol, and yet somehow retained a grip on the shuttle itself -
Behind her, there were sounds. Tayaira looked around. In the confusion at the airlock, a human security guard had made it on board. He was now alone, in a confined space, surrounded by angry KDF troops. It seemed to have dawned on him that that was a bad place to be.
She checked the shuttle's scanners. Beneath her, the port registered only small, scattered energy readings - the power grid failure was more extensive than she'd thought. There were two other flying craft on sensors nearby, though, and she had to assume they were hostile. Behind her, the human had started screaming.
"We don't have time to play! Put him in the transporter and get rid of him!"
"Send him where?" one of the Klingons asked.
"Straight to Gre'thor - random coordinates, wide dispersion!" The human, who had been sobbing with relief, started to scream again. The whine and hum of the transporter cut him off for good.
"Someone get on the disruptors, or I swear you'll envy him!" The Andorian was still banging on the viewport with his fists. The first sensor contact was close, too close. She had a read on it, it was an antiquated Federation-type shuttle, but still dangerous -
It was within a few hundred metres when the Chariot's disruptor array came live. The green beam burned through the shuttle's feeble shields inside a second, and tore into the nose of the craft, scattering white-hot fragments across the sky. The shuttle slewed and plummeted in a death-dive towards the ground.
The second ship came in fast, and firing phasers. The Chariot rocked and its shields sparkled, but they held. Klur had spent the time and money to upgrade the warp core, Tayaira noted; she had plenty of power for weapons and shields, at least. The enemy ship streaked past, leaving the Chariot rocking in the turbulent air. Amazingly, the Andorian was still hanging on.
"Looks like a Bajoran war surplus fighter," Ch'gama remarked.
"Fast but flimsy," Tayaira said. "Wait till he comes round for another pass... then double-shot the photon launcher."
Ch'gama nodded. The fighter ship was swinging around, lines of phaser light reaching out from its hardpoints. The Chariot's shields flared. Ch'gama waited a second, while Tayaira's heart stood still, then fired the torpedoes.
The enemy pilot was good; he managed to dodge one of them. The second one sprayed him across the sky.
Tayaira cut in the impulse drive, turned the Chariot's nose spacewards. The Andorian was flattened against the viewport.
"How's he still hanging on?" Ch'gama asked.
"Must have polyalloy armour under those coveralls, and a magnetic link on his boots or his belt," Tayaira said. She ran her fingers through her hair. "Great, so now we have a figurehead. All right, we know how to get out of here. Cloak, random-walk to the system's edge, then follow our prearranged flight path to the rendezvous point." And hope the Captain didn't get tired of waiting, she didn't add aloud. "How badly did we get hit? I know we lost Durrog and R'rorro...."
"N'Liss, too," said Ch'gama sourly.
"Someone else missing too," said Tayaira, craning her neck around to get a good look at her crew. "Where's Lieutenant Jikkur?"
I will try to keep the momentum going on this, but I'm going into hospital for minor surgery in the next couple of days, so I will be slowing down for a while! (Just routine stuff, I hasten to add, nothing to worry about.)
@patrickngo - I could see J'mpok liking that answer! And certainly the Undine, off in fluidic space, wouldn't care much about the loss of class M worlds in the conventional universe....
Glad to hear it. Qa'pla! And, believe it or not, I haven't been overly impatient for the next chapter of your story ... okay, I have been. But I wanted you to be back to 100% (or close to it) first.
I've already saved the pic file to my Fallout directory. I confess that I keep forgetting that Ronnie is female (not used to "Ronnie" as a woman's nickname; your story is only the second one that had a female "Ronnie" in it; the other was a book, "The Double Image" by Helen MacInnes (came out in 1966, I think); "Ronnie" there was short for "Veronica"). So now I'll have no excuse for making the same mistake in the future.
Feel free to do more pix like this, if it isn't too much trouble. One of Klur, perhaps, and maybe some (or all) of the other characters too? Okay, so I'm greedy, but not Greedo. Greedy and addicted. And with a fanatical devotion to the Pope. Now, wait a second! This is STO, not "The Spanish Inquisition" sketch from Monty Python. Now back to our regularly scheduled "Fallout", geiger counter optional. Don't worry about the sound of bacon frying. That's normal after there's been some "Fallout".
Sixth Fleet crashes out of subspace into a picket force comprising six Birds of Prey. They don't last seconds.
As per Gref's plan, I peel off. Virtue is lead ship for a semi-independent flanking group, clearing the starboard flank of the main force as it bores in towards the orbital fortress at Aznetkur. Besides my Chimera heavy destroyer, I'm supported by the star cruiser Hippolyta, each of us with three frigate groups tied into our tactical nets; further support from the escorts Endymion, Scaramouche and Hippogriff, and the science vessels Niels Bohr and Ytsay... the latter being named after some Andorian savant, who... discovered ice, or something like that, I don't know.
It's a reasonably effective fighting unit. It's not a tenth of Sixth Fleet's overall firepower, but who am I to complain? */*2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07*/*
Not any more, I'm not.
"Status?" I ask, more for form than anything else.
"All systems ready at your command!" Ahepkur announces.
"Ship is at battle readiness," Tallasa reports. "All frigate groups reporting in; telemetry online to fleet command; at red alert, all stations manned and ready. Configured for offensive mode." The Chimera can switch between a defensive mode and an offensive one that deploys its wide-angle phaser lotus array. It's a weakness, really, all the machinery for changing configuration takes up space and is vulnerable to combat damage; so, I tend to pick one mode and stick with it. Three guesses which I prefer.
"Scanning system," says Saval. "Multiple energy sources already detected consistent with KDF military units. Transferring data to the tactical display." I lean forward and peer into the screen.
The tactical situation, as people say in their war memoirs, is a challenging one. There's all sorts of KDF military junk in orbit around the planet, but our biggest concern is the fortress in geosynchronous orbit, a massive facility, larger than a Class V starbase, nearly the size of Earth Spacedock, and armed to the teeth. It's surrounded by free-floating shipyards and other industrial units, each one of those with cannons and torpedo tubes. Saval's scans have already picked out the larger of the patrol ships in the vicinity, now barrelling out towards Sixth Fleet with weapons hot.
The plot maps out the killing zones of the ships and the bases in gradient-shaded KDF red; the map looks covered in bubbles of blood. There are enticing-looking gaps in the coverage, corridors reaching deep towards the fortress, clear of Klingon weapons. Those, of course, are where the Klinks have their cloaked patrol ships. Klinks are many things, but they ain't dumb.
I study the display, and I start to get that itchy feeling - the one that tells me something is wrong about this setup.
Shut up, Two of Twelve. I'm the expert around here.
"Signal to flag," I say, "moving to intercept Klingon battle groups at zero four niner mark seven, then proceeding as directed to target facilities designated Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike. Battle group, all ships, formation Echo, proceed at full speed to engagement range. Let's do it, people."
Virtue leaps forwards, towards a battle-hungry V-formation of KDF raptors. I'm running through the angles in my head, trying to figure out what's bothering me, even as we come into range and the Virtue's phaser cannons burst into life.
So far, it's textbook stuff. The lead raptor slows and veers off course, heavily damaged and under continual harrassing fire from our frigate groups. The escorts peel off to take out the other raptors, while Virtue and Hippolyta pound them with heavy weapons and the science vessels work their witchcraft. The KDF ships are all crippled or dead before they can so much as irritate our shields.
The next battle group, though, is bigger and tougher. It's between us and the four outlying space stations we're designated to attack, and it's not going to let us through easily. Two Negh'vars, two cruisers, four raptors and a flock of fighters, a whole load of fighters -
"Phaser lotus!"
The lotus is meant for situations like these: a wide-angle, multi-target attack that will sweep the sky clear of fragile targets like To'Duj fighters or even Birds of Prey. Burning golden light sprays out from Virtue's saucer section, and space fills with explosions and fragments of ships. But there are so many fighters -
"Target lead Negh'var, cannons rapid fire!"
So very many fighters, even though we've blasted a good number already -
"Scaramouche, take that K'tinga before it comes about!"
The commands come to my lips automatically, while I figure out what's been bothering me. So many fighters, and where are the mother ships?
Something slams into our hull; a Klink torpedo breached our shields. I check; damage is within limits. Virtue spits cannon fire back into our attacker. Still too many fighters, and the phaser lotus is cycling -
"Saval, scan for Klink transporter signatures. I've got an idea."
Saval does the Vulcan */*species 3259*/* eyebrow-quirk thing, but he complies. Ahepkur is snarling at the damage control teams. "Four more raptors decloaked and inbound," Tallasa reports. OK, Ronnie, I tell myself. You are not outnumbered, you just have a wide selection of targets - and all that guff. Damage control lights flash yellow.
And the phaser lotus flashes green. "Hard about, one niner seven mark zero," I order, trying to bring as many Klinks as I can into the lotus's killing arc. "Saval, when we fire, watch those transports!" Virtue slews in a tight turn. "Fire lotus."
Again, the phasers fire, and the Klink fighters burn. I try to figure the Klink's next move. They do so like their cloaked ships, and once my lotus is down, I will have weak spots in my firing arcs....
"Emergency evasive power, hard to port! Cannons ready!"
The raptor decloaks just about where I'd guessed. Warning lights flash on my board as the RCS assemblies protest, but the cannons are just about in range while the raptor is still shimmering. Disruptors flash at me; phasers flash back. Our shields hold. The raptor loses a nacelle, rents open along its flanks, and it staggers away trailing atmosphere and debris.
"I have high levels of transporter traffic," says Saval, "detected between this region and... facility designated Target Oscar." He looks faintly surprised. If he wasn't Vulcan, he'd be gobsmacked.
"That's not a high priority target," says Tallasa, adding, "Target Juliet now in range."
"Hit it. I mean, battle group, commence attack run, Target Juliet." I hit my comms panel. "Virtue to flag. KDF has configured orbital stations to act as fighter launch bases; confirm Target Oscar one such, Target -" think, Ronnie, think "- Target Sierra shows similar configuration. Expect intense fighter assault. Am moving to engage Target Oscar. Virtue out."
We live in a post-scarcity economy, machines are cheap. The expertise, the people, to run those machines - isn't. Fleet carriers, like Shohl's King Estmere, are not so much carriers as floating industrial facilities, their launch bays holding industrial replicators which can quite literally build a fighter, in seconds, around its crew. But the crews are precious. So, flight deck officers include specialist transporter experts, capable of tracking a fighter through a battle, peering through the fog of war and maintaining a transporter lock no matter what, so they can snatch the crew to safety even as their ship explodes. The Federation uses a lot of Caitians */*species 5847*/* in this job, because of their superior reflexes. Cat-like, you might say.
So, Target Oscar is plucking KDF fighter crews out of the battle while we burn their ships away underneath them. And will refit them, and send them back out into the fray.
Our problem is... a fair-sized carrier like the King Estmere can support a dozen fighters at once. A stationary base can be bigger, doesn't need to drag a warp drive around with it... it might support hundreds.
Target Juliet, an auxiliary station providing flanking support to the fortress, is in our sights, and our beams and torpedoes slam into it. Disruptors fire back. The frigate Adderbury, caught in a sudden barrage of cannon fire, loses her shields, burns, shatters, explodes. My first ship loss. There will be more.
Under our fire, the station's shields fail, its armour plating delaminates and fractures. Flames blossom from sudden rents torn through the hull; the return fire from the disruptors slackens, then stops. My ships pour fire through the gaps in the armour, and the massive structure crumples and implodes in on itself, its internal atmosphere escaping in a tremendous rush of fire.
"Target Juliet down," Tallasa reports flatly.
"OK. Change of plan. Battle group: all ships reform into pattern Delta, steer three seven one mark two eight. We are attacking Target Oscar. All guns to independent fire for fighter interdiction."
Two of the remaining frigates have taken heavy damage, and the Niels Bohr is leaking air. My force is still mostly intact, though. But, as we come up on Target Oscar, I can see that's about to change.
"Infinite help us," says Tallasa. "How many launch bays?"
Too many. "Hold fire till they launch fighters," I say. "Then take down the first wave, then smash the station while they're prepping the next." I'm such an optimist.
"We're taking flanking fire from Target Lima," says Tallasa, "and there's another heavy patrol group closing... range three-two."
"So we don't have much time. Let's use what we've got. All ships commence attack run on Target Oscar."
We close in, and they launch. Every one of the launch bays spits out a To'Duj fighter, and there are too many to count -
*/*64*/*
- well, thanks, Two of Twelve, for telling me exactly how stuffed I am.
"Fire!"
Every gun in the group opens up - including my phaser lotus. At this range, with the fighters bunched up on their initial launch, the damage is telling; as many To'Dujs perish in the explosions of their neighbours as die directly from our guns. But there are so damned many left, each one blazing away with its small but potent disruptor cannons - swarming around us, as our turrets and beam arrays try to target them and swat them.
"Shields down to thirty-eight per cent," Ahepkur reports.
"Get us in closer," I say. Target Oscar was designated low priority because it looked like some kind of orbital warehouse, not an armed target. My guess is, the Klinks made it to look like that - and it wouldn't look convincing, unless it really does lack heavy armour and military-grade structural integrity.
"Steer one-niner mark six. I want us looking right down those launch tubes."
If I'm wrong, I'm going to get sixty-four Klink fighters in my face in about twenty seconds. At least I won't be alive long enough to be embarrassed.
"All forward cannons, all torpedoes, rapid fire!"
Virtue's guns open up, straight into those inviting-looking tubes. And I'm almost tempted to breathe a sigh of relief, as I find out I'm right.
The force fields protecting the launch tubes go down under our cannon fire, and the torpedoes race in. Inside, the flight decks are choked with machinery, with ordnance supplies, with volatile fuels... the first detonations set off a chain reaction, explosions racing through the structure, the mouths of the tubes belching forth, not more fighters, but clouds of smoke and burning gases -
The station collapses in upon itself, then explodes in a white-hot glare and a shower of fragments. Some of them slam into Virtue's already tattered shields. Others, though, take out vengeance-driven Klingon fighters. Those pilots know, now, they are dead men; the Klingon warrior ethic makes them determined to take as many of us with them as they can.
"Klingon patrol group is in range," Tallasa reports, "and we're still taking fire from Target Lima."
Two more frigates, the Waterfield and the MacArthur, are dead. The Bohr is in bad trouble, leaking air from a dozen hull breaches. The To'Dujs are dying, but that other patrol group is racing in, guns blazing from a Negh'var and its flanking raptors -
"All ships, steer one six niner mark two. We're going to keep that patrol between us and Lima." I'm hoping the gunners on Target Lima won't risk firing through their own ships.
The exchange of fire with the patrol group is short, savage, and brutal. At the end of it, I have red warning lights on my consoles, and both Hippolyta and Endymion are reading heavy damage. How bad, I can't tell, because the scans are fogged with Klingon wreckage... and Target Lima is firing again.
"Hard forward, coordinate all fire on central axis!"
Target Lima is a free-floating shipyard cluster, clawed fingers of docking bays reaching out from a central post that holds all the main facilities - including a heavy disruptor bank that is currently tearing Hippolyta's shields down to nothing. Our fire smashes back, reducing the shipyard's shield, reaching that central pillar. The armour scars and glows, then the pillar suddenly erupts in a blast of flame. We must have hit an unshielded power generator. The shipyard's guns fall silent, its shields drop. Our next volley of torpedoes smashes the central linkages, and the docking bays break away from the dead centre and spin lazily off into space.
"Message from flag," says the comms ensign. "Confirm reallocation of target priorities. Portside flanking element under dreadnought Warspite will move to engage Target Sierra; assist if possible."
Gref is showing some sense. "The main body of the fleet is engaging Target Echo," Tallasa reports. This is good news, I guess; Target Echo is an outlying battle station, after it, there should be nothing between the fleet and Target Alpha - the orbital fortress itself.
"Nearest Klink patrols?" I ask.
"Nothing within range one-zero-zero. They're concentrating on the main fleet," Tallasa replies.
"Get me some proper scans of the damage," I say, with a sinking feeling.
The details start to come up. The Bohr is half wrecked, Endymion's saucer section has a bite taken out of its port quadrant - a bite that takes out almost a fifth of the disc. And Hippolyta's starboard nacelle... isn't there: the pylon ends in a tangle of jagged metal.
"Give me voice comms," I order. "Hippolyta, Endymion, you guys are looking too asymmetrical for this fight. Crack out of here, best speed to the fringes of the system and the support group. You'll need an escort, so, Niels Bohr, you're with them. Hippolyta, pass control of your remaining frigates to my tac net."
"Aye, aye, sir," Captain Anderson of the Hippolyta sounds relieved. "Permission to recover escape pods from our destroyed craft on the way out, sir?"
"Recover as many as you can, on a straight-line course out of the system. Understood?"
"We'll keep it as straight as we can, sir. Godspeed. Hippolyta out."
OK, Ronnie. Don't think of it as losing half your force, think of it as simplifying your table of organization. "Remaining ships regroup behind Virtue. We're going to cut across the low orbitals to support Warspite at Target Sierra. Watch out for fire from ground installations. Course, two niner seven mark three niner four. Let's move."
Virtue streaks across space at the head of the diminished task force, close enough to the planet to skim its high ionosphere. I'm looking at the damage lights on my console, and starting to worry a bit. */*functionality impaired---starting efficiency low---assimilate---download structural files from central archives and reconfigure vessel*/* - no thanks, Two of Twelve.
Fire from ground stations comes up at us; desultory and inaccurate. Getting good targeting locks through the thickness of a planetary atmosphere is hard, particularly when the space above is jangling with explosions and energy bursts. Still, a ground gunner might get lucky, it's something to watch out for.
Ahead of us, a line of golden light shoots out, visible for hundreds of kilometres in all directions: Warspite's phaser lance. If that hits Target Sierra, it'll make one hell of a dent in it. I check the data. Good news: Target Sierra has the same looks-harmless construction pattern that Oscar had. Bad news: it's more than twice the size of Target Oscar.
"KDF fighters on scan," says Tallasa. "A lot of them."
"All guns to independent fire. Ahepkur, can you do anything to speed up cycle time on the phaser lotus?"
"Lotus is already overheated," the Klingon renegade grumbles. "We shall do everything possible."
"We've got to try and keep them off Warspite." The dreadnought is designed for slugging matches against capital ships; the swarms of fighters will overwhelm her. "Flank speed to engagement range. As soon as we can get a target lock on a fighter, start shooting."
Virtue surges forwards. The other ships in the group keep pace, all but one frigate, Mountbatten. Engine damage. Another ship down. "Signal Mountbatten to break off and head outsystem. Everyone else -" there are contacts on the sensors "- open fire."
Virtue shudders beneath me as her weapons open up. The phaser coolant is perilously close to its red line, the EPS grid is protesting under the load. Beside me, the rest of the task group is firing too. The cloud of Klingon fighters scatters, regroups, some continuing to hit the Warspite, some coming about to deal with our new threat. Again, golden light flares from the dreadnought's phaser lance.
"Checking," says Tallasa. "Checking - confirmed! Target Sierra is down!"
"Take out what's left of those fighters!" I yell.
"Sir," the comms ensign says, in a panicky voice, "signal from fleet - flagship in distress."
"Awww -" I bite down on a very bad word. If we lose the firepower of the Taras Bulba - not to mention Gref's command and control, or the morale effect on the whole fleet - if the flagship is down, I don't see how we can win this fight. */*centralization of assets leads to inefficiency---distribute command cycles across multiple nodes---collective endeavours will overcome*/* - oh, belt up, you Borg idiot. "Get me a read on the Taras Bulba."
The flagship is spouting a white-glowing plume of plasma from a starboard nacelle. Ruptured manifold: looks spectacular, but can be quickly corrected - if your enemy gives you the chance. There are KDF ships inbound that look like they're not planning on giving Gref a chance - the largest and closest being a Bortasqu' tactical cruiser, already perilously close to firing range.
"Emergency evasive! Flank speed towards the flagship! Ytsay, follow me, target engines on that cruiser!"
Red lights flash on the RCS consoles as the Virtue comes round in a tight turn. The science vessel follows. The Bortasqu' is still not within weapons range of the flagship. I check. We can catch it, but the timing will be tight. Behind us, the rest of my task group is still tangled up in a furball with the surviving Klingon fighters. If the Warspite pulls out of that and follows us in, life will be a lot easier -
"In range," Tallasa reports.
"Fire!" The forward cannons blaze. Ytsay joins the fray with precisely targeted phaser blasts, using the science vessel's superior sensors.
The Bortasqu's rear weapons return fire. One moment, the Ytsay is there; then, there is a white glare in space, and the science vessel is gone. I curse freely.
"Get us in close!" The Klingon ship's guns are hammering us, now, stripping our forward shields to nothing. The flash-bangs of transient EPS overloads are a constant background noise on the bridge, now, and the ship shudders as something bad happens to our forward hull.
"How close?" Tallasa asks.
"Legally married in twelve jurisdictions close! I'm going to cut in the phaser lotus, and I want that ship filling its arc of fire!"
"You would need to be within metres!" Ahepkur yells. "The feedback on the beams will -"
Virtue lurches as another volley hits us. Ahepkur never finishes telling me what the feedback will do, she's too busy hanging onto her console and trying to manage the damage reports. Well, I'm sure it wasn't going to be anything fun, anyway.
"Get us in there!" We have maybe seconds before the Bortasqu' can open up on the Taras Bulba, and the flagship is still immobilized.
Virtue's cannons fire directly into the Klingon's rear shields, and they go down. A smaller ship, I could finish with the cannons alone, but the Bortasqu' is just too damn big. My ship closes in until the screen fills with grimy Klingon metalwork. I override the safeties, and the lotus fires at zero range.
Alarms scream. The Virtue bucks and shudders like a leaf on a gale; the lights and the gravity flicker. There are fires on the bridge... there is nothing but flame on the screen: vaporizing armour plate and escaping air combining into a billowing inferno. The phaser lotus dies, its status lights shining solid red on my command console.
"Hard about and get us clear!"
We blow an RCS assembly as we swing the ship about, but we manage to get out of the blast radius when the Bortasqu's warp core goes up. Just. Two heavy Birds of Prey and a half-dozen fighters aren't so lucky. Their secondary explosions mean that the Virtue is, at the very least, impressively backlit as she screams towards an oncoming Klingon cruiser. The cannons are still working; a sustained burst severs the cruiser's slender neck and sends the decapitated hull spinning away.
But there are more Klingons coming in, and my damage control boards are scarlet with warning lights, and, all told, things are starting to look a little hairy -
And then the Taras Bulba's forward phasers open up, smashing a hole in the approaching Klingons. And, off to one side, a Negh'var dies, impaled on a beam of golden light; Warspite has come up, and is still in the fight.
"Phaser lotus is burned out," Ahepkur reports. "We are at fifty per cent maneuvering capacity due to RCS and inertial dampener damage; unable to change configuration due to mechanical failures; hull breaches on all decks; EPS systems on emergency backup due to distributed conduit failures; structural integrity at fourteen per cent."
I grin at her, through the smoke-filled air of the bridge. "Well, yeah," I say, "but you should see the other guy."
Oops. Found one-letter typo. Sorry. In "a bite that takes our almost a fifth of the disc", I think "our" should've been "out". Other than that, the chapter just flows so quickly. You could teach Larry Bond ("Harpoon", "Red Phoenix", "Red Storm Rising" (with Tom Clancy)) how to really write battle scenes.
The USS Taras Bulba trembled as another salvo of torpedoes launched from the tubes. On the bridge, Admiral Gref stood by his command chair, watching the screen. He was short and stocky even by Tellarite standards, and the expression on his grey-bearded face was sour.
"KDF forces now in retreat," his flag captain announced. "We anticipate they will regroup around Target November."
"So detach a cruiser element and stop them," Gref ordered, almost absently. His black eyes were still fixed on the screen. The orbital fortress was still firing, but its screens were down, its disruptor banks visibly failing as its power levels dropped. There was a flare of light, and a shower of sparks burst from its flank as the dreadnought Warspite fired another phaser lance.
"Signal from USS Virtue, sir," an aide reported. Gref turned his head.
"Let's have it, then," he said. "On screen."
The image of the slowly disintegrating fortress vanished, to be replaced with the haggard face of Ronnie Grau. Behind her, Gref could see damage control parties moving amid the wreckage of her bridge.
"Vice Admiral Grau," Gref said. "Thanks for that assist. How bad are things?"
"We're still operational," Ronnie replied. "Listen -"
Gref turned to another aide, who shook her head. "No, you're not," he said, looking back at Ronnie. "Get your ship out of the combat zone and get her fixed."
"Listen," Ronnie said, urgently. "Something I thought of. Back behind all of this, there is still someone who wants total war. That hit on the Yll-Toricans? Could have been just hotheads, could have been something else - like, deliberate provocation."
"To bring us here?" Gref could quirk an eyebrow as sceptically as any Vulcan.
"Right. And provoke a response, a maximum response. Sir, try not to give them what they want. I think it's important."
"All right," Gref said. "You helped me, I owe you a hearing, I've heard you. Now get that wreck out of here and get it patched up. Gref out."
Ronnie's face blanked out, to be replaced by the view of the burning Klingon fortress. Gref stroked his chin, thoughtfully.
"Comms," he said, after a little time, "open a channel to the Klingons."
It took a short while, and the image, when it appeared on the viewscreen, was shaky, blurred, and shot through with interference. It showed a tall, dark-haired Klingon with a handsome, hawkish face, wearing the robes of a Dahar Master over a spare athletic frame. The contrast with Gref could not have been more marked. "Starfleet," he said with hauteur. "I am General Klellor." Something burst into flames behind him, and his mouth twisted in a rueful smile. "Be brief. There are many calls on my attention."
"I'll be brief," said Gref. "You're beaten, General. I'll finish off that station of yours before you can get your power couplings back up, and you know it. Then where are you? I still have enough ships left to isolate your remaining orbital forces and destroy them in detail. Are you expecting a relief fleet? It won't get here soon enough."
He paced irritably from one side of the command dais to the other. "Not soon enough to help you, but it'll arrive before I can finish off all your ground forces and occupy the planet. But then I don't need the planet, or even want the planet. All I have to do is deny it to you. That's pretty easy, you showed us the way. It's a military target, isn't it? Not a colony world. No shadow of a cause for complaint if I hit it with relativistic strikes and turn it into a dustbowl. Not now. So that's my option. Finish the job, let you fight to the bitter end, pull out leaving nothing in this system but rubble. It works for me, it meets my objectives. That's my option. Do you -" he stared hard into the viewscreen "- have any better ideas?"
There was a short silence, broken only by the sounds of distant explosions behind Klellor. Finally, the Klingon spoke. "Overall command responsibility passed to me when Admiral Tyr'kung was lost," he said.
"Sure about that?" Gref demanded. "That he's lost? I don't want to waste time on a subordinate."
"The Admiral," said Klellor, "took personal command of his tactical cruiser when it went out to destroy your vessel. His authority has now passed to me." Klellor seemed to struggle with something, internally. "The Admiral was authorised by the High Council," he said, with visible effort, "to - to surrender the system, if, in his judgment, circumstances should make it necessary. That responsibility also passes to me." He looked down. "In my judgment, it is now necessary." He turned towards someone or something out of the viewer's field of vision. "Pass the word!" he shouted fiercely. "Surrender!"
Gref grunted. "Signal to fleet," he said. "The Klingons are surrendering. Fire only if fired upon."
Klellor raised haunted eyes to meet Gref's. "You fought well, Admiral. The victory is yours."
Gref's gaze flicked briefly to a nearby display, one that showed the table of organization for Sixth Fleet, damaged ships highlighted in yellow, red highlights for the ones wrecked or destroyed. "You fought well too," he said to the Klingon, as kindly as he could. "We meet on my ship in one hour to formalize the terms of surrender."
Klellor nodded. "It will be as the victor requires. Qapla', Admiral Gref. Aznetkur Station out."
The image of the station reappeared. Fires were still burning in the escaping air from its hull breaches, but its guns were silent.
"I'll be in my ready room," Gref muttered. "Dress uniform. I'll have to wear dress uniform. I hate dress uniform. You have the bridge," he told his flag captain.
"Sir." The captain hesitated a moment. "Sir... would you have... I mean, if he hadn't surrendered... would you have done it? Would you have ordered the relativistic strikes, had the planet destroyed?"
Gref shot him a sardonic look. "Never know now, will we?" And with that he stumped off the bridge.
The flaring actinic light of the pulsar strikes blinding reflections off King Estmere's mirrored sides. Ahead of us, even the monstrous bulk of the Garaka is almost invisible in the omnipresent glare. I narrow my eyes at the data readouts.
"Still stable," Anthi says, "but she must be approaching her limits by now."
The pulsar is a madly spinning sphere of neutronium, the relic of a long-gone supernova; its intense gravity and rapid spin flood nearby space with a hail of synchrotron radiation. From the poles of the dead star, jets of electromagnetic radiation shoot millions of kilometres into space - blasts of energy that would shatter my ship in an instant. Even here, exposed only to the side lobes and scattering from those beams, the shields are visibly labouring.
No captain would bring a ship here without a pressing reason - such as, say, in an effort to hide a ship's warp signature from pursuers.
"Signal from the Garaka, skipper," says F'hon Tlaxx.
"On screen."
If the effort of the search is telling on Shalo, it doesn't show; she looks sleek and glossy as ever. "I regret to report negative results," she says. "In my judgment, Captain Klur has used a decoy - probably an astrometric probe set to mimic his warp signature, and aimed at the pulsar. In any case, the trail we followed ends here. Abruptly."
I nod. It makes sense... of course, if the warp signature really did come from Klur's ship, and it had crashed into the pulsar, then we'd never know, one way or the other. "So, what's our next step?" I ask.
"Firstly, to get clear of the pulsar," Shalo remarks dryly. "Then, we will proceed back to our last definite sighting and cast about for a secondary trail. The contacts at that location were ambivalent - we merely followed the most definite trace, here."
"So now we follow a less definite one. Makes sense." I consult my star charts. "There's an emission nebula about twenty, twenty-five parsecs away - might he have headed there, in another attempt to mask his scent?"
"It is certainly a possibility. I will instruct my searchers to consider that direction. Moving now, outside the radiation zone. Garaka out." Shalo's image disappears from the screen, replaced by the fury of the pulsar.
"Follow the Garaka to the edge of the system," I order, and King Estmere comes about. At the main science console, Zazaru sighs and begins work. Across from her, Klerupiru, the Ferengi cyber-warfare expert, is biting her lower lip and studying her own console displays.
Shalo has all the information, and she isn't sharing. We have a vague impression, gleaned from the data records at Bercera, of the QIb laH'e''s warp signature and reactor profile. Shalo has up-to-the-minute information on our target's warp drive, EM emissions, transponder codes - everything, from the shipyard that built and last outfitted her. Her sensors are no better than ours - probably worse - but she is much better equipped to follow Klur's faint trails through subspace, because she knows what she's looking for.
Zazaru and Klerupiru are both, in their own ways, attempting to fix this. Zazaru's job is to sort through the sensor data, backtrack along every path we've taken, and slowly, painstakingly, build up a picture of exactly what Shalo is tracking. It's a heartbreakingly difficult task, and probably a thankless and unrewarding one, too. Klerupiru, meanwhile, is trying to crack the Garaka's data security and get an inside line on Shalo's data. It, too, is a challenging job. Frankly, I don't expect either of them to succeed. But I have to try.
The glare from the pulsar is diminishing, the stress on the shields dropping as we move away. The Garaka is now plainly visible in all its hideous detail, from the runic engravings on the hull, to the red-glowing plasma clouds spouting from its drive.
"Sometimes I don't thing I'll ever understand the Klingons," I remark.
"Sir?" says Anthi.
"Take a look at that thing." I point at the screen. "Suppose the Iconians, or somebody, genetically engineered a race of monsters from Andorian mythology. If we were under attack from, say, some storm-dancer's sky palace, would we take a look at it and say, 'yes, neat ship, let's build some of our own exactly like it'? No matter how good a design it was? But the Klingons...."
"You assume then, sir, that the Fek'lhri are the product of some genetic engineering?" asks Soledad Kleefisch, the human assault team commander. I look at her in astonishment.
"What else could they be?" I ask.
"They might be exactly what they appear to be. Klingon demons," says Soledad. Her cheeks flush faintly. "I know what you're thinking, sir. But the Vulcan katra, the Bajoran Prophets and pah-wraiths, even the Greek gods of my homeworld... they all turned out to be real enough. Why not the Fek'lhri also?"
Well, I suppose she has a point. "Maybe," I say, "but that makes me even less likely to want to fly their ships."
The door of the bridge hisses open behind me, and I turn. Kluthli is standing in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir," she says. "I have something - well, a possibility."
"Oh?"
"I've been monitoring news reports and intelligence traffic," Kluthli explains. "Something happened recently - a disturbance at the Galpor spaceport on the planet Mageptis. It involved a former connection of the House of Sinoom, and a small KDF force in a DujHod Chariot shuttle. According to her information -" Kluthli can barely bring herself to say her kinswoman's name "- Captain Klur was issued with a DujHod."
"Hmm. You reckon this might be your cousin Tayaira looking for an escape route, or something like that?" Kluthli has tried to explain to me how the House of Sinoom was organised, the network of genetic relationships, political alliances and business interests that made up the whole entity. All I got out of it was a headache and an appreciation for the comparative simplicity of Andorian quad-marriages. "I thought Mageptis was way out towards Iota Pavonis space, though?"
"I think you're thinking of another planet, sir. The one I have in mind is here." Kluthli steps up to the star chart and indicates with one perfectly manicured fingernail. "Within our search area, at least."
A search area which expands with every passing second, considering the speed and the endurance of the QIb laH'e', but never mind. The star she's pointing to is... a possibility. It's in a debateable region of space, technically Federation territory, but close enough to the neutral zone - and far enough from Starfleet patrol routes - to trade freely with non-aligned or even Klingon worlds. It's exactly the sort of place I'd expect the Orions to have business interests.
"This doesn't look good," I say. "If Klur and his crew start to trickle out of Federation space by back-alley routes like this... we might never catch up with them."
"It would make our job exponentially harder, sir," says Anthi.
I sigh. "Signal the Garaka," I say. "We'd better see what Shalo knows about this place... and how best to check it out."
Your three sisters are getting more and more interesting by the chapter (this is the 21st). My curiosity itch is in dire need of some serious scratching.
Btw, how in the world do you keep track of everything? Rereading? Keeping a notebook with names/locations/times/action summaries? I thought my stories could be complicated sometimes ... but they're simple compared to yours.
I just try to keep things straight in my head... it helps that I know roughly where I'm going with this; it's a lot easier to keep track when you know which pieces of the plot go where.
And of course it helps when people point out the odd typo.
(Sometimes, my memory plays tricks, like with the name of the planet - it's very close to "Gameptis", the one from @DenizenVI's Foundry mission "Conjoined". That name must just have been floating around in what passes for my brain! - so, I guess it deserves a mention, at least. Think of it as a homage.... )
The heavy door slid shut, cutting out the noises of the First City, the clangour of the Forge and the hubbub in the streets. The Lethean sighed. He looked around.
The room was small, dark, and bare. The only furnishing was a communications console; there were only two doors, the one to the street, and the one in the wall opposite. That second door was always locked. The Lethean crossed the floor, stood at the console, and inserted an isolinear chip into a slot. Then he waited.
It was no more than a minute later when the console flashed and came to life, though its screen remained dark. A rasping, electronically distorted voice said, "Report."
"The transmission from Mageptis has been verified," the Lethean said. "I am transmitting the details on the datalink now." He touched control panels on the console.
"Received," said the voice. "Continue."
"It is my judgment that our good Captain may prove unruly if his requirements are not satisfied," said the Lethean. "If he were to fall into the hands of his pursuers, he could provide them with useful information."
"Who pursues him most closely?"
"A joint effort; J'mpok's emissary and the Federation's de facto investigator. I have to say, General Shalo of the Garaka proved... not amenable to suggestions. It seems there is little love lost between the scattered branches of the House of Sinoom. Her Starfleet counterpart is a Vice Admiral Shohl. She is, from all accounts, competent." The Lethean looked directly into the console's vision pickup. "If they find Klur, they will take him. And they may very well find him. Then, too, he is in Federation space, and the whole of the Federation is searching. The chance of random discovery is by no means insignificant."
"It would serve our interests if Klur were to return to Klingon space."
"No doubt you know best," said the Lethean, "since only you know what our interests are. I confess to a level of curiosity. I understand, of course, your precautions... but I wonder if you do not carry them to excess. I cannot exercise my best judgment if I am kept insufficiently informed - and, at the moment, I do not even know if you are a Klingon."
"Is that important?"
"If I am betraying the Empire," said the Lethean, "professional honour demands, at the very least, that I charge a higher fee."
A rasping sound came from the console: it might have been a laugh. "You are paid in Imperial darseks. Form what judgments you may from that."
"Very well. My instructions?"
"I am downloading a code message to your console. Transmit it upon the agreed frequencies."
"May I know its general content?"
"No. In any case, it is not final. The High Council meets, and decisions made there may affect our actions. We will speak again at the agreed time." And the console went dead.
---
The Yll-Torican was very tall and very slender, his high-domed hairless skull nodding as he struggled in Qo'noS's gravity. Nonetheless, his high-pitched voice was firm as he spoke.
"We bore the levies on our economy," he said, "the drafts of our population for your civilian auxiliaries. We bore these things, not gladly - who bears them gladly? - but uncomplainingly. I do not say we were unhappy to be freed from these requirements... but then! Within scant hours of our liberation, attack by your forces! We have become a free people, free to choose our alliances - we had a history with the Empire, we thought we could trust in Klingon goodwill for the sake of that history - but no! Instant and immediate attack!" He drew in a deep breath with a whistling sound. "Well, it is my duty as ambassador from the provisional government to pass on our response. We cannot defend ourselves. A strategic alliance with the Empire - as free partners - would have been desirable to us, but the Empire clearly does not wish it. Only one other course is open to us. The Yll-Torican government has applied for provisional membership of the Federation, and we expect our application to be granted."
The disapproving mutters around the Great Hall grew to a roar, then ceased abruptly as J'mpok stepped forward. "You make yourselves our enemies?" he asked.
"No, Chancellor." The Yll-Torican stood his ground. "Enmity is your people's choice, not ours."
J'mpok gave a single curt nod. "So be it. You are now the ambassador of an enemy power. Your person is protected by law, but you must depart the Great Hall. We shall, no doubt, speak again. Perhaps your provisional government will reconsider matters by that time."
"Thank you, Chancellor. I will depart." And he tottered away, under the stare of unfriendly eyes.
Councillor T'Jeg was first to speak. "Burn their worlds!" he said. "Blast them to fragments and take their populations as slaves!"
"To what end?" said J'mpok wearily. "Yll-Torica is militarily negligible, we know that. The Federation may have joy of them, for all I care. And the attack on them... that was ill-judged. It smacked of negotiation in bad faith. I have the names of those captains responsible... and my eyes are upon them." His frown deepened. "And do not speak of burning worlds, Councillor. You might be taken literally."
"And so we should!" T'Jeg shouted. "Starfleet threatened as much at Aznetkur! They demand diplomatic concessions on one side, and attack our bases at the same time! It is an outrage not to be borne!"
He looked around him, as if looking for support, but the response from the Hall was muted.
"The Federation attacks us on both diplomatic and military fronts," murmured K'Tag, "pressing home every advantage it has. How curious. It is almost as if we were at war with them."
"Then I say," retorted T'Jeg, "fight with every weapon we have! The door is open for reprisals on a planetary scale -"
"We opened that door," said K'Tag.
"Then let us sweep through it with every power at our command! As the Chancellor says, dross such as the Yll-Toricans is beneath us. Blast Earth itself, and Vulcan, and Andoria! Show everyone in the galaxy that the Empire is to be feared!"
"You know my mind on this," Darg added. "Demonstrate overwhelming force, and our enemies will run in fear."
"And Qo'noS would join that list of destroyed worlds within days," said K'Tag, "and every Klingon world with it. We would fight not only the Federation, but the Cardassians, the Romulans, the Ferengi... our only possible alliance would be with the Tholians, who care nothing for class M worlds."
"K'Tag speaks truly," said J'mpok. He glared at T'Jeg. "It is possible to rise to the High Council without a strong grasp of realities," he said, "but not to the office I hold. To speak of the destruction of Earth - it is rhetoric, no more. This Council must concern itself with practical matters." He squared his shoulders. "Let us attend to those practical matters. Some reprisal is necessary for Aznetkur.... The Federation cannot hold that system, it is too far from their supply lines. An attack on those supply lines may remind them of that reality. Some... over-zealous... captains might redeem themselves in my eyes if they joined in that attack...."
---
Later, J'mpok was pacing moodily along the line of statues when S'taass approached him.
"I must prepare a report for my government," the Gorn ambassador said.
J'mpok barely spared him a glance. "Of course."
"My report must state that the proposition of total war is gaining support in the High Council."
J'mpok stopped pacing and turned around. "I do not support unrestricted strikes on civilian targets," he said, through clenched teeth. "And those who do are fools. T'Jeg, Darg, they are blusterers with no concept of reality."
"I am not concerned with them," said S'taass. "But K'Tag gave me pause for thought."
"K'Tag? He has spoken against this foolishness."
"Thus far. But in his last statement, he mentioned a possible alliance with the Tholians." The Gorn inclined his head. "One does not consider possible alliances in the event of a situation one believes to be impossible. This change in K'Tag's thinking alarms me, Chancellor. Respectfully, I submit that you too should be alarmed."
Shevet: Three things this time. Sorry bout that. But I figured they were well-nigh unavoidable, if I was going to continue being an honest fan of your writing.
One: "Form what judgments you may from that." I almost immediately thought that "derive" might work better than "form", but that's probably just a slightly different shade in meaning from what you meant.
(in both of the below paragraphs, I'm only italicizing to show the text in question, to differentiate it from my own words; your text isn't italicized in your chapter)
Two: First you said (just before the conversation between the Lethean and their seemingly Klingon source): the console flashed and came to life, though its screen remained dark. But at the end of the same conversation you said: And the console went dark. Perhaps the second time "dark" could be replaced with "silent", since the console has remained dark during that entire conversation.
Three: under the stare of unfriendly eyes. J'mpok's eyes only? Or his and the other Klingons, or just the other Klingons? If more than one pair of eyes was meant, I would've said "stares", not "stare".
Sorry for the critiquing (it's definitely not criticism), but if it helps you in any way at all, I am only too happy to humbly offer my assistance.
Points worth considering - I changed "dark" to "dead" for the console (I'd assume, like all Trek control panels, it has lots of pointless glowy bits on the panels, but, yes, I take your point about the screen being black.)
As to the others... matter of personal choice, I think. I'm inclined to think of the High Council giving the poor guy a collective stare, there - works in my head, maybe not in everybody's. I think the singular, there, gives the impression of a united wave of hostile feeling, in the way a lot of separate stares might not.
Similarly, I wouldn't (personally) ever tell anyone to "derive" something, except maybe if it was mathematical ("derive the nth root" or something). A parallel construction, I guess, might be "Infer what you will from that." My reason for choosing the phrase I did... it's in character for the speaker, and it's putting in a slight dig at the Lethean for his over-use of the word "judgment". (And that slight dig is also in character for the speaker.)
Shevet: Thanks for the clarifications. I immediately agreed with them once you explained. And I just realized something: you first said the screen remained dark, and then later the console went dark. Not the same thing went dark both times. My mistake. Sorry.
You definitely know your ST races/cultures/mannerisms/etc. far better than I do, and I remember first watching ST:TOS reruns in the 1970s. But I didn't watch most of TNG (which I didn't like that much) or DS9 (a journey on a space station that doesn't seem to travel anywhere? I gave up on it much too soon when it was on TV) or Voyager (which I liked alot what little I saw when it was TV and then in reruns). Now that I have all the ST series on DVD (except TNG, which I gave away to a then-friend who was a bigger fan of it than I was) and have spent some time on STO Wiki and Memory Alpha websites, I'm a little more familiar with the STverse than I used to be. But still nowhere near your level. You must have encyclopedias of this stuff all tabbed and easily referred to, or a Vulcan's memory, or maybe both.
*impatient look from addicted fan* Well? Where's the next chapter? Your audience awaits with gragh-baited breath (I'm not sure that Klingons brush their teeth ... at least not regularly ... who needs a bat'leth when you have bad breath?).
Our two ships float in the void, half a parsec out from the orange K-type star that is Mageptis's sun. I nerve myself for the encounter. "Energize."
The transporter room sparkles, fades out... and a new one fades in. The lighting is dim and reddish, the air tastes sour in my antennae. "Permission to come aboard?" I ask.
"Granted," says Shalo, standing by the transporter console. She frowns. "You are alone?"
"For the moment," I say, stepping off the pad. The atmosphere aboard the Garaka seems subtly different from other Klingon ships I've been on. The influence of the Fek'lhri technology, or just my imagination at work? "I wanted to settle one issue before transporting the rest of my team."
"Oh?"
"Commander Kluthli tells me that under some interpretations of Orion law, she could be seized as an asset of the House of Sinoom." I fix Shalo with a hard stare. "I would regard any action along those lines as a violation of your diplomatic status. I hope you're clear on my meaning."
"Completely," says Shalo, unruffled. "I am a member of the KDF and a citizen of the Empire, and this ship operates under Klingon law, not Orion. I have no interest in sequestering my - kinswoman. As far as I am concerned, I wish you joy of her." Her lip curls in a sneer. I restrain myself from commenting.
"All right. Then Commander Kluthli will beam over with the rest of my support team. As per your suggestions, we've outfitted ourselves as - well, as non-Starfleet as we can manage."
Both Kluthli and Shalo agree, Starfleet uniforms and a Federation starship might spook the House of Sinoom contacts on this frontier world... hence, the masquerade. Shalo's gaze flickers over my black-panelled body armour. "Yes," she says, "that is very good - those cheap copies of Omega Force armour are very common in some of the free ports along the frontier." I can't decide if she's deliberately baiting me or not. I touch my combadge, a simple disc of metal on my chest. "Situation secure. Transport the away team when ready." Shalo nods to her transporter operator.
Pillars of light appear on the transporter pads, solidify into my team. Kluthli shoots one hard glare towards her cousin, then turns her head away, snubbing her. She is wearing her usual civilian-style clothing, but there is a stiffness about her leather jacket and trousers which bespeaks the body armour underneath. Anthi is wearing black polyalloy mesh in a passable imitation of the Imperial Guard style, an Elachi cannon pistol riding on her hip. Thirethequ and Amiga have both opted for plain, bulky coveralls to conceal their armour. Thirethequ, with his mauve skin, long arms, and impressive beard and head crest, looks positively dangerous - especially with a Romulan plasma flamethrower slung across his back. As for Amiga.... Normally, the android is quite open about her origins; for this mission, though, she has closed the open panels in her cheeks, and put cosmetic caps over her metal eyes. She appears quite human, and disarmingly soft and vulnerable.
Whatever else we look, we don't look particularly Starfleet. "Yes," says Shalo, "this will do." She herself is wearing her white KDF uniform; I suppose she looks like some sort of mercenary, anyway, though the bat'leth slung across her back is openly Klingon. "Let us proceed, then. This way."
My antennae twitch as she leads us down the corridors of the Garaka, into the waiting turbolift. Of course, I've been on Klingon ships before... but I can't shake a nervous feeling. The turbolift hisses down and across the body of the carrier, comes to a halt.
The door opens onto a shuttle bay, the metal deck empty except for one battered-looking ovoid craft. Standing beside it is an alien of a species new to me; immensely tall, barrel-chested, with long gangling limbs, a high pointed head, and blue-grey skin with some sort of war-paint pattern on it. He salutes Shalo in the Klingon style. "Of readiness, all is," he says in a high sing-song voice. "For departure, immediate may be. To embarkation, all persons, I recommend, sir."
Shalo's universal translators aren't up to scratch, it seems. I repress a sly smile at that. My translators can cope with Jolciots.... "Lieutenant Commander Foojoy is of the Gral Temm people," says Shalo. "Since this vessel is a Gral Temm long-range dropship, it seemed only reasonable that he should be its pilot. Shall we board, Vice Admiral?"
The dropship's interior is small and cramped, with only the most basic facilities. Foojoy folds himself into the pilot's chair while the rest of us take seats along the wall behind him. I take the time to slip my visor on. The custom-built headset contains electronics that interface with my battle armour's systems, and short-range force field emitters that give almost as much protection as a standard Omega Force helmet - and, unlike the helmet, it doesn't squash my antennae flat. Until Omega Force's designers come up with a helmet that will work properly with Andorian heads, this is my best option.
The dropship takes off with a lurch. I call up my command interface on the visor, check my communications, including the emergency subspace link. All seems well. "Let's run over what we're doing here," I say. "And, Shalo, Kluthli, can you try to cooperate?"
"Of course, sir," Kluthli says smoothly. Shalo's head jerks up, and her lips are compressed in anger for a moment; then she says, "The point is well taken."
"All right. Tell me about this Galpor spaceport."
"It's a free port, under Federation jurisdiction," says Kluthli, "but with very little regulation. It's one of several such places on Mageptis. The House used to move goods through it -"
"Nothing either the Federation or the Empire would consider smuggling," Shalo adds. "Simply one of a hundred such places on our trading networks."
"But we did have good relations with one of the local shipping concerns," Kluthli continues, "and it's this one, the firm run by Cysitra Cira'tenis, that's been at the centre of some sort of battle with Klingons in a Chariot-class shuttle."
"There is an issue here," says Shalo. "Cira'tenis maintained an extensive subspace communications network. She is not, perhaps, the person one would go to, if one were smuggling goods or personnel. But, if one wished to smuggle information...."
"You think Klur was trying to use her to get a message to his backers in the Empire?"
Shalo stares fixedly ahead of her, and doesn't answer for a moment. Then she says, reluctantly, "I have to accept that Klur cannot have acted alone. And if he is to survive, he must reach some accommodation with the Empire. So - yes. That is the most likely prospect."
"All right," I say. "Then our goal is to make contact with the local authorities, confirm whether Klur's crew were involved -"
"I have biometric ID data for every one of that crew," says Shalo, "and details of Klur's Chariot. That will not prove a problem."
"Then we go to this Cira'tenis and get access to her comms records, and try to piece together what message he sent. And we track the Chariot's warp signature, to see if we can get a lead back to his ship." It sounds so simple, in theory. "What problems are we likely to encounter?"
"The local authorities, for one," says Shalo. "Local government is very limited, with matters such as port security and administration being handled by private contracted groups hired by coalitions of the local merchants."
I sigh. "Because that sort of thing worked so well on Nimbus III.... All right. Let's talk about precautions."
---
By the time we bring the dropship down on a landing pad at Galpor, my misgivings have increased.
The spaceport is a miserable sight, prefabricated domes and ramshackle warehouses as far as the eye can see. The only grimmer place I can remember is Hfihar. As the seven of us leave the ship, we're met by a motley-looking group of security guards, mostly human, with a couple of Nausicaans and Orions thrown into the mix. "Commodore Sutton will see you in his office," says one of the humans, with a jerk of his thumb to indicate the way.
"Commodore Sutton?" says Shalo. "We understood that security was in the hands of a Commander Antell."
The human spits. "Antell's Galactic Security Bureau used to have the contract," he says. "But then those Klinks came, blew out the power grid, shot up the place... so, now the Commodore's got the job. We're Sutton's Consolidated Unaligned Mercenaries." He grins. "And we love our acronym."
This just keeps on getting better. My misgivings increase further when Sutton's "office" turns out to be a booth in the back of a spaceport bar. Not even a good spaceport bar, either; synthetic drinks and prefabricated walls - no sawdust on the floor, but only, I suspect, because this world has no trees and it would be too expensive to import offworld sawdust.
"Commodore" Sutton is a small, wiry human male with close-cropped, light-coloured hair and a seamed, thin-lipped face. He is sitting at a table, with a half-empty bottle before him. He studies us with unfriendly eyes. "Andorians and Orions," he says. "Interesting mix. So what do you want?"
"We'd like to know more about the incident with the Klingons," I say. His eyes don't get any friendlier.
"What's there to know?" he asks. "They came, they busted up a chunk of the port and shot some of Antell's half-assed goons, they went away again. I guess I owe them, come to think of it. I got what I wanted after that business."
"Is there anything else you might want?" I ask. "Perhaps we can come to some sort of deal, about the information."
Sutton shakes his head. "I'm a happy man," he says, "I got everything I wanted. I might not be an Omega Force Shadow Operative -" he sneers at me "- but I do OK. The Klinks are gone, good riddance to 'em, or good luck to 'em, I don't mind which." He snickers under his breath; something is amusing him.
"Did they take any casualties? Were there bodies left behind?"
His eyes shift slightly at that. I've touched a nerve, but how? "Antell's idiots got three of 'em," he says. "We've got 'em on ice down at the morgue. Families might pay to reclaim 'em, you never know."
"Three dead? No injured, no survivors?"
Shiftier still. "You think Antell's useless mob could have taken Klingons prisoner?"
I shrug. "I don't know Commander Antell. And stranger things have happened."
Shalo speaks for the first time. "Besides," she says, "they weren't all Klingons, were they? We would expect to find a more mixed force."
Sutton's gaze flicks over towards her. "One of the stiffs is a kitty-cat," he says.
"Ferasan?"
"The blue ones, yeah. And I heard the one in charge was an Orion. Like you."
Shalo smiles. "Possibly one very like me," she says. "Hence my interest in this situation."
Sutton is starting to look confused. So far, he's clearly been under the impression we're some sort of cops - which, I suppose, we are. Now, Shalo is suggesting there's something else going on, and already he's out of his depth. "If the people who carried out this raid were - the people we think they are," Shalo continues smoothly, "we are anxious to make contact with them. For a range of different reasons. If you could facilitate that...." She smiles at him. "Perhaps you should give more thought to things you might want. All sorts of possibilities might open up for you."
Sutton purses his lips in thought. "Tell you what I don't want," he says. His finger stabs out at me. "Andorians. Never could stand 'em. That creep Antell was an Andorian."
"Was?" I ask.
"Last seen hanging onto the front port of that Klink shuttle," says Sutton. "Was, I reckon. Anyway -"
"If it would help negotiations," says Shalo, "I'm sure the... Shadow Operative... and her team could go and verify the identities of the corpses. My pilot and I will remain, to talk things over with you." She pulls out a datapad from her belt, enters a code. "Transferring all the required biometric data to your tricorders now. Is that acceptable to everyone?"
On the face of it, no - but I have a feeling Shalo is up to something, and if this Sutton is an anti-Andorian bigot, I might only get in her way. "I'll do it," I say, with as much ill grace as I can manage.
"Sounds good to me," says Sutton. He speaks into his wrist communicator. "Show our Andorian guests the way to the morgue."
---
We're met outside the bar by a group of Sutton's mercenaries. "We're going to the morgue," I say to a tall human who seems to be in charge. He really is wearing a cheap copy of Omega Force armour. He grins at me and gestures with his phaser carbine. "Let's go, then."
We start to move off in the direction he's pointing. "Just a minute," says the human. "Commodore Sutton said, take the Andorians to the morgue. No mention of the rest of you." He signals to one of his troops. "Take these three to a holding area."
Thirethequ opens his mouth to begin a protest, but I raise a warning hand. "Let's get on with it," I say.
Four of the humans come with Anthi and me, while another four lead my team off in another direction. All this has taken time; the orange sun is already sinking below the horizon. The street lights are wan and inadequate. I shoot a quick glance at the humans; all of them have vision amplifiers on. Their leader takes us down a dark passage between two huge warehouses.
My visor has a command interface that responds to eye movements. I blink and squint a few times, and get down a menu to the command I want. Universal Translators: OFF. "Four armed men are taking us down a dark alley," I say to Anthi in conversational tones. "Wait for the lights to go off."
"What was that?" the leader demands.
Universal Translators: ON. "Just clearing my throat?" I say.
He growls, and lifts his weapon. Then the dim street lights go out, and we move.
They expect to have the advantage; they expect to be able to see us, that we won't see them. They just don't reckon on Andorian senses - or on actual Omega equipment. I hit the stealth module on my suit, and disappear from sight as light bends around me. The leader can't see me. He can certainly feel me, though, when I slam my autocarbine very hard against the side of his head.
Anthi doesn't have a stealth module, but she doesn't need one. I'm reasonably good at th'kara, the Andorian martial art that evolved in the cramped lightless tunnels; Anthi, though, is an expert. One man is down from a neck strike almost as soon as the lights go out; she dodges a second man's clumsy blow and takes him out with a neatly executed combination of blows. That leaves one. Anthi hits him from behind as I hit him from the front, and he goes down like a sack of tubers.
Anti and I sprint for the mouth of the alley. Behind us, there are confused sounds. The streetlights come back on as we emerge.
I look back. "I don't think there's anything down that way that I want to worry about," I say.
Anthi is already aiming the cannon pistol. The captured Elachi weapon whines and shudders as it builds up a charge, then releases it suddenly in a crescentric wave of destruction, aimed straight into the mouth of the alley. As it spreads, the crescent catches the walls of the warehouses on each side. They're made of shoddy material, they collapse. Wreckage pours into the alleyway, blocking it.
I check my tactical scans. The men we knocked out are buried; still alive, but it'll take time to dig them out, we needn't worry about them - just about a few dozen others. I scan for the rest of my team. "This way," I say to Anthi, and we're off at a run.
As I expected, though, we don't have too much to worry about. By the time we reach the "holding area", one of the guards is smiling in blissful unconsciousness at Kluthli's feet, another is whimpering in Amiga's iron grasp, and Thirethequ is using his immense Jolciot strength to hit the third guard... with the fourth one.
"Mr. Thirethequ," I say mildly, "you do have an actual weapon, you know."
Thirethequ throws the unconscious man aside. "I crave your pardon, esteemed commander!" he shouts. "The temerity of these rapscallions drove me to forget myself." He unslings the plasma flamethrower. "In any case, I had thought this merely a property through which we might assume the appearance of frightfulness. But now, say the word, noble leader, and I shall emit conflagrations to rival the fiercest furnaces of my homeworld!"
"We do remain Starfleet officers," Amiga says, "and should try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." She looks at the groaning man in her arms, apparently noticing him for the first time. She lets go, and he drops limply to the floor.
"And we need information," I say, "so that means we need some of them alive and able to talk. Also, I think we should be scanning these guys - to see if any of them match up with the biometric data we got from Shalo."
Anthi's eyes widen at that. "Oh, yes," says Kluthli, "that makes sense. That fracas would have been a perfect chance for one of Klur's crew to try and jump ship."
"And Sutton got shifty when we asked about prisoners," I say. "So, try to take prisoners, avoid unnecessary loss of life... still, we're in dangerous ground, surrounded by a much larger hostile force." The old bloodlust is rising in me, no matter what. I check my autocarbine: fully charged.
Sutton doesn't like Andorians, huh? I'm going to give him some good reasons for that.
"All right," I say, "let's emit some conflagrations."
Shevet: The only major problem with your story is that you can't write/post it fast enough. When I see "Fallout" in bold-face in the Ten-Forward listing, I want to see if a new chapter has been posted. I hope the Betty Ford Clinic doesn't try to cure addictions like this.
One possible typo or maybe I just need a clarification (italicized story text by me):
I blink and squint a few times, and get down a menu to the command I want.
I just wondered why "get" instead of "scan" or "scroll". The latter two seemed better to me, but I'm not the author.
Sutton does not invite me to sit. I take a seat anyway, smiling at him across the table. "Now, we can talk sensibly," I say.
"They are Feds, then?" Sutton says, with a jerk of his head towards the doorway.
"Conceivably."
He smiles. "Federation doesn't pay ransoms on its officers," he says. "Not officially."
"We need not discuss the Federation."
"So who are we discussing, then?"
"That," I say, "is an open question. I am a member of the KDF, and of the Orion House of Sinoom. Your answers may determine which of those takes precedence."
Sutton seems to think for a while. "The Orion woman who was in charge of the Klinks," he says, eventually. "She was asking after old contacts from the House of Sinoom."
"Cysitra Cira'tenis, for instance. How is Cysitra?"
"Dead. She called in Antell, tried to sell the Klinks out to the Feds."
"How distressing," I murmur. "I would have had questions for Cysitra. Can her data records be made available? That would be the next best thing." I see him hesitate, and I reach for my belt pouch. Eyes and drawn weapons follow the movement of my hand. I take a small object from the pouch, lay it down on the table with a click. Sutton looks at it, seemingly hypnotised by the ruddy gleam of the Lobi crystal.
"I do not pay in promises and agreements as the Federation does," I say. "Consider that... an advance, or a consultation fee. Cysitra's data records."
"I'd -" He swallows. "I'd have to make some arrangements - there were people who -"
"Who would rather their data transfers through Cysitra remained private," I finish for him. "That is understood. They must be compensated, of course." Click, click, click, as I put more crystals down on the table. These people are fools. They are not even watching my left hand, let alone Foojoy: he might as well be invisible to them. "Now, then. To other matters. Were there survivors, from the raid?" The man is a narrow-minded opportunist, so I add, "The Federation is awkward about ransoms; other factions are more realistic." I punctuate my words by putting down another crystal.
Sutton licks his lips, but before he can speak, his wrist communicator chimes. "Just a minute." He holds the device to his ear; all I hear is an agitated chittering. He stands up. "Have to deal with this." He retreats to the other end of the bar, muttering angrily into his wrist. I can't hear what he's saying, but I don't need to. Shohl is clearly not cooperating with his idea of holding her for ransom.
I glance at Foojoy, who nods. I pick up the half-empty bottle on the table, take a good look at it, decide against pouring myself a drink. There are watchful eyes all around me, those of Sutton's subordinates; they are nervous. I concentrate on ignoring them.
There is a faint rumbling sound from far away. The sound, perhaps, of distant thunder. Or of angry Andorians with guns.
Sutton comes back. He has two datapads in his hands, and the look on his face of a man considering how best to cut his losses. "The data cores at Cysitra's place were damaged when the Klinks blew the EPS grid," he says, putting one pad on the table before me. "Forensic reconstruction hasn't finished - maybe never will, it's not a priority. I have a raw dump here of all the retrieved data, it's the best I can do." He sits down again, weighing the second pad nervously in his hand.
"The other matter?" I ask.
Sutton bites his lip. He holds out the second pad. "One of the Klinks didn't make it offworld with the rest. A Nausicaan, gave his name as Lieutenant Kurjik. I took him on. We always need experienced men," he says, defensively.
I take the pad, consult it. "Full-service contract... hmmm. You struck a hard bargain, Commodore." I read on. "He claims his previous contract was automatically severed due to battlefield abandonment... the KDF is very unlikely to accept that. 'Battlefield abandonment' too often is used as a cover for simple desertion."
"The shuttle took off without him."
"It would be bound to, if he was running away from it... well, that need not concern us." I compare the biometric data with the listings on my own pad. "No Lieutenant Kurjik on my records, but I have a biometric match for a Warrior Jikkur. It seems reasonable to conclude that they are the same... given a field promotion, perhaps by his captain, perhaps by his own authority." I look up at Sutton. "So. To practical matters, then. How much?"
"Sorry?"
"For Kurjik's, or Jikkur's, contract." There is more noise from outside. I smile. "You are in a seller's market, Commodore. I suspect your troops are becoming rarer all the time. But I want this one. How much?"
He bites his lip again. "A hundred," he says, pointing at the Lobi. "A hundred of those."
"For one lieutenant's contract? Believe me, Commodore, I am doing you a huge favour in taking him off your hands."
"Eighty, then."
"Forty."
"Seventy."
"Fifty. And the ones already on the table. For the job lot, Commodore, the contract and the data dump. It is an equitable price."
He opens his mouth to make a counter-offer, and then the lights in the bar flicker, go out entirely for a second, then come back on, at low power. "Agreed," he says. I reach for my pouch, start to count out crystals. "Where is this Kurjik now?" I ask, as I count.
"He was on patrol in sector four - south-west quadrant near the main landing pads."
"I should be able to find him, then." I finish counting, pick up the datapads, and stand. "Activate," I say to Foojoy.
"Of activation, confirmation there is," he replies. Sutton's eyes widen.
"Look down, Commodore," I tell him. "Carefully."
His eyes widen further as he sees the thin lines of golden light, one on either side of his waist.
"A precaution," I say. "My pilot has deployed a modified Tholian stasis drone in a stealth field. Its entire emitter output is concentrated in those two threads. Under certain conditions, it will burn itself out harmlessly. Under certain other conditions, it will switch the directions of those two threads, so that they cross over each other. Rather like a pair of scissors." The web filaments are a micron thin and rigid to a degree impossible to mere solid matter. Sutton has started to sweat freely. "I need scarcely point out that the conditions... most favourable to you... involve me reaching my ship and departing unmolested. If you were to make incautious movements, or if I were to encounter difficulties - well." I give him my sweetest smile. "I am sure there are parts of your body below the waist that you would miss. Goodbye, Commodore. It has been a pleasure to do business with you." And I turn and stride out of the bar, leaving him sitting there, sweating.
Comments
K'tag, sitting at a table with the Gorn Ambassador, raised one eyebrow at his colleague, and pointed at a vacant chair nearby. Still fuming, Darg took a seat.
"You seem distressed," said S'taass. "I take it that whatever caused you to leave the High Council meeting was... bad news?"
"Seven ships!" Darg shouted. "Three in Pi Canis sectors, and an entire squadron in Eta Eridani! Destroyed!"
"Privateers?" K'tag asked. Darg nodded. "Well, it is to be expected, I fear. The Federation has brought up substantial reinforcements behind the front lines, to prevent any immediate repetition of the Bercera... incident. As a consequence, many previously soft targets will be unexpectedly hardened." He took a sip of his own raktajino. "I foresee lean pickings for our privateers, even though the Council has not agreed to the moratorium."
"It is a sad blow to my House," grumbled Darg. "Oh, they died well enough, as Klingons... but dead men and destroyed ships bring no profits to the House's coffers. One must be realistic."
"Indeed," said K'tag. "Such was the final decision of the High Council, you may be interested to hear - since you were called away before the conclusion of the debate."
Darg scowled and took a deep pull at his bloodwine. "How much Federation insolence must we stomach?"
"Considerable," said K'tag. "If your House has commercial interests in the region protected by Dasus Prime, they must now attend to their own protection. And the Thidasians and Yll-Toricans will shortly celebrate their liberation - or what they think of as liberation. The Valtothi have, it seems, already anticipated events. The rebels' celebrations have already included mass executions among the native civil administration, and the formation of an honour guard of corvette-class starships to, as they put it, escort the Klingon governor out of free Valtothi space."
Darg snarled. "The Governor should have destroyed them rather than endure such humiliation!"
"Not a very politic move," S'taass observed, "under the guns of the Federation Sixth Fleet."
"Sixth Fleet?" Darg's eyes narrowed. "I did not realize Sixth Fleet was operating near Valtoth Alpha."
"Nobody did," said K'tag. "Admiral Gref's movements are causing considerable speculation. We have at least some idea of the disposition of most of the Feds' main forces - but Sixth Fleet constitutes a strong and highly mobile force, operating closer to our strategic centres than is comfortable. Our thinking is that Aznetkur remains his main objective, but it is only the most probable estimate of many."
"Where does the Federation find so many ships?" Darg demanded. The bloodwine was not improving his disposition.
"They are stripping their reserves in Beta Ursae," S'taass said, "hoping that their allies in Cardassian space will contain any hostile elements. A calculated risk."
"It is not right," said Darg. "We should not be expected to swallow these insults! There will come a reckoning," he muttered darkly.
"Ah, yes," said K'tag. "A reckoning. You missed the most amusing part of the meeting. The Ferengi Alliance is to calculate the approximate economic value of Bercera IV, and issue us with an appropriate financial penalty?"
"What?"
"Amusing, is it not?" K'tag took another sip of raktajino.
"The Ferengi are but tools of the Federation!" Darg shouted.
"Curious, is it not?" said S'taass. "After all, the Ferengi mercantile ideology conflicts with Federation social values on so many points, one would hardly expect them to be natural allies."
"It is in the nature of things," K'tag said, ignoring Darg's sputterings. "The Federation taxes Ferengi interests where it can, and uses the resources to constructive social ends. We, on the other hand, rob them and shoot them. There are, to be sure, many Ferengi still who would prefer, on ideological grounds, to be robbed and shot... but their influence wanes, because the poor and the dead carry little weight in the councils of the Ferengi. A conundrum that I lack the wit to resolve."
"The Ferengi will mulct us of every strip of latinum in the Empire!" Darg shouted.
"Probably," said K'tag. "It is a high price, and it is but part of a greater price... but the alternative is an incalculable price, and the wise man will choose the known evil over the unknown."
"What do you mean? What price?"
"There is a story I heard from a human once," said S'taass, "of a great empire on their world that was called... Azziria? Something like that. In any case, this empire was technologically and militarily superior to its neighbours, and ruled over them with a fist of iron."
"Naturally," said Darg. "What of it?"
"Eventually, those neighbours all came to the same conclusion: that whatever differences they had among themselves, they were all united in one thing - the overwhelming need to be free from the Azzirians. So they gathered all their forces, and made total war upon the empire. The human told me," S'taass continued, "that, generations later, a conqueror whose name translates as Great Leader of Men came by the ruins of the empire's capital, and that he asked what name those ruins bore, and that no one could tell him."
"You take the point, I hope," said K'tag. "If our Empire becomes known as a state which will devastate whole worlds at will... then the paramount interest of all our neighbours will be to stop us, no matter what the cost. They will fight us, and we will fall. The battle would be glorious, and we would fight like true Klingons, and songs would be sung of it for ten thousand generations thereafter. And, at the end of it, we would all be dead." He drained his mug of raktajino and stood. "You must excuse me. I have some minor matters of business to attend to."
"Still nothing," reported Warrior Ch'gama from the comms station. Tayaira sighed, and stared out of the viewport, towards the blue-grey bulk of the planet Mageptis. They had been in orbit, now, for some twenty hours... in transit from the QIb laH'e''s hiding place for another thirty... and not one of the Klingons had thought to wash in all that time.
"I think we must give up on this one, too," she said. She consulted her datapad. "Try Factor Cysitra Cira'tenis, at the Galpor spaceport. Transferring codes to your console now." She touched the pad, made the necessary connections. The list of former contacts of the House of Sinoom was looking perilously thin, now.
"Transmitting comms request," said Ch'gama. Beside him, the newly-minted Lieutenant Jikkur sat silent in his Nausicaan bladed armour, his red eyes watchful. Tayaira had thought long and hard about including him on this mission, had decided in the end that she could watch him aboard the Chariot just as effectively as Klur could aboard the ship... and that, if he proved disloyal, he could do less damage here than back on the QIb laH'e'.
"Request sent, response pending -" Ch'gama's head jerked up. "I have something!"
"On screen."
The face that appeared on the Chariot's viewscreen was green and hairless, with wide shimmering eyes and a headcrest that unfolded as Tayaira looked, and flushed with a multitude of colours. She had never known what species Cysitra was, had never thought to ask. "Tayaira!" the factor said in a fluting voice. "Well, this is a pleasure unlooked for."
"It has been too long since I last visited this world," said Tayaira. "Is all well with you?"
"My life is full of joys and travails, as is every life," said Cysitra. "How may I oblige you, lady of the House of Sinoom?"
"For a start, we require landing clearance. Traffic control around Mageptis has grown strict."
"A most regrettable consequence of the war. You command, I see, a Klingon Chariot? I am intrigued. They are normally allocated to respected commanders...."
"I obtained it from a respected commander. You should not enquire too closely into the circumstances."
"Nonetheless, we are technically in Federation territory and you are technically an enemy vessel. But arrangements may be made. Your other needs, lady?"
"I have an encrypted isolinear chip whose contents need secure transmission on a particular subspace frequency."
"May one speculate as to the contents?"
"One may. I often do myself."
"I see." Cysitra's headcrest faded to pastel colours. "I deeply regret, of course, that the credit of the House of Sinoom is no longer what it was. In these trying times of ours -"
"It is natural that you should require payment in hard cash, in advance." Tayaira reached into her belt pouch, brought out a sparkling red crystal, held it up to the screen. "Kinarian flame jewels. Non-replicateable, and difficult to obtain in the Federation, due to the war. I have... a sufficiency." A very small, hard-won, personal reserve... she only hoped it would be enough.
"Such beauty," Cysitra sighed. "Certainly, also, payment hard enough to meet the most stringent requirements."
"Better payment than you might expect from the Federation," Tayaira said. "They pay only in promises and goodwill."
"How true. Let me make appropriate arrangements." Cysitra looked to one side, at something out of Tayaira's field of vision. "One moment. There. I am transmitting clearances now for your approach to a private landing pad. You will encounter no difficulties. Once there, we will arrange for the fulfillment of your other requirements, lady. Clearances and coordinates are being transmitted on our data channel even as we speak."
Tayaira looked down at her command console. "Confirmed. We will speak, then, in person, within the hour."
"My joy at that will know no bounds. Until that time, then." The screen went dark.
"That went well," said Ch'gama.
"You think so?" said Tayaira. "Let us make some arrangements, for contingencies that may arise."
The shuttlecraft dropped through the murky air of Mageptis.
---
Cysitra's landing pad was on the fringes of the Galpor spaceport, next to a pressurized dome that served as the factor's business office. The alien was there on the pad to greet them, robes fluttering in the cold wind that blew on the world's surface. In the bleak, industrial setting of the decrepit port, she looked exotic, out of place.
"Such a pleasure to see you once more in the flesh," she said, taking Tayaira's hand in hers. Her fingers were moist and webbed; the touch was clammy, but Tayaira steeled herself not to shudder or recoil. "Let us go to my private office, where we may arrange your most pressing business. Your valiant crew may amuse themselves, no doubt?"
"Of course," said Tayaira. She turned to the others. "Wait while our business is transacted," she said. "Explore the port, by all means, but do not stray out of communication range."
"There is much here to divert," said Cysitra, "though Galpor may appear less than aesthetic. Let us repair within." And she led Tayaira to the dome.
Inside, it was cool, humid, and brightly lit, the walls painted with abstract designs in colours that soothed the eye. "Will you take refreshment?" Cysitra asked. "I have spirits and elixirs from all over the galaxy in my private supply."
"Perhaps later," said Tayaira. Was there something different about the alien's face? "I must attend to my most immediate needs, first." She held up her hands. In her left, she held the isolinear chip Klur had given her - the one he said would get them rescued. In the other, the flame jewels glittered. Cysitra caught her breath.
"By all means," she said, "business first." She led Tayaira through a doorway, to a communications console. "This subspace communicator should meet your needs."
"Eminently suitable," Tayaira said. She sat down at the machine, slotted in the datachip, and keyed the transmission sequence. "Confirmation will be registered directly," she said, turning her head to look at Cysitra.
"I am gratified to be of assistance," said the alien. Was there something about her speech, too? Tayaira thought hard.
Her nose. That was it. Cysitra's nostrils were... distended, and fixed. She was wearing some sort of nose plugs. Most likely, Tayaira thought, filters against Orion pheromones. And that meant she expected a pheromonal attack....
Unobtrusively, Tayaira tapped at her wrist communicator, sending the prearranged short sequence of pulses. The one that meant betrayal.
"Is there someone outside the door?" she asked, though she had heard nothing. She had heard nothing, but as the alien's headcrest turned white and folded down, she knew she had guessed correctly.
"Ah," said Cysitra sadly, "I had hoped to avoid unpleasantness. But you must realize that the gratitude of the Federation is, perhaps, harder currency than you might think."
"Oh," said Tayaira, "I understand completely." Her hand dropped to the top of her boot, to the disruptor pistol concealed there. "It is simply a matter of good business, after all."
One would almost think that you'd visited the time/places you write about, and then came back to the year 2013 to report it to the rest of us. CBS/Paramount should hire you to write the scripts for a new "Star Trek" series based on your story. I really mean that.
I stamp irritably up and down the bridge, turning things over in my head.
So far, everything is going pretty smoothly. The cynic in me keeps saying that's due for a change. But Sixth Fleet has not even seen combat yet - the situation at Valtoth Alpha was as close as it got - and, despite all the zooming around at high warp speeds, the Virtue is holding up pretty well. Chief Engineer Ahepkur isn't happy, though. But she's a Klingon */*species 5008*/*, and a discommendated Klingon at that, so she's never happy.
Perhaps it's simply that things are going too smoothly. I don't have enough to occupy my mind, it gives me time to brood and worry at ideas. Playing with phantoms, mostly. Still, some of them are worrying phantoms.
"I'm restless," I say aloud.
"Get some sleep, sir," says Tallasa.
"Can't sleep when I'm restless, can I? I've got too little to do and too much to think about. Energies bombinating in a vacuum breed chimeras."
I've been waiting for ages to work that quote in somewhere, but Tallasa just says, "And what about Admirals bombinating in a Chimera, sir?" I shoot her a dirty look.
"I'm working it all out in my head," I say, "and some of the possible answers I come up with - I don't like at all. Look. Taking it that this Kysang was a Federation agent -"
"For which you have no proof," says Tallasa.
"Well, if I had proof, he'd have been a lousy agent, wouldn't he? But anyway. Federation agents don't operate in a vacuum." Tallasa doesn't even speak, just glances meaningfully at the ocean of stars on the viewscreen. "Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. They have networks, contacts, all that good stuff. The stuff I got from Memory Alpha suggests he had links to one of the big commercial concerns in the Empire."
"So?" says Tallasa. "Starfleet Intelligence is undoubtedly trying to track the movement of resources within the Empire. It's exactly the sort of low-level statistical information that it's vital to know."
"Quite. But Kysang's contacts must have enabled him to get stuff. Not just information, actual goods and services. Like, for instance, the huge amounts of tricobalt and other nastiness Klur used on Bercera IV."
"Hence your suspicion that Klur acted on orders from some individual or group in the High Council," says Tallasa. "The owner of the shipping concerns?"
"That's one possibility. The other, much nastier one... well, we've just taken a huge chunk out of the Klink front line, mostly without firing a shot. The High Council is almost falling over itself to make concessions and reparations - and, even so, the Klinks' name is still mud with half the frontier systems. We've benefited from Bercera IV. So, bearing that in mind, can you see why I might be a bit worried that there was a Federation agent involved in the attack?"
It makes Tallasa's jaw drop, which is something. "You think Section 31 arranged the destruction of Bercera IV?"
"They're the ones who defend the Federation 'by any means necessary'. Would you put something like that past Franklin Drake?"
"I -" Tallasa closes her mouth. She's thinking. That's good.
"I don't want to believe it," I say. "It just worries me. And now I guess it's worrying you. Sorry about that." I really don't want to believe it. But Franklin Drake and Boris Savinkov are brothers under the skin, and that bothers me.
Anyway, there's nothing I can do about any of it just now. The Virtue is following the leader, Admiral Gref's massive Jupiter-class battleship Taras Bulba, as the fleet hurtles deeper into Klingon territory, away from the newly-liberated Valtothi */*species 191*/* -
Hold on a minute. How did a minor Alpha Quadrant species like the Valtothi get a designation number as low as 191?
*/*retrieving data
---data not in local storage
---connection to main data archives not functional
---reconnect---priority---reconnect---reconnect---reconnect*/*
- OK, I don't need to know that badly. Anyway. Away from Valtoth Alpha, and towards the Klingons.
"Incoming message from the flagship," says the comms ensign.
"OK, let's have it," I say.
"Uh," says the ensign, "it says all commanding officers to report to ready rooms for a conference briefing."
"Oh, joy," I say. "All right, tell them I'm on my way, then pipe it through."
---
Admiral Gref doesn't look happy. He has sound reasons not to, and anyway he never did. He is short and squat even by Tellarite */*species 4897*/* standards, and he glowers out of the screen now, clearly in a more than usually dyspeptic mood.
"We have reports from the Yll-Torican homeworld," he says. "Three hours ago, a squadron of Klingon raptors crossed the system at high impulse speeds, destroyed two civil defence corvettes, and carried out a series of orbital strikes on ground targets. So far, we have no firm figures on casualties. First word is that they aren't heavy - but it doesn't matter how light they are, there should not have been any."
"Were the raiders identified?" asks Rear Admiral Stuvek from the USS Niobe.
"Not as far as I know," says Gref. His mouth works. "This shows the kind of people we're dealing with. They're not even serious about their own reparations - as soon as they agree to pull out of Yll-Torica, they attack the place!"
"Well," I say, "the reparations have got a lot of the Klingons pretty worked up - my guess is, this is an isolated privateering raid, by some hotheads out to make a point."
"I concur with Vice Admiral Grau's analysis," says Stuvek. Gref looks even more unhappy.
"Hotheads," he says. "Every time the Klingons perpetrate some kind of atrocity, their High Council jumps up to say it's hotheads, rogue elements, captains exceeding their authority. Well, it's more than time we stopped letting them get away with that. I know these - Viking expeditions - of theirs are part of Klingon culture, and you know what? I don't care. Let them express their cultural values on their own people. They can leave us, and the neutral worlds, strictly alone."
"So what do you suggest, sir?" asks Captain Weymouth of the USS Warspite.
"I suggest nothing," snaps Gref. "I am going to carry out my orders, which are to take Sixth Fleet into Klingon space and carry out retributive action against the KDF. So far we've not seen combat. That is about to change." He takes a deep breath. "The Klingon High Council rejected the Federation's demand for the removal of their military station at Aznetkur. So, we're going to take it away from them anyway. The Fleet will proceed at maximum safe warp to that system, and we don't stop until that planetary fortress is reduced." Another deep breath. "We will now begin reviewing the system assault plans."
Andale, andale, arriba, arriba, yeeha! (okay, no more Speedy Gonzalez)
She never broke stride, running for cover as a plasma bolt hissed past her from somewhere nearby. She ducked behind a big metal thing, some piece of spaceport machinery, sheathed her blade, and pulled out her tricorder. Somehow, she had to take stock of the situation -
Footsteps nearby: she whirled and brought up her disruptor, then relaxed. Ch'gama, and the big Nausicaan marine, Hrchie. The Klingon was spattered with blood of several different colours; some of it, Tayaira realized with dismay, was his own. But he grinned at her as he crouched down beside her.
"What happened?" she asked.
"We got separated," Ch'gama said. "They tried to bottle us up in the ship." His finger stabbed at a blunt concrete-and-metal turret, one of several such that ringed the landing pad. "Tractor and damping field emitters, with those running, the Chariot's going nowhere. So we broke out before they could bring can openers." He shrugged, and winced. "Didn't quite go to plan. They got Durrog, and the rest of us scattered in the crossfire. What about you?"
"I got the Captain's message off," Tayaira said. "Confirmation signal came back. I suppose that's all that matters, but personally I'd like to live to see what happens next."
"What about the alien witch?"
"Oh," said Tayaira, "I paid her off. In full." Something was moving, off to one side. She checked her tricorder. Human life signs. She sighted her disruptor, fired, was rewarded with a yell of pain. "They're trying to flank us."
"Not very well," said Ch'gama.
"Not Starfleet," Hrchie rumbled. "Mercenary security."
"Not much honour in dying at those hands," said Tayaira, "so let's not. How do we take these dampers out?"
"They're armoured." Ch'gama spat. "Durrog was trying to break one when they roasted him. But I don't think hand weapons'll do the job. Sir, these goons will have called for reinforcements -"
"I see R'rorro," Hrchie interrupted. Tayaira peered around the corner of their shelter.
The Ferasan warrior, R'rorro, was moving on the other side of the pad, with the speed and grace of his species. Bolts of green light flamed from his twin disruptor pistols. He seemed to catch sight of them, changed direction, ran straight across the landing pad. As he came to the wing of the shuttle, he gathered himself and leapt, clearing the obstacle in a single graceful bound. It was a breathtaking jump, a heroic jump -
Three plasma beams picked him off in mid-leap, and he crashed to the ground in a motionless smouldering heap.
Tayaira swore. She thought furiously. "Cover me," she said, and ran for the human she'd killed. Plasma beams hissed across the air, none coming near her. She snatched up the dead man's handgun, turned, and sprinted back to cover.
"You wanted a souvenir, sir?" said Ch'gama with a grin.
"Not quite. Those emitter turrets must have a power supply, yes? My guess is, they're tied in to the city power grid. My further guess is, that's a commercial grade EPS network, and just as clapped out as the rest of this place." She held up the captured weapon. "So, let's see what happens when we put a plasma weapon into the grid, set on overload."
Ch'gama's grin widened. "Oh, that's beautiful, sir. No wonder they pay you the big money."
They don't pay me enough for this, Tayaira thought, as she scanned the landing pad quickly. Those dome buildings were constructed to a standard pattern -
She saw the EPS connection point, ran for it, opened the access panel. Behind her, more gunshots crackled. The EPS channel buzzed angrily as she forced the plasma pistol into the waveguide. She set the gun for a force chamber explosion, turned, and sprinted back once more to the shelter of the machine.
"Did it -" Ch'gama started to ask.
Behind her, the EPS channel erupted. The hardened electroplasma system of a starship could pass a power surge along it, dissipating it harmlessly save for the occasional flash-bang of a transient overload. This commercial-grade system didn't have that facility. The explosion turned the EPS hookup into a column of sparks sixty metres high, and all around the spaceport, more columns like it burst up, as the power surge blasted through the network.
Tayaira barely needed a glance at her tricorder. "Power's down! Move!"
Suddenly, everyone was running towards the shuttle, friend and foe alike. Tayaira snapped off shots from her disruptor at any figure in an unfamiliar uniform, and tried not to worry about the returning plasma fire that scorched the air around her. She was first to reach the Chariot, slammed her palm down on the biometric lock, turned to shoot an approaching security goon. Ch'gama and Hrchie piled past her into the airlock; then there was a mad scrimmage, a sudden crush of bodies in which knives flashed and guns blazed. Somehow, she fought her way in, and hit the button to close the door. Someone reached through, trying to block the door with his arm; Tayaira burned the limb off with her disruptor before it could trip the door's safeties.
She dashed for the cockpit, hurled herself into the pilot's seat, ignoring the confused melee behind her. "Computer! Combat emergency. Skip all preflight checks and lift!"
It seemed to take an age, though it could only have been seconds, before the guttural voice of the machine said, "Confirmed," and the controls came alive under her hands. There was a sudden thump on the viewport before her. One of the security guards, an Andorian, had leapt onto the shuttle's nose and was aiming a plasma pistol at the port. Tayaira hit the thrusters, and the shuttle leaped up and forwards. The Andorian staggered, lost his pistol, and yet somehow retained a grip on the shuttle itself -
Behind her, there were sounds. Tayaira looked around. In the confusion at the airlock, a human security guard had made it on board. He was now alone, in a confined space, surrounded by angry KDF troops. It seemed to have dawned on him that that was a bad place to be.
She checked the shuttle's scanners. Beneath her, the port registered only small, scattered energy readings - the power grid failure was more extensive than she'd thought. There were two other flying craft on sensors nearby, though, and she had to assume they were hostile. Behind her, the human had started screaming.
"We don't have time to play! Put him in the transporter and get rid of him!"
"Send him where?" one of the Klingons asked.
"Straight to Gre'thor - random coordinates, wide dispersion!" The human, who had been sobbing with relief, started to scream again. The whine and hum of the transporter cut him off for good.
"Someone get on the disruptors, or I swear you'll envy him!" The Andorian was still banging on the viewport with his fists. The first sensor contact was close, too close. She had a read on it, it was an antiquated Federation-type shuttle, but still dangerous -
It was within a few hundred metres when the Chariot's disruptor array came live. The green beam burned through the shuttle's feeble shields inside a second, and tore into the nose of the craft, scattering white-hot fragments across the sky. The shuttle slewed and plummeted in a death-dive towards the ground.
The second ship came in fast, and firing phasers. The Chariot rocked and its shields sparkled, but they held. Klur had spent the time and money to upgrade the warp core, Tayaira noted; she had plenty of power for weapons and shields, at least. The enemy ship streaked past, leaving the Chariot rocking in the turbulent air. Amazingly, the Andorian was still hanging on.
"Looks like a Bajoran war surplus fighter," Ch'gama remarked.
"Fast but flimsy," Tayaira said. "Wait till he comes round for another pass... then double-shot the photon launcher."
Ch'gama nodded. The fighter ship was swinging around, lines of phaser light reaching out from its hardpoints. The Chariot's shields flared. Ch'gama waited a second, while Tayaira's heart stood still, then fired the torpedoes.
The enemy pilot was good; he managed to dodge one of them. The second one sprayed him across the sky.
Tayaira cut in the impulse drive, turned the Chariot's nose spacewards. The Andorian was flattened against the viewport.
"How's he still hanging on?" Ch'gama asked.
"Must have polyalloy armour under those coveralls, and a magnetic link on his boots or his belt," Tayaira said. She ran her fingers through her hair. "Great, so now we have a figurehead. All right, we know how to get out of here. Cloak, random-walk to the system's edge, then follow our prearranged flight path to the rendezvous point." And hope the Captain didn't get tired of waiting, she didn't add aloud. "How badly did we get hit? I know we lost Durrog and R'rorro...."
"N'Liss, too," said Ch'gama sourly.
"Someone else missing too," said Tayaira, craning her neck around to get a good look at her crew. "Where's Lieutenant Jikkur?"
@patrickngo - I could see J'mpok liking that answer! And certainly the Undine, off in fluidic space, wouldn't care much about the loss of class M worlds in the conventional universe....
Is it the answer I'm thinking of?... No comment
Your hatred of this is duly noted...and not taken seriously.
Take as much time as you need between posts, shevet, real life always comes first.
So do I. Hospital stays suck no matter the reason. Take care of yourself first, we will be here when you get back, hope everything goes well.
"he's as dangerous as a ferret with a chainsaw."
Ditto. "Live long and prosper."
In the interests of keeping the momentum going, I present my three main characters. (I hope that works...)
Actual story content to follow
I've already saved the pic file to my Fallout directory. I confess that I keep forgetting that Ronnie is female (not used to "Ronnie" as a woman's nickname; your story is only the second one that had a female "Ronnie" in it; the other was a book, "The Double Image" by Helen MacInnes (came out in 1966, I think); "Ronnie" there was short for "Veronica"). So now I'll have no excuse for making the same mistake in the future.
Feel free to do more pix like this, if it isn't too much trouble. One of Klur, perhaps, and maybe some (or all) of the other characters too? Okay, so I'm greedy, but not Greedo. Greedy and addicted. And with a fanatical devotion to the Pope. Now, wait a second! This is STO, not "The Spanish Inquisition" sketch from Monty Python. Now back to our regularly scheduled "Fallout", geiger counter optional. Don't worry about the sound of bacon frying. That's normal after there's been some "Fallout".
Nouveau riche LTS member
Sixth Fleet crashes out of subspace into a picket force comprising six Birds of Prey. They don't last seconds.
As per Gref's plan, I peel off. Virtue is lead ship for a semi-independent flanking group, clearing the starboard flank of the main force as it bores in towards the orbital fortress at Aznetkur. Besides my Chimera heavy destroyer, I'm supported by the star cruiser Hippolyta, each of us with three frigate groups tied into our tactical nets; further support from the escorts Endymion, Scaramouche and Hippogriff, and the science vessels Niels Bohr and Ytsay... the latter being named after some Andorian savant, who... discovered ice, or something like that, I don't know.
It's a reasonably effective fighting unit. It's not a tenth of Sixth Fleet's overall firepower, but who am I to complain? */*2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07*/*
Not any more, I'm not.
"Status?" I ask, more for form than anything else.
"All systems ready at your command!" Ahepkur announces.
"Ship is at battle readiness," Tallasa reports. "All frigate groups reporting in; telemetry online to fleet command; at red alert, all stations manned and ready. Configured for offensive mode." The Chimera can switch between a defensive mode and an offensive one that deploys its wide-angle phaser lotus array. It's a weakness, really, all the machinery for changing configuration takes up space and is vulnerable to combat damage; so, I tend to pick one mode and stick with it. Three guesses which I prefer.
"Scanning system," says Saval. "Multiple energy sources already detected consistent with KDF military units. Transferring data to the tactical display." I lean forward and peer into the screen.
The tactical situation, as people say in their war memoirs, is a challenging one. There's all sorts of KDF military junk in orbit around the planet, but our biggest concern is the fortress in geosynchronous orbit, a massive facility, larger than a Class V starbase, nearly the size of Earth Spacedock, and armed to the teeth. It's surrounded by free-floating shipyards and other industrial units, each one of those with cannons and torpedo tubes. Saval's scans have already picked out the larger of the patrol ships in the vicinity, now barrelling out towards Sixth Fleet with weapons hot.
The plot maps out the killing zones of the ships and the bases in gradient-shaded KDF red; the map looks covered in bubbles of blood. There are enticing-looking gaps in the coverage, corridors reaching deep towards the fortress, clear of Klingon weapons. Those, of course, are where the Klinks have their cloaked patrol ships. Klinks are many things, but they ain't dumb.
I study the display, and I start to get that itchy feeling - the one that tells me something is wrong about this setup.
*/*inaccurate---
---observed deployments consistent
---species 5008 military strategy
---no visible deviations*/*
Shut up, Two of Twelve. I'm the expert around here.
"Signal to flag," I say, "moving to intercept Klingon battle groups at zero four niner mark seven, then proceeding as directed to target facilities designated Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike. Battle group, all ships, formation Echo, proceed at full speed to engagement range. Let's do it, people."
Virtue leaps forwards, towards a battle-hungry V-formation of KDF raptors. I'm running through the angles in my head, trying to figure out what's bothering me, even as we come into range and the Virtue's phaser cannons burst into life.
So far, it's textbook stuff. The lead raptor slows and veers off course, heavily damaged and under continual harrassing fire from our frigate groups. The escorts peel off to take out the other raptors, while Virtue and Hippolyta pound them with heavy weapons and the science vessels work their witchcraft. The KDF ships are all crippled or dead before they can so much as irritate our shields.
The next battle group, though, is bigger and tougher. It's between us and the four outlying space stations we're designated to attack, and it's not going to let us through easily. Two Negh'vars, two cruisers, four raptors and a flock of fighters, a whole load of fighters -
"Phaser lotus!"
The lotus is meant for situations like these: a wide-angle, multi-target attack that will sweep the sky clear of fragile targets like To'Duj fighters or even Birds of Prey. Burning golden light sprays out from Virtue's saucer section, and space fills with explosions and fragments of ships. But there are so many fighters -
"Target lead Negh'var, cannons rapid fire!"
So very many fighters, even though we've blasted a good number already -
"Scaramouche, take that K'tinga before it comes about!"
The commands come to my lips automatically, while I figure out what's been bothering me. So many fighters, and where are the mother ships?
Something slams into our hull; a Klink torpedo breached our shields. I check; damage is within limits. Virtue spits cannon fire back into our attacker. Still too many fighters, and the phaser lotus is cycling -
"Saval, scan for Klink transporter signatures. I've got an idea."
Saval does the Vulcan */*species 3259*/* eyebrow-quirk thing, but he complies. Ahepkur is snarling at the damage control teams. "Four more raptors decloaked and inbound," Tallasa reports. OK, Ronnie, I tell myself. You are not outnumbered, you just have a wide selection of targets - and all that guff. Damage control lights flash yellow.
And the phaser lotus flashes green. "Hard about, one niner seven mark zero," I order, trying to bring as many Klinks as I can into the lotus's killing arc. "Saval, when we fire, watch those transports!" Virtue slews in a tight turn. "Fire lotus."
Again, the phasers fire, and the Klink fighters burn. I try to figure the Klink's next move. They do so like their cloaked ships, and once my lotus is down, I will have weak spots in my firing arcs....
"Emergency evasive power, hard to port! Cannons ready!"
The raptor decloaks just about where I'd guessed. Warning lights flash on my board as the RCS assemblies protest, but the cannons are just about in range while the raptor is still shimmering. Disruptors flash at me; phasers flash back. Our shields hold. The raptor loses a nacelle, rents open along its flanks, and it staggers away trailing atmosphere and debris.
"I have high levels of transporter traffic," says Saval, "detected between this region and... facility designated Target Oscar." He looks faintly surprised. If he wasn't Vulcan, he'd be gobsmacked.
"That's not a high priority target," says Tallasa, adding, "Target Juliet now in range."
"Hit it. I mean, battle group, commence attack run, Target Juliet." I hit my comms panel. "Virtue to flag. KDF has configured orbital stations to act as fighter launch bases; confirm Target Oscar one such, Target -" think, Ronnie, think "- Target Sierra shows similar configuration. Expect intense fighter assault. Am moving to engage Target Oscar. Virtue out."
We live in a post-scarcity economy, machines are cheap. The expertise, the people, to run those machines - isn't. Fleet carriers, like Shohl's King Estmere, are not so much carriers as floating industrial facilities, their launch bays holding industrial replicators which can quite literally build a fighter, in seconds, around its crew. But the crews are precious. So, flight deck officers include specialist transporter experts, capable of tracking a fighter through a battle, peering through the fog of war and maintaining a transporter lock no matter what, so they can snatch the crew to safety even as their ship explodes. The Federation uses a lot of Caitians */*species 5847*/* in this job, because of their superior reflexes. Cat-like, you might say.
So, Target Oscar is plucking KDF fighter crews out of the battle while we burn their ships away underneath them. And will refit them, and send them back out into the fray.
Our problem is... a fair-sized carrier like the King Estmere can support a dozen fighters at once. A stationary base can be bigger, doesn't need to drag a warp drive around with it... it might support hundreds.
Target Juliet, an auxiliary station providing flanking support to the fortress, is in our sights, and our beams and torpedoes slam into it. Disruptors fire back. The frigate Adderbury, caught in a sudden barrage of cannon fire, loses her shields, burns, shatters, explodes. My first ship loss. There will be more.
Under our fire, the station's shields fail, its armour plating delaminates and fractures. Flames blossom from sudden rents torn through the hull; the return fire from the disruptors slackens, then stops. My ships pour fire through the gaps in the armour, and the massive structure crumples and implodes in on itself, its internal atmosphere escaping in a tremendous rush of fire.
"Target Juliet down," Tallasa reports flatly.
"OK. Change of plan. Battle group: all ships reform into pattern Delta, steer three seven one mark two eight. We are attacking Target Oscar. All guns to independent fire for fighter interdiction."
Two of the remaining frigates have taken heavy damage, and the Niels Bohr is leaking air. My force is still mostly intact, though. But, as we come up on Target Oscar, I can see that's about to change.
"Infinite help us," says Tallasa. "How many launch bays?"
Too many. "Hold fire till they launch fighters," I say. "Then take down the first wave, then smash the station while they're prepping the next." I'm such an optimist.
"We're taking flanking fire from Target Lima," says Tallasa, "and there's another heavy patrol group closing... range three-two."
"So we don't have much time. Let's use what we've got. All ships commence attack run on Target Oscar."
We close in, and they launch. Every one of the launch bays spits out a To'Duj fighter, and there are too many to count -
*/*64*/*
- well, thanks, Two of Twelve, for telling me exactly how stuffed I am.
"Fire!"
Every gun in the group opens up - including my phaser lotus. At this range, with the fighters bunched up on their initial launch, the damage is telling; as many To'Dujs perish in the explosions of their neighbours as die directly from our guns. But there are so damned many left, each one blazing away with its small but potent disruptor cannons - swarming around us, as our turrets and beam arrays try to target them and swat them.
"Shields down to thirty-eight per cent," Ahepkur reports.
"Get us in closer," I say. Target Oscar was designated low priority because it looked like some kind of orbital warehouse, not an armed target. My guess is, the Klinks made it to look like that - and it wouldn't look convincing, unless it really does lack heavy armour and military-grade structural integrity.
"Steer one-niner mark six. I want us looking right down those launch tubes."
If I'm wrong, I'm going to get sixty-four Klink fighters in my face in about twenty seconds. At least I won't be alive long enough to be embarrassed.
"All forward cannons, all torpedoes, rapid fire!"
Virtue's guns open up, straight into those inviting-looking tubes. And I'm almost tempted to breathe a sigh of relief, as I find out I'm right.
The force fields protecting the launch tubes go down under our cannon fire, and the torpedoes race in. Inside, the flight decks are choked with machinery, with ordnance supplies, with volatile fuels... the first detonations set off a chain reaction, explosions racing through the structure, the mouths of the tubes belching forth, not more fighters, but clouds of smoke and burning gases -
The station collapses in upon itself, then explodes in a white-hot glare and a shower of fragments. Some of them slam into Virtue's already tattered shields. Others, though, take out vengeance-driven Klingon fighters. Those pilots know, now, they are dead men; the Klingon warrior ethic makes them determined to take as many of us with them as they can.
"Klingon patrol group is in range," Tallasa reports, "and we're still taking fire from Target Lima."
Two more frigates, the Waterfield and the MacArthur, are dead. The Bohr is in bad trouble, leaking air from a dozen hull breaches. The To'Dujs are dying, but that other patrol group is racing in, guns blazing from a Negh'var and its flanking raptors -
"All ships, steer one six niner mark two. We're going to keep that patrol between us and Lima." I'm hoping the gunners on Target Lima won't risk firing through their own ships.
The exchange of fire with the patrol group is short, savage, and brutal. At the end of it, I have red warning lights on my consoles, and both Hippolyta and Endymion are reading heavy damage. How bad, I can't tell, because the scans are fogged with Klingon wreckage... and Target Lima is firing again.
"Hard forward, coordinate all fire on central axis!"
Target Lima is a free-floating shipyard cluster, clawed fingers of docking bays reaching out from a central post that holds all the main facilities - including a heavy disruptor bank that is currently tearing Hippolyta's shields down to nothing. Our fire smashes back, reducing the shipyard's shield, reaching that central pillar. The armour scars and glows, then the pillar suddenly erupts in a blast of flame. We must have hit an unshielded power generator. The shipyard's guns fall silent, its shields drop. Our next volley of torpedoes smashes the central linkages, and the docking bays break away from the dead centre and spin lazily off into space.
"Message from flag," says the comms ensign. "Confirm reallocation of target priorities. Portside flanking element under dreadnought Warspite will move to engage Target Sierra; assist if possible."
Gref is showing some sense. "The main body of the fleet is engaging Target Echo," Tallasa reports. This is good news, I guess; Target Echo is an outlying battle station, after it, there should be nothing between the fleet and Target Alpha - the orbital fortress itself.
"Nearest Klink patrols?" I ask.
"Nothing within range one-zero-zero. They're concentrating on the main fleet," Tallasa replies.
"Get me some proper scans of the damage," I say, with a sinking feeling.
The details start to come up. The Bohr is half wrecked, Endymion's saucer section has a bite taken out of its port quadrant - a bite that takes out almost a fifth of the disc. And Hippolyta's starboard nacelle... isn't there: the pylon ends in a tangle of jagged metal.
"Give me voice comms," I order. "Hippolyta, Endymion, you guys are looking too asymmetrical for this fight. Crack out of here, best speed to the fringes of the system and the support group. You'll need an escort, so, Niels Bohr, you're with them. Hippolyta, pass control of your remaining frigates to my tac net."
"Aye, aye, sir," Captain Anderson of the Hippolyta sounds relieved. "Permission to recover escape pods from our destroyed craft on the way out, sir?"
"Recover as many as you can, on a straight-line course out of the system. Understood?"
"We'll keep it as straight as we can, sir. Godspeed. Hippolyta out."
OK, Ronnie. Don't think of it as losing half your force, think of it as simplifying your table of organization. "Remaining ships regroup behind Virtue. We're going to cut across the low orbitals to support Warspite at Target Sierra. Watch out for fire from ground installations. Course, two niner seven mark three niner four. Let's move."
Virtue streaks across space at the head of the diminished task force, close enough to the planet to skim its high ionosphere. I'm looking at the damage lights on my console, and starting to worry a bit. */*functionality impaired---starting efficiency low---assimilate---download structural files from central archives and reconfigure vessel*/* - no thanks, Two of Twelve.
Fire from ground stations comes up at us; desultory and inaccurate. Getting good targeting locks through the thickness of a planetary atmosphere is hard, particularly when the space above is jangling with explosions and energy bursts. Still, a ground gunner might get lucky, it's something to watch out for.
Ahead of us, a line of golden light shoots out, visible for hundreds of kilometres in all directions: Warspite's phaser lance. If that hits Target Sierra, it'll make one hell of a dent in it. I check the data. Good news: Target Sierra has the same looks-harmless construction pattern that Oscar had. Bad news: it's more than twice the size of Target Oscar.
"KDF fighters on scan," says Tallasa. "A lot of them."
"All guns to independent fire. Ahepkur, can you do anything to speed up cycle time on the phaser lotus?"
"Lotus is already overheated," the Klingon renegade grumbles. "We shall do everything possible."
"We've got to try and keep them off Warspite." The dreadnought is designed for slugging matches against capital ships; the swarms of fighters will overwhelm her. "Flank speed to engagement range. As soon as we can get a target lock on a fighter, start shooting."
Virtue surges forwards. The other ships in the group keep pace, all but one frigate, Mountbatten. Engine damage. Another ship down. "Signal Mountbatten to break off and head outsystem. Everyone else -" there are contacts on the sensors "- open fire."
Virtue shudders beneath me as her weapons open up. The phaser coolant is perilously close to its red line, the EPS grid is protesting under the load. Beside me, the rest of the task group is firing too. The cloud of Klingon fighters scatters, regroups, some continuing to hit the Warspite, some coming about to deal with our new threat. Again, golden light flares from the dreadnought's phaser lance.
"Checking," says Tallasa. "Checking - confirmed! Target Sierra is down!"
"Take out what's left of those fighters!" I yell.
"Sir," the comms ensign says, in a panicky voice, "signal from fleet - flagship in distress."
"Awww -" I bite down on a very bad word. If we lose the firepower of the Taras Bulba - not to mention Gref's command and control, or the morale effect on the whole fleet - if the flagship is down, I don't see how we can win this fight. */*centralization of assets leads to inefficiency---distribute command cycles across multiple nodes---collective endeavours will overcome*/* - oh, belt up, you Borg idiot. "Get me a read on the Taras Bulba."
The flagship is spouting a white-glowing plume of plasma from a starboard nacelle. Ruptured manifold: looks spectacular, but can be quickly corrected - if your enemy gives you the chance. There are KDF ships inbound that look like they're not planning on giving Gref a chance - the largest and closest being a Bortasqu' tactical cruiser, already perilously close to firing range.
"Emergency evasive! Flank speed towards the flagship! Ytsay, follow me, target engines on that cruiser!"
Red lights flash on the RCS consoles as the Virtue comes round in a tight turn. The science vessel follows. The Bortasqu' is still not within weapons range of the flagship. I check. We can catch it, but the timing will be tight. Behind us, the rest of my task group is still tangled up in a furball with the surviving Klingon fighters. If the Warspite pulls out of that and follows us in, life will be a lot easier -
"In range," Tallasa reports.
"Fire!" The forward cannons blaze. Ytsay joins the fray with precisely targeted phaser blasts, using the science vessel's superior sensors.
The Bortasqu's rear weapons return fire. One moment, the Ytsay is there; then, there is a white glare in space, and the science vessel is gone. I curse freely.
"Get us in close!" The Klingon ship's guns are hammering us, now, stripping our forward shields to nothing. The flash-bangs of transient EPS overloads are a constant background noise on the bridge, now, and the ship shudders as something bad happens to our forward hull.
"How close?" Tallasa asks.
"Legally married in twelve jurisdictions close! I'm going to cut in the phaser lotus, and I want that ship filling its arc of fire!"
"You would need to be within metres!" Ahepkur yells. "The feedback on the beams will -"
Virtue lurches as another volley hits us. Ahepkur never finishes telling me what the feedback will do, she's too busy hanging onto her console and trying to manage the damage reports. Well, I'm sure it wasn't going to be anything fun, anyway.
"Get us in there!" We have maybe seconds before the Bortasqu' can open up on the Taras Bulba, and the flagship is still immobilized.
Virtue's cannons fire directly into the Klingon's rear shields, and they go down. A smaller ship, I could finish with the cannons alone, but the Bortasqu' is just too damn big. My ship closes in until the screen fills with grimy Klingon metalwork. I override the safeties, and the lotus fires at zero range.
Alarms scream. The Virtue bucks and shudders like a leaf on a gale; the lights and the gravity flicker. There are fires on the bridge... there is nothing but flame on the screen: vaporizing armour plate and escaping air combining into a billowing inferno. The phaser lotus dies, its status lights shining solid red on my command console.
"Hard about and get us clear!"
We blow an RCS assembly as we swing the ship about, but we manage to get out of the blast radius when the Bortasqu's warp core goes up. Just. Two heavy Birds of Prey and a half-dozen fighters aren't so lucky. Their secondary explosions mean that the Virtue is, at the very least, impressively backlit as she screams towards an oncoming Klingon cruiser. The cannons are still working; a sustained burst severs the cruiser's slender neck and sends the decapitated hull spinning away.
But there are more Klingons coming in, and my damage control boards are scarlet with warning lights, and, all told, things are starting to look a little hairy -
And then the Taras Bulba's forward phasers open up, smashing a hole in the approaching Klingons. And, off to one side, a Negh'var dies, impaled on a beam of golden light; Warspite has come up, and is still in the fight.
"Phaser lotus is burned out," Ahepkur reports. "We are at fifty per cent maneuvering capacity due to RCS and inertial dampener damage; unable to change configuration due to mechanical failures; hull breaches on all decks; EPS systems on emergency backup due to distributed conduit failures; structural integrity at fourteen per cent."
I grin at her, through the smoke-filled air of the bridge. "Well, yeah," I say, "but you should see the other guy."
Oops. Found one-letter typo. Sorry. In "a bite that takes our almost a fifth of the disc", I think "our" should've been "out". Other than that, the chapter just flows so quickly. You could teach Larry Bond ("Harpoon", "Red Phoenix", "Red Storm Rising" (with Tom Clancy)) how to really write battle scenes.
"KDF forces now in retreat," his flag captain announced. "We anticipate they will regroup around Target November."
"So detach a cruiser element and stop them," Gref ordered, almost absently. His black eyes were still fixed on the screen. The orbital fortress was still firing, but its screens were down, its disruptor banks visibly failing as its power levels dropped. There was a flare of light, and a shower of sparks burst from its flank as the dreadnought Warspite fired another phaser lance.
"Signal from USS Virtue, sir," an aide reported. Gref turned his head.
"Let's have it, then," he said. "On screen."
The image of the slowly disintegrating fortress vanished, to be replaced with the haggard face of Ronnie Grau. Behind her, Gref could see damage control parties moving amid the wreckage of her bridge.
"Vice Admiral Grau," Gref said. "Thanks for that assist. How bad are things?"
"We're still operational," Ronnie replied. "Listen -"
Gref turned to another aide, who shook her head. "No, you're not," he said, looking back at Ronnie. "Get your ship out of the combat zone and get her fixed."
"Listen," Ronnie said, urgently. "Something I thought of. Back behind all of this, there is still someone who wants total war. That hit on the Yll-Toricans? Could have been just hotheads, could have been something else - like, deliberate provocation."
"To bring us here?" Gref could quirk an eyebrow as sceptically as any Vulcan.
"Right. And provoke a response, a maximum response. Sir, try not to give them what they want. I think it's important."
"All right," Gref said. "You helped me, I owe you a hearing, I've heard you. Now get that wreck out of here and get it patched up. Gref out."
Ronnie's face blanked out, to be replaced by the view of the burning Klingon fortress. Gref stroked his chin, thoughtfully.
"Comms," he said, after a little time, "open a channel to the Klingons."
It took a short while, and the image, when it appeared on the viewscreen, was shaky, blurred, and shot through with interference. It showed a tall, dark-haired Klingon with a handsome, hawkish face, wearing the robes of a Dahar Master over a spare athletic frame. The contrast with Gref could not have been more marked. "Starfleet," he said with hauteur. "I am General Klellor." Something burst into flames behind him, and his mouth twisted in a rueful smile. "Be brief. There are many calls on my attention."
"I'll be brief," said Gref. "You're beaten, General. I'll finish off that station of yours before you can get your power couplings back up, and you know it. Then where are you? I still have enough ships left to isolate your remaining orbital forces and destroy them in detail. Are you expecting a relief fleet? It won't get here soon enough."
He paced irritably from one side of the command dais to the other. "Not soon enough to help you, but it'll arrive before I can finish off all your ground forces and occupy the planet. But then I don't need the planet, or even want the planet. All I have to do is deny it to you. That's pretty easy, you showed us the way. It's a military target, isn't it? Not a colony world. No shadow of a cause for complaint if I hit it with relativistic strikes and turn it into a dustbowl. Not now. So that's my option. Finish the job, let you fight to the bitter end, pull out leaving nothing in this system but rubble. It works for me, it meets my objectives. That's my option. Do you -" he stared hard into the viewscreen "- have any better ideas?"
There was a short silence, broken only by the sounds of distant explosions behind Klellor. Finally, the Klingon spoke. "Overall command responsibility passed to me when Admiral Tyr'kung was lost," he said.
"Sure about that?" Gref demanded. "That he's lost? I don't want to waste time on a subordinate."
"The Admiral," said Klellor, "took personal command of his tactical cruiser when it went out to destroy your vessel. His authority has now passed to me." Klellor seemed to struggle with something, internally. "The Admiral was authorised by the High Council," he said, with visible effort, "to - to surrender the system, if, in his judgment, circumstances should make it necessary. That responsibility also passes to me." He looked down. "In my judgment, it is now necessary." He turned towards someone or something out of the viewer's field of vision. "Pass the word!" he shouted fiercely. "Surrender!"
Gref grunted. "Signal to fleet," he said. "The Klingons are surrendering. Fire only if fired upon."
Klellor raised haunted eyes to meet Gref's. "You fought well, Admiral. The victory is yours."
Gref's gaze flicked briefly to a nearby display, one that showed the table of organization for Sixth Fleet, damaged ships highlighted in yellow, red highlights for the ones wrecked or destroyed. "You fought well too," he said to the Klingon, as kindly as he could. "We meet on my ship in one hour to formalize the terms of surrender."
Klellor nodded. "It will be as the victor requires. Qapla', Admiral Gref. Aznetkur Station out."
The image of the station reappeared. Fires were still burning in the escaping air from its hull breaches, but its guns were silent.
"I'll be in my ready room," Gref muttered. "Dress uniform. I'll have to wear dress uniform. I hate dress uniform. You have the bridge," he told his flag captain.
"Sir." The captain hesitated a moment. "Sir... would you have... I mean, if he hadn't surrendered... would you have done it? Would you have ordered the relativistic strikes, had the planet destroyed?"
Gref shot him a sardonic look. "Never know now, will we?" And with that he stumped off the bridge.
The flaring actinic light of the pulsar strikes blinding reflections off King Estmere's mirrored sides. Ahead of us, even the monstrous bulk of the Garaka is almost invisible in the omnipresent glare. I narrow my eyes at the data readouts.
"Shields holding," Anthi reports, dispassionately.
"What about the Garaka?" I ask.
"Still stable," Anthi says, "but she must be approaching her limits by now."
The pulsar is a madly spinning sphere of neutronium, the relic of a long-gone supernova; its intense gravity and rapid spin flood nearby space with a hail of synchrotron radiation. From the poles of the dead star, jets of electromagnetic radiation shoot millions of kilometres into space - blasts of energy that would shatter my ship in an instant. Even here, exposed only to the side lobes and scattering from those beams, the shields are visibly labouring.
No captain would bring a ship here without a pressing reason - such as, say, in an effort to hide a ship's warp signature from pursuers.
"Signal from the Garaka, skipper," says F'hon Tlaxx.
"On screen."
If the effort of the search is telling on Shalo, it doesn't show; she looks sleek and glossy as ever. "I regret to report negative results," she says. "In my judgment, Captain Klur has used a decoy - probably an astrometric probe set to mimic his warp signature, and aimed at the pulsar. In any case, the trail we followed ends here. Abruptly."
I nod. It makes sense... of course, if the warp signature really did come from Klur's ship, and it had crashed into the pulsar, then we'd never know, one way or the other. "So, what's our next step?" I ask.
"Firstly, to get clear of the pulsar," Shalo remarks dryly. "Then, we will proceed back to our last definite sighting and cast about for a secondary trail. The contacts at that location were ambivalent - we merely followed the most definite trace, here."
"So now we follow a less definite one. Makes sense." I consult my star charts. "There's an emission nebula about twenty, twenty-five parsecs away - might he have headed there, in another attempt to mask his scent?"
"It is certainly a possibility. I will instruct my searchers to consider that direction. Moving now, outside the radiation zone. Garaka out." Shalo's image disappears from the screen, replaced by the fury of the pulsar.
"Follow the Garaka to the edge of the system," I order, and King Estmere comes about. At the main science console, Zazaru sighs and begins work. Across from her, Klerupiru, the Ferengi cyber-warfare expert, is biting her lower lip and studying her own console displays.
Shalo has all the information, and she isn't sharing. We have a vague impression, gleaned from the data records at Bercera, of the QIb laH'e''s warp signature and reactor profile. Shalo has up-to-the-minute information on our target's warp drive, EM emissions, transponder codes - everything, from the shipyard that built and last outfitted her. Her sensors are no better than ours - probably worse - but she is much better equipped to follow Klur's faint trails through subspace, because she knows what she's looking for.
Zazaru and Klerupiru are both, in their own ways, attempting to fix this. Zazaru's job is to sort through the sensor data, backtrack along every path we've taken, and slowly, painstakingly, build up a picture of exactly what Shalo is tracking. It's a heartbreakingly difficult task, and probably a thankless and unrewarding one, too. Klerupiru, meanwhile, is trying to crack the Garaka's data security and get an inside line on Shalo's data. It, too, is a challenging job. Frankly, I don't expect either of them to succeed. But I have to try.
The glare from the pulsar is diminishing, the stress on the shields dropping as we move away. The Garaka is now plainly visible in all its hideous detail, from the runic engravings on the hull, to the red-glowing plasma clouds spouting from its drive.
"Sometimes I don't thing I'll ever understand the Klingons," I remark.
"Sir?" says Anthi.
"Take a look at that thing." I point at the screen. "Suppose the Iconians, or somebody, genetically engineered a race of monsters from Andorian mythology. If we were under attack from, say, some storm-dancer's sky palace, would we take a look at it and say, 'yes, neat ship, let's build some of our own exactly like it'? No matter how good a design it was? But the Klingons...."
"You assume then, sir, that the Fek'lhri are the product of some genetic engineering?" asks Soledad Kleefisch, the human assault team commander. I look at her in astonishment.
"What else could they be?" I ask.
"They might be exactly what they appear to be. Klingon demons," says Soledad. Her cheeks flush faintly. "I know what you're thinking, sir. But the Vulcan katra, the Bajoran Prophets and pah-wraiths, even the Greek gods of my homeworld... they all turned out to be real enough. Why not the Fek'lhri also?"
Well, I suppose she has a point. "Maybe," I say, "but that makes me even less likely to want to fly their ships."
The door of the bridge hisses open behind me, and I turn. Kluthli is standing in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir," she says. "I have something - well, a possibility."
"Oh?"
"I've been monitoring news reports and intelligence traffic," Kluthli explains. "Something happened recently - a disturbance at the Galpor spaceport on the planet Mageptis. It involved a former connection of the House of Sinoom, and a small KDF force in a DujHod Chariot shuttle. According to her information -" Kluthli can barely bring herself to say her kinswoman's name "- Captain Klur was issued with a DujHod."
"Hmm. You reckon this might be your cousin Tayaira looking for an escape route, or something like that?" Kluthli has tried to explain to me how the House of Sinoom was organised, the network of genetic relationships, political alliances and business interests that made up the whole entity. All I got out of it was a headache and an appreciation for the comparative simplicity of Andorian quad-marriages. "I thought Mageptis was way out towards Iota Pavonis space, though?"
"I think you're thinking of another planet, sir. The one I have in mind is here." Kluthli steps up to the star chart and indicates with one perfectly manicured fingernail. "Within our search area, at least."
A search area which expands with every passing second, considering the speed and the endurance of the QIb laH'e', but never mind. The star she's pointing to is... a possibility. It's in a debateable region of space, technically Federation territory, but close enough to the neutral zone - and far enough from Starfleet patrol routes - to trade freely with non-aligned or even Klingon worlds. It's exactly the sort of place I'd expect the Orions to have business interests.
"This doesn't look good," I say. "If Klur and his crew start to trickle out of Federation space by back-alley routes like this... we might never catch up with them."
"It would make our job exponentially harder, sir," says Anthi.
I sigh. "Signal the Garaka," I say. "We'd better see what Shalo knows about this place... and how best to check it out."
Btw, how in the world do you keep track of everything? Rereading? Keeping a notebook with names/locations/times/action summaries? I thought my stories could be complicated sometimes ... but they're simple compared to yours.
And of course it helps when people point out the odd typo.
(Sometimes, my memory plays tricks, like with the name of the planet - it's very close to "Gameptis", the one from @DenizenVI's Foundry mission "Conjoined". That name must just have been floating around in what passes for my brain! - so, I guess it deserves a mention, at least. Think of it as a homage.... )
The room was small, dark, and bare. The only furnishing was a communications console; there were only two doors, the one to the street, and the one in the wall opposite. That second door was always locked. The Lethean crossed the floor, stood at the console, and inserted an isolinear chip into a slot. Then he waited.
It was no more than a minute later when the console flashed and came to life, though its screen remained dark. A rasping, electronically distorted voice said, "Report."
"The transmission from Mageptis has been verified," the Lethean said. "I am transmitting the details on the datalink now." He touched control panels on the console.
"Received," said the voice. "Continue."
"It is my judgment that our good Captain may prove unruly if his requirements are not satisfied," said the Lethean. "If he were to fall into the hands of his pursuers, he could provide them with useful information."
"Who pursues him most closely?"
"A joint effort; J'mpok's emissary and the Federation's de facto investigator. I have to say, General Shalo of the Garaka proved... not amenable to suggestions. It seems there is little love lost between the scattered branches of the House of Sinoom. Her Starfleet counterpart is a Vice Admiral Shohl. She is, from all accounts, competent." The Lethean looked directly into the console's vision pickup. "If they find Klur, they will take him. And they may very well find him. Then, too, he is in Federation space, and the whole of the Federation is searching. The chance of random discovery is by no means insignificant."
"It would serve our interests if Klur were to return to Klingon space."
"No doubt you know best," said the Lethean, "since only you know what our interests are. I confess to a level of curiosity. I understand, of course, your precautions... but I wonder if you do not carry them to excess. I cannot exercise my best judgment if I am kept insufficiently informed - and, at the moment, I do not even know if you are a Klingon."
"Is that important?"
"If I am betraying the Empire," said the Lethean, "professional honour demands, at the very least, that I charge a higher fee."
A rasping sound came from the console: it might have been a laugh. "You are paid in Imperial darseks. Form what judgments you may from that."
"Very well. My instructions?"
"I am downloading a code message to your console. Transmit it upon the agreed frequencies."
"May I know its general content?"
"No. In any case, it is not final. The High Council meets, and decisions made there may affect our actions. We will speak again at the agreed time." And the console went dead.
---
The Yll-Torican was very tall and very slender, his high-domed hairless skull nodding as he struggled in Qo'noS's gravity. Nonetheless, his high-pitched voice was firm as he spoke.
"We bore the levies on our economy," he said, "the drafts of our population for your civilian auxiliaries. We bore these things, not gladly - who bears them gladly? - but uncomplainingly. I do not say we were unhappy to be freed from these requirements... but then! Within scant hours of our liberation, attack by your forces! We have become a free people, free to choose our alliances - we had a history with the Empire, we thought we could trust in Klingon goodwill for the sake of that history - but no! Instant and immediate attack!" He drew in a deep breath with a whistling sound. "Well, it is my duty as ambassador from the provisional government to pass on our response. We cannot defend ourselves. A strategic alliance with the Empire - as free partners - would have been desirable to us, but the Empire clearly does not wish it. Only one other course is open to us. The Yll-Torican government has applied for provisional membership of the Federation, and we expect our application to be granted."
The disapproving mutters around the Great Hall grew to a roar, then ceased abruptly as J'mpok stepped forward. "You make yourselves our enemies?" he asked.
"No, Chancellor." The Yll-Torican stood his ground. "Enmity is your people's choice, not ours."
J'mpok gave a single curt nod. "So be it. You are now the ambassador of an enemy power. Your person is protected by law, but you must depart the Great Hall. We shall, no doubt, speak again. Perhaps your provisional government will reconsider matters by that time."
"Thank you, Chancellor. I will depart." And he tottered away, under the stare of unfriendly eyes.
Councillor T'Jeg was first to speak. "Burn their worlds!" he said. "Blast them to fragments and take their populations as slaves!"
"To what end?" said J'mpok wearily. "Yll-Torica is militarily negligible, we know that. The Federation may have joy of them, for all I care. And the attack on them... that was ill-judged. It smacked of negotiation in bad faith. I have the names of those captains responsible... and my eyes are upon them." His frown deepened. "And do not speak of burning worlds, Councillor. You might be taken literally."
"And so we should!" T'Jeg shouted. "Starfleet threatened as much at Aznetkur! They demand diplomatic concessions on one side, and attack our bases at the same time! It is an outrage not to be borne!"
He looked around him, as if looking for support, but the response from the Hall was muted.
"The Federation attacks us on both diplomatic and military fronts," murmured K'Tag, "pressing home every advantage it has. How curious. It is almost as if we were at war with them."
"Then I say," retorted T'Jeg, "fight with every weapon we have! The door is open for reprisals on a planetary scale -"
"We opened that door," said K'Tag.
"Then let us sweep through it with every power at our command! As the Chancellor says, dross such as the Yll-Toricans is beneath us. Blast Earth itself, and Vulcan, and Andoria! Show everyone in the galaxy that the Empire is to be feared!"
"You know my mind on this," Darg added. "Demonstrate overwhelming force, and our enemies will run in fear."
"And Qo'noS would join that list of destroyed worlds within days," said K'Tag, "and every Klingon world with it. We would fight not only the Federation, but the Cardassians, the Romulans, the Ferengi... our only possible alliance would be with the Tholians, who care nothing for class M worlds."
"K'Tag speaks truly," said J'mpok. He glared at T'Jeg. "It is possible to rise to the High Council without a strong grasp of realities," he said, "but not to the office I hold. To speak of the destruction of Earth - it is rhetoric, no more. This Council must concern itself with practical matters." He squared his shoulders. "Let us attend to those practical matters. Some reprisal is necessary for Aznetkur.... The Federation cannot hold that system, it is too far from their supply lines. An attack on those supply lines may remind them of that reality. Some... over-zealous... captains might redeem themselves in my eyes if they joined in that attack...."
---
Later, J'mpok was pacing moodily along the line of statues when S'taass approached him.
"I must prepare a report for my government," the Gorn ambassador said.
J'mpok barely spared him a glance. "Of course."
"My report must state that the proposition of total war is gaining support in the High Council."
J'mpok stopped pacing and turned around. "I do not support unrestricted strikes on civilian targets," he said, through clenched teeth. "And those who do are fools. T'Jeg, Darg, they are blusterers with no concept of reality."
"I am not concerned with them," said S'taass. "But K'Tag gave me pause for thought."
"K'Tag? He has spoken against this foolishness."
"Thus far. But in his last statement, he mentioned a possible alliance with the Tholians." The Gorn inclined his head. "One does not consider possible alliances in the event of a situation one believes to be impossible. This change in K'Tag's thinking alarms me, Chancellor. Respectfully, I submit that you too should be alarmed."
One: "Form what judgments you may from that." I almost immediately thought that "derive" might work better than "form", but that's probably just a slightly different shade in meaning from what you meant.
(in both of the below paragraphs, I'm only italicizing to show the text in question, to differentiate it from my own words; your text isn't italicized in your chapter)
Two: First you said (just before the conversation between the Lethean and their seemingly Klingon source): the console flashed and came to life, though its screen remained dark. But at the end of the same conversation you said: And the console went dark. Perhaps the second time "dark" could be replaced with "silent", since the console has remained dark during that entire conversation.
Three: under the stare of unfriendly eyes. J'mpok's eyes only? Or his and the other Klingons, or just the other Klingons? If more than one pair of eyes was meant, I would've said "stares", not "stare".
Sorry for the critiquing (it's definitely not criticism), but if it helps you in any way at all, I am only too happy to humbly offer my assistance.
As to the others... matter of personal choice, I think. I'm inclined to think of the High Council giving the poor guy a collective stare, there - works in my head, maybe not in everybody's. I think the singular, there, gives the impression of a united wave of hostile feeling, in the way a lot of separate stares might not.
Similarly, I wouldn't (personally) ever tell anyone to "derive" something, except maybe if it was mathematical ("derive the nth root" or something). A parallel construction, I guess, might be "Infer what you will from that." My reason for choosing the phrase I did... it's in character for the speaker, and it's putting in a slight dig at the Lethean for his over-use of the word "judgment". (And that slight dig is also in character for the speaker.)
You definitely know your ST races/cultures/mannerisms/etc. far better than I do, and I remember first watching ST:TOS reruns in the 1970s. But I didn't watch most of TNG (which I didn't like that much) or DS9 (a journey on a space station that doesn't seem to travel anywhere? I gave up on it much too soon when it was on TV) or Voyager (which I liked alot what little I saw when it was TV and then in reruns). Now that I have all the ST series on DVD (except TNG, which I gave away to a then-friend who was a bigger fan of it than I was) and have spent some time on STO Wiki and Memory Alpha websites, I'm a little more familiar with the STverse than I used to be. But still nowhere near your level. You must have encyclopedias of this stuff all tabbed and easily referred to, or a Vulcan's memory, or maybe both.
*impatient look from addicted fan* Well? Where's the next chapter? Your audience awaits with gragh-baited breath (I'm not sure that Klingons brush their teeth ... at least not regularly ... who needs a bat'leth when you have bad breath?).
Our two ships float in the void, half a parsec out from the orange K-type star that is Mageptis's sun. I nerve myself for the encounter. "Energize."
The transporter room sparkles, fades out... and a new one fades in. The lighting is dim and reddish, the air tastes sour in my antennae. "Permission to come aboard?" I ask.
"Granted," says Shalo, standing by the transporter console. She frowns. "You are alone?"
"For the moment," I say, stepping off the pad. The atmosphere aboard the Garaka seems subtly different from other Klingon ships I've been on. The influence of the Fek'lhri technology, or just my imagination at work? "I wanted to settle one issue before transporting the rest of my team."
"Oh?"
"Commander Kluthli tells me that under some interpretations of Orion law, she could be seized as an asset of the House of Sinoom." I fix Shalo with a hard stare. "I would regard any action along those lines as a violation of your diplomatic status. I hope you're clear on my meaning."
"Completely," says Shalo, unruffled. "I am a member of the KDF and a citizen of the Empire, and this ship operates under Klingon law, not Orion. I have no interest in sequestering my - kinswoman. As far as I am concerned, I wish you joy of her." Her lip curls in a sneer. I restrain myself from commenting.
"All right. Then Commander Kluthli will beam over with the rest of my support team. As per your suggestions, we've outfitted ourselves as - well, as non-Starfleet as we can manage."
Both Kluthli and Shalo agree, Starfleet uniforms and a Federation starship might spook the House of Sinoom contacts on this frontier world... hence, the masquerade. Shalo's gaze flickers over my black-panelled body armour. "Yes," she says, "that is very good - those cheap copies of Omega Force armour are very common in some of the free ports along the frontier." I can't decide if she's deliberately baiting me or not. I touch my combadge, a simple disc of metal on my chest. "Situation secure. Transport the away team when ready." Shalo nods to her transporter operator.
Pillars of light appear on the transporter pads, solidify into my team. Kluthli shoots one hard glare towards her cousin, then turns her head away, snubbing her. She is wearing her usual civilian-style clothing, but there is a stiffness about her leather jacket and trousers which bespeaks the body armour underneath. Anthi is wearing black polyalloy mesh in a passable imitation of the Imperial Guard style, an Elachi cannon pistol riding on her hip. Thirethequ and Amiga have both opted for plain, bulky coveralls to conceal their armour. Thirethequ, with his mauve skin, long arms, and impressive beard and head crest, looks positively dangerous - especially with a Romulan plasma flamethrower slung across his back. As for Amiga.... Normally, the android is quite open about her origins; for this mission, though, she has closed the open panels in her cheeks, and put cosmetic caps over her metal eyes. She appears quite human, and disarmingly soft and vulnerable.
Whatever else we look, we don't look particularly Starfleet. "Yes," says Shalo, "this will do." She herself is wearing her white KDF uniform; I suppose she looks like some sort of mercenary, anyway, though the bat'leth slung across her back is openly Klingon. "Let us proceed, then. This way."
My antennae twitch as she leads us down the corridors of the Garaka, into the waiting turbolift. Of course, I've been on Klingon ships before... but I can't shake a nervous feeling. The turbolift hisses down and across the body of the carrier, comes to a halt.
The door opens onto a shuttle bay, the metal deck empty except for one battered-looking ovoid craft. Standing beside it is an alien of a species new to me; immensely tall, barrel-chested, with long gangling limbs, a high pointed head, and blue-grey skin with some sort of war-paint pattern on it. He salutes Shalo in the Klingon style. "Of readiness, all is," he says in a high sing-song voice. "For departure, immediate may be. To embarkation, all persons, I recommend, sir."
Shalo's universal translators aren't up to scratch, it seems. I repress a sly smile at that. My translators can cope with Jolciots.... "Lieutenant Commander Foojoy is of the Gral Temm people," says Shalo. "Since this vessel is a Gral Temm long-range dropship, it seemed only reasonable that he should be its pilot. Shall we board, Vice Admiral?"
The dropship's interior is small and cramped, with only the most basic facilities. Foojoy folds himself into the pilot's chair while the rest of us take seats along the wall behind him. I take the time to slip my visor on. The custom-built headset contains electronics that interface with my battle armour's systems, and short-range force field emitters that give almost as much protection as a standard Omega Force helmet - and, unlike the helmet, it doesn't squash my antennae flat. Until Omega Force's designers come up with a helmet that will work properly with Andorian heads, this is my best option.
The dropship takes off with a lurch. I call up my command interface on the visor, check my communications, including the emergency subspace link. All seems well. "Let's run over what we're doing here," I say. "And, Shalo, Kluthli, can you try to cooperate?"
"Of course, sir," Kluthli says smoothly. Shalo's head jerks up, and her lips are compressed in anger for a moment; then she says, "The point is well taken."
"All right. Tell me about this Galpor spaceport."
"It's a free port, under Federation jurisdiction," says Kluthli, "but with very little regulation. It's one of several such places on Mageptis. The House used to move goods through it -"
"Nothing either the Federation or the Empire would consider smuggling," Shalo adds. "Simply one of a hundred such places on our trading networks."
"But we did have good relations with one of the local shipping concerns," Kluthli continues, "and it's this one, the firm run by Cysitra Cira'tenis, that's been at the centre of some sort of battle with Klingons in a Chariot-class shuttle."
"There is an issue here," says Shalo. "Cira'tenis maintained an extensive subspace communications network. She is not, perhaps, the person one would go to, if one were smuggling goods or personnel. But, if one wished to smuggle information...."
"You think Klur was trying to use her to get a message to his backers in the Empire?"
Shalo stares fixedly ahead of her, and doesn't answer for a moment. Then she says, reluctantly, "I have to accept that Klur cannot have acted alone. And if he is to survive, he must reach some accommodation with the Empire. So - yes. That is the most likely prospect."
"All right," I say. "Then our goal is to make contact with the local authorities, confirm whether Klur's crew were involved -"
"I have biometric ID data for every one of that crew," says Shalo, "and details of Klur's Chariot. That will not prove a problem."
"Then we go to this Cira'tenis and get access to her comms records, and try to piece together what message he sent. And we track the Chariot's warp signature, to see if we can get a lead back to his ship." It sounds so simple, in theory. "What problems are we likely to encounter?"
"The local authorities, for one," says Shalo. "Local government is very limited, with matters such as port security and administration being handled by private contracted groups hired by coalitions of the local merchants."
I sigh. "Because that sort of thing worked so well on Nimbus III.... All right. Let's talk about precautions."
---
By the time we bring the dropship down on a landing pad at Galpor, my misgivings have increased.
The spaceport is a miserable sight, prefabricated domes and ramshackle warehouses as far as the eye can see. The only grimmer place I can remember is Hfihar. As the seven of us leave the ship, we're met by a motley-looking group of security guards, mostly human, with a couple of Nausicaans and Orions thrown into the mix. "Commodore Sutton will see you in his office," says one of the humans, with a jerk of his thumb to indicate the way.
"Commodore Sutton?" says Shalo. "We understood that security was in the hands of a Commander Antell."
The human spits. "Antell's Galactic Security Bureau used to have the contract," he says. "But then those Klinks came, blew out the power grid, shot up the place... so, now the Commodore's got the job. We're Sutton's Consolidated Unaligned Mercenaries." He grins. "And we love our acronym."
This just keeps on getting better. My misgivings increase further when Sutton's "office" turns out to be a booth in the back of a spaceport bar. Not even a good spaceport bar, either; synthetic drinks and prefabricated walls - no sawdust on the floor, but only, I suspect, because this world has no trees and it would be too expensive to import offworld sawdust.
"Commodore" Sutton is a small, wiry human male with close-cropped, light-coloured hair and a seamed, thin-lipped face. He is sitting at a table, with a half-empty bottle before him. He studies us with unfriendly eyes. "Andorians and Orions," he says. "Interesting mix. So what do you want?"
"We'd like to know more about the incident with the Klingons," I say. His eyes don't get any friendlier.
"What's there to know?" he asks. "They came, they busted up a chunk of the port and shot some of Antell's half-assed goons, they went away again. I guess I owe them, come to think of it. I got what I wanted after that business."
"Is there anything else you might want?" I ask. "Perhaps we can come to some sort of deal, about the information."
Sutton shakes his head. "I'm a happy man," he says, "I got everything I wanted. I might not be an Omega Force Shadow Operative -" he sneers at me "- but I do OK. The Klinks are gone, good riddance to 'em, or good luck to 'em, I don't mind which." He snickers under his breath; something is amusing him.
"Did they take any casualties? Were there bodies left behind?"
His eyes shift slightly at that. I've touched a nerve, but how? "Antell's idiots got three of 'em," he says. "We've got 'em on ice down at the morgue. Families might pay to reclaim 'em, you never know."
"Three dead? No injured, no survivors?"
Shiftier still. "You think Antell's useless mob could have taken Klingons prisoner?"
I shrug. "I don't know Commander Antell. And stranger things have happened."
Shalo speaks for the first time. "Besides," she says, "they weren't all Klingons, were they? We would expect to find a more mixed force."
Sutton's gaze flicks over towards her. "One of the stiffs is a kitty-cat," he says.
"Ferasan?"
"The blue ones, yeah. And I heard the one in charge was an Orion. Like you."
Shalo smiles. "Possibly one very like me," she says. "Hence my interest in this situation."
Sutton is starting to look confused. So far, he's clearly been under the impression we're some sort of cops - which, I suppose, we are. Now, Shalo is suggesting there's something else going on, and already he's out of his depth. "If the people who carried out this raid were - the people we think they are," Shalo continues smoothly, "we are anxious to make contact with them. For a range of different reasons. If you could facilitate that...." She smiles at him. "Perhaps you should give more thought to things you might want. All sorts of possibilities might open up for you."
Sutton purses his lips in thought. "Tell you what I don't want," he says. His finger stabs out at me. "Andorians. Never could stand 'em. That creep Antell was an Andorian."
"Was?" I ask.
"Last seen hanging onto the front port of that Klink shuttle," says Sutton. "Was, I reckon. Anyway -"
"If it would help negotiations," says Shalo, "I'm sure the... Shadow Operative... and her team could go and verify the identities of the corpses. My pilot and I will remain, to talk things over with you." She pulls out a datapad from her belt, enters a code. "Transferring all the required biometric data to your tricorders now. Is that acceptable to everyone?"
On the face of it, no - but I have a feeling Shalo is up to something, and if this Sutton is an anti-Andorian bigot, I might only get in her way. "I'll do it," I say, with as much ill grace as I can manage.
"Sounds good to me," says Sutton. He speaks into his wrist communicator. "Show our Andorian guests the way to the morgue."
---
We're met outside the bar by a group of Sutton's mercenaries. "We're going to the morgue," I say to a tall human who seems to be in charge. He really is wearing a cheap copy of Omega Force armour. He grins at me and gestures with his phaser carbine. "Let's go, then."
We start to move off in the direction he's pointing. "Just a minute," says the human. "Commodore Sutton said, take the Andorians to the morgue. No mention of the rest of you." He signals to one of his troops. "Take these three to a holding area."
Thirethequ opens his mouth to begin a protest, but I raise a warning hand. "Let's get on with it," I say.
Four of the humans come with Anthi and me, while another four lead my team off in another direction. All this has taken time; the orange sun is already sinking below the horizon. The street lights are wan and inadequate. I shoot a quick glance at the humans; all of them have vision amplifiers on. Their leader takes us down a dark passage between two huge warehouses.
My visor has a command interface that responds to eye movements. I blink and squint a few times, and get down a menu to the command I want. Universal Translators: OFF. "Four armed men are taking us down a dark alley," I say to Anthi in conversational tones. "Wait for the lights to go off."
"What was that?" the leader demands.
Universal Translators: ON. "Just clearing my throat?" I say.
He growls, and lifts his weapon. Then the dim street lights go out, and we move.
They expect to have the advantage; they expect to be able to see us, that we won't see them. They just don't reckon on Andorian senses - or on actual Omega equipment. I hit the stealth module on my suit, and disappear from sight as light bends around me. The leader can't see me. He can certainly feel me, though, when I slam my autocarbine very hard against the side of his head.
Anthi doesn't have a stealth module, but she doesn't need one. I'm reasonably good at th'kara, the Andorian martial art that evolved in the cramped lightless tunnels; Anthi, though, is an expert. One man is down from a neck strike almost as soon as the lights go out; she dodges a second man's clumsy blow and takes him out with a neatly executed combination of blows. That leaves one. Anthi hits him from behind as I hit him from the front, and he goes down like a sack of tubers.
Anti and I sprint for the mouth of the alley. Behind us, there are confused sounds. The streetlights come back on as we emerge.
I look back. "I don't think there's anything down that way that I want to worry about," I say.
Anthi is already aiming the cannon pistol. The captured Elachi weapon whines and shudders as it builds up a charge, then releases it suddenly in a crescentric wave of destruction, aimed straight into the mouth of the alley. As it spreads, the crescent catches the walls of the warehouses on each side. They're made of shoddy material, they collapse. Wreckage pours into the alleyway, blocking it.
I check my tactical scans. The men we knocked out are buried; still alive, but it'll take time to dig them out, we needn't worry about them - just about a few dozen others. I scan for the rest of my team. "This way," I say to Anthi, and we're off at a run.
As I expected, though, we don't have too much to worry about. By the time we reach the "holding area", one of the guards is smiling in blissful unconsciousness at Kluthli's feet, another is whimpering in Amiga's iron grasp, and Thirethequ is using his immense Jolciot strength to hit the third guard... with the fourth one.
"Mr. Thirethequ," I say mildly, "you do have an actual weapon, you know."
Thirethequ throws the unconscious man aside. "I crave your pardon, esteemed commander!" he shouts. "The temerity of these rapscallions drove me to forget myself." He unslings the plasma flamethrower. "In any case, I had thought this merely a property through which we might assume the appearance of frightfulness. But now, say the word, noble leader, and I shall emit conflagrations to rival the fiercest furnaces of my homeworld!"
"We do remain Starfleet officers," Amiga says, "and should try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." She looks at the groaning man in her arms, apparently noticing him for the first time. She lets go, and he drops limply to the floor.
"And we need information," I say, "so that means we need some of them alive and able to talk. Also, I think we should be scanning these guys - to see if any of them match up with the biometric data we got from Shalo."
Anthi's eyes widen at that. "Oh, yes," says Kluthli, "that makes sense. That fracas would have been a perfect chance for one of Klur's crew to try and jump ship."
"And Sutton got shifty when we asked about prisoners," I say. "So, try to take prisoners, avoid unnecessary loss of life... still, we're in dangerous ground, surrounded by a much larger hostile force." The old bloodlust is rising in me, no matter what. I check my autocarbine: fully charged.
Sutton doesn't like Andorians, huh? I'm going to give him some good reasons for that.
"All right," I say, "let's emit some conflagrations."
One possible typo or maybe I just need a clarification (italicized story text by me):
I blink and squint a few times, and get down a menu to the command I want.
I just wondered why "get" instead of "scan" or "scroll". The latter two seemed better to me, but I'm not the author.
Sutton does not invite me to sit. I take a seat anyway, smiling at him across the table. "Now, we can talk sensibly," I say.
"They are Feds, then?" Sutton says, with a jerk of his head towards the doorway.
"Conceivably."
He smiles. "Federation doesn't pay ransoms on its officers," he says. "Not officially."
"We need not discuss the Federation."
"So who are we discussing, then?"
"That," I say, "is an open question. I am a member of the KDF, and of the Orion House of Sinoom. Your answers may determine which of those takes precedence."
Sutton seems to think for a while. "The Orion woman who was in charge of the Klinks," he says, eventually. "She was asking after old contacts from the House of Sinoom."
"Cysitra Cira'tenis, for instance. How is Cysitra?"
"Dead. She called in Antell, tried to sell the Klinks out to the Feds."
"How distressing," I murmur. "I would have had questions for Cysitra. Can her data records be made available? That would be the next best thing." I see him hesitate, and I reach for my belt pouch. Eyes and drawn weapons follow the movement of my hand. I take a small object from the pouch, lay it down on the table with a click. Sutton looks at it, seemingly hypnotised by the ruddy gleam of the Lobi crystal.
"I do not pay in promises and agreements as the Federation does," I say. "Consider that... an advance, or a consultation fee. Cysitra's data records."
"I'd -" He swallows. "I'd have to make some arrangements - there were people who -"
"Who would rather their data transfers through Cysitra remained private," I finish for him. "That is understood. They must be compensated, of course." Click, click, click, as I put more crystals down on the table. These people are fools. They are not even watching my left hand, let alone Foojoy: he might as well be invisible to them. "Now, then. To other matters. Were there survivors, from the raid?" The man is a narrow-minded opportunist, so I add, "The Federation is awkward about ransoms; other factions are more realistic." I punctuate my words by putting down another crystal.
Sutton licks his lips, but before he can speak, his wrist communicator chimes. "Just a minute." He holds the device to his ear; all I hear is an agitated chittering. He stands up. "Have to deal with this." He retreats to the other end of the bar, muttering angrily into his wrist. I can't hear what he's saying, but I don't need to. Shohl is clearly not cooperating with his idea of holding her for ransom.
I glance at Foojoy, who nods. I pick up the half-empty bottle on the table, take a good look at it, decide against pouring myself a drink. There are watchful eyes all around me, those of Sutton's subordinates; they are nervous. I concentrate on ignoring them.
There is a faint rumbling sound from far away. The sound, perhaps, of distant thunder. Or of angry Andorians with guns.
Sutton comes back. He has two datapads in his hands, and the look on his face of a man considering how best to cut his losses. "The data cores at Cysitra's place were damaged when the Klinks blew the EPS grid," he says, putting one pad on the table before me. "Forensic reconstruction hasn't finished - maybe never will, it's not a priority. I have a raw dump here of all the retrieved data, it's the best I can do." He sits down again, weighing the second pad nervously in his hand.
"The other matter?" I ask.
Sutton bites his lip. He holds out the second pad. "One of the Klinks didn't make it offworld with the rest. A Nausicaan, gave his name as Lieutenant Kurjik. I took him on. We always need experienced men," he says, defensively.
I take the pad, consult it. "Full-service contract... hmmm. You struck a hard bargain, Commodore." I read on. "He claims his previous contract was automatically severed due to battlefield abandonment... the KDF is very unlikely to accept that. 'Battlefield abandonment' too often is used as a cover for simple desertion."
"The shuttle took off without him."
"It would be bound to, if he was running away from it... well, that need not concern us." I compare the biometric data with the listings on my own pad. "No Lieutenant Kurjik on my records, but I have a biometric match for a Warrior Jikkur. It seems reasonable to conclude that they are the same... given a field promotion, perhaps by his captain, perhaps by his own authority." I look up at Sutton. "So. To practical matters, then. How much?"
"Sorry?"
"For Kurjik's, or Jikkur's, contract." There is more noise from outside. I smile. "You are in a seller's market, Commodore. I suspect your troops are becoming rarer all the time. But I want this one. How much?"
He bites his lip again. "A hundred," he says, pointing at the Lobi. "A hundred of those."
"For one lieutenant's contract? Believe me, Commodore, I am doing you a huge favour in taking him off your hands."
"Eighty, then."
"Forty."
"Seventy."
"Fifty. And the ones already on the table. For the job lot, Commodore, the contract and the data dump. It is an equitable price."
He opens his mouth to make a counter-offer, and then the lights in the bar flicker, go out entirely for a second, then come back on, at low power. "Agreed," he says. I reach for my pouch, start to count out crystals. "Where is this Kurjik now?" I ask, as I count.
"He was on patrol in sector four - south-west quadrant near the main landing pads."
"I should be able to find him, then." I finish counting, pick up the datapads, and stand. "Activate," I say to Foojoy.
"Of activation, confirmation there is," he replies. Sutton's eyes widen.
"Look down, Commodore," I tell him. "Carefully."
His eyes widen further as he sees the thin lines of golden light, one on either side of his waist.
"A precaution," I say. "My pilot has deployed a modified Tholian stasis drone in a stealth field. Its entire emitter output is concentrated in those two threads. Under certain conditions, it will burn itself out harmlessly. Under certain other conditions, it will switch the directions of those two threads, so that they cross over each other. Rather like a pair of scissors." The web filaments are a micron thin and rigid to a degree impossible to mere solid matter. Sutton has started to sweat freely. "I need scarcely point out that the conditions... most favourable to you... involve me reaching my ship and departing unmolested. If you were to make incautious movements, or if I were to encounter difficulties - well." I give him my sweetest smile. "I am sure there are parts of your body below the waist that you would miss. Goodbye, Commodore. It has been a pleasure to do business with you." And I turn and stride out of the bar, leaving him sitting there, sweating.