She stands feet apart at the prow of her ship
Two loaded pistols cocked on her hips
Her quarry’s gone to ground
In a thick bank of clouds
Foolish for thinking he gave her the slip
She feels nothing but the cold wind
Her memories of warmth have long grown thin
Once long ago
The only love she’d known
Left her for dead, scarred and broken
Captain Morena’s heart is black as night
Her quest for vengeance goes long into the twilight
For ten years she’s hunted a vile, evil man
Who cast her into the ocean with his own bare hands
She orders her men to load the cannons
Grape shot and iron balls certain to do damage
Now that she’s caught a glimpse
Of that red painted ship
The look upon her face is no less than savage
All ahead full she shouts at her men
This crew who saved her from an untimely end
Her object of ire
Stands at a quarter mile
This once innocent girl is coming for him
Captain Morena’s heart is black as night
Her quest for vengeance goes long into the twilight
This once peasant girl has become a pirate queen
Only with blood will she be appeased
She pulls so close the gas cells collide
He stands across from her rigid with pride
In his handsome face
She sees not a trace
Of remorse for the emptiness he left her inside
Captain Morena tells her men to fire
The red ship goes up in a black funeral pyre.
Sailors and timber
All burn to a cinder
And still he smiles in his regal attire
She leaps over the side, hungry blade in hand
Their swords meet with a terrible clang
As she gives a shout
And her rage flows out
The powder magazine goes out with a bang
Captain Morena’s heart was black as night
Her quest for vengeance went long into the twilight
We last saw her, falling to her death
A smile on her face, her sword buried in his chest — “Captain Morena”, Escape the Clouds
High orbit over ch’Mol’Rihan.
“T’Khnialmnae, now!”
Ch’M’R Aen’rhien’s forward plasma banks fired at full power, striking another Herald cruiser amidships with its shields down.
“Hard to port!” barked Morgaiah t’Thavrau, coughing slightly as a bit of smoke drifted by her face. The Herald ship cracked, glowed from within, and detonated, the Rihan warbird swooping just out of the blast radius.
“Khre’Riov, we can’t hold them!” screamed one of the escort commanders over the comlink. “There are too many—” His shriek cut off mid-sentence. Another dot on the tactical plot went dark.
Nine hundred more men and women who would not see the dawn.
“Cruiser to starboard, on a collision course!” Jaleh Khoroushi snapped.
“Hard to starboard!” Morgan ordered. “Take it on the navigational deflector!”
“Nav deflector’s been dead for over an hour, rekkhai!” the Terrhaha reminded her. “We couldn’t stop a stray bolt!”
“Aen’rhien, this is BGV Destiny Ascension,” the Benthan flagship transmitted. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Captain Katris, you’re as torn up as we are!” Sarsachen tr’Sauringar said in disbelief.
“No, we’re worse.” A blue-gray bar-bell of a ship, trailing atmosphere, debris, and escape pods, listed across the course of the oncoming Herald ship. Metal crumpled. Ceramisteel tore. Viewports shattered. Magazines detonated. Then the viewscreen washed out in a single actinic pulse of radiation as both warp cores blew.
Khre’Enriov tr’Kererek’s voice came over the heavily encrypted command channel. “Khre’Riov t’Thavrau, you are ordered to disengage your element from the fleet and pull back to the dockyard. You will then escort ch’M’R Zdenia and the ekhifv temjahaere to Rendezvous Point Five-Four. All other ships, prepare to retreat.”
“Acknowledged,” Morgan said, quietly, hand-signaling the helmsman as she slumped in her command chair, the weariness of seven hours of fighting hitting her all at once. She didn’t need to ask what this meant. The last time she had heard such an order, she had been on the ch’R Albintian, returning to ch’Rihan to pull out the Deihuit before the Loss. Before… Hobus.
Images ran through her mind. The future of peace, her vineyard, all their hopes for the Kreh’dhhokh Mol’Rihan—
“Wait, belay my last!” tr’Kererek shouted over the comm. “All surviving vessels, form up! New orders inbound on Tac Two!”
Morgan grabbed her PDA. “Fire and Wind,” she breathed, then clicked her comm switch. “Two-Six Squadron, form up on my wing. Overlap your shields and commence run on Target Alpha-Six.”
“Rekkhai, maybe I’m missing something, but that dreadnought’s guns are still live!” tr’Sauringar objected. “We go after that battleship and—”
Morgan threw the PDA at him and he caught it. “The dreadnought will not be a threat for very much longer, Riov. Target the battleship.”
Tr’Sauringar’s eyes widened, and he gave her a giddy grin. “Au’e, rekkhai. Helm! You heard the lady! Punch it!”
* * *
Supreme High Lord Venerated-Beyond-Measure laughed gleefully as the little green ships danced and burned. Mostly burned. The servitors known as the “Romulans” had put up a ferocious fight: even two of his mighty Iaidon dreadnoughts had fallen to suicidal ramming attacks. These Romulans’ bizarre power supply, a confined black hole, could be quite destructive. And the allies they had brought from the far side of the galaxy had stymied all but a token landing, though all had eventually perished.
But the forces of the Iconian Empire were legion, quite literally enough to blot out the sun, and the Romulans had been weakened from within by one of their own at the behest of the Infinite Supreme Imperator of all Iconians, Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds. Fewer and fewer of the green ships remained in their path, and after that, the planet lay defenseless. “Servitor, leave some of the puny creatures alive. I want to know how it is that they could resist the forces led by Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness for so long.”
“Understood, Your Exaltedness,” the Herald shipmaster said. “If I may ask—”
“I will clarify, puny lesser being. I said ‘alive’, not ‘undamaged’.
“Of course, Your Exaltedness.” The Herald turned its six eyes on the hologram of the battlefield. “Your Exaltedness, I detect a curious… fluctuation in subspace.”
“It is nothing! The aftereffects of our entrance, nothing more!”
“Of course, Your Exaltedness. I merely thought—”
“Your job is not to think, servitor! You will concentrate on—”
“Supreme High Lord Venerated-Beyond-Measure!” another Herald cried suddenly. Astonished at its impudence, the Iconian raised his hand to blast the Herald from existence, but it pointed frantically at a new group of dots on the plot. “Enemy contacts, my Lord! New enemies approach our position!”
Venerated-Beyond-Measure glanced at the plot, then turned and vaporized the Herald anyway. “That was for interrupting—”
“Your Exaltedness,” the shipmaster interrupted, “I detect a rather curious energy from the new arrivals.”
Then everything turned curiously green.
* * *
On the bridge of the ch’R Eyhon Eludet’eri, Enriov Satali t’Tyrava looked on with satisfaction as the Herald flagship suddenly ceased all maneuvering. “Well, well. Thalaron radiation works on Ikkonsu; who would have thought? Erein t’Sathe, deploy fighters. All units, commence attack pattern Ael Twelve; follow me in.”
“Rekkhai, we are being hailed by ch’M’R Aen’rhien.”
“Onscreen.” A weatherbeaten face appeared on the main viewer. “Khre’Riov t’Thavrau, Fvillhu Velal sends his regards.”
“Enriov,” t’Thavrau said in a weary tone, “your timing is impeccable and your presence much appreciated.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the latinum in the galaxy,” t’Tyrava answered, smiling nastily. “Today we avenge the Loss, and the Sacrifice. Today, we avenge ch’Rihan.”
* * *
Lae’nas system. 2300 hours Federation Standard time, June 8th, 2410.
Cruisers and escorts hurtle past in an enormous furball as Tess duels a Herald battleship twice our size. The red-alert sirens blare as our phasers thrum, but we’re wearing down the Herald’s shields faster than it’s wearing down ours.
The ship shudders as a salvo from another Herald behemoth slams into it. “Starboard shield at twenty percent!” Gaarra warns me. “I’m remodulating and diverting power from engines!”
“Park, roll ship!” I snap. “Flag, I need cover!”
“T’Kumbra, Agamemnon, Shavokh, divert to screen Bajor’s starboard flank.” Three of Paris’s sleek new escorts dart out and lance phaser pulse after phaser pulse into the other battleship, splitting around its shields and looping behind for another strafing run before it can return fire.
As before, the Heralds have little or no tactical coordination. Some seem to have a modicum of discipline and try to stick to simple formations, cruisers fighting in pairs or raiders forming a swarm around a larger ship, but most just attack at random, the raiders jumping around through short-lived gateways and the cruisers slowly moving for our heavies, trying to bring the power of their fore weapons to bear.
Paris is in his element, evading the cruisers and cutting them to shreds from the rear as the trio of battlecruisers in our motley crew spit rapid-fire bolts of energy into the clouds of oncoming raiders, fighters, and drones. A Nebula-class and Steamrunner-class pull up alongside us with one of the Republic’s new Aelahl-class light battlecruisers close behind. Green and orange beams and bolts blaze from their emitters, and the Romulan cruiser throws a gravity well downrange that vacuums up a whole pack of raiders and several torpedoes, smashing them into a tangled mass of twisted, flaming metal.
Tess whoops with joy. “Enemy shield has collapsed! Forward tube locked and firing!” A rapid-fire series of quantum torpedoes shriek out of the tubes, slamming into the battleship’s bow below the glowing blue “eye”. The dreadnought is still trying to turn, its design built for slow, intimidating advance rather than rapid maneuvers. The other battleship is floundering as more and more of Paris’s escorts and the survivors of Starbase 234 that we brought with us add their fire, the incoming assault now so intense that the target’s hull is beginning to blacken and buckle even through the shields.
The first battleship explodes in a gout of fire and twisted metal, taking two cruisers and a swarm of smaller ships with it, and several voices over the com link cheer. But our joy is as short-lived as our victory.
D’trel swears on the com link, and Vengeance pulls hard to starboard just as the main gun on the Iconian dreadnought fires, blazing through space where the little escort had been seconds before. No other ships were in the way; I realize what it means just as the Herald cruisers and raiders form an actual, albeit extremely simple, formation, aiming everything they have for the flagship.
The Iconians have figured out who’s leading us.
* * *
“FINISH THEM!” thrummed Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness. His mind was clear, now. It was so obvious, now. His magnificence would endure, he could gloat all he pleased for eternity—but not unless he finished these servitors, here, now.
“USE THE MAIN GUN! FLANK THAT SMALL SERVITOR SHIP, YOU FOOLS!”
The Herald Harbinger at the helm station began to respond with an elaborate description of Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness’s magnificence, but he cut it off. “Just shoot them, you fool!”
The main cannon fired, and Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness swore.
“FLANK THEM, YOU FOOLS! IGNORE THE OTHERS! IGNORE THE OTHERS! KILL THAT SMALL SHIP! KILL THEM!”
The battleships wheeled in space at the Iconian’s command. The little warbird’s pilot saw the shift; so did the servitor admiral. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness swore again, defaming the dignity of the distant ancestors of the enemy pilot. As the second of his battleships detonated, he added a series of curses aimed at the sexual potency of the commander of those infernal light escorts that had cut it down swooping swiftly and easily around his mighty vessels. Those puny beings should know their place!
“RAM THEM.”
Swarms of raiders converged. The Federation battleship, the annoying one that would not die, swatted raiders and a cruiser out of space, even stopping a raider cold by taking the impact on its saucer, but too many got through. The Iconian smiled, secure in his victory.
“Finish them.”
The main gun fired again. Closer, this time. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness smiled again. His mustachio vibrated with glee.
“Good. GOOD! Hit them with everything!”
A raider slipped within a dozen meters of the little warbird, and the shields connected, the impact sending the warbird reeling.
“NOW!”
The main gun fired. The warbird’s pilot reacted, but too slow. Not even Breen reflexes could get the ship far enough from the beam in time.
One of the warbird’s wings was annihilated instantly, the beam of heat and light carving deep into the body of the ship. The little warbird flipped away through space, engines dead, hull sparkling. A tractor beam shot out from the Federation battleship, but Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness knew that his magnificent victory was secure.
“YES! YES!!! NOW FINISH THE REST! AHAHAHAHAAA!!! ONCE AGAIN MY SUPREME GLORY BRINGS ME TO INEVITABLE VICTORY OVER THE LOWLY SERVITORS! THEY CANNOT POSSIBLY WITHSTAND THE INEVITABLE ASCENDANCY OF MY GLORIOUS FATE, FOR I AM—”
Then the Federation battleship returned fire.
* * *
D’trel clawed her way back to consciousness and hauled herself upright from the floor of the bridge. Hull breach alarms were howling, the main viewscreen had shattered into a million pieces, and a cloud of smoke and fire-suppressant hazed the room.
“Min’tak’allan, what’s our status? Where are they?” No response. D’trel looked over at the sensor station. “Answer me—Areinnye!”
Min’tak’allan slumped unmoving, pinned to his console through the back of his chair by a jagged spear of hull plating a meter long.
D’trel swallowed, hot tears welling up in her eyes, and reached for her communicator. “Daysnur! Talk to me! What’s our status?”
“Our status is we’ve had it, Admiral! Hull breaches on all decks, I had to eject the singularity core, the EPS grid is fried, weapons ports are just gone—Jak, get a stabilizer on that conduit! Sir, we’re floating scrap, our only chance is for the Iconians to ignore us long enough for us to evacuate. Life support’s about to fail and I don’t think I can get it back up again without a power transfer and a set of power cells.”
D’trel cursed, loud and profane but short.
“First, that’s it. We’re evacuating. See to it.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Jem’Hadar, tearing a piece of debris from where it had hit the helm controls. “All hands, this is First Omek’ti’kallan. Make for your designated evacuation points and prepare to abandon ship.” He grabbed the semiconscious Zel by a shoulder and pulled xir to xir feet. “Third, with me. Admiral, I have sent a distress beacon but I have no way of knowing if anyone is still alive to respond.”
D’trel grabbed the hilt of her sword, out of the need for security if nothing else. Her head was throbbing, a voice that was half hers and half Adani’s screaming with rage and hate in her brain.
“Right. I’ll meet you in five minutes. Going to check the kid. Then see if whoever was on Ops made it.”
The Jem’Hadar saluted and left for the access shaft by the turbolift, half-carrying the Breen with him.
She hauled herself over the wreckage that half-bisected the bridge, swearing. The young Ferasan’s eyes were mercifully closed. D’trel figured that he’d died instantly, from shock if nothing else. Good. Poor kid didn’t deserve a slow death.
“They’re going to pay,” she promised, clasping the bekk on his shoulder for the last time. “If it takes me a thousand years, they will pay.” She squeezed, lightly. “Min’tak’allan. You were a good kid. I’ll tell your parents. And then I’ll find a way to kill that Supreme High Scumbag and make it permanent this time.”
“Help,” a small voice groaned from under the wreckage. D’trel’s head whipped around. A leg protruded from beneath a section of the ceiling. The Rihanha swore.
“I’m here! I’ll get you out!”
The voice was quieting. Live crew. They needed her.
Hate died in her breast. For once in her life, certainty came from somewhere other than rage. People needed her. She was there. She would help them.
She hauled a piece of broken metal off a bloodied Havranha. Erein’s badge. That new boy, fresh out of Phi’lasasam. Torvek, she thought his name was. He’d barely been on the ship for a week. “If it hurts, tell me! Is anything damaged?”
“My leg. I can’t feel my leg.”
“Ariennye. Looks like you’re walking with me when I get you out of here…” She hauled off another piece of twisted metal. “Damn Iconians got smart. Not very smart, but smart enough.”
The kid moaned.
“Your first tour?”
“Yes, sir. Oh, Elements, my arm… I can’t feel my right leg, and my arm…”
“I know. Transporters are down,” D’trel grunted as she heaved another mass of metal away, “so I’ll carry you to Sickbay and get you patched up quickly before we evac. Alright, this is going to hurt.”
“Oh, Air. Ready, sir.”
“On five. One. Two.” She pulled the spear of metal that had pinned the Havranha’s upper arm to the wall, and he shrieked in pain. “Good. You’re fine.” D’trel tore off her outer coat, holding one hand to the kid’s arm as she ripped off a sleeve with her teeth, then tied the makeshift bandage as tightly as she dared. “Keep that there.”
“Yes, sir,” managed the kid between gasps of pain.
“Good. You’re going to be fine. Looks like nerve damage in the upper thigh, there. Lean on me.” The Rihanha hauled the kid up by his good arm; he had the sense to obey orders. “Good. I’ll support you. Doctor, I’ve got a Reman male, mid-twenties, here, bringing him down, needs treatment for a crushed leg, nerve damage there, and a puncture wound all through his upper left arm.”
“Another one? I hate shrapnel. Get him down here, sir.”
“Roger that. This way, kid, I’ll help you down the access shaft.”
I cough hard against the smoke filling the bridge as Tess hammers the shields of the enemy dreadnought with the forward phasers. The astrogator is dead and his console is on fire, and more smoke is coming from the aft corridor and overstressed circuits on the bridge. “Gaarra, can you—”
“Adjusting the ventilation controls, Captain.”
“Thank you!” The bridge jolts as I hit the comm key on the arm of my chair. “All units, this is Captain Kanril. Vengeance is out of action; I’m taking command of the fleet. Form up on me and concentrate all fire on that dreadnought, it’s our only chance.” I point to a petty officer. “You! Tractor the Vengeance, knock it clear of the furball!”
The ship groans as a powerful beam glances off the starboard shields. “Shields down to 32 percent!” Tess announces. “And if that had been a direct hit we’d be eating vac, FYI!”
“Captain,” Wiggin says over the din of alarms, “I’ve been analyzing the readings off that ship. They’re using a multiple-sector shield design like us—they have to, they’re too big for a single bubble—but the individual sectors are much smaller. Recommend we focus all our fire on one point—”
“Like a Borg cube?”
“Yes, ma’am. I recommend here.”
I look at the readings. “That doesn’t seem like a reactor or a weapons emplacement.”
“No, ma’am. But it has life-form readings. I think it’s the bridge.”
“The Inevitable Whatever,” I realize.
Tess’s face twists into a gleeful snarl. “It’ll be a pleasure, ma’am.”
“Esplin, transmit the coordinates to the fleet. Reload forward torpedo tubes—give me the high-yield stuff.”
“Loading neutronic torpedoes,” Tess confirms.
“Target the bridge, maximum firepower. Let’s see what it takes to bring one of those down.”
The fleet moves in, and lances and bolts of orange and green streak across the void, battering into the dreadnought just above the main gun. It fires, and the John Paul Jones vanishes from the plot. We redouble our efforts as the fighters move in, heedless of their own fragility, unloading torpedo after torpedo against the behemoth at point-blank range and dying by the dozen. It’s not working; we need more power. “Tess, dump everything to the phasers, life-support if you have to!”
“Waiting for you to say that, ma’am!” A red-orange thunderbolt erupts from the dorsal phaser strip and smashes into the shields like the fist of an angry god. An alarm goes off—the array’s focusing mechanisms have torn themselves apart under the strain—but the shields are finally down. “Torpedoes locked!”
“Send him to the Fire Caves!”
A veritable kaleidoscope of glowing projectiles shrieks out of a dozen torpedo tubes and collides with the dreadnought in a titanic firestorm of energy. Cracks rocket across its hull from the point of impact at supersonic speed. A secondary explosion belches out of the tube for the main gun.
“Captain, I’m reading a subspace rupture off its bow!”
“Take evasive action!”
A huge gateway swirls into existence amid the fleet and the dreadnought’s engines ignite. We move in to attack, but its flank weapons and shields are still operational, so we can do little more than watch as the Herald dreadnought, battered but still flying, escapes to points unknown.
* * *
D’trel swore and pounded the access panel for the escape pods. Nothing happened. “Are any of the others working?”
“The ventral set is partially functional,” Omek rumbled, “but we cannot evacuate the entire crew with them. Even if we leave our dead, we can only get seven men off of the ship.”
“Right. Find whoever’s youngest, get the new kids out. Then we head down to the armory, you and me, and we jury-rig some EV suits, turn the ship into a floating bomb, take that Inevitable Fate moron with us.”
“We will be victorious,” rumbled the Jem’Hadar. “It has been my honor, sir.”
“Likewise.” D’trel pulled the big man in for a one-armed hug. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”
“Likewise,” rumbled First Omek’ti’kallan, his large, calf-brown eyes glistening with tears.
Then D’trel heard an electrical whine behind her and spun, drawing her sword in a flash. The point met the neck of a ginger-haired Bah’jorha in a gray combat hardsuit. “Phekk! Easy! Admiral, it’s me!”
D’trel lowered her sword, slowly. “Kanril. You’re not stupid enough to try a rescue of an adrift ship in the middle of a battle, not personally at least. So. We won. Good.” The Rihanha’s voice was harsh, clipped.
The Bah’jorha shook her head. “No. We hold the field, but this isn’t a victory. I, uh, brought my medics.”
“How many dead?” D’trel asked as white-uniformed Starfleet Medical personnel pushed past them.
“Here or overall?”
D’trel almost laughed. It turned into a sob halfway through, but she cut it off. “Captain, I’ve lost over twenty people, on a fifty-man crew, including my sensor—Min’tak’allan. Science Bekk Min’tak’allan. He died with his name. Give me the casualties from this battle first, then overall.”
“We lost the Ortisei, Kerrigan, John Paul Jones, Trem, Cuirass, Rea’s Helm, MajQa’Be’, Chang, two dozen birds-of-prey, over a hundred fighters, Tarsem Gau’s got no nacelles anymore but at least the crew lived, and I’ve got a chunk missing out of my saucer. Overall? In the millions, and there’s still active fighting going on at Tellar, Andoria, and Qo’noS, last I heard.”
“Ariennye. Home fleet? Ch’Mol’Rihan?”
“Praetor Velal sent help. He brought the Lost Road and two other Scimitars, everything he had.”
D’trel almost smiled. Almost.
“Good. Casualties there?”
“Relatively light, apparently. Nine cruisers and about twenty-five smaller ships, plus a bunch from the Delta Alliance.”
D’trel winced. “Light by your standards maybe. Not to us, not with our fleet numbers.” She sheathed her sword. “Hope you don’t mind my men sleeping on your ship for a few nights?”
“Not at all, sir. It’s a Galaxy-class; we’ve got guest rooms to spare.”
“Good.” The Rihanha half-sighed, running a hand through her short hair.
“Captain, this is Doctor Wirrpanda,” a voice said through Kanril’s combadge.
“Go, Warragul.”
“I want to start beaming the criticals to sickbay.”
Kanril glanced at D’trel, who nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Did you take out the dreadnought?”
“Hit the bridge, couldn’t finish it. Those things can take a beating,” she added in what sounded like almost an admiring tone.
“So you killed the Inevitable Fate one again. I hate that one.” Then, after a pause. “I’ve killed him twice, now. And now one for you, first time you've run in to him. Keep it up at that rate, and you’ll kill him more times than me someday.”
“Pfah!” Kanril gave a derisive laugh. “Nah, maybe he’ll stay dead this time.”
* * *
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness woke up.
Ow.
Well, that hadn’t gone very well. It seemed the rebellious servitors did not react well to a decapitation strike. They had continued to act despite his disablement of the little warbird.
He contacted a Herald and took the report, analyzing it in closer detail. The servitors’ command had apparently devolved to that battleship, that enormous plate-on-a-gooseneck vessel the Heralds seemingly could not kill no matter what they threw.
So the servitors could continue to act despite the loss of their leader. That did not bode well.
Or… perhaps it was a signal. These servitors were lesser than him, and yet they had slain him, Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, the son and heir of Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds, He-Who-Rules-All-Worlds, Infinite Supreme Imperator of all Iconians, et cetera ad infinitum, three times now. Perhaps, instead of crushing all thought independent of an Iconian master, the Heralds required more autonomy, at least in the short term.
“Servitor!”
“Yea, O Inevitably Glorious Supreme High Lord—”
“Yes, yes, I know, I am powerful and wonderful and all that. Find the engineer who took command of the Unyielding Hierophant after my… accident, and bring him to me.”
“You wish to execute him, your majesticness?” the Solanae asked, rubbing its talons together in anticipation.
Yeah, our plan is sort of to make that one Herald into SHLIFFG's hypercompetent sidekick.
*imitates Majel Barrett* And now, the conclusion...
Epilogue
O believe, my heart, O believe:
Nothing to you is lost!
Yours is, yes yours, is what you desired
Yours, what you have loved
What you have fought for!
O believe,
You were not born for nothing!
Have not for nothing, lived, suffered!
What was created
Must perish,
What perished, rise again!
Cease from trembling!
Prepare yourself to live!
O Pain, You piercer of all things,
From you, I have been wrested!
O Death, You masterer of all things,
Now, are you conquered!
With wings which I have won for myself,
In love’s fierce striving,
I shall soar upwards
To the light which no eye has penetrated!
— From “Symphony #2: Resurrection” by Gustav Mahler
Palais de la Concorde, Paris, France.
Fleet Admiral William Riker sat with President Aennik Okeg as the battle reports flowed in from across the Beta Quadrant.
At Andoria, the Imperial Guard fought like madmen, their tiny escorts repeatedly warping straight into the teeth of the onrushing Heralds, outflanking the lumbering dreadnoughts and laying waste to them in passing, then warping back out as the Iconian ships struck the mines they’d left behind. Damaged and disabled vessels died in droves in the gravity of the ice giant planet Andor, while those that won through to the moon’s surface were met with yet more mines and ancient chem-fueled ballistic missiles tipped with very modern antimatter warheads, weapons so primitive the Heralds apparently didn’t recognize them as such. And the Andorians’ universal conscription stood them well: even when Heralds gated into the underground cities they were met with a withering hail of gunfire from all quarters, and every third window held a sniper.
The Andorians had even turned the very elements against the invaders, using the weather control systems to call up a worldwide blizzard that still raged. The native life was inured to it. The Heralds weren’t.
The same could not be said of Tellar. True to their nature, the Tellarites held the line, stopping the Heralds cold in space with sheer stubborn tenacity. Not one single thrall or construct made landfall. Not one. But the cost was terrible: the Tellar Space Administration had effectively ceased to exist.
On Bajor, well… Will Riker smiled at the thought of the Militia’s battle cry, “Never again!” The Heralds had completely bypassed the meager forces Starfleet could marshal at Deep Space 9, approaching from the far side of the star B’hava’el, but to no avail: The Bajorans had learned well from the Cardassians. Surface Arm held the warships at bay with surface-to-orbit artillery and met the landers in the air with a cloud of spaceworthy Longbow fighters. Those that reached the surface were targeted by spotters for bombardment from howitzers concealed in caves and camouflaged bunkers, and in at least one case a seagoing warship sitting off the coast. And even a Herald Harbinger in his full glory was no match for a main battle tank. In the cities gray-uniformed Bajoran soldiers fought house-to-house with pillboxes and IEDs, rockets and bayonets, seemingly wanting to remind the entire galaxy why the Cardassians had left.
And then the wormhole had opened, and for the third time in two years, Dominion warships poured through. Together with Starfleet the Jem’Hadar under Odo fell on the backs of the Herald invaders with a fury unseen since the War, regaining their lives for those they had once named “foe”. Iconian losses were total.
“The strike force under D’trel just reported in,” said Fleet Admiral tr’Kererek. The Romulan had bags under his eyes and creases on his cheeks from exhaustion and stress, but his uniform was still crisp and in order. “They lost thirty-three ships and over a hundred fighters, but managed to secure part of the Preserver archive. The Tal’Diann will doubtless be asking pointed questions about why doing so was even necessary in the coming days—”
“Rest assured, I’ll be ordering an investigation into why the Archive wasn’t used as an intelligence source earlier,” the Saurian behind the desk assured him. “We can’t afford that kind of incompetence.”
Tr’Kererek nodded. “Well, for now I suppose that we can be satisfied that we survived.”
“D’trel was facing a smaller force, wasn’t she?” asked Riker. “What happened?”
“Tactical logs show the Iconians at the Lae’nas archive using actual tactics, albeit basic ones. Actual coordination, quick responses to our strikes, they even figured out which ship was commanding the fleet and tried for a decap shot. And we tried to stop them with Rear Admiral Taitt’s little trick at Lae’nas III, but it didn’t work.”
“Well, it was the sort of thing that would only work once,” Riker noted, grabbing a cup of coffee from the table before the couch and gulping it down. Taitt had been a good woman. Her “trick” had saved Earth in one strike, albeit at the cost of her own life. “But actual tactics?”
“It was that Iconian from Qo’noS, from January. Inevitable something-or-other. He must’ve learned from being killed twice.”
“Twice?” Riker almost spat coffee all over his pants.
Tr’Kererek snickered. “D’trel killed him in January, then again two weeks ago.”
“Somebody’s gotta teach that guy how to die,” Riker quipped. The President snorted.
“Velal sends his regards, by the way,” said tr’Kererek. “Last I heard the Imperial senate was debating whether or not to censure him for helping the Republic, at least until Velal parked a Praetorian Guard squad outside of the senate chambers and reminded them of the Khitomer Treaty’s external threat provision.”
“Good to hear that the RSE’s cooperating,” noted Riker. “Odo pulled up a fleet of a couple hundred Jem’Hadar carriers and broke the Heralds over Bajor. Been a bit busy with the Tellar mess, but I should’ve told you that Kai Kira pinged me ten minutes ago to say that Odo’s officially inviting Alliance diplomats to the Dominion to discuss a possible mutual defense pact.”
The President made the Saurian equivalent of a whistle. That was big.
“Oh, and Mr. President? D’trel’s recommending your favorite Starfleet captain for a medal.”
Okeg’s smile faded. “Kanril?”
“And I quote, ‘You’d better give her the Pike this time or else I’m putting her up for the Empress Ael Medal,’ unquote.”
“Can she do that?”
“Kanril fought under Rihan command, and on Rihan soil for part of the battle,” tr’Kererek explained, “so yes, she can. And in my personal opinion, based on the after-action reports she showed excellent judgement, and she did her damndest to save the Kholhr, even lost a chunk of her saucer stopping a Baltim-class raider from ramming D’trel, then took command of the task force and eliminated the enemy commander after D’trel got taken out.” Okeg groaned and tr’Kererek gave him a sympathetic look. “Look, I know she’s politically inconvenient—”
“She’s a damn headache, is what she is.”
“So is D’trel on occasion. All right, frequently—sometimes I’d like to bust her aehf, but I can’t afford it. She’s a good officer, Mr. President.”
“She’s a blunt instrument!”
“And sometimes you need a hammer,” replied tr’Kererek with a shrug. “D’trel’s the best hammer I’ve seen in decades, and from what I’ve seen Kanril’s good at it, too. I’d be a complete idiot to send D’trel on an intel mission; Elements, we tried that early on, complete disaster. She blew her cover, they shipped her off to Hakeev—complete disaster. Only barely scraped her out of that FUBAR thanks to a deep-cover asset.”
Riker and Okeg shared a wince at that.
“Anyway,” continued tr’Kererek, “with an officer like that, you use ‘em like a hammer. Tell them to eliminate a problem—not a shady one, a public one. It’ll get done. Somebody like Gaul, the Voth, the Elachi, the Iconians, all big and in-your-face threat? Hammer.” He shrugged again. “If I were you, sir, I’d give Kanril everything she needs and then some right now. We already have a whole case of scalpels working to sabotage the Iconians; and frankly, those fools are sabotaging themselves at this rate. What we need is a really big hammer to shatter them when the cracks show.”
Riker resisted the urge to smile. The President grumbled something unintelligible.
“Sir, we have other problems,” Admiral Quinn informed him. “The Klingons didn’t fare nearly as well as we did. They seem to have made the same mistake as the Tellarites, only with more ships and less coordination.”
“Personal glory trip issues?” Riker asked.
“By the truckload. I mean, they completely annihilated the fleet sent there but they took at least sixty percent casualties, and the Chancellor was badly injured trying to make a suicide run on a dread. Damn thing broke his Bort in half and left him for dead, like he wasn’t worth the bother finishing off. They only turned the tide because Worf and Ja’rod offered amnesty to some warriors from Torg and Konjah and brought everything left at Ty’Gokor to Qo’noS. That Lethean general of theirs, Brokosh, helped too, called in like half the mercs and pirates in the quadrant. And the after-action reports? Not kind to the Chancellor’s military abilities. Fallout from this is going to dramatically affect the balance of power in the Empire.”
“What about the Cardassians?”
Quinn clicked a remote at the wall screen. “The Iconians were a no-show. But the Cardies took our advice and pulled everything they could back from the front lines to defend Cardassia, and as a result those Third Empire fanatics overran two planets almost unopposed. Castellan Lang’s hopping mad, to say the least.” The admiral paused. “If I may make a suggestion on that score, sir?” The President nodded. “We may need to suspend the treaty restrictions on the CDF for a time until we have the Iconian situation under control.”
“I’ll take it to the Council but I’m not optimistic. What about the Undine? Are they on our side now, or what?”
Quinn grimaced. “Some of them are, at least in that they hate the Iconians at least as much as we do.” On the screen, holo-footage played of a comparatively tiny Undine bioship splitting a Herald dreadnought down the middle and frying six battleships over Vulcan. The Iconian attack there had been massive, but a response by over a thousand Undine bioships had neutralized the threat in short order. Undine and Federation losses were minimal at most.
Quinn paged through a few more channels—a eulogy for Admiral Taitt and the crew of the Caelian, an interview with Worf (albeit one conducted while he was striding purposefully somewhere with a deep scowl aimed at the reporter), D’trel on a makeshift podium…
“Hold it there!” said tr’Kererek suddenly. Quinn obliged.
“… is this live?” asked Riker. Quinn checked, and paled. He nodded, and Okeg swore.
“…Well,” sighed tr’Kererek, “She did just save our only reliable cheat sheet on the Iconians, and lost more than a third of her crew. Put the volume up, would you please?”
Quinn obliged.
“… lost many brave men and women, but their sacrifices allowed us to defeat the Iconian force. This is the first Iconian force on record that has used actual tactics and coordination; I can’t comment on why that is, but I suspect that the Iconian commander of that fleet has been learning from his mistakes. This is now the third time that I’ve faced the Iconian known as Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, and the closest he’s ever come to victory. The previous two times, he was content to brag about his magnificence or some such in front of armed soldiers. This time, he reacted to our attacks and appears to have targeted my flagship deliberately to disrupt command-and-control. It’s only thanks to Captain Kanril Eleya of the Federation Starship Bajor, who skillfully took command of the strike force and managed to kill Inevitably-Fated-for-Idiocy after my ship was disabled, that I and the Preservers that we retrieved from the archive before its destruction survived. I’ve already said this, but Okeg, she gets the Pike for this or I’m putting her up for the Empress Ael medal.”
Through his fingers, Riker looked over at Quinn. The Trill’s teeth were grinding loudly and he looked almost swollen, apoplectic with rage. Riker couldn’t help grinning at the older man’s discomfiture. “Hey, you promoted her, Jorel, not me.”
“Don’t remind me.”
* * *
“Thanks for the ride,” D’trel says gruffly as the Bajor approaches New Romulus. She’s wearing a set of gray battle fatigues Biri loaned her, but still with the sword buckled to her waist. Omek’ti’kallan looms behind her, as he has for most of the trip back to New Romulus. “Your Admiral Riker called me, said you’re getting the Pike for saving my bacon.”
“My pleasure, sir.” I shake the Romulan’s proffered hand. “Sorry about the casualties. Is there any way I can…”
She shakes her head. “Not really. I’m going to tell their families, and there’s a widows and orphans fund set up with some latinum I, ah, acquired from a Ferengi called Madran. Not much to be done, really.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling. I’ve got about fifty letters to write myself.”
D’trel shakes her head again. “Some days I hate this job. At least your government got some sense for once.”
I smirk at that. “I think that was mostly you publicly threatening to put me up for the Republic’s second-highest honor, sir.”
“Kanril, I put everyone up for a medal. Everyone in that fight’s getting at the very least a Sotarek Citation, and by all the Elements they deserve it. I put up all the dead for the Alidar Jarok Freedom Medal, too—that one’s posthumous-only. Tr’Kererek put everyone on my ship who survived the Inevitably Pretentious One’s main gun up for honors, too.”
“Even the mercs?”
“Yeah. First Omek’ti’kallan here, he’s got to stand through a ten-minute ceremony for the Alliance Service Medal. Which I would’ve put you up for after Lae’nas III, but it’s for our officers only, no wiggle room.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Credit where it’s due. What you did there took guts and quick thinking, both of which I believe have infinite value.”
“Well, credit where it’s due,” I respond, gesturing to the man at sensors, “I wouldn’t have managed it if the master chief there hadn’t spotted the weakness in their shields.”
“Peter Wiggin, right?” He nods. “Good. Tr’Tellus and D’tan owe me, and Obisek and I are… not friends, really, more political allies who get drinks twice a year and complain about politics. Obisek can get Havran Power behind him. I’ll call in a couple favors, you’re going to get a call in about a week, once we sort this mess out. Hope you’re up for a day trip to ch’Mol’Rihan.”
“With respect, sir, you don’t seem like a woman who likes dealing with politics.”
“The Deihuit has to ratify the Empress Ael. I can recommend it, but they have to vote, which means I need to play politics.” She pauses, then asks, “One other thing, are you and Jak—”
“We’re fine,” I assure her. “Though he may have some trouble moving around for the next few days.” She raises an eyebrow and I smirk again and hold up a data solid. “Security feed from the sparring ring in officer country.”
D’trel and the big Jem’Hadar look dumbfounded. “Subcommander Jak outweighs you by how much, Captain?” Omek finally says.
“Maybe thirty kilos,” I answer matter-of-factly.
D’trel presses a palm to her forehead, shaking her head. “Now I know why he wanted you to adopt any of his potential kids if he dies. And why he applied for a chakar daran course."
I shrug. “He’s good, don’t get me wrong, but he’s got to be both a soldier and a tech. I fight, and that's it.”
The Jem’Hadar nods. “Understandable. We must do a practice duel at some point, Captain.”
I scoff. “Yeah, right. I saw you throw that class-two halfway through a boulder. The Nausicaan’s just a decent shot and a half-decent fighter, not a Jem’Hadar. Though I’ve beaten them, too,” I add thoughtfully.
Omek’ti’kallan smiles. “I told you that she was intelligent as well as competent, Admiral.”
“I knew that, First, but you’re right, she’s not as overconfident as most green Fed captains.” She passes him a slip of latinum. “Omek here is strong and fast enough to restrain me when I was hopped up on mind-wipe implants and aggression drugs in a Fen’Domar arena. And I’ve been fighting for over fifty years, trained by the best swordsman I’ve ever known, Ameh tr’Shaien. Respectfully speaking, you’d last maybe a minute against him, and that’s a long time.”
“First Daruk’talan thought the same thing.”
“He made First?” rumbles the Jem’Hadar. “I never would have expected him to make it past Third. Odo’Ital must have been pleased with something he did. Or perhaps his First died, there was a dispute with pirates on the frontier when I left on Odo’Ital’s orders.”
“All I know is, they had him assigned to the honor guard of a Vorta named Kargin when I was posted to DS9 about five years ago.”
Omek’s expression sours. “Kargin? I take it back. Perhaps Glorious Odo’Ital was displeased with him.”
“Exiting warp now, ma’am,” Lieutenant Park announces.
A blue-green world inflates into view and D’trel gasps. Battle debris litters space and Park has to change course to avoid what looks like the starboard wing of a Ha’apax-class warbird, raggedly severed from the fuselage. Much of the planet’s equatorial jungle and part of the capital city Temer’s Soul is in flames, and Esplin picks up chatter on the emergency channel.
Job’s not over yet. “Wiggin! Rev up the biosign sensors. Let’s see if we can save a few more lives on our way in.”
His son, Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, felt a little thrill of rebellious glee as he realized that he did not care.
The Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor’s announcer’s flowery praise of the Emperor’s modesty was beginning to draw to a close. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness figured that he would soon be asked to speak.
“...Why, then, does our glorious Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor, the infinitely great, perfectly modest, astoundingly handsome, unbelievably wise supreme intelligence of our infinitely glorious Empire find his glorious and magnificently majestic self with such a MISERABLE FAILURE OF A SON?”
There was silence. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness smiled.
“You are all fools.”
There was a ripple of shock and horror through the hall. The announcer squawked like a squashed toad, but Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness stood dramatically and telekinetically threw the other Iconian into a pillar, pinning him there.
“My infinite armies and innumerable fleets may have failed to eliminate the servitors’ resistance,” thrummed Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, “but I have gained something far more important.” He took a breath. “Knowledge.
“The rebel servitors were so effective against us because they use a thing called military tactics. They planned the movements of their ships to strike together, rather than simply ordering a disorganized attack as we do. They forged alliances, getting assistance that we did not think they could get, mustering fleets that we could not understand that they could muster! Our forces under High Lord Fated-for-a-Glorious-Life were obliterated at one world without inflicting any casualties at all due to these alliances! I have begun studying these military tactics, and I, with a force of only one dreadnought and two battleships, with six cruisers to support, destroyed more than half of a servitor fleet and annihilated the Preserver Archive! I shall continue my campaign, and I will crush the servitor scum underfoot! For am I not inevitably fated for greatness?”
He waited. Iconians shouted with rage. He stared his father in the middle eyes.
He waited.
Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds stood, and the hall quieted instantly.
“YOU HAVE DISPLEASED US, INEVITABLY-FATED-FOR-GREATNESS,” thrummed the Iconian suzerain. “YOU HAVE FAILED US, AND YOU HAVE DISRESPECTED OUR HALL OF INFINITE MAJESTY. AS PUNISHMENT, YOU WILL BE EXILED TO THE PRIMITIVE MILKY WAY, WHERE YOU WILL ATTEMPT YOUR PATHETIC CONQUEST WITH WHATEVER SHIPS MAY BE SPARED. LEAVE US.”
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness didn’t fight back as his father instantly disintegrated him. What was the point? He’d just wake up in…
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness woke up.
Ow. That could have gone better.
“Inevitably victorious Supreme Hi—”
“Yes, what is it, puny servitor?”
“Er, Servitor 18754 is here to see you, Master. You summoned him, majestic one?”
“Ah, yes. Leave us, minion.”
The Solanae attendant skittered out. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness beheld a lowly Herald Thrall.
“My Lord?” asked the Herald. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness saw something different about this one. The way it held itself. The steadiness of its gaze and the controlled fear.
“You took command of my vessel after I was slain, and evacuated when it was clear that victory was impossible, yes?”
“Yes, O Inevitable—”
“Yes, yes, I’m fated for something magnificent or some such. You are now promoted, Servitor. From now on, you shall be my Grand Vizier, Star-of-Day, who shall rise like the sun and bring my armies to victory!”
The Herald gaped, uncomprehending. Then,
“I am unworthy of this honor, great lord. But I shall do my best to please you—”
“No. Not to please me. To win. I want the pathetic rebel races crushed beneath my magnificent heels, understand? Anything that you do towards that goal, even if you fail to show proper respect for my glorious visage, I shall not care. For victory, Star-of-Day, is all that matters now.”
The Herald looked Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness directly in the eyes now. And smiled.
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness mirrored the gesture. He understood, now. He had incredible power, and now he knew how to use it.
Nothing could possibly stand in his way!
Internally, the newly-christened Star-of-Day smiled in a slightly different manner. With this tool starting to grasp the basics of competence, he might actually pull this plan off.
* * *
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, California. 1400 hours, June 10th, 2410.
I’m standing on a stage in full dress, and I’m as uncomfortable as standing on a stage usually makes me.
Admiral Riker doesn’t seem to share my discomfort, though. He’s smiling as he takes from a box a glittering brass medallion hanging from a blue, gold, and red ribbon. “To Captain Kanril Eleya, in recognition of your remarkable leadership and meritorious conduct against the enemy, and in particular for personal acts of bravery displayed during the battle on and over Lae’nas III, Starfleet Command is proud to present you the Christopher Pike Medal of Valor.” He presses the ribbon to my party salad above one of my Citations for Conspicuous Gallantry, and it self-seals to the pale gray fabric. “Your exemplary courage and heroism reflect great credit upon yourself, your crew, and the Federation Starfleet. Congratulations, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Master Chief Kinlo snarls, “Company! Salute!” There’s an echoing stomp as all present come to attention.
“But this victory did not come without great cost,” he continues in a somber tone as he and I pivot in place to face the audience. “To Rear Admiral Alexandra Elena Taitt, for incomparable courage in the face of the enemy, in an act of singular daring and scientific skill, involving the voluntary sacrifice of her own life to protect the eight billion residents of the Sol system, I have recommended to the President the posthumous award of the Federation Medal of Honor. Starfleet Science has lost one of its best.”
“Aim!” Kinlo bellows to the honor guard. “Fire!” Thirteen phaser rifles rend the sky with light and sound. “Aim! Fire!” Again they fire. “Aim! Fire!”
Riker continues, “To Captain Jojo Appiah, commander of Starbase 234…”
The ceremony finishes a few minutes later and Riker dismisses us. As I step off the stage, Admiral Quinn waves me over to him. “Congratulations, Captain,” he says, perhaps a little grumpily.
“You don’t sound too happy to see me, sir,” I comment in a teasing tone.
He presses his hand to his forehead and sighs. “Kanril Eleya, you’re an almighty pain in the TRIBBLE, but I need everyone on deck right now.”
I give him a grim smile. “I’m with you as long as you want, sir.”
“Good, I’ve got a job for you. Commodore Paris is putting together a strike force for a mission, but he needs some heavy firepower.”
“Get my saucer patched up and I’m in, sir,” I say without hesitation.
“You’re at the front of the line.”
* * *
Ch’Mol’Rihan.
D’trel and Omek sat in an apartment in one of the intact sections of Hachae s’Temer. It was an informal affair; D’trel was for once out of uniform, in sweatpants and a loose shirt, and Omek was really lounging, something that he rarely if ever did. The Rihanha had a bottle of ale—Thavrau Wineries 2406, according to the label—clutched in one hand, and the Jem’Hadar held a small, slightly worn book. Several of the pages were folded in.
They sat there in silence, one arm of each around the other. D’trel nursed her ale. Omek stared into the sunset, which was brilliant red with the particles of destroyed Herald ships floating down into the atmosphere. From where they were sitting they couldn’t see the fires that were mostly out by now, but sirens still wailed and D’trel knew the search-and-rescue efforts continued. High Admiral Obisek, who technically outranked D’trel due to his honorary seat in the Deihuit, had outright ordered both the Rihanha and the Jem’Hadar to stop helping and go get some rest after the first few hours. So now they sat, side by side, in silence.
“He was a good kid,” whispered D’trel at last. “I liked him.”
Omek rumbled his agreement. “He rewired Doctor Chaotica’s death ray and came up with a solution to a temporal wormhole without showing any sign of fear. He was brave.”
“He was a good kid,” repeated D’trel. “He didn’t deserve that death. Didn’t even have a girlfriend yet.”
“He punched Satan’s Robot in the face and knocked it over,” reminisced the Jem’Hadar. “I have seldom seen such a ridiculous thing become such a glorious deed.”
D’trel took a swig of ale. “A good kid,” she repeated. Her eyes were wet. “Every damn time, I survive and they die.”
“I am here,” rumbled the Jem’Hadar. “I did not die. Daysnur did not die. Zel did not die. More of us lived than died, Admiral.”
D’trel half-smiled, half grimaced with tempestuous sadness. “True.” She looked at the ale in her hand, and swore quietly. “I have to stop this, First. Can’t let the dead rule me, you know?”
First Omek’ti’kallan grunted quietly in agreement, but otherwise was silent.
“People need me, you know? I can’t just f*cking degenerate into an angry miserable mass like I did the first few times I lost people. Ariennye, Adani’s ghost would kill me.” Then, after a moment of slightly-drunk consideration, “Tr’Shaien, too. He’d bust my aehf, tell me to get back to my station and mean it.”
The Jem’Hadar grunted quietly again. D’trel took another swig.
“F*ck it. I’ve been making progress, I didn’t slip at all this time around despite the situation, and Daysnur says he wants to take me off my meds, completely. I can do this sh*t. I can operate without help.” A pause. “Though I want you at my back, of course.”
“Of course,” came the rumble. “You and me, watching each others’ backs, pulling each other up. That is the order of things.”
“Only ever trusted two other people as much as you, First,” rasped the Rihanha. “They’re both dead.” She did not elaborate, and neither did the Jem’Hadar ask for elaboration. He knew exactly what the Rihanha meant, anyway.
They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Then,
“Joh’Kghan should walk unassisted in approximately ten days,” rumbled Omek. “And Antecenturion Torvek should recover completely. Captain Kanril’s doctor was able to repair the nerves effectively on the journey home.”
“Good,” D’trel replied. They sat silently some more. D’trel took another swig.
“They’re giving us a new ship. Kholhr’s BER, so they’re handing me the chip for an Ar’Kala-class carrier. Crew of three hundred, a hangar bay with Scorpion-class fighters. And they’re authorizing any modifications that our engineering crew can make work.”
Omek nodded. “I assume that what weapons and equipment are salvageable from the Vengeance will be used?”
D’trel half-smiled, half-grimaced. “Of course. Engineering’s getting ideas. That Kobali in Maintenance came to me with a crazy plan to rig the destabilized plasma torpedo launcher that we salvaged from the main hull to fire in synchrony with the forward particle cannon that the new-model Ar’Kifs come with. We’ll be back to chewing up Iconians soon enough.”
“What shall we name it?” asked Omek.
D’trel was silent for a few moments. She pulled a picture, ink on paper, out of her jacket, and looked at it. Omek did not need to steal a glance to know what the picture was.
“Sienov Ecurain,” whispered the Rihanha. “She would have wanted me to have hope.” Then, on the edge of hearing,
Comments
Two loaded pistols cocked on her hips
Her quarry’s gone to ground
In a thick bank of clouds
Foolish for thinking he gave her the slip
She feels nothing but the cold wind
Her memories of warmth have long grown thin
Once long ago
The only love she’d known
Left her for dead, scarred and broken
Captain Morena’s heart is black as night
Her quest for vengeance goes long into the twilight
For ten years she’s hunted a vile, evil man
Who cast her into the ocean with his own bare hands
She orders her men to load the cannons
Grape shot and iron balls certain to do damage
Now that she’s caught a glimpse
Of that red painted ship
The look upon her face is no less than savage
All ahead full she shouts at her men
This crew who saved her from an untimely end
Her object of ire
Stands at a quarter mile
This once innocent girl is coming for him
Captain Morena’s heart is black as night
Her quest for vengeance goes long into the twilight
This once peasant girl has become a pirate queen
Only with blood will she be appeased
She pulls so close the gas cells collide
He stands across from her rigid with pride
In his handsome face
She sees not a trace
Of remorse for the emptiness he left her inside
Captain Morena tells her men to fire
The red ship goes up in a black funeral pyre.
Sailors and timber
All burn to a cinder
And still he smiles in his regal attire
She leaps over the side, hungry blade in hand
Their swords meet with a terrible clang
As she gives a shout
And her rage flows out
The powder magazine goes out with a bang
Captain Morena’s heart was black as night
Her quest for vengeance went long into the twilight
We last saw her, falling to her death
A smile on her face, her sword buried in his chest
— “Captain Morena”, Escape the Clouds
High orbit over ch’Mol’Rihan.
“T’Khnialmnae, now!”
Ch’M’R Aen’rhien’s forward plasma banks fired at full power, striking another Herald cruiser amidships with its shields down.
“Hard to port!” barked Morgaiah t’Thavrau, coughing slightly as a bit of smoke drifted by her face. The Herald ship cracked, glowed from within, and detonated, the Rihan warbird swooping just out of the blast radius.
“Khre’Riov, we can’t hold them!” screamed one of the escort commanders over the comlink. “There are too many—” His shriek cut off mid-sentence. Another dot on the tactical plot went dark.
Nine hundred more men and women who would not see the dawn.
“Cruiser to starboard, on a collision course!” Jaleh Khoroushi snapped.
“Hard to starboard!” Morgan ordered. “Take it on the navigational deflector!”
“Nav deflector’s been dead for over an hour, rekkhai!” the Terrhaha reminded her. “We couldn’t stop a stray bolt!”
“Aen’rhien, this is BGV Destiny Ascension,” the Benthan flagship transmitted. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Captain Katris, you’re as torn up as we are!” Sarsachen tr’Sauringar said in disbelief.
“No, we’re worse.” A blue-gray bar-bell of a ship, trailing atmosphere, debris, and escape pods, listed across the course of the oncoming Herald ship. Metal crumpled. Ceramisteel tore. Viewports shattered. Magazines detonated. Then the viewscreen washed out in a single actinic pulse of radiation as both warp cores blew.
Khre’Enriov tr’Kererek’s voice came over the heavily encrypted command channel. “Khre’Riov t’Thavrau, you are ordered to disengage your element from the fleet and pull back to the dockyard. You will then escort ch’M’R Zdenia and the ekhifv temjahaere to Rendezvous Point Five-Four. All other ships, prepare to retreat.”
“Acknowledged,” Morgan said, quietly, hand-signaling the helmsman as she slumped in her command chair, the weariness of seven hours of fighting hitting her all at once. She didn’t need to ask what this meant. The last time she had heard such an order, she had been on the ch’R Albintian, returning to ch’Rihan to pull out the Deihuit before the Loss. Before… Hobus.
Images ran through her mind. The future of peace, her vineyard, all their hopes for the Kreh’dhhokh Mol’Rihan—
“Wait, belay my last!” tr’Kererek shouted over the comm. “All surviving vessels, form up! New orders inbound on Tac Two!”
Morgan grabbed her PDA. “Fire and Wind,” she breathed, then clicked her comm switch. “Two-Six Squadron, form up on my wing. Overlap your shields and commence run on Target Alpha-Six.”
“Rekkhai, maybe I’m missing something, but that dreadnought’s guns are still live!” tr’Sauringar objected. “We go after that battleship and—”
Morgan threw the PDA at him and he caught it. “The dreadnought will not be a threat for very much longer, Riov. Target the battleship.”
Tr’Sauringar’s eyes widened, and he gave her a giddy grin. “Au’e, rekkhai. Helm! You heard the lady! Punch it!”
Supreme High Lord Venerated-Beyond-Measure laughed gleefully as the little green ships danced and burned. Mostly burned. The servitors known as the “Romulans” had put up a ferocious fight: even two of his mighty Iaidon dreadnoughts had fallen to suicidal ramming attacks. These Romulans’ bizarre power supply, a confined black hole, could be quite destructive. And the allies they had brought from the far side of the galaxy had stymied all but a token landing, though all had eventually perished.
But the forces of the Iconian Empire were legion, quite literally enough to blot out the sun, and the Romulans had been weakened from within by one of their own at the behest of the Infinite Supreme Imperator of all Iconians, Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds. Fewer and fewer of the green ships remained in their path, and after that, the planet lay defenseless. “Servitor, leave some of the puny creatures alive. I want to know how it is that they could resist the forces led by Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness for so long.”
“Understood, Your Exaltedness,” the Herald shipmaster said. “If I may ask—”
“I will clarify, puny lesser being. I said ‘alive’, not ‘undamaged’.
“Of course, Your Exaltedness.” The Herald turned its six eyes on the hologram of the battlefield. “Your Exaltedness, I detect a curious… fluctuation in subspace.”
“It is nothing! The aftereffects of our entrance, nothing more!”
“Of course, Your Exaltedness. I merely thought—”
“Your job is not to think, servitor! You will concentrate on—”
“Supreme High Lord Venerated-Beyond-Measure!” another Herald cried suddenly. Astonished at its impudence, the Iconian raised his hand to blast the Herald from existence, but it pointed frantically at a new group of dots on the plot. “Enemy contacts, my Lord! New enemies approach our position!”
Venerated-Beyond-Measure glanced at the plot, then turned and vaporized the Herald anyway. “That was for interrupting—”
“Your Exaltedness,” the shipmaster interrupted, “I detect a rather curious energy from the new arrivals.”
Then everything turned curiously green.
On the bridge of the ch’R Eyhon Eludet’eri, Enriov Satali t’Tyrava looked on with satisfaction as the Herald flagship suddenly ceased all maneuvering. “Well, well. Thalaron radiation works on Ikkonsu; who would have thought? Erein t’Sathe, deploy fighters. All units, commence attack pattern Ael Twelve; follow me in.”
“Rekkhai, we are being hailed by ch’M’R Aen’rhien.”
“Onscreen.” A weatherbeaten face appeared on the main viewer. “Khre’Riov t’Thavrau, Fvillhu Velal sends his regards.”
“Enriov,” t’Thavrau said in a weary tone, “your timing is impeccable and your presence much appreciated.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for all the latinum in the galaxy,” t’Tyrava answered, smiling nastily. “Today we avenge the Loss, and the Sacrifice. Today, we avenge ch’Rihan.”
Lae’nas system. 2300 hours Federation Standard time, June 8th, 2410.
Cruisers and escorts hurtle past in an enormous furball as Tess duels a Herald battleship twice our size. The red-alert sirens blare as our phasers thrum, but we’re wearing down the Herald’s shields faster than it’s wearing down ours.
The ship shudders as a salvo from another Herald behemoth slams into it. “Starboard shield at twenty percent!” Gaarra warns me. “I’m remodulating and diverting power from engines!”
“Park, roll ship!” I snap. “Flag, I need cover!”
“T’Kumbra, Agamemnon, Shavokh, divert to screen Bajor’s starboard flank.” Three of Paris’s sleek new escorts dart out and lance phaser pulse after phaser pulse into the other battleship, splitting around its shields and looping behind for another strafing run before it can return fire.
As before, the Heralds have little or no tactical coordination. Some seem to have a modicum of discipline and try to stick to simple formations, cruisers fighting in pairs or raiders forming a swarm around a larger ship, but most just attack at random, the raiders jumping around through short-lived gateways and the cruisers slowly moving for our heavies, trying to bring the power of their fore weapons to bear.
Paris is in his element, evading the cruisers and cutting them to shreds from the rear as the trio of battlecruisers in our motley crew spit rapid-fire bolts of energy into the clouds of oncoming raiders, fighters, and drones. A Nebula-class and Steamrunner-class pull up alongside us with one of the Republic’s new Aelahl-class light battlecruisers close behind. Green and orange beams and bolts blaze from their emitters, and the Romulan cruiser throws a gravity well downrange that vacuums up a whole pack of raiders and several torpedoes, smashing them into a tangled mass of twisted, flaming metal.
Tess whoops with joy. “Enemy shield has collapsed! Forward tube locked and firing!” A rapid-fire series of quantum torpedoes shriek out of the tubes, slamming into the battleship’s bow below the glowing blue “eye”. The dreadnought is still trying to turn, its design built for slow, intimidating advance rather than rapid maneuvers. The other battleship is floundering as more and more of Paris’s escorts and the survivors of Starbase 234 that we brought with us add their fire, the incoming assault now so intense that the target’s hull is beginning to blacken and buckle even through the shields.
The first battleship explodes in a gout of fire and twisted metal, taking two cruisers and a swarm of smaller ships with it, and several voices over the com link cheer. But our joy is as short-lived as our victory.
D’trel swears on the com link, and Vengeance pulls hard to starboard just as the main gun on the Iconian dreadnought fires, blazing through space where the little escort had been seconds before. No other ships were in the way; I realize what it means just as the Herald cruisers and raiders form an actual, albeit extremely simple, formation, aiming everything they have for the flagship.
The Iconians have figured out who’s leading us.
“FINISH THEM!” thrummed Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness. His mind was clear, now. It was so obvious, now. His magnificence would endure, he could gloat all he pleased for eternity—but not unless he finished these servitors, here, now.
“USE THE MAIN GUN! FLANK THAT SMALL SERVITOR SHIP, YOU FOOLS!”
The Herald Harbinger at the helm station began to respond with an elaborate description of Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness’s magnificence, but he cut it off. “Just shoot them, you fool!”
The main cannon fired, and Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness swore.
“FLANK THEM, YOU FOOLS! IGNORE THE OTHERS! IGNORE THE OTHERS! KILL THAT SMALL SHIP! KILL THEM!”
The battleships wheeled in space at the Iconian’s command. The little warbird’s pilot saw the shift; so did the servitor admiral. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness swore again, defaming the dignity of the distant ancestors of the enemy pilot. As the second of his battleships detonated, he added a series of curses aimed at the sexual potency of the commander of those infernal light escorts that had cut it down swooping swiftly and easily around his mighty vessels. Those puny beings should know their place!
“RAM THEM.”
Swarms of raiders converged. The Federation battleship, the annoying one that would not die, swatted raiders and a cruiser out of space, even stopping a raider cold by taking the impact on its saucer, but too many got through. The Iconian smiled, secure in his victory.
“Finish them.”
The main gun fired again. Closer, this time. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness smiled again. His mustachio vibrated with glee.
“Good. GOOD! Hit them with everything!”
A raider slipped within a dozen meters of the little warbird, and the shields connected, the impact sending the warbird reeling.
“NOW!”
The main gun fired. The warbird’s pilot reacted, but too slow. Not even Breen reflexes could get the ship far enough from the beam in time.
One of the warbird’s wings was annihilated instantly, the beam of heat and light carving deep into the body of the ship. The little warbird flipped away through space, engines dead, hull sparkling. A tractor beam shot out from the Federation battleship, but Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness knew that his magnificent victory was secure.
“YES! YES!!! NOW FINISH THE REST! AHAHAHAHAAA!!! ONCE AGAIN MY SUPREME GLORY BRINGS ME TO INEVITABLE VICTORY OVER THE LOWLY SERVITORS! THEY CANNOT POSSIBLY WITHSTAND THE INEVITABLE ASCENDANCY OF MY GLORIOUS FATE, FOR I AM—”
Then the Federation battleship returned fire.
D’trel clawed her way back to consciousness and hauled herself upright from the floor of the bridge. Hull breach alarms were howling, the main viewscreen had shattered into a million pieces, and a cloud of smoke and fire-suppressant hazed the room.
“Min’tak’allan, what’s our status? Where are they?” No response. D’trel looked over at the sensor station. “Answer me—Areinnye!”
Min’tak’allan slumped unmoving, pinned to his console through the back of his chair by a jagged spear of hull plating a meter long.
D’trel swallowed, hot tears welling up in her eyes, and reached for her communicator. “Daysnur! Talk to me! What’s our status?”
“Our status is we’ve had it, Admiral! Hull breaches on all decks, I had to eject the singularity core, the EPS grid is fried, weapons ports are just gone—Jak, get a stabilizer on that conduit! Sir, we’re floating scrap, our only chance is for the Iconians to ignore us long enough for us to evacuate. Life support’s about to fail and I don’t think I can get it back up again without a power transfer and a set of power cells.”
D’trel cursed, loud and profane but short.
“First, that’s it. We’re evacuating. See to it.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Jem’Hadar, tearing a piece of debris from where it had hit the helm controls. “All hands, this is First Omek’ti’kallan. Make for your designated evacuation points and prepare to abandon ship.” He grabbed the semiconscious Zel by a shoulder and pulled xir to xir feet. “Third, with me. Admiral, I have sent a distress beacon but I have no way of knowing if anyone is still alive to respond.”
D’trel grabbed the hilt of her sword, out of the need for security if nothing else. Her head was throbbing, a voice that was half hers and half Adani’s screaming with rage and hate in her brain.
“Right. I’ll meet you in five minutes. Going to check the kid. Then see if whoever was on Ops made it.”
The Jem’Hadar saluted and left for the access shaft by the turbolift, half-carrying the Breen with him.
She hauled herself over the wreckage that half-bisected the bridge, swearing. The young Ferasan’s eyes were mercifully closed. D’trel figured that he’d died instantly, from shock if nothing else. Good. Poor kid didn’t deserve a slow death.
“They’re going to pay,” she promised, clasping the bekk on his shoulder for the last time. “If it takes me a thousand years, they will pay.” She squeezed, lightly. “Min’tak’allan. You were a good kid. I’ll tell your parents. And then I’ll find a way to kill that Supreme High Scumbag and make it permanent this time.”
“Help,” a small voice groaned from under the wreckage. D’trel’s head whipped around. A leg protruded from beneath a section of the ceiling. The Rihanha swore.
“I’m here! I’ll get you out!”
The voice was quieting. Live crew. They needed her.
Hate died in her breast. For once in her life, certainty came from somewhere other than rage. People needed her. She was there. She would help them.
She hauled a piece of broken metal off a bloodied Havranha. Erein’s badge. That new boy, fresh out of Phi’lasasam. Torvek, she thought his name was. He’d barely been on the ship for a week. “If it hurts, tell me! Is anything damaged?”
“My leg. I can’t feel my leg.”
“Ariennye. Looks like you’re walking with me when I get you out of here…” She hauled off another piece of twisted metal. “Damn Iconians got smart. Not very smart, but smart enough.”
The kid moaned.
“Your first tour?”
“Yes, sir. Oh, Elements, my arm… I can’t feel my right leg, and my arm…”
“I know. Transporters are down,” D’trel grunted as she heaved another mass of metal away, “so I’ll carry you to Sickbay and get you patched up quickly before we evac. Alright, this is going to hurt.”
“Oh, Air. Ready, sir.”
“On five. One. Two.” She pulled the spear of metal that had pinned the Havranha’s upper arm to the wall, and he shrieked in pain. “Good. You’re fine.” D’trel tore off her outer coat, holding one hand to the kid’s arm as she ripped off a sleeve with her teeth, then tied the makeshift bandage as tightly as she dared. “Keep that there.”
“Yes, sir,” managed the kid between gasps of pain.
“Good. You’re going to be fine. Looks like nerve damage in the upper thigh, there. Lean on me.” The Rihanha hauled the kid up by his good arm; he had the sense to obey orders. “Good. I’ll support you. Doctor, I’ve got a Reman male, mid-twenties, here, bringing him down, needs treatment for a crushed leg, nerve damage there, and a puncture wound all through his upper left arm.”
“Another one? I hate shrapnel. Get him down here, sir.”
“Roger that. This way, kid, I’ll help you down the access shaft.”
I cough hard against the smoke filling the bridge as Tess hammers the shields of the enemy dreadnought with the forward phasers. The astrogator is dead and his console is on fire, and more smoke is coming from the aft corridor and overstressed circuits on the bridge. “Gaarra, can you—”
“Adjusting the ventilation controls, Captain.”
“Thank you!” The bridge jolts as I hit the comm key on the arm of my chair. “All units, this is Captain Kanril. Vengeance is out of action; I’m taking command of the fleet. Form up on me and concentrate all fire on that dreadnought, it’s our only chance.” I point to a petty officer. “You! Tractor the Vengeance, knock it clear of the furball!”
The ship groans as a powerful beam glances off the starboard shields. “Shields down to 32 percent!” Tess announces. “And if that had been a direct hit we’d be eating vac, FYI!”
“Captain,” Wiggin says over the din of alarms, “I’ve been analyzing the readings off that ship. They’re using a multiple-sector shield design like us—they have to, they’re too big for a single bubble—but the individual sectors are much smaller. Recommend we focus all our fire on one point—”
“Like a Borg cube?”
“Yes, ma’am. I recommend here.”
I look at the readings. “That doesn’t seem like a reactor or a weapons emplacement.”
“No, ma’am. But it has life-form readings. I think it’s the bridge.”
“The Inevitable Whatever,” I realize.
Tess’s face twists into a gleeful snarl. “It’ll be a pleasure, ma’am.”
“Esplin, transmit the coordinates to the fleet. Reload forward torpedo tubes—give me the high-yield stuff.”
“Loading neutronic torpedoes,” Tess confirms.
“Target the bridge, maximum firepower. Let’s see what it takes to bring one of those down.”
The fleet moves in, and lances and bolts of orange and green streak across the void, battering into the dreadnought just above the main gun. It fires, and the John Paul Jones vanishes from the plot. We redouble our efforts as the fighters move in, heedless of their own fragility, unloading torpedo after torpedo against the behemoth at point-blank range and dying by the dozen. It’s not working; we need more power. “Tess, dump everything to the phasers, life-support if you have to!”
“Waiting for you to say that, ma’am!” A red-orange thunderbolt erupts from the dorsal phaser strip and smashes into the shields like the fist of an angry god. An alarm goes off—the array’s focusing mechanisms have torn themselves apart under the strain—but the shields are finally down. “Torpedoes locked!”
“Send him to the Fire Caves!”
A veritable kaleidoscope of glowing projectiles shrieks out of a dozen torpedo tubes and collides with the dreadnought in a titanic firestorm of energy. Cracks rocket across its hull from the point of impact at supersonic speed. A secondary explosion belches out of the tube for the main gun.
“Captain, I’m reading a subspace rupture off its bow!”
“Take evasive action!”
A huge gateway swirls into existence amid the fleet and the dreadnought’s engines ignite. We move in to attack, but its flank weapons and shields are still operational, so we can do little more than watch as the Herald dreadnought, battered but still flying, escapes to points unknown.
D’trel swore and pounded the access panel for the escape pods. Nothing happened. “Are any of the others working?”
“The ventral set is partially functional,” Omek rumbled, “but we cannot evacuate the entire crew with them. Even if we leave our dead, we can only get seven men off of the ship.”
“Right. Find whoever’s youngest, get the new kids out. Then we head down to the armory, you and me, and we jury-rig some EV suits, turn the ship into a floating bomb, take that Inevitable Fate moron with us.”
“We will be victorious,” rumbled the Jem’Hadar. “It has been my honor, sir.”
“Likewise.” D’trel pulled the big man in for a one-armed hug. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”
“Likewise,” rumbled First Omek’ti’kallan, his large, calf-brown eyes glistening with tears.
Then D’trel heard an electrical whine behind her and spun, drawing her sword in a flash. The point met the neck of a ginger-haired Bah’jorha in a gray combat hardsuit. “Phekk! Easy! Admiral, it’s me!”
D’trel lowered her sword, slowly. “Kanril. You’re not stupid enough to try a rescue of an adrift ship in the middle of a battle, not personally at least. So. We won. Good.” The Rihanha’s voice was harsh, clipped.
The Bah’jorha shook her head. “No. We hold the field, but this isn’t a victory. I, uh, brought my medics.”
“How many dead?” D’trel asked as white-uniformed Starfleet Medical personnel pushed past them.
“Here or overall?”
D’trel almost laughed. It turned into a sob halfway through, but she cut it off. “Captain, I’ve lost over twenty people, on a fifty-man crew, including my sensor—Min’tak’allan. Science Bekk Min’tak’allan. He died with his name. Give me the casualties from this battle first, then overall.”
“We lost the Ortisei, Kerrigan, John Paul Jones, Trem, Cuirass, Rea’s Helm, MajQa’Be’, Chang, two dozen birds-of-prey, over a hundred fighters, Tarsem Gau’s got no nacelles anymore but at least the crew lived, and I’ve got a chunk missing out of my saucer. Overall? In the millions, and there’s still active fighting going on at Tellar, Andoria, and Qo’noS, last I heard.”
“Ariennye. Home fleet? Ch’Mol’Rihan?”
“Praetor Velal sent help. He brought the Lost Road and two other Scimitars, everything he had.”
D’trel almost smiled. Almost.
“Good. Casualties there?”
“Relatively light, apparently. Nine cruisers and about twenty-five smaller ships, plus a bunch from the Delta Alliance.”
D’trel winced. “Light by your standards maybe. Not to us, not with our fleet numbers.” She sheathed her sword. “Hope you don’t mind my men sleeping on your ship for a few nights?”
“Not at all, sir. It’s a Galaxy-class; we’ve got guest rooms to spare.”
“Good.” The Rihanha half-sighed, running a hand through her short hair.
“Captain, this is Doctor Wirrpanda,” a voice said through Kanril’s combadge.
“Go, Warragul.”
“I want to start beaming the criticals to sickbay.”
Kanril glanced at D’trel, who nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Did you take out the dreadnought?”
“Hit the bridge, couldn’t finish it. Those things can take a beating,” she added in what sounded like almost an admiring tone.
“So you killed the Inevitable Fate one again. I hate that one.” Then, after a pause. “I’ve killed him twice, now. And now one for you, first time you've run in to him. Keep it up at that rate, and you’ll kill him more times than me someday.”
“Pfah!” Kanril gave a derisive laugh. “Nah, maybe he’ll stay dead this time.”
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness woke up.
Ow.
Well, that hadn’t gone very well. It seemed the rebellious servitors did not react well to a decapitation strike. They had continued to act despite his disablement of the little warbird.
He contacted a Herald and took the report, analyzing it in closer detail. The servitors’ command had apparently devolved to that battleship, that enormous plate-on-a-gooseneck vessel the Heralds seemingly could not kill no matter what they threw.
So the servitors could continue to act despite the loss of their leader. That did not bode well.
Or… perhaps it was a signal. These servitors were lesser than him, and yet they had slain him, Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, the son and heir of Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds, He-Who-Rules-All-Worlds, Infinite Supreme Imperator of all Iconians, et cetera ad infinitum, three times now. Perhaps, instead of crushing all thought independent of an Iconian master, the Heralds required more autonomy, at least in the short term.
“Servitor!”
“Yea, O Inevitably Glorious Supreme High Lord—”
“Yes, yes, I know, I am powerful and wonderful and all that. Find the engineer who took command of the Unyielding Hierophant after my… accident, and bring him to me.”
“You wish to execute him, your majesticness?” the Solanae asked, rubbing its talons together in anticipation.
“No, you fool. I wish to promote him.”
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Indeed.
When a Mook realizes that his boss is in DIRE need of the Evil Overlord List...Character Development follows, fast.
Yeah, our plan is sort of to make that one Herald into SHLIFFG's hypercompetent sidekick.
*imitates Majel Barrett* And now, the conclusion...
Nothing to you is lost!
Yours is, yes yours, is what you desired
Yours, what you have loved
What you have fought for!
O believe,
You were not born for nothing!
Have not for nothing, lived, suffered!
What was created
Must perish,
What perished, rise again!
Cease from trembling!
Prepare yourself to live!
O Pain, You piercer of all things,
From you, I have been wrested!
O Death, You masterer of all things,
Now, are you conquered!
With wings which I have won for myself,
In love’s fierce striving,
I shall soar upwards
To the light which no eye has penetrated!
— From “Symphony #2: Resurrection” by Gustav Mahler
Palais de la Concorde, Paris, France.
Fleet Admiral William Riker sat with President Aennik Okeg as the battle reports flowed in from across the Beta Quadrant.
At Andoria, the Imperial Guard fought like madmen, their tiny escorts repeatedly warping straight into the teeth of the onrushing Heralds, outflanking the lumbering dreadnoughts and laying waste to them in passing, then warping back out as the Iconian ships struck the mines they’d left behind. Damaged and disabled vessels died in droves in the gravity of the ice giant planet Andor, while those that won through to the moon’s surface were met with yet more mines and ancient chem-fueled ballistic missiles tipped with very modern antimatter warheads, weapons so primitive the Heralds apparently didn’t recognize them as such. And the Andorians’ universal conscription stood them well: even when Heralds gated into the underground cities they were met with a withering hail of gunfire from all quarters, and every third window held a sniper.
The Andorians had even turned the very elements against the invaders, using the weather control systems to call up a worldwide blizzard that still raged. The native life was inured to it. The Heralds weren’t.
The same could not be said of Tellar. True to their nature, the Tellarites held the line, stopping the Heralds cold in space with sheer stubborn tenacity. Not one single thrall or construct made landfall. Not one. But the cost was terrible: the Tellar Space Administration had effectively ceased to exist.
On Bajor, well… Will Riker smiled at the thought of the Militia’s battle cry, “Never again!” The Heralds had completely bypassed the meager forces Starfleet could marshal at Deep Space 9, approaching from the far side of the star B’hava’el, but to no avail: The Bajorans had learned well from the Cardassians. Surface Arm held the warships at bay with surface-to-orbit artillery and met the landers in the air with a cloud of spaceworthy Longbow fighters. Those that reached the surface were targeted by spotters for bombardment from howitzers concealed in caves and camouflaged bunkers, and in at least one case a seagoing warship sitting off the coast. And even a Herald Harbinger in his full glory was no match for a main battle tank. In the cities gray-uniformed Bajoran soldiers fought house-to-house with pillboxes and IEDs, rockets and bayonets, seemingly wanting to remind the entire galaxy why the Cardassians had left.
And then the wormhole had opened, and for the third time in two years, Dominion warships poured through. Together with Starfleet the Jem’Hadar under Odo fell on the backs of the Herald invaders with a fury unseen since the War, regaining their lives for those they had once named “foe”. Iconian losses were total.
“The strike force under D’trel just reported in,” said Fleet Admiral tr’Kererek. The Romulan had bags under his eyes and creases on his cheeks from exhaustion and stress, but his uniform was still crisp and in order. “They lost thirty-three ships and over a hundred fighters, but managed to secure part of the Preserver archive. The Tal’Diann will doubtless be asking pointed questions about why doing so was even necessary in the coming days—”
“Rest assured, I’ll be ordering an investigation into why the Archive wasn’t used as an intelligence source earlier,” the Saurian behind the desk assured him. “We can’t afford that kind of incompetence.”
Tr’Kererek nodded. “Well, for now I suppose that we can be satisfied that we survived.”
“D’trel was facing a smaller force, wasn’t she?” asked Riker. “What happened?”
“Tactical logs show the Iconians at the Lae’nas archive using actual tactics, albeit basic ones. Actual coordination, quick responses to our strikes, they even figured out which ship was commanding the fleet and tried for a decap shot. And we tried to stop them with Rear Admiral Taitt’s little trick at Lae’nas III, but it didn’t work.”
“Well, it was the sort of thing that would only work once,” Riker noted, grabbing a cup of coffee from the table before the couch and gulping it down. Taitt had been a good woman. Her “trick” had saved Earth in one strike, albeit at the cost of her own life. “But actual tactics?”
“It was that Iconian from Qo’noS, from January. Inevitable something-or-other. He must’ve learned from being killed twice.”
“Twice?” Riker almost spat coffee all over his pants.
Tr’Kererek snickered. “D’trel killed him in January, then again two weeks ago.”
“Somebody’s gotta teach that guy how to die,” Riker quipped. The President snorted.
“Velal sends his regards, by the way,” said tr’Kererek. “Last I heard the Imperial senate was debating whether or not to censure him for helping the Republic, at least until Velal parked a Praetorian Guard squad outside of the senate chambers and reminded them of the Khitomer Treaty’s external threat provision.”
“Good to hear that the RSE’s cooperating,” noted Riker. “Odo pulled up a fleet of a couple hundred Jem’Hadar carriers and broke the Heralds over Bajor. Been a bit busy with the Tellar mess, but I should’ve told you that Kai Kira pinged me ten minutes ago to say that Odo’s officially inviting Alliance diplomats to the Dominion to discuss a possible mutual defense pact.”
The President made the Saurian equivalent of a whistle. That was big.
“Oh, and Mr. President? D’trel’s recommending your favorite Starfleet captain for a medal.”
Okeg’s smile faded. “Kanril?”
“And I quote, ‘You’d better give her the Pike this time or else I’m putting her up for the Empress Ael Medal,’ unquote.”
“Can she do that?”
“Kanril fought under Rihan command, and on Rihan soil for part of the battle,” tr’Kererek explained, “so yes, she can. And in my personal opinion, based on the after-action reports she showed excellent judgement, and she did her damndest to save the Kholhr, even lost a chunk of her saucer stopping a Baltim-class raider from ramming D’trel, then took command of the task force and eliminated the enemy commander after D’trel got taken out.” Okeg groaned and tr’Kererek gave him a sympathetic look. “Look, I know she’s politically inconvenient—”
“She’s a damn headache, is what she is.”
“So is D’trel on occasion. All right, frequently—sometimes I’d like to bust her aehf, but I can’t afford it. She’s a good officer, Mr. President.”
“She’s a blunt instrument!”
“And sometimes you need a hammer,” replied tr’Kererek with a shrug. “D’trel’s the best hammer I’ve seen in decades, and from what I’ve seen Kanril’s good at it, too. I’d be a complete idiot to send D’trel on an intel mission; Elements, we tried that early on, complete disaster. She blew her cover, they shipped her off to Hakeev—complete disaster. Only barely scraped her out of that FUBAR thanks to a deep-cover asset.”
Riker and Okeg shared a wince at that.
“Anyway,” continued tr’Kererek, “with an officer like that, you use ‘em like a hammer. Tell them to eliminate a problem—not a shady one, a public one. It’ll get done. Somebody like Gaul, the Voth, the Elachi, the Iconians, all big and in-your-face threat? Hammer.” He shrugged again. “If I were you, sir, I’d give Kanril everything she needs and then some right now. We already have a whole case of scalpels working to sabotage the Iconians; and frankly, those fools are sabotaging themselves at this rate. What we need is a really big hammer to shatter them when the cracks show.”
Riker resisted the urge to smile. The President grumbled something unintelligible.
“Sir, we have other problems,” Admiral Quinn informed him. “The Klingons didn’t fare nearly as well as we did. They seem to have made the same mistake as the Tellarites, only with more ships and less coordination.”
“Personal glory trip issues?” Riker asked.
“By the truckload. I mean, they completely annihilated the fleet sent there but they took at least sixty percent casualties, and the Chancellor was badly injured trying to make a suicide run on a dread. Damn thing broke his Bort in half and left him for dead, like he wasn’t worth the bother finishing off. They only turned the tide because Worf and Ja’rod offered amnesty to some warriors from Torg and Konjah and brought everything left at Ty’Gokor to Qo’noS. That Lethean general of theirs, Brokosh, helped too, called in like half the mercs and pirates in the quadrant. And the after-action reports? Not kind to the Chancellor’s military abilities. Fallout from this is going to dramatically affect the balance of power in the Empire.”
“What about the Cardassians?”
Quinn clicked a remote at the wall screen. “The Iconians were a no-show. But the Cardies took our advice and pulled everything they could back from the front lines to defend Cardassia, and as a result those Third Empire fanatics overran two planets almost unopposed. Castellan Lang’s hopping mad, to say the least.” The admiral paused. “If I may make a suggestion on that score, sir?” The President nodded. “We may need to suspend the treaty restrictions on the CDF for a time until we have the Iconian situation under control.”
“I’ll take it to the Council but I’m not optimistic. What about the Undine? Are they on our side now, or what?”
Quinn grimaced. “Some of them are, at least in that they hate the Iconians at least as much as we do.” On the screen, holo-footage played of a comparatively tiny Undine bioship splitting a Herald dreadnought down the middle and frying six battleships over Vulcan. The Iconian attack there had been massive, but a response by over a thousand Undine bioships had neutralized the threat in short order. Undine and Federation losses were minimal at most.
Quinn paged through a few more channels—a eulogy for Admiral Taitt and the crew of the Caelian, an interview with Worf (albeit one conducted while he was striding purposefully somewhere with a deep scowl aimed at the reporter), D’trel on a makeshift podium…
“Hold it there!” said tr’Kererek suddenly. Quinn obliged.
“… is this live?” asked Riker. Quinn checked, and paled. He nodded, and Okeg swore.
“…Well,” sighed tr’Kererek, “She did just save our only reliable cheat sheet on the Iconians, and lost more than a third of her crew. Put the volume up, would you please?”
Quinn obliged.
“… lost many brave men and women, but their sacrifices allowed us to defeat the Iconian force. This is the first Iconian force on record that has used actual tactics and coordination; I can’t comment on why that is, but I suspect that the Iconian commander of that fleet has been learning from his mistakes. This is now the third time that I’ve faced the Iconian known as Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, and the closest he’s ever come to victory. The previous two times, he was content to brag about his magnificence or some such in front of armed soldiers. This time, he reacted to our attacks and appears to have targeted my flagship deliberately to disrupt command-and-control. It’s only thanks to Captain Kanril Eleya of the Federation Starship Bajor, who skillfully took command of the strike force and managed to kill Inevitably-Fated-for-Idiocy after my ship was disabled, that I and the Preservers that we retrieved from the archive before its destruction survived. I’ve already said this, but Okeg, she gets the Pike for this or I’m putting her up for the Empress Ael medal.”
Through his fingers, Riker looked over at Quinn. The Trill’s teeth were grinding loudly and he looked almost swollen, apoplectic with rage. Riker couldn’t help grinning at the older man’s discomfiture. “Hey, you promoted her, Jorel, not me.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Thanks for the ride,” D’trel says gruffly as the Bajor approaches New Romulus. She’s wearing a set of gray battle fatigues Biri loaned her, but still with the sword buckled to her waist. Omek’ti’kallan looms behind her, as he has for most of the trip back to New Romulus. “Your Admiral Riker called me, said you’re getting the Pike for saving my bacon.”
“My pleasure, sir.” I shake the Romulan’s proffered hand. “Sorry about the casualties. Is there any way I can…”
She shakes her head. “Not really. I’m going to tell their families, and there’s a widows and orphans fund set up with some latinum I, ah, acquired from a Ferengi called Madran. Not much to be done, really.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling. I’ve got about fifty letters to write myself.”
D’trel shakes her head again. “Some days I hate this job. At least your government got some sense for once.”
I smirk at that. “I think that was mostly you publicly threatening to put me up for the Republic’s second-highest honor, sir.”
“Kanril, I put everyone up for a medal. Everyone in that fight’s getting at the very least a Sotarek Citation, and by all the Elements they deserve it. I put up all the dead for the Alidar Jarok Freedom Medal, too—that one’s posthumous-only. Tr’Kererek put everyone on my ship who survived the Inevitably Pretentious One’s main gun up for honors, too.”
“Even the mercs?”
“Yeah. First Omek’ti’kallan here, he’s got to stand through a ten-minute ceremony for the Alliance Service Medal. Which I would’ve put you up for after Lae’nas III, but it’s for our officers only, no wiggle room.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Credit where it’s due. What you did there took guts and quick thinking, both of which I believe have infinite value.”
“Well, credit where it’s due,” I respond, gesturing to the man at sensors, “I wouldn’t have managed it if the master chief there hadn’t spotted the weakness in their shields.”
“Peter Wiggin, right?” He nods. “Good. Tr’Tellus and D’tan owe me, and Obisek and I are… not friends, really, more political allies who get drinks twice a year and complain about politics. Obisek can get Havran Power behind him. I’ll call in a couple favors, you’re going to get a call in about a week, once we sort this mess out. Hope you’re up for a day trip to ch’Mol’Rihan.”
“With respect, sir, you don’t seem like a woman who likes dealing with politics.”
“The Deihuit has to ratify the Empress Ael. I can recommend it, but they have to vote, which means I need to play politics.” She pauses, then asks, “One other thing, are you and Jak—”
“We’re fine,” I assure her. “Though he may have some trouble moving around for the next few days.” She raises an eyebrow and I smirk again and hold up a data solid. “Security feed from the sparring ring in officer country.”
D’trel and the big Jem’Hadar look dumbfounded. “Subcommander Jak outweighs you by how much, Captain?” Omek finally says.
“Maybe thirty kilos,” I answer matter-of-factly.
D’trel presses a palm to her forehead, shaking her head. “Now I know why he wanted you to adopt any of his potential kids if he dies. And why he applied for a chakar daran course."
I shrug. “He’s good, don’t get me wrong, but he’s got to be both a soldier and a tech. I fight, and that's it.”
The Jem’Hadar nods. “Understandable. We must do a practice duel at some point, Captain.”
I scoff. “Yeah, right. I saw you throw that class-two halfway through a boulder. The Nausicaan’s just a decent shot and a half-decent fighter, not a Jem’Hadar. Though I’ve beaten them, too,” I add thoughtfully.
Omek’ti’kallan smiles. “I told you that she was intelligent as well as competent, Admiral.”
“I knew that, First, but you’re right, she’s not as overconfident as most green Fed captains.” She passes him a slip of latinum. “Omek here is strong and fast enough to restrain me when I was hopped up on mind-wipe implants and aggression drugs in a Fen’Domar arena. And I’ve been fighting for over fifty years, trained by the best swordsman I’ve ever known, Ameh tr’Shaien. Respectfully speaking, you’d last maybe a minute against him, and that’s a long time.”
“First Daruk’talan thought the same thing.”
“He made First?” rumbles the Jem’Hadar. “I never would have expected him to make it past Third. Odo’Ital must have been pleased with something he did. Or perhaps his First died, there was a dispute with pirates on the frontier when I left on Odo’Ital’s orders.”
“All I know is, they had him assigned to the honor guard of a Vorta named Kargin when I was posted to DS9 about five years ago.”
Omek’s expression sours. “Kargin? I take it back. Perhaps Glorious Odo’Ital was displeased with him.”
“Exiting warp now, ma’am,” Lieutenant Park announces.
A blue-green world inflates into view and D’trel gasps. Battle debris litters space and Park has to change course to avoid what looks like the starboard wing of a Ha’apax-class warbird, raggedly severed from the fuselage. Much of the planet’s equatorial jungle and part of the capital city Temer’s Soul is in flames, and Esplin picks up chatter on the emergency channel.
Job’s not over yet. “Wiggin! Rev up the biosign sensors. Let’s see if we can save a few more lives on our way in.”
Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds was not happy.
His son, Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, felt a little thrill of rebellious glee as he realized that he did not care.
The Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor’s announcer’s flowery praise of the Emperor’s modesty was beginning to draw to a close. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness figured that he would soon be asked to speak.
“...Why, then, does our glorious Eternal Grand Supreme High Emperor, the infinitely great, perfectly modest, astoundingly handsome, unbelievably wise supreme intelligence of our infinitely glorious Empire find his glorious and magnificently majestic self with such a MISERABLE FAILURE OF A SON?”
There was silence. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness smiled.
“You are all fools.”
There was a ripple of shock and horror through the hall. The announcer squawked like a squashed toad, but Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness stood dramatically and telekinetically threw the other Iconian into a pillar, pinning him there.
“My infinite armies and innumerable fleets may have failed to eliminate the servitors’ resistance,” thrummed Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness, “but I have gained something far more important.” He took a breath. “Knowledge.
“The rebel servitors were so effective against us because they use a thing called military tactics. They planned the movements of their ships to strike together, rather than simply ordering a disorganized attack as we do. They forged alliances, getting assistance that we did not think they could get, mustering fleets that we could not understand that they could muster! Our forces under High Lord Fated-for-a-Glorious-Life were obliterated at one world without inflicting any casualties at all due to these alliances! I have begun studying these military tactics, and I, with a force of only one dreadnought and two battleships, with six cruisers to support, destroyed more than half of a servitor fleet and annihilated the Preserver Archive! I shall continue my campaign, and I will crush the servitor scum underfoot! For am I not inevitably fated for greatness?”
He waited. Iconians shouted with rage. He stared his father in the middle eyes.
He waited.
Destined-for-Glorious-Deeds stood, and the hall quieted instantly.
“YOU HAVE DISPLEASED US, INEVITABLY-FATED-FOR-GREATNESS,” thrummed the Iconian suzerain. “YOU HAVE FAILED US, AND YOU HAVE DISRESPECTED OUR HALL OF INFINITE MAJESTY. AS PUNISHMENT, YOU WILL BE EXILED TO THE PRIMITIVE MILKY WAY, WHERE YOU WILL ATTEMPT YOUR PATHETIC CONQUEST WITH WHATEVER SHIPS MAY BE SPARED. LEAVE US.”
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness didn’t fight back as his father instantly disintegrated him. What was the point? He’d just wake up in…
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness woke up.
Ow. That could have gone better.
“Inevitably victorious Supreme Hi—”
“Yes, what is it, puny servitor?”
“Er, Servitor 18754 is here to see you, Master. You summoned him, majestic one?”
“Ah, yes. Leave us, minion.”
The Solanae attendant skittered out. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness beheld a lowly Herald Thrall.
“My Lord?” asked the Herald. Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness saw something different about this one. The way it held itself. The steadiness of its gaze and the controlled fear.
“You took command of my vessel after I was slain, and evacuated when it was clear that victory was impossible, yes?”
“Yes, O Inevitable—”
“Yes, yes, I’m fated for something magnificent or some such. You are now promoted, Servitor. From now on, you shall be my Grand Vizier, Star-of-Day, who shall rise like the sun and bring my armies to victory!”
The Herald gaped, uncomprehending. Then,
“I am unworthy of this honor, great lord. But I shall do my best to please you—”
“No. Not to please me. To win. I want the pathetic rebel races crushed beneath my magnificent heels, understand? Anything that you do towards that goal, even if you fail to show proper respect for my glorious visage, I shall not care. For victory, Star-of-Day, is all that matters now.”
The Herald looked Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness directly in the eyes now. And smiled.
Inevitably-Fated-for-Greatness mirrored the gesture. He understood, now. He had incredible power, and now he knew how to use it.
Nothing could possibly stand in his way!
Internally, the newly-christened Star-of-Day smiled in a slightly different manner. With this tool starting to grasp the basics of competence, he might actually pull this plan off.
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, California. 1400 hours, June 10th, 2410.
I’m standing on a stage in full dress, and I’m as uncomfortable as standing on a stage usually makes me.
Admiral Riker doesn’t seem to share my discomfort, though. He’s smiling as he takes from a box a glittering brass medallion hanging from a blue, gold, and red ribbon. “To Captain Kanril Eleya, in recognition of your remarkable leadership and meritorious conduct against the enemy, and in particular for personal acts of bravery displayed during the battle on and over Lae’nas III, Starfleet Command is proud to present you the Christopher Pike Medal of Valor.” He presses the ribbon to my party salad above one of my Citations for Conspicuous Gallantry, and it self-seals to the pale gray fabric. “Your exemplary courage and heroism reflect great credit upon yourself, your crew, and the Federation Starfleet. Congratulations, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Master Chief Kinlo snarls, “Company! Salute!” There’s an echoing stomp as all present come to attention.
“But this victory did not come without great cost,” he continues in a somber tone as he and I pivot in place to face the audience. “To Rear Admiral Alexandra Elena Taitt, for incomparable courage in the face of the enemy, in an act of singular daring and scientific skill, involving the voluntary sacrifice of her own life to protect the eight billion residents of the Sol system, I have recommended to the President the posthumous award of the Federation Medal of Honor. Starfleet Science has lost one of its best.”
“Aim!” Kinlo bellows to the honor guard. “Fire!” Thirteen phaser rifles rend the sky with light and sound. “Aim! Fire!” Again they fire. “Aim! Fire!”
Riker continues, “To Captain Jojo Appiah, commander of Starbase 234…”
The ceremony finishes a few minutes later and Riker dismisses us. As I step off the stage, Admiral Quinn waves me over to him. “Congratulations, Captain,” he says, perhaps a little grumpily.
“You don’t sound too happy to see me, sir,” I comment in a teasing tone.
He presses his hand to his forehead and sighs. “Kanril Eleya, you’re an almighty pain in the TRIBBLE, but I need everyone on deck right now.”
I give him a grim smile. “I’m with you as long as you want, sir.”
“Good, I’ve got a job for you. Commodore Paris is putting together a strike force for a mission, but he needs some heavy firepower.”
“Get my saucer patched up and I’m in, sir,” I say without hesitation.
“You’re at the front of the line.”
Ch’Mol’Rihan.
D’trel and Omek sat in an apartment in one of the intact sections of Hachae s’Temer. It was an informal affair; D’trel was for once out of uniform, in sweatpants and a loose shirt, and Omek was really lounging, something that he rarely if ever did. The Rihanha had a bottle of ale—Thavrau Wineries 2406, according to the label—clutched in one hand, and the Jem’Hadar held a small, slightly worn book. Several of the pages were folded in.
They sat there in silence, one arm of each around the other. D’trel nursed her ale. Omek stared into the sunset, which was brilliant red with the particles of destroyed Herald ships floating down into the atmosphere. From where they were sitting they couldn’t see the fires that were mostly out by now, but sirens still wailed and D’trel knew the search-and-rescue efforts continued. High Admiral Obisek, who technically outranked D’trel due to his honorary seat in the Deihuit, had outright ordered both the Rihanha and the Jem’Hadar to stop helping and go get some rest after the first few hours. So now they sat, side by side, in silence.
“He was a good kid,” whispered D’trel at last. “I liked him.”
Omek rumbled his agreement. “He rewired Doctor Chaotica’s death ray and came up with a solution to a temporal wormhole without showing any sign of fear. He was brave.”
“He was a good kid,” repeated D’trel. “He didn’t deserve that death. Didn’t even have a girlfriend yet.”
“He punched Satan’s Robot in the face and knocked it over,” reminisced the Jem’Hadar. “I have seldom seen such a ridiculous thing become such a glorious deed.”
D’trel took a swig of ale. “A good kid,” she repeated. Her eyes were wet. “Every damn time, I survive and they die.”
“I am here,” rumbled the Jem’Hadar. “I did not die. Daysnur did not die. Zel did not die. More of us lived than died, Admiral.”
D’trel half-smiled, half grimaced with tempestuous sadness. “True.” She looked at the ale in her hand, and swore quietly. “I have to stop this, First. Can’t let the dead rule me, you know?”
First Omek’ti’kallan grunted quietly in agreement, but otherwise was silent.
“People need me, you know? I can’t just f*cking degenerate into an angry miserable mass like I did the first few times I lost people. Ariennye, Adani’s ghost would kill me.” Then, after a moment of slightly-drunk consideration, “Tr’Shaien, too. He’d bust my aehf, tell me to get back to my station and mean it.”
The Jem’Hadar grunted quietly again. D’trel took another swig.
“F*ck it. I’ve been making progress, I didn’t slip at all this time around despite the situation, and Daysnur says he wants to take me off my meds, completely. I can do this sh*t. I can operate without help.” A pause. “Though I want you at my back, of course.”
“Of course,” came the rumble. “You and me, watching each others’ backs, pulling each other up. That is the order of things.”
“Only ever trusted two other people as much as you, First,” rasped the Rihanha. “They’re both dead.” She did not elaborate, and neither did the Jem’Hadar ask for elaboration. He knew exactly what the Rihanha meant, anyway.
They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Then,
“Joh’Kghan should walk unassisted in approximately ten days,” rumbled Omek. “And Antecenturion Torvek should recover completely. Captain Kanril’s doctor was able to repair the nerves effectively on the journey home.”
“Good,” D’trel replied. They sat silently some more. D’trel took another swig.
“They’re giving us a new ship. Kholhr’s BER, so they’re handing me the chip for an Ar’Kala-class carrier. Crew of three hundred, a hangar bay with Scorpion-class fighters. And they’re authorizing any modifications that our engineering crew can make work.”
Omek nodded. “I assume that what weapons and equipment are salvageable from the Vengeance will be used?”
D’trel half-smiled, half-grimaced. “Of course. Engineering’s getting ideas. That Kobali in Maintenance came to me with a crazy plan to rig the destabilized plasma torpedo launcher that we salvaged from the main hull to fire in synchrony with the forward particle cannon that the new-model Ar’Kifs come with. We’ll be back to chewing up Iconians soon enough.”
“What shall we name it?” asked Omek.
D’trel was silent for a few moments. She pulled a picture, ink on paper, out of her jacket, and looked at it. Omek did not need to steal a glance to know what the picture was.
“Sienov Ecurain,” whispered the Rihanha. “She would have wanted me to have hope.” Then, on the edge of hearing,
“She would have wanted me to defend hope.”
We're doomed!
Trials of Blood and Fire
Moving On Parts 1-3 - Part 4
In Cold Blood
XD
Yeah. SHLIFFG has gained a bare minimum of competence, and he's being managed by a canny, Pragmatic Evil Herald.
We're doomed.