Galaxy in Flame: Chronical of the General War

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Galaxy in Flame[/i]


Stav'ett IV
Ore Processing Complex III
Kralev Nebula

Minister of Supply Anred rifled through a stack of briefing materials, selecting two folders for Senator Tammad and Administrator Gallen, "As you can see, honored sirs, the projected annual production from this facility and its two brethren far exceeds initial planning. If actual production meets these targets, and these numbers are quite conservative, I assure you," Anred favored the administrator with a warm smile to show his personal confidence, "We may look forward to a forty-two percent increase in naval construction allocation alone for all basic raw materials required. My department anticipates that "Rhihansification" of the entire fleet in just under thirty years!" The Minister positively beamed good humor at his two colleagues. With good reason, the replacement of Klingon-leased naval and commercial hulls had been the holy-grail of both the Romulan Navy and Imperial Ministry of Supply for generations.

Only in the recent years of relative peace between the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire had the Romulan government been able to divert any significant portion of the fleet from patrol to exploration within Romulan space. The most noteworthy dividend of this effort was the discovery of massive mineral resources in the Kralev Nebula. Now, after three years of test-bed planning and construction, the "Home Fleet" production facility was coming online for full production. Three massive refining complexes had been built at the edge of the Nebula. A fleet of obsolete warbirds--elderly cruisers without warp capability--had been fitted with specialized collection equipment and converted to the role of mineral collection in the nebula. Each ship trawled through the gases, extracting ore for processing at one of three gigantic processing complexes. Current surveys predicted that the project would triple the Empire's meager material resources almost instantly. Of course, every boon eventually produced unique problems. It was the nature of the universe, one could not receive any gain without loss.

"Do you believe, Senator, that the Klingon government will see our dilemma? This project continues to require funding and we must break as much as possible out of this years current budget if we are to gain full benefit of it." Senator Tammad and the Minister had arrived for a formal inspection of the project facilities in preparation for the Senator's official visit to Klingon High Council to, once again, petition for amendment to portions of the Klingo-Romulan treaty which stipulated the terms of Romulan lease of Klingon naval construction. Tammad reflected that embedding these conditions within the non-aggression pact had been a master-stroke of intrigue that Tammad would normally have assumed beyond the usual range of Klingon subtlety. As it stood, failure of the Romulan Empire to commit to a given percentage of naval and civilian starship lease-a percentage based on the planned construction (another sublime thrust, that)-would violate the treaty between the two nations. Past attempts by the senate to alter or evade these terms had resulted in raids on the frontier worlds and considerable financial penalties to restore the treaty. It was a chaffing restriction that had destroyed the career of many senators.

It wasn't even that the Klingons were completely unreasonable. Ten years ago, the High Council had allowed them to completely restructure the treaty in order to reduce the number of cruiser-classed hulls in favor of a higher percentage of escorts and commercial vessels. Additionally, they had ceded the technology conversion contracts entirely to the option of Romulan shipyards. This concession alone saved them billions of credits yearly. But, now, Tammad had been tasked with negotiating a complete cessation of purchase, steadily scaled over the next forty-years as indigenous construction replaced operational units. While Tammad believed that the Council would readily acknowledge that the treaty would soon become obsolete, he doubted that they would welcome the loss of such a lucrative revenue-stream. Fortunately, he equally believed that recent circumstances had been working in their favor.

"It has always been my opinion, Minister, that the current Klingon administration is dedicated to providing maximal support of Romulan economic growth as the Empire provides a valuable deterrent to Federation expansion along the Klingon region of space. As much as twenty-percent of the Starfleet is dedicated to security of the Neutral Zone, assets which might otherwise be arrayed along their own fronts did we not present the force-projection capability which we do. However, by my department's estimation, the current treaty provides for almost three-percent of the Klingon Empire's total annual budget. This is not a resource that they will willingly abandon, no matter that we may not have need of their production in the near future."

Tammad produced a pair of data pads, "Intelligence reports have provided me with information that may allow us to successfully restructure the treaty in our favor. You will both recall the rebellion of a number of systems within the Lyran Star Empire along the Hydran border which resulted in the formation of the Lyran Democratic Republic, early last year. It would appear that this new nation has entered into a pact of mutual non-aggression with the Hydran government. This has apparently served to create a successful buffer between the Hydran and Lyrans. Without the additional, Lyran, front and much of its attention drawn to conflict with the LDR, anyway, a large portion of their fleet has been redirected against the Klingons. Over the past several months an escalating conflict has developed along the Klingo-Hydran border. This situation has been doubly exacerbated by renewed cold-war tensions with the Federation and by unexpected probes of the Mirak.

In short, the Imperial Deep Space Fleet has been stretched beyond the capabilities of current production. In the last quarter, we have seen a small, but significant, drop in lease-deliveries due to the need for reactivation of mothballed units for their own fleets. The attrition of escort and frigate-classed units is unusually high. As you are aware, most of our contract calls for D-6 light cruisers and "E" and "F" class escorts-units for which the Klingon navy has an immediate shortfall-production requirement. I believe that the High-Council will gladly accept a reduction in lease-deliverables, so that they may reallocate these units to their own operational requirements."

As Tammad paused, a comm-panel bleeped for attention: "Administrator, we are approaching the station." Gallen acknowledged the report and gestured outside the view-port, "As you can seen, honored sirs..."
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[Parislord (Home)]

GCS Our'cha
Kralev Nebula

Four years later...

Vice Admiral Chak're-Oue swiveled his flag-command bench 180° and inspected the Electronic Warfare Board. Satisfied that all ships in his formation were running under full EMCON, he returned his attention to the tactical display projected on the main view-screen. The Command Cruiser Our'cha carried the flag for twenty-six cruisers and escorts designated "Khet-Force". Two other fleets, labeled "Zehd" and "Ypre-Force" were, presumably, making their slow, careful, way to similar targets within the nebula. Chak're-Oue hoped so. They were not likely to survive this particular mission and he hoped not to be killed to no advantage.

In the past year, the incidence of Romulan penetration into Gorn space had increased dramatically. Worse, many of these raids had been conducted by a new breed of starship, something totally Romulan in design and much better suited to their technology than the usual, Klingon, construction. Finally, after the loss of a heavily populated colony, Command had decided to do something useful.

The Kralev production facilities had been identified by intelligence sources nearly a year ago. After much speculation, it was decided that they would make excellent targets for retaliation. With Federation relations at an historic high-point, the Elder-Assembly had cleverly hit upon a policy of combined-forces exercise, ostensibly for "anti-piracy training". In fact, by allowing a large force of Federation starships to enter Gorn space on operational maneuver in exchange for a small force within Federation space, two entire fleets had been spared from duty. These units were all older hulls, supposedly returning to the yards for mid-life production upgrades. In actuality, the shipyards were working around-the-clock on new-construction to replace the scratch-force, which wasn't expected to survive. All crews were volunteers, ready to trade their lives for an operation that hoped to cripple the Romulan economy beyond repair. Some were members of the hard-line faction, who believed that the only good Romulan was a dead one. Most were simply patriots, believers that when faced with an enemy one must wage peace with the fang. The Federation culture was much-admired by the Confederacy. In many ways perceived as an idyllic, but terribly naive, society. But, their size and prosperity prevented the Federation from understanding their small neighbor. Thus, every effort had been made to keep the operation secret. They would want to talk, and negotiate, and compromise. And the conflict would continue. The Federation couldn't comprehend the position of a small nation with an actively hostile neighbor. Sometimes, when faced with an enemy, one must bite that enemy, and bite as hard as possible.

"Vice Admiral, we are approaching the IP," reported Pressk, the ship's captain.

"Very well, bring the formation to attack stations," Pressk saluted and began giving his order. The fleet shifted fluidly as each assumed their predetermined positions. Two weeks before, ninety starships had crossed into Romulan space and engaged a much smaller Romulan garrison force. The sixty-five ships of operation "Knife-Hand" sprinted deep into Romulan territory before going sub-light and splitting into three attack formations, heading for the Kralev nebula under maximum EMCON. Now, each drove through the nebular cloud towards their targets, the three major mining centers of the "Home Fleet" project.

One

"Red Group, go button One," a chorus of acknowledgements flooded the comm-channel. Centurion T'vann then switched his own radio to the formation-band, "Red Group go box, target is Foxtrot-three. Confirm master-arm is in 'simulate' position."

"Two, going box! Master-arm set simulate."

"Three, going box! Master-arm set simulate."

"Four, going box! Master-arm set simulate."

Each wingman maneuvered into position two light-seconds behind their element leader, both element leaders flying parallel to each other at the same distance. The four fast-patrol ships of "Red Group", angling for an ore carrier a million kilometers ahead of the formation.

Ore Processing Complex "One" of the "Home Fleet" mining project was the first such ore refinery constructed to harvest the mineral wealth of the Kralev Nebula. As the oldest such station, it was the largest. In addition to mining, it was also the seat of administration for the project and logistic center for receipt and distribution of the supplies and personnel that maintained the effort. Being nearest the edge of the gas-cloud, it served as base-of-operations for the small squadron of starships that provided security. Part of this squadron were a pair of fast-patrol tenders that operated as a remedial training unit for PF crews who completed their training in the lower percentile of their class. This duty was generally considered an easy tour, and allowed the crews to refine their skills. Crews that passed through these squadrons to the regular fleet usually suffered fewer operational casualties and flight accidents than other squadrons.

T'vann was leading this "hop" in a close-approach attack run exercise on an ore carrier inbound with a full load. While this was merely a training flight, great care was exercised. The flight was also responsible for HAVCAP in their sector and carried a full loadout of live armaments.

"Red Group, accelerate to attack standard and confirm target: Foxtrot Three."

"Two, target is bearing three-two-eight, mark seven-seven. Course one-eight-one, mark zero-nine. Point seven-one sub-light closure. Distance, eight light-seconds."

"Three, target is bearing three-two-tow, mark one-nine. Course one-four-wait! Wave-off! Wave-off!" Red Three announced as his ship veered out of formation. The pilot of Red Three had detected some violation of operational or safety procedure and each ship immediately steered toward a pre-briefed safe heading, opening the formation to cruise-stations as they broke-off the exercise. T'vann quickly confirmed that the flight had turned onto the correct heading before calling for a report.

"Red Three, status?"

"Red One, I have another contact in that sector with negative IFF."

T'vann quickly checked his chart, the ore carriers were fully automated and remote piloted from the station. No other carriers where scheduled from that heading for this watch, but sometimes their were brief control failures.

[Parislord (Home)]

GCS Our'cha

"Khet-Force" was leaving the denser portion of the nebula's interior at full impulse. This was the point-of-no-return. Soon they would be fully visible to the Romulan sensors, with luck they would be in firing position before the stations defenses could muster to oppose them.

"Captain, bring the formation to full-alert. Set jamming level-three, counter-jamming, three. Maximum reenforcement on the forward shields. Set all phasers to point-defense. Begin target mapping." Chakra' Oue rested a digit on the data-link panel built into his station. Soon, he would unleash hell.

Red One

T'vann switched comms to traffic control, "Traffic Control, this is patrol zero-four, I have a drone on an unscheduled course in box Charlie-Lima, over..."

"Zero-four, this is traffic control, confirm-"

"Red One! Red Two, additional contact on that bearing, negative IFF!"

T'vann scowled, was the entire schedule wrong? "Traffic Control, stand by. Red Two, confirm two contacts."

"Confirmed, Red One, two-no, five... Nine... T'vann! I have twenty-plus contacts inbound max sub-light! Negative IFF, all contacts! Negative silhouette identification on scanner!"

T'vann felt his chest turn to ice even as sweat burst out of every pore, "Control, this is Red One, multiple unidentified contacts inbound! Sound condition one! Repeat, sound condition one!"

"Red Group, go Res-cel, set master-arm on! Repeat, set master-arm to live position!" A chorus of acknowledgements flooded the comm-channel, but T'vann didn't hear them, one thought echoed in his head: "Oh, elements! Why is this happening?"

Flight leader T'vann frantically worked his sensors, trying to get some kind of classification on the large group of starships that had emerged from the deep nebula on course for his base. The dust cloud's chaotic maelstrom of stellar convection rendered the small craft's sensors useless at any but the coarsest resolution.

"Control, this is Patrol Zero-Four, do you have sensor-lock on inbound contacts, over?"

"Zero-Four, Control. Negative sensor lock on inbounds. Request you make visual identification. Rules of Engagement Option One is in effect until further notice. Confirm ROE Option One."

"Affirm, Control ROE Option One in effect," T'vann scowled to himself. Option One forbade them to fire unless fired-upon and that only against the firing vessel. It was an unpopular protocol, to say the least. The heavies were unlikely to waste power shooting at his fighters, a role better suited to their escorts. Under their current orders, key elements of the invading formation would remain off-limits as they attacked a few, insignificant, frigates and destroyers.

"Red Group, split into elements and maneuver for visual identification. Observe ROE option one, weapons are red-and-tight." The formation split into two pairs and maneuvered toward sixty-degrees off either side of the approaching armada's course of advance. T'vann cursed the nebular cloud which prevented them from using their cloaking devices. Fortunately, the white noise and stellar debris which rendered their sensors barely operable would be doing the same to their targets. Better, the fighters had a comparatively miniscule sensor cross-section. With only a little luck, they would be able to make visual identification without detection.

Onboard the Gorn flagship, Vice Admiral Chak're Oue stood beside the Fleet Tactical Officer where both were examining the main view screen. The image projected was a hash of green-and-gray pixels that coincided to positive and negatively-charged ions ahead of the ship. At the Vice Admiral's order, the Our'cha's captain was conning the ship at the head of the fleet. The Command Cruiser was fitted with the best sensors and her enhanced communications gear best suited this ship to guide the rest through the nebula.

"There!" The Tactical Officer tapped a claw against the screen in the lower-left corner. Four lines of mostly gray pixels moved slowly toward the center of the screen. Their sensors were highly degraded by the nebular cloud, but were doing an excellent job of scanning the cloud itself. As the Romulan fighters lanced straight for the Gorn ships, their navigational deflectors cleared the dangerous dust from their path, leaving a clear wake in an environment where no straight lines ought to exist: "Four contacts, small-call them size-class five-approaching from sector Delta. Moving near max sub-light... No contacts on that bearing, I would guess heavy attack-shuttles or fast patrol ships."

"Have they detected us, do you think?" Chak're Oue stole a quick glance at the Aegis display, his ships all showed gold-lights. They were ready.

"It would be a reasonable assumption, Admiral. To change course and accelerate directly toward us does not seem a likely coincidence."

"Admiral!" Called another staff officer, "The fleet has moved out of the J-band region, we should be fully visible to standard sensors. Nebular interference in this region replicates level-three ECM jamming across all frequencies." As the officer completed his report, the main view screen switched from tactical to visual display. The image quality was poor, but the vast sprawl of the processing complex was clearly visible. They could just make out four small ships in the foreground racing toward them.

The Vice Admiral returned to the flag commander's station, "Send code X-Ray! Weapons are red-and-free. All units engage at optimal range." The Gorn formation splintered as each cruiser paired-up with their designated escort. The ships spread out in a line-abreast formation that covered over a million kilometers.

Onboard the Romulan flight-leader's fighter, T'vann suddenly felt sick as his sensors finally cleared enough to retrieve something of a clear signal. The angular, ochre-colored, designs were distinctive of one race: "Control, this is patrol Zero-Four! Have visual contact with multiple Gorn starships inbound from sector Bravo-Lima! Repeat, contacts are Gorn naval combatants!"

"Copy, Zero-Four, contacts classified hostile. Weapons are red-and-free. We are scrambling the security-force."

"Copy, control, weapons free..." Amazingly, T'vann's apprehension vanished at the order. He was astonished to realize that he'd been more afraid to make the wrong decision or give a bad order than of dying. He carefully examined the targeting sensors before giving his order: "Red Group, continue this formation... Engage tactical counter-measures. Attack lead contact."

As the fighters continued to approach, the Gorn starships moved into a line-abreast formation. Suddenly their target had moved from the lead contact from their perspective to the center of a line of starships which they were approaching from an oblique angle. On their current course, they would have to fly a long gauntlet of subsidiary starships in order to reach their target.

"Red Group, prepare to attack my target," T'vann mentally calculated a new course without waiting for the computer, "Break right! Set new course three-zero-five, mark zero-two!" T'vann flashed his gunner two fingers, indicating his intention to pass to port of the target. Gorn starships generally had excellent phaser-coverage. In the immediate rear or forward aspect, nearly three-quarters of the target's phaser could be brought to bear. By holding-fire until they had passed fully into the port or starboard lee, defensive-fire would be minimized as much as possible. T'vann also hoped that a close pass to port would shield his tiny ship from additional fire from a light destroyer that hung off their target's starboard flank.

"Gunner, set ripple-count three." Their Centurion-class fast patrol ships each carried five F-type plasma torpedoes in stasis-tubes in the ventral hull. Standard doctrine called for only one torpedo to be launched on any given attack run to minimize loss-of-effect should the target launch a Wild Weasel decoy. Without the support of the fleet, however, T'vann needed to completely drop one shield in order for his wingman to score any significant damage on the Gorn starship. They would be very lucky to survive more than a couple passes. T'vann felt his teeth grind together as they approached their target, a Vessk'a-class light cruiser.

"Hold fire until we've passed their bow!"

[Parislord (Home)]

On the bridge of the Gorn Confederate Starship Hess'pyth, the bulkheads rang in protest of her commanding officer's bass roar, "We must FIND them!"

"Impossible, Commander! The lateral sensors have been permanently damaged." Hess'pyth had been one of the last starships to muster for this mission and had not arrived in time to receive last-minute maintenance. Had she done so, the minor calibration-flaw in her navigational deflector system would have been discovered and corrected before sending the ship through the dense Kralev nebula. As it was, the navigational deflector was allowing a small trickle of nebular matter to impact the hull. In clear space, this would not present an unusual danger as the shields could protect the hull from micrometeorites as large as one gram. Static discharge from the nebular convection of dust and gasses had a degrading effect on shields, however, creating wild spikes of efficiency in the system. Throughout their voyage, the tiniest fraction of dust that was not cleared from their path by the navigational deflector passed through the shields to impact the hull. Over time, this had abraded the miles of system-cable that covered the ship in a spiders-web. Sensors, communications, and the ship's deflector shields were all projected from this network. Unremarked within the denser portions of the cloud, the crew had discovered that they remained just as blind outside the heart of the nebula as within it. Only the warning of their escort had alerted Hess'pyth to the approach of the Romulan fighters.

T'vann screamed exultation as his ship flashed past the light cruiser's bow. Amazingly, the starship hadn't fired on them. At a range below ten-thousand kilometers, the gunner fired three Type-F plasma torpedoes which immediately slammed into the hapless cruiser. Two seconds later, Red One's wingman duplicated this maneuver.

~ To be continued ~

[Parislord (Home)]

Hess'pyth's Commander regained consciousness at the strange sensation of sliding down a gravelly slope. It was night, the darkness nearly complete. Periodically, the darkness was split with flashes of lightning and groaning drumbeats of thunder. Like a summer storm. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness and his hearing began to return, Captain-Lieutenant Rals'dechyk was able to pick out some details of reality even while his subconscious filled-in others from events long past.

The rocky slope was actually the corrugated metal of the ship's decking. And he was sliding down it: either the artificial gravity was out of alignment or the ship was actually listing severely. He strained upright, sitting now. Fat, gold, sparks rained from the overhead cable-runs. Occasionally, an instrument panel exploded with a flash and a gout of thick, white, smoke. He felt hands lifting him to his feet, "Captain, are you injured?" The Commander turned carefully, mindful of his precarious footing. He picked landmarks out of the damaged bridge: Tactical, Sciences, Navigation, Weapons. He remarked them without recognition, like familiar landscapes in a dream that are, at the same time, alien.

"Captain... Captain?" A voice repeated. Rals'dechyk turned toward the sound of insistence rather than his name. A short, female, officer with light green freckles over a mahogany hide and gleaming brass eyes tugged urgently at his uniform. She mistook his confused expression for inquisition and reported: "We have suffered catastrophic damage aft of the forward main frame. The starboard wing is gone, the midsection is completely breached to space all the way to the centerline. Primary and secondary power has failed along with almost every system, including life-support. Residual inertial acceleration is pulling the keel apart. We must abandon ship. Captain?"

* * * * *

T'vann fought off a wave of nausea brought-on by his ship's uncontrolled rotation. Despite the initial success of their first attack, his forces were rapidly dwindling. His second element had passed the target cruiser down the starboard-side two light-seconds behind him, straight into the waiting guns of a Gorn destroyer. A pair of defensive plasma torpedoes greedily consumed both fighters as T'vann and his wingman turned behind the crippled cruiser. A triple phaser-strike raked their forward screens before the Centurion could program an evasive maneuver, blasting the fighter into an uncontrolled flat-spin that sent them back toward the other ship. T'vann sat at the gunner's station that he'd vacated by pushing the melted pulp of his gunner out of the way. Over the ICS, he could hear his copilot's agonized groans as he struggled to right the spinning ship while blood and air boiled from dozens of gashes in the officer's pressure-suit. The flight leader of Red Group could feel the radiant heat from the white-hot bulkhead aft of the cockpit cooking his flesh. According to the damage control panel, the engine spaces were filled with plasma from the wrecked drive, venting out of a three-meter breach in the aft hull. His only thought was to fire their remaining torpedoes when the fighter's rotation brought the destroyer back into view.

"We aren't going to make it," gasped the copilot. T'vann looked up in time to see the cigar-shaped silhouette of the crippled cruiser's dorsal warp nacelle swelling in the view-port. T'vann closed his eyes, "This will do just as well."

Hess'pyth died an instant later as the fighter slammed into her dorsal warp nacelle. The resultant pressure-waves rippling through the plasma conduits exploded the containment core, spraying a massive gout of matter/anti-matter fuel into the engineering section. The mixture resembled a gigantic plasma-warhead in effect, as the vessel vaporized from within. The blast-wave reached-out and enveloped the cruiser's escort in a hungry blanket of destruction that crushed her shields and greedily chewed at the hull, converting the dense armored metal into lower-order radiant energy within seconds.

Onboard the flagship Our'cha, Chak're Oue barely heard the report. The station's defense force had reacted very well, meeting the task force well ahead of the IP. The Romulan commander had wisely decided opted to engage his nearest contact rather than waste time attempting to identify key ships in the formation. Three KR-class cruisers and a pair of warbirds concentrated their fire on two heavy cruisers, destroying them in a volley of plasma torpedoes and phaser-fire. The Vice Admiral slapped a command override key, and phasers from twenty vessels lanced-out to kill a pair of the Klingon-built KRs.

"Time to IP?"

"Ninety-two seconds," report the fleet tactical officer. On the Aegis display, another cruiser and an escort winked-out. They had lost twenty-percent of their forces in the first exchange, but the Romulan ships would not be able to cycle their torpedoes before they reached firing-range. The refinery, itself, had an extensive but light phaser-array, designed to intercept meteors that might impact the station. It could not counter their threat. The Romulan starships passed through the formation, spraying a few blasts of ineffective phaser-fire. With both squadrons driving at maximum impulse power, they quickly lost ground, unable to close with the Gorn fleet accelerating before them. Concentrated fire, damaged another cruiser, forcing it to slow.

"Interception Point! Range-to-target thirty-thousand kilometers!"

[Parislord (Home)]

Senate Council Chambers
Re'vaal City
Ch'Rihan (Planet of the Declared)

Seven days following the attack on the Krelav Nebula Mineral Processing Facilities...

Senator Tammad reflected that the nature of mnhei'sahe was often as somber as inspiring. He watched a pair of the elite Tal Prae'ex-the Emperor's guards-remove the lifeless body of Khre'Enriov Pr'eth al Ch'iyv from the speaker's floor.

"...Truly, no blame can be placed on the heads of the patrol garrison, here. This kind of attack has never been seriously addressed by the Strategic Planners. It has always been assumed that any force penetrating our border would drive for logistic and military targets deep in the sector at maximum warp in order to minimize our response time. Our sensor net, while extensive, was never designed or intended to track the movement of starships at relativistic speeds under full EMCON. Equally, the response by the local patrol within the Kralev Nebula, while clearly inadequate, was never intended to prevent an assault on this scale considering the naval deployment in clear space surrounding that sector. Thus I respectfully request that what blame must be placed, be allowed to fall on my head alone. I humbly beseech the Emperor, the Praetor, and all honored present. Let this knife take the place of all official fault that may fall on the officers and men who acted with all possible dispatch and failed through no lack of effort on their part."

Whereupon, the Fleet Admiral plunged the dagger into his black-and-gold adorned chest and bled his life out upon the chamber floors. His green blood had smeared the galaxy of ribbons and medals that covered his breast from a lifetime of achievement. Like his failure, the blood defiling the decorations would be cleansed from them when he was laid to rest. It was the nature of mnhei'sahe.

The Praetor accepted the dripping weapon from a page and wrapped it in a swath of silken cloth, "Let the Khre'Enriov be buried with honor, and as we deliberate our response to these actions, let none here speak askance of his officers or crew. Pr'eth al Ch'yv has suffered all that honor could demand. We will now hear from Minister Gallen." A murmur arose from the assembled delegates and they arranged themselves to hear the Minister's report. Official action had been meted out, now it was time to move onto practical matters.

Gallen had been rudely awakened by the first reports of the attack and quickly mustered his engineers and planners for a rapid assessment of the damage to his facilities. A preliminary report was quickly drafted while the team continued to sift the minutiae of details which would first be heard here.

"Honored delegates. Senators. Praetor. Let me preface my statements by first dispelling the rumors regarding the totality of damage at the sites. The full scope of the "Home Fleet" project was comprised of three separate mining operations designated Processing Complexes One through Three. While the damage to Complex One was total, and that at Complex Three is so complete as to be effectively the same, Complex Two was left largely intact thanks to the coincidental fact that their garrison was at double strength at the time of the attack. Due to the presence of additional forces on scene for a scheduled rotation of the security garrison, these ships were able to intercept the attacking force, which was largely comprised of escort-class starships-albeit in large numbers. Repairs were underway when I left the site for this assembly and are nearing completion as I speak. We expect to resume full-scale operation within the week.

Second, honored witnesses, I should like to address the perception that the loss of these facilities represents a grave blow to the economy of the Empire. In fact, the monetary value of this equipage is just under two-hundred billion Imperial credits." Some protest rose from the audience at this statement, "Please, please! I assure each of you that this figure, while considerable, disguises the true cost we are faced with. The scheduled roll-back in Klingon-leased naval construction for this year alone is valued at approximately seventy-five billion credits. When we consider the planned construction time for new equipment, the cost of reconstruction is actually less than our programmed budget for material expansion of the project over the next six years. The impact on our economy is just under eleven percent. This will create a hardship, for certain. However, it is not the disaster that most of you anticipate. No, honored delegates, the true impact carries a far greater subtly and danger to the Empire than you will have imagined."

At this point, pages began to distribute folders to each of the twenty-one senators that made-up the Praetor's advisory cabinet. The first section contained star charts of the Empire with annotations for operational deployment of naval forces, the second planned orders for construction, the third for planned maintenance and refits, and the fourth stockpiles of repair parts and consumable mechanical supplies and ordinance. Each report identified critical shortfalls over the next ten years.

"Honored delegates, the greatest damage done is to our logistic capability, not the facilities in the Kralev Nebula.

If we factor-in the restoration of full production at Complex Two, we are faced with a near-term shortfall in naval construction of eleven-percent across all class of third-generation vessels. This represents a significant, but immediately non-critical, reduction in fleet replacements. In following years, however, we can estimate a complete termination of new construction as resources are consumed by the requirements of normal operational attrition.

We anticipate even greater shortfalls in our ability to maintain our fleet of Klingon-leased starships and other second and first-generation assets. With reductions in Klingon deliverable units programmed into the current lease-terms, we are looking at a thirty-nine percent operational shortfall over two years, growing into sixty-plus percent in four if we are unable to renegotiate for increased deliveries in new construction and replacement parts within the next year.

Truly alarming is the projected complete attrition in our first-generation assets through lack of planned refits and maintenance within this year due to planned replacement schedules for third-generation construction.

What we are looking at, honored delegates, is an average loss of forty-one percent of the Imperial fleet across all classes within the next three years. I have no ready estimate on the effect on our civilian transport requirements or the subsidiary impact on the Imperial economy at this time, for that matter. Such an estimation will require at least another few days from my staff." Tammad paused to let that statement take hold.

"Worse, we will have to maintain our remaining fleet with approximately half the consumable mechanical resources and spare parts dictated by military and civilian protocols for at least eight years after we have reached production levels concurrent with those prior to the attack on the Kralev Nebula facilities. It is the estimation of this ministry that we will not be able to restore planned production to previously planned levels for at least nine-to-fifteen years."

The chambers fairly exploded with a thunderous cacophony of protest and unconsidered demands for more details. Senators shouted questions at Gallen while arguing with their colleagues. He didn't even attempt to answer their demands, but simply exited the chamber along with his staff. Alone among them, Tammad simply sat and waited for the bailiffs to restore order, he'd already heard the report. Indeed, he'd helped Gallen draft it. The Praetor hammered on his podium with the hilt of a broken sword which had served as the gavel and ceremonial cipher of the Praetor's administrative station since ancient times, "Silence! I will have order in this chamber!" The animated thunder died with remarkable haste, "This council is ended. Assemble my cabinet in the antechambers." Tammad and twenty other senators filed through the east door.

[Parislord (Home)]

Twenty-one Senators made-up the body of the Praetor's cabinet. This group advised the Praetor on matters of internal and external policy and action, who, in turn, advised the Emperor. In actuality, however, the Praetor merely manipulated the Emperor-a modern-day equivalent to Louis XIV's Richelieu. It was a matter of practice that Tammad never let himself forget. While some of the Senators present exulted in their proximity to power and used their position to forward their own agendas, other members feared their potential accountability and were easily manipulated in turn. Tammad and too few others were purely motivated by loyalty to the Empire and it's people. Tammad considered himself a critical buffer between the needs of the Imperium and the desires of its powerful and ambitious princes.

All stood as the Praetor entered the room, "You have all heard the reports from Minister Gallen. Now, we will discuss what action we may take to minimize our vulnerability on the galactic platform. Senator Tammad, will you advise the cabinet of the Klingon High Council's reply to our envoy?"

Tammad stood, clearing his throat, "Praetor. Senators. As you know, I accompanied Minister Gallen on his initial inspection of the Kralev Nebula facilities, where we arrived at the first-draft conclusions of the Minister's report to the Senate. Immediately, I requested an official inquiry through our embassy on Quo'nos for an increase of lease-deliverables commensurate with our 2279 treaty terms. In reply, we received an eleven-page statement from the High Council, advising the Emperor that an advisory committee had been created to investigate the feasibility of such action. We are encouraged to await their findings at an unspecified, later, date. However, in recognition of our immediate need, the High Council has promised the rapid return of fourteen of our third-generation starships currently configured with Klingon armaments that were lent in part of an ongoing technology exchange program. These assets are expected to be turned-over to Romulan crews within the month."

The Praetor inquired, "Do you believe that the High Command will, ultimately, accede to our request?"

"No, sire, I do not. Through unofficial channels, I have learned that their conflict with the Hydrans continues to consume a large portion of fleet resources." Tammad gestured to another senator, resplendent in naval dress, "Senator V'dennin is, of course, better able to describe the Klingon dilemma than I."

"Praetor, the honored Senator is correct. Intelligence assets have monitored heavy fighting among the frontier subject and colony worlds along the Klingon border with the Hydran Kingdom. The formation of the Lyran Democratic Republic has neutralized the threat along the Hydran's only other hostile front. As well, the conflict in this region is complicated by Federation pressure on the Lyran government to recognize the LDR sovereignty which has spilled-over to involve the Klingons and accelerate their cold-war tensions with the Federation. Considering the Klingon requirement to monitor their primarily subject population as well as conflicts on two fronts, the Imperial fleet is stretched to the limit of their logistic and force-projection capabilities."

Another senator, B'lleil of House H'rethneh, motioned for V'dennin's attention, "Senator, what do you think the result if one were to remove any one of these factors from the Klingon situation?"

Tammad's eyes narrowed. B'lleil was one of the power-hungry he'd watched for a long time. House H'rethneh owned the largest shipyard in the Empire and B'lleil would gladly sell-off a small percentage of their weakened production-and the safety of the frontier worlds as a result-for a fat infusion of Klingon gold into the house coffers. Tammad expected B'lleil to recommend allocation of some of the Empire's weak production be reprogrammed to military aid for the Klingons, but the loathsome creature's inspiration proved to be much more radical-and dangerous, "Why then not lend our Klingon allies every assistance against these Hydran corsairs?"

The silence that followed the Senator's question chilled Tammad like the vacuum of space. Senator Veael, a young economics expert, was much admired for her exquisite feminine charms. Unfortunately, her brilliant logical mind had not yet developed the political skills required to function in this group, "What would "every" assistance entail, Senator?"

B'lleil leered at the young Romulan with both eyes, "Why, the one resource we possess that the Klingons appear to lack, my dear. Our starships."

Veael regarded the senator with an indescribable look of disdain, "Are you actually suggesting, Senator, that in our current crisis we should embroil ourselves in a foreign war?"

B'lleil parried her expression with an oily smile, "Not a war, Senator, a 'Police Action'. By sending in a select force for 'advisory' purposes, we would be legally assisting the Klingon Empire in restoring peace to a beleaguered region of their territory. We would be working to stabilize a volatile conflict that has created tensions with every nation in that sector of the galaxy! What would your estimation be, Senator V'dennin?"

The former naval officer blinked in surprise at being included in this strange argument, "Well, the Gorn have been content to leave us to our own devices in the past, and they've certainly made no further overt moves against us since the last attack. The Federation are only too happy to respect our borders in any event. I imagine that we could spare a fraction of our current forward-deployed forces in these sectors by mobilizing some of our reserve assets.

I couldn't estimate our ability to counter Hydran battle-doctrine with any real accuracy, the subject has never been seriously explored. I would expect that the Hydrans have little experience in plasma weapon tactics based on the technology indigenous to that region of the galaxy. Their seeking-weapons experience is considerable, but not very relevant to our weapons systems. Certainly, they are familiar with fighting cloaked starships, however, the Klingon fleet does not possess any cloak-capable ships above escort size. I would expect their ability to counter a capital-ship threat comprised of cloak and plasma technology to be minimal. By contrast, our own crews experience against Hydran weapons is equally slight. I expect that our success in the initial stages of such a conflict would be greater, but rapidly decline."

Tammad felt it was high-time to stop this dangerous idea, "And what of the Federation Starfleet? You just heard Senator V'dennin's account of Federation pressure on behalf of the Lyran Democratic Republic. Do you seriously think that they would fail to respond to a Rihannsu attack on Hydran territory? That is what you're suggesting, isn't it B'lleil? Whether we breach their space ourselves or simply relieve Klingon forces in place, we will be seen as responsible for any intrusion into Hydran territory."

The Praetor crashed one fist into the table.

"Enough! This debate has gone longer than necessary. We will now entertain other suggestions," commanded the Praetor, "Senator B'lleil, your proposal will be reported to the Emperor for due consideration." The meeting continued for another few hours. Finally, in the early morning, the Praetor dismissed the cabinet. Tammad barely noticed the passage of time, one thought consumed him: "This plan of B'lleil's must not be allowed to come to fruition!"

[Parislord (Home)]

Four

USS Fife (DD-1076)

On ELINT patrol near the Klingon-Romulan border

Commander Jerry Sims sat on the bridge of his new command, soaking up the "new ship" smell of the USS Fife. Though the destroyer was in fact an older Siva-class vessel, she'd just come from seven months of refit. Docked at the Bath Shipworks in Mars orbit, a contract team from General Dynamics had fitted Fife's primary hull with over a thousand meters of system cable replacing the ship's old deflector generators with a new 'grid-array' that drastically enhanced her shield systems as well as increasing sensor and communications range. Faced with a large budgetary surplus, the navy planners had taken the opportunity to upgrade their control consoles with new touch-pad control interfaces, refurbish crew spaces, and even redecorate the mess deck.

Following a successful shake-down cruise, they were now stationed off the Federation's southernmost point, putting their new systems to operational trail by conducting an extended ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) patrol along the Neutral Zone where Federation, Klingon and Romulan borders met just outside the Tholian Holdfast. Intel assets responsible for evaluating Klingon naval operations had detected a small increase in ship-traffic from outlying posts into the Empire's interior and it was Fife's mission to determine if any of these ships were being pulled from the expeditionary fleet garrisoned on the Tholian border.

Fife's normal ship's company had been augmented with an attached signal-gathering team operating from a special cryptographic van occupying their portside shuttle bay. Sims felt very much like he and his crew were the passengers on this mission. His orders clearly stated that they were not to approach the signal van or it's officers. Periodically, terse course corrections were submitted directly to the helm console, locked-off from the bridge crew. Meals were delivered to the intelligence specialists at their stations. They slept, ate and bathed in the displaced shuttlecraft, trapped in its maintenance berth by the van's immobile presence on the launch-pad.

Still, it was good to be underway. Fife was a TAR command: 'Training Active Reserve'. Moored at Starbase Eleven for nine-months out of the year while assigned to Reserve Destroyer Squadron Eleven, she shared a rotation schedule with three other destroyers that filled the squadron's ranks. Fife's crew was a mix of reserve and full-time active duty officers and enlisted men assigned to the starbase. Sims currently filled a billet on Commodore Velasquez's operations staff as well as acting part-time Captain of the Fife.

"Captain, I think I have something, here," Lieutenant Bernard Thomas, Sims' Science Officer announced.

Currently, Fife was running course tracks similar to a cartography survey under stringent EMCON restrictions. Presumably, the intelligence commander was using their new sensor array to conduct passive sweeps. Each nation maintained a strong network of bases and automated sensor stations along their borders to detect approaching ships. Any active sensor scans would be instantly detectable, revealing their mission. Instead, the ship plied a reciprocating course, catching whatever signals drifted through their sensor-arc. On their scopes, the destroyer would appear to be conducting routine navigational surveys instead of actively spying on them. Sims didn't dare try to tap into the intel team's data-stream, but he hated being kept out-of-the-loop. Under the guise of running system checks, Thomas was conducting his own passive scans, attempting to discover what the spooks were up to.

"What have you got, Barney?" Sims moved to the Lieutenant's station and asked quietly.

Thomas indicated one of his scopes: passive sensor contacts were represented by vertical bars on a waterfall display. The luminosity, width, and sharpness indicated the quality of the contact. Colors were assigned to mass, relative speed and power-curve attributes. An experienced sensor operator could tell almost as much from a good passive signal as with an active scan. Thomas was an excellent sensor operator, but he wasn't getting much signal to work with. All but two contacts were dim and indistinct. Many faded on and off the display as Fife's bearing to the signal changed. Of the constant tracks, only three showed any detailed information. The rest appeared in dull, neutral, gray shades that revealed no information beyond their presence.

"Twenty-plus contacts just inside the Klingon border, Captain. Most of these returns are barely ghosts-not enough signal to make a classification. Half of the signal we are getting is line-of-sight comms between them. It's mostly erratic. Not usually directed to every ship, not on any regular schedule that I can determine. This one, " Thomas indicated a wide, dim, pulse drawn in a bold crimson shade, "I'm pretty sure is a Klingon D-7T, K'tinga class. They've got huge auxiliary warp reactors at the base of the command pod for arming their photons without drawing from the engines. Since they're outboard of the pressure-hull, the Klinks never bothered to build strong radiation shielding around them. This thermal-trace could correspond to that kind of system."

Sims considered that. Twenty-plus was a considerable force. Starfleet only maintained eleven ships in this sector for defense, over half were semi-active reserve vessels like Fife. Three battlepods were mothballed at Starbase Eleven. When mated to a Ptolemy class tug they became ready-force pocket dreadnoughts, but it could take a minimum of eight-hours, plus transit time to convert them. If the Klingons came tearing across the Neutral Zone, Starfleet would be very hard-pressed to stop a force that size before they broke out of the sector.

The Captain tapped the console where the only two really solid contacts moved left-to-right across the display.

"What's the story on these two characters?"

"Those are the only two movers in the group. The rest seem to be parked. The right contact is an F-5C. This green corona usually indicates deflector plating, so he's probably Klingon. This other contact is very definitely a Romulan Firehawk-A destroyer. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say these ships are conducting some kind of joint-exercise. The two jokers look like they're running condition-three speed trails, " The science officer referred to an exercise where ships would race with all combat systems fully charged, "Klingon small-boys are pretty well insulated to keep an enemy from getting a good feel for their cycle timing, but the new ships all have deflector-plating instead of standard shields and we're getting good readings off his K'galth drive system. The Rom's running way too fast with a pair of F-type plasma torpedoes armed to be any of the first generation or Klingon-lease designs. His mass is low, too. Those older Rom's have thick slabs of ablative armor lining their dorsal and ventral hulls and that extra weight imparts a fair amount of inertia to a warbird's maneuvering pattern. Watch these course changes, though, he's really light on his feet. Even for an escort." Thomas sat back and looked up at his commanding officer: "If I were planning an invasion, this isn't how I'd go about it..."

Sims reflected that combined forces training was half military exercise and half company picnic. Both sides usually spent as much time getting to know their counterparts culture as their tactics. Contests like this apparent starship drag-race were popular tools for learning how another services equipment worked next to your own. Certainly this sort of activity wouldn't tend to suggest that they were preparing for war. On the other hand, Starfleet intelligence was always interested in information regarding the alliance between the Klingon and Romulan governments. Some very interesting inferences would no doubt be drawn from this, he thought.

"Anything else?" He inquired.

Thomas frowned and brought-up another contact on a separate display, "Yeah, this. It's small, it's moving slow, and it's not emitting any signals, but he's running with charged deflector-plating too. My guess is the naval arm of Imperial Security keeping an eye on the party, best guess is one of the G-2 variants."

Todd Sims punched the science officer lightly on the shoulder, "Good work, Barney, at lest now we know what we're doing out here." The intercom panel on Sims' command station chose that particular point to emit a strident whistle.

[Parislord (Home)]

"Captain Sims," The Andorian Commander in charge of the intelligence team had a quiet, lisping, accent that put Todd in mind of a Japanese prince he had interviewed while writing his doctoral thesis at the University of Washington, "There is a civilian starship entering this sector whose trajectory passes through or patrol pattern. Would you please contact their master and inform them that you are conducting a gravimetric survey. They should alter their course three-degrees toward galactic north until they have passed the eighty-first latitudinal. You may scan them as necessary, Captain, but please limit your senor-arc to sixty-degrees north-northeast. Be sure to send any transmission in clear."

Sims acknowledged the order and cut the channel, "Barney?"

"Scanning. Contact is a Johannesburg class merchant hull, running a Deneb IV commercial registry: CSV Vosper. Bearing two-hundred seventy-eight degrees, by twenty-two relative."

"Chief Patchett, hail them, please." The duty communications officer plied his board for a second and nodded to the Captain that he had a channel.

"This is Captain Todd Sims, of the Federation starship USS Fife, calling the merchantman CSV Vosper. We are conducting a gravimetric survey in this sector, your course intersects our course-track. Please alter your heading by three-degrees galactic North until you have cleared the eighty-first latitude."

"Starfleet vessel, this is Master Calabrese of the starship Vosper, " the civilian's voice announced from the intercom, Sims turned to Patchett, who clenched a fist in front of his face indicating that he was receiving no visual transmission, "I show no charts filed for your mission on LORAN, you have no authority to alter our course. File your complaint with the Federation Commercial Commission, but we will not make any course changes that will effect our schedule. Vosper out."

Todd tapped an absent tattoo on his chin with one finger. Starfleet didn't file operation orders with the FCC for deniable intelligence operations, of course. Legally, he had no proprietary claim on this area of space. He was still in command of a Starfleet vessel, however, he could always bully them into submission.

"Barney, check LORAN, find out where this clown's destination is. I might be getting into the mood to pull that ship over for customs inspection."

Lieutenant Thomas smirked behind a discreet shoulder and called up the records.

"LORAN says they're bound for Delilah VII."

The Captain sounded perplexed, "But, that's..."

"In the direction they're coming from," Finished the science officer, "Hang on Cap." Thomas reset his scopes and programmed a query into the library computer, "Look at this."

Sims moved up to the science station. The Lieutenant pointed to the passive sensor auxiliary display, "according to Jane's, the Vosper is fitted with a Kirby-Dreller model F-8H commercial drive. This display shows what we should be seeing under current sensor conditions, " The Captain saw a wide, bright, heavily pixilated amber bar. Thomas put the contact on the main sensor display, "This, is what I'm actually reading." The scope showed a narrow, razor-sharp line drawn in slate-gray.

"Straight off the factory-floor, Vosper should be capable of warp three on a good day, dumping a fair amount of unconverted deuterium out of the mix. That accounts for the high luminosity and fuzzy signal. Now, every owner is bound to spend some money on tuning his drive for better efficiency, but this guy's got his engines tuned to over ninety-percent. No commercial ship runs that tight, it's not cost-effective with commercial fuel. He's got to be running ultra-refined deuterium in a military-grade drive!"

"A pirate," Sims stated.

"Or at least a smuggler, but we're all alone out here. We probably look like a good mark."

The Captain returned to the center seat, slapping his intercom panel, "Commander At'akas, we have a potential high-threat contact in this sector. I am taking control of the mission, release helm control to the bridge."

"Understood, Captain, we will join the fire party. Out."

"Helm, " barked Sims, "Lay in ten-degrees lead-pursuit on that merchant. Designate contact Sierra One. Set Condition One. Red alert."

As Fife came about, the general quarters gong called her crew to battle stations.

The Captain felt his ship dip hard to port as the helm officer applied full maneuvering thrust to keep the bow in lead pursuit of the rapidly approaching merchant. On the main screen, he watched the pirate performing a similar maneuver. Both ships were driving an oblique course that kept their forward shields out of arc from the other's weapons.

"Tactical report, " ordered Sims.

"Contact at two-hundred seventy-thousand klicks, speed seventeen-point one gees and accelerating."

"Very well, " he acknowledged, "Helm, accelerate to one-quarter, prepare to reverse your course at fifty-thousand. Get set for a standard overrun approach. Launch a probe!"

A dull thud reverberated through the hull and Todd watched the bright streak recede on the screen.

"Multiple weapon signatures, Captain. I show three Type-I phasers and one Type-II disruptor charged, one Plasma-F torpedo charging. Spin-scan fire-control emissions, at least one drone-rack. Type unknown. These are all contraband technology, Captain, not authorized for civilian purchase."

"Then he's definitely a pirate, " Todd confirmed.

"He's firing, Captain!" Bright lens-flares appeared on the screen. An instant later, the ship rocked from the impacts.

"Direct hits on the number-two shield. Shield strength down five-percent. Evaluate fire as all three phasers and the disruptor. He fired too soon, negligible damage."

Silently, the Captain agreed, the odds of inflicting any real damage on his shields was slight at this range, but those weapons would have time to recharge before they came within optimal range. His own ship begrudged every power demand in combat. The Siva-class mounted the same weapons as a Constitution heavy cruiser, but rated a little less than half the power output. At engagement speeds, he had to conserve his fire and make it count. Worse, while his phaser banks charged relatively fast, Fife's photon torpedo system still fielded the obsolete Type-IV munition. Unlike the new Type-VII's, with their integral automated loading equipment, his weapons still required manual preparation and loading by their enlisted Torpedomen. Sims would put his crew up against any in Starfleet, but in starship combat, the human-factor could create vulnerabilities. He checked the weapon-board. His port-side tube was loaded and the repeater-breach nearly ready, but the starboard tube still showed a red "in progress" light on both chambers. He'd need more time to set-up his attack.

"Helm, slow to one-eighth. Divert surplus power and batteries to level-one ECM and forward shield reenforcement." The sudden drop in acceleration seemed to catch their opponent unprepared. On screen, the privateer rapidly passed right-to-left in front of the Fife, giving them a flank aspect. The helm officer had to pour on more bow-thrust to keep their forward shield out of arc.

"He's firing his plasma, Captain!" The ship vomited a large, green, blob of row energy that looked somehow obscene coming from the sleek lines of the merchantman.

"High-deflection shot!" Announced the weapons officer, "We're going to take it in the bow. Impact in eight seconds."

"Helm, hard to starboard, take it on number six! Weapons, hold point-defense." The torpedo moved left across the screen as the destroyer's maneuver altered the aspect geometry of the intercept. The weapon's guidance program was keyed to a simple pure-pursuit intercept that kept it centered on the target's center of mass. At Fife's meager four-gee's, the ship practically pivoted on her keel, wallowing as the maneuvering thrusters imparted almost as much inertia as the drive. Todd lost sight of the target as the torpedoes corona overloaded the screen's glare-correction.

An instant later, the ship rocked violently from the impact. Sparks rained, fat and impossibly bright, from a cablerun mounted in the overhead and the bridge lighting failed momentarily.

"Range fifty-thousand!" His helm officer was Johnny-on-the-spot at his station. Time for the other commander to feel the love, Sims thought irrationally.

"Reverse your heading!" Todd checked the board again. Port-tube was up, but the lights on starboard were out. Either the board or the starboard torpedo-room was out of commission, "Weaps, prepare to return fire."

On the screen, the merchant was also bearing into them, their combined closure-rate would bring both ships into a single-circle merge in seconds.

"Thirty-thousand!" Announced the helm officer.

"Fire torpedoes!" Sims was gratified to feel two pairs of recoil shock run through the deck up his legs as the torpedo room below the bridge launched four photon torpedoes. He watched the quartet of bright, white, points flash away from them and strike their target.

"Three direct hits, " reported Thomas focused on his sensor displays, "Their forward shield is down!"

"Ten-thousand kilometers, " interjected the helm.

"Fire phasers!" Todd barked. Twin lines of actinic blue light briefly connected the two ships through the merchant's collapsed shield. Energy skipped and sparked off the merchant's hull as the Fife's forward phasers torn long furrows in the merchantman's dorsal hull. The damaged ship disappeared from the main screen as Fife passed above them.

[Parislord (Home)]

"Target is now entering our number-six shield arc, Captain," reported Thomas.

"Fire lateral phasers!" Sims ordered. Two pairs of phasers one pair each mounted on the port and starboard dorsal hull fired into the merchant's rear shield severely weakening it. Todd had held these weapons in reserve as the final phase in his overrun attack. With both their fore and aft shields damaged, the enemy commander would face hard maneuver challenges if he should choose to press the fight.

Sims called for full acceleration as a separation maneuver, opening the range between the two ships. His weapons would need some time to recharge, so would the merchant, but he wanted to be out of knife-fighting range in the meantime.

"Captain, " called Thomas, "She's cycling her transporters." Sims checked his tactical displays, they hadn't lost a shield, the privateer couldn't be sending boarding parties across...

"Emergency stop!" Todd shouted. Too late, Fife shook like a rag doll from twin hammerblows that knocked the bridge lights out again. Nobody noticed as the navigators station exploded in a flash of sparks, fire and smoke that lit up the space like a flashbulb. The officer manning the console leapt backwards, sprawling on the deck. Several alarms blared, drowning out the crew's voices.

"Report!" roared the Captain as he climbed back to his feet, nursing a throbbing knee.

"Mines! We knocked down their rear shield anyway and they had to know our phaser capacitor was in cycle, so they threw a couple transporter bombs at us, " replied Thomas, also thrown off his feet. He began collecting damage reports throughout the ship: "Number three and five shields down. Heavy damage to the hull portside between frames twenty-nine and forty-one. Starboard everything aft of sixty. Starboard shuttle bay is vented to space. Severe disruption of the power-grid. Portside tractor emitter is offline. Portside transporter offline. Port-forward phaser offline, port-after phaser shows malfunctions in tracking and focus. Fire-suppression and decompression bulkheads in several spaces have been activated, no fires or loss of atmosphere reported."

The science officer looked up from his controls, "Twenty-nine crew confirmed dead, four MIA, seventeen critical injuries."

Todd was shocked speechless. Out of eighty-nine crew, those figures accounted for more than half his ship's company.

"Tell the DCA to begin emergency repairs. Phasers, power systems, transporters, tractors." Sims turned back to his command chair, "Helm, accelerate to one-quarter. Pure-pursuit course, " he growled, "Weapons officer, instruct the torpedo room to overload their warheads."

"Captain, enemy ship is firing a missile!"

Todd whirled back to the screen in time to see the drone flash toward them. His ship struggled to accelerate following his previous order, but they had no energy to evade. The Captain checked his weapon display, knowing that the phasers weren't going to charge in time. Unable to react, the enemy weapons officer steered the drone right through Fife's downed port shield.

ISF Knife-Hand (E-4K 1100)

Monitoring the Klingon-Romulan joint task force

Lieutenant Commander Korge Sutai-Demma lounged in his command couch on its raised dais at the center of the command deck, absently scratching at a patch of dry skin under his chin. The air on the bridge was deplorably under-humid. It was a bit cold, as well. Klingon ships maintained an average thirty-five degrees, Celsius, at eighty-percent humidity or greater for basic comfort. Of course, that was in the Deep Space Fleet, he reflected glumly. In the naval arm of the Imperial Security Force, you were lucky if your ship didn't actually break down entirely at any given moment. Vindictively, the navy kept a minor reign on the security forces by allocating only the most obsolete, poorly maintained vessels from their forces. Korge longed for the close camaraderie and elite status of a navy command. But, this bucket and it's attendant ignominy was his own personal purgatory for defeat at the hands of that Starfleet abomination named Enterprise, and her monstrously arrogant, damnably lucky captain. Korge had been banished to the sidelines of his naval career years ago, and if he were lucky, and did his duty well-without fail-he might just be able to get back into the Deep Space Fleet for his retirement tour.

"Commander," called his executive officer from the tactical station, "That Starfleet destroyer we've been monitoring appears to be engaging a civilian starship!" Korge sighed and heaved his bulk off the couch, moving to the tactical plot at the rear of the bridge. His officers were easily excited. The Federation commander was probably just running-down a helpless smuggler.

Korge was surprised to find his exec's report accurate. As he watched the tactical plot, the two ships made similar oblique approaches and exchanged fire. The Starfleet commander cleverly jinked his ship, throwing-off the other ship's approach and forced him to fire from a bad position. The two vessels then exchanged point-blank fire, again in the Starfleet vessel's favor until the two merged. He watched the mines stagger the destroyer, "Scan them. What is their damage status?"

The tactical officer plied his controls for a brief moment, before reporting: "The Starfleet vessel is a Siva-class destroyer. It has suffered heavy damage to two shields on his port and starboard flank and severe internal system disruption. There is at least one hull breach detectable, and their power-curve is lower than normal. The other vessel is generating an extremely high throughput for civilian engines. I would evaluate this contact as an Orion ship operating under their "engine doubling" protocol. He appears to have also lost two shields, fore and aft. I can detect some hull damage, but nothing else. Wait... He's launched a missile... It's struck the Starfleet vessel through one of their weak shields! I'm detecting significant powerloss."

Korge clapped his executive officer on the shoulder and spun back toward the bridge, "Navigator! Plot a course to intercept the Federation starship, maximum warp. Weapons officer, call your gunners to battle stations! Sound general quarters."

"Commander, are you suggesting that we abandon our mission?" The XO sounded genuinely perplexed. "You intend to assist the Starfleeters?"

"No, Lieutenant, I intend to blast them to dust. Then, I'm going to do the same to that pirate and claim we were too late to save the humans. Under the guise of coming to the Federation's aide, we can cross into their space with impunity. When I submit my patrol report, I'll add that kill to my sash and ride the glory of it out of this rattletrap command."

"But our mission!"

"Will keep, Lieutenant. We can be there and back in less than an hour. Now, I've given my orders, do you insist on continuing this debate?" Korge's hand drifted to his sidearm.

The executive officer visibly deflated, "No, Commander."

"Excellent. Helm, accelerate to maximum speed!"

~ To be continued ~

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