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Hello everyone. I'm a fairly seldom poster but I have been an avid reader of some of the stories found here - The Hunted, Sparks From the Edge, and All The Lost Little Boys and Girls being recent examples. The latter to the detriment of my sleep patterns.

I thought I'd throw this out here, seeing as it's right up SDN's alley. I usually write in short "chapterettes", and have about twenty in reserve with more in the works; I'll post at whatever rate people show the desire to consume them in.

This story is based (roughly) on the Star Trek universe as seen in Star Trek Online; set in the universe that Spock Prime and the Romulans leave from in the JJ Abrams movies, Romulus has been destroyed and the Romulan Star Empire is in tatters - leaving the Klingons to expand aggressively and pitting them in a bloody, protracted war with the Federation.

I sincerely hope you all enjoy; this is my first serious stab at writing something in a long time. Without further adieu,

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

Amra Du’Shen knew that she wouldn’t make it.

Maybe if I’d run with the others…

No, idiot. They were cut off – surrounded.

Maybe if they’d stood their ground…

Too late to worry about ‘ifs’.

They were cowards.

I fought well.

The woman’s internal conversation was cut off by an involuntary gasp of agony as her left leg – already ruined by the disruptor bolt – finally refused to carry her further. She sagged into the wall, her view turning to her pursuers as her back slipped on the smooth composite surface. Blue blood coursed down her leg, pooling in the burnt and tattered lip of her boots.

Lifeless eyes stared back at her, empty of any anger, sympathy, hate, or remorse. Empty of anything but the mechanical, calculated instinct of a trillion minds in one. Amra chanced a shot at the closest, the brilliant orange streak of light hitting her target squarely in its pallid face and… dissipating, uselessly, in a flicker of shield-contact.

The rifle sagged in her arms, the antennae on her head drooping sympathetically. She fired again, this time at a computer console across the hallway, but the shrapnel from its detonation did not reach the trio advancing unhurriedly towards her, only a few sparks striking their cybernetic implants.

They moved to the far side of the corridor. Learned from last time…

Desperately, Amra turned her attention to the light further down the hallway, coming welcoming and warm from the turbolift doorway.

So close. So damn close…

She forced her good leg to move, pressing her weight into the wall, trusting her tattered left to support her for the last few steps. It didn’t. She crashed to the floor choking back a scream and began crawling towards the source of light. She clawed for grip on the carpet, pushed off against the vertical brace of a wall section, and levered herself on her elbows and working knee. But she wasn’t fast enough.

‘Your current rate of movement is insufficient to permit escape,’ said an icy, unnatural voice behind her. ‘Your attempts are futile. You will cease moving to prevent unnecessary damage to your body.’

Amra tried to ignore the insane order, but her foot slipped off its purchase and she sprawled.

The bastards are right.

I won’t go like Shril. Or Donna. Or Commander Bodun. I won’t!

She grabbed for the phaser rifle and keyed settings into its panel, hearing the internal power supply heat up with a malicious hum.

I fought well, she repeated to herself. I will die well. I will make them pay.

I will make them burn.

She waited for them to get close enough, to feel the touch of ghoulish, cybernetic manipulators. She knew it was only seconds away, and could feel the pounding of her heart reverberating through her and back through the floor. It took her a moment to realize there were too many beats, even in her state; that there was another tempo, that of pounding footfalls not belonging to the hulking, ungainly Borg.

‘Halt and surrender. You will be assim-larrgh-’. Amra’s head snapped up and turned to look at the source of the sound; the eerie tone of a half-synthesized voice attempting to continue speaking without realizing that the organic airway it worked through was no longer connected to a set of lungs.

What she saw stayed with her for the rest of her life. It was a member of the crew – one she had seen on a number of occasions, but never interacted with. An alien, of a species unknown to her. He was tall and muscular; blue-purple skinned with deep furrows like old claw-marks emanating around his face and reaching around his head, partially covered by unkempt – and in places burnt – hair as white as the snows of her frigid home.

But at that the time, it wasn’t his appearance that shocked Amra; it was how he moved. Not bullishly like a charging Klingon or lithely and graceful like an Orion dancer, but with brutal, predatory efficiency. In his hand was a long piece of partially-molten durasteel and at his feet was the falling ruin of the third drone that a moment ago had been fixed on the crippled Andorian. Its throat had been severed almost to the spine by a vicious blow from the makeshift sword, and it still was still attempting to vocalize some awful parody of speech.

The aggressor trampled it with his boots, closing on the second drone and swatting away the arm it raised, crushing circuitry in the process. The drone, reacting too slowly, attempted to fire the disruptor anyway and was rewarded with its lower arm being replaced by cauterized flesh and charred wiring. The alien rejoined with a brutal stabbing blow that embedded the shard of metal into the drones’ torso, sending it staggering, but it refused to fall. It swung its other arm in a clumsy counterblow which struck home in the ribs. The alien rolled with the impact, but released his grip on the metal blade, leaving it hanging at an awkward angle from the drones’ machinery-infested chest. Borg servos whirred as the drone advanced, but the alien was faster and – Amra realized belatedly – he was not truly unarmed. Rather than fingernails or stubs or bony caps, the alien’s fingers ended in vicious curved talons. Before the drone could angle its remaining arm effectively the claws were at the drones’ neck, one hand slicing through flesh and sending a spatter of arterial blood over the wall and the other tearing out wires from the rig that connected to the back of the creatures’ skull. It collapsed, folding under the weight of combined system failures like a rag doll.

The victory, however, also gave the final drone a clear field of fire. Green bolts flashed out, blasting chunks out of the walls and ceiling near the newcomer. One struck him squarely as he dove for cover, and Amra saw a halo of fire surrounding him which flickered, flared and then died as his personal shield burnt out absorbing the impact. He pressed himself into the shelter of a doorway as the drone advanced, firing for suppression as it attempted to regain its target. It ignored as irrelevant the sound of a boot kicking something metallic behind him, and only dully registered something softly bumping against the wall to its left. The drone did, however register an ominous beeping sound and a spiking thermal trace coming from one of his implanted sensors.

When the phaser rifle exploded, the drone did not register anything at all – at least not in time to react, before half its body disintegrated in a thunderclap of plasma and flame. Sparks snapped and fizzled as a computer panel was consumed by a secondary explosion, and a cloud of gas filled the corridor as a coolant line in what remained of a wall burst. Then emergency seals snapped into place, and but for the ambient sounds of battle-damaged electronics and the omnipresent hum of the warp core, everything became oddly silent. Amra pulled herself up, squinting through the artificial mist for any sign of life, and was rewarded by the shape of the alien approaching her, coughing and covering his mouth against the fumes.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked in a sharp, lilting baritone.

‘My leg…’ Amra began, before the stress of terror and loss of blood finally took its toll. Her vision grew hazy and dark.

Two additional chapters going up in quick succession; gets on to the overall message of the story. Again, hope you enjoy.
U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

She awoke suddenly, her head that had stayed so clear during her flight from the Borg now throbbing and flooded with confused thoughts. She was immediately aware of the alien kneeling at her side.
‘What happened? How long was I out?’ she demanded, causing his eyes – deep blue, iridescent pools with no iris or pupil – to flick towards her.
‘Under two minutes, I approximate,’ he replied in the same deep tone. ‘I believed that stopping blood loss took priority, and your life-signs remained stable,’ he said with a gesture towards an open tricorder.
‘My leg…’
‘-is in remarkably good condition for a Borg disruptor wound,’ the alien finished for her, she surmised in an attempt to keep her from expending the effort of talking too much. ‘I suspect your shield absorbed much of the energy before overloading. I have been able to stop the blood flow, and I believe I can find adequate material for a splint in the debris.’

The Andorian realized most of her already-ruined uniform’s leg had been cut away – another use of his wicked claws, she assumed – and in its place was a hastily-applied mass of polymer bandage.

‘I applied a hypospray to mitigate the pain and synthetic agents to prevent infection. I followed medical training as much as I was able, but it is not my specialty.’
‘Sciences?’ asked Amra dubiously, registering the blue of his uniform. ‘You don’t fight like a scientist,’ she added. The unsettling blue eyes took in the blood-red of her uniform and her insignia. ‘And you are a tactical officer, not security,’ he replied as he finished his work on her limb, evidently comfortable enough with his ministering to provoke conversation. ‘Is the situation that bad?’ Amra groaned.
‘Worse. My station is the bow torpedo tubes – as far as I know we were the last weapon station still firing. The Borg came at us from both sides and overran the loading bay, so I tried leading my team through the only open corridor back towards the bridge. It was a trap – most of them ran and were shot down or… or…’ she cut off, unable to continue as the memory of seeing her subordinates – and friends – be taken and assimilated came rushing back with the force of a charging Andorian bull.
‘I am sorry. The bridge is not a safe destination in any case – it was overrun by the Borg soon after I left. I believe Captain Grumman has been killed.’ The words detonated in Amra’s head like a grenade.
‘The Captain… gone?’ she stuttered.
‘I fear so. He sent me to main deflector control, in the hopes I could break the tractor beam using a modulated-frequency pulse. I was successful but the bridge was lost regardless… too many Borg were already on board. I have been attempting to contact Commander Bodun for further orders, without success.’
‘He’s gone,’ said Amra flatly. ‘He tried to take a security team to meet up with my group and other survivors. When we were surrounded… he held them off, but there were too many. He’s gone,’ she repeated. ‘All of them, gone…’ her composure disintegrated, tears streaming in rivulets down her blue cheeks. Her savior seemed at a loss.
‘Lieutenant – Lieutenant! Please stay focused. We are still in grave danger. What is your name?’
‘Amra…’ she replied. ‘Lieutenant Amra Du’Shen, sir!’ Her eyes refocused, recalling her drills at the Academy and before on Andoria.
‘Thank you, Miss Du’Shen,’ the alien replied. ‘I am Lieutenant-Commander Karibys Althaeon, of Kaeribad. If Bodun is gone… who is in command?’

There was a long pause, broken only by the crackle of sparking wires. Then, the young Andorian woman wet her lips.

‘You are, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Chief Staunton was killed holding Main Engineering. Bodun too… you’re the highest-ranking officer left. You have command.’

Althaeon was silent for several seconds. Though she had no way of telling where his eyes were actually looking, she had a feeling that they were probing to one side and the other as a Human did when attempting to solve a problem. Then he spoke.

‘Very well. Acting First Officer Du’Shen, we need a tactical assessment of the ship and the surrounding battle. If you are able to walk once I splint your leg, we will head to Auxiliary Command.’ He paused again, and then his narrow lips cracked into what might have been a smile. ‘Admiral Yanishev will rue this day…’

Starfleet Academy, Sol System, 2406

‘Please be seated, Lieutenant-Commander,’ Admiral Grigori Yanishev offered after accepting the just-promoted man’s salute.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Althaeon replied, folding his tall form into one of the pair of chairs across the desk from Starfleet’s Chief of Fleet Operations. ‘I came as quickly as I could after the ceremony was dismissed.’
‘Of course. I didn’t want to pull you away in the middle of that – the first Kaerbadii to reach full leadership rank after all.’
‘And hopefully not the last, though what I have been told of the current state of negotiations is discouraging in that respect,’ Althaeon said. The Admiral grimaced.
‘I don’t think things are quite that grim,’ he retorted lightly. It was no secret that negotiations for Kaeribad’s induction into the Federation had struck several roadblocks, and at the general attitude of optimism which had seen several of the planets’ natives enlist in Starfleet was cooling. ‘I have faith in the Diplomatic Corps yet.’ Althaeon inclined his head slightly.
‘As do I, sir,’ he replied. ‘May I inquire why you wanted to see me?’
‘I just wanted to ensure that you remembered the discussion we first had after field training with Task Force Gemini,’ Yanishev said levelly. ‘You will be leading men and women now – impressionable new recruits – and I want to ensure that you don’t turn them into your own little squad of killers.’

Althaeon’s eyes glinted as his focus moved about. He shifted uncomfortably, taking care not to tear the seat cushion with his razor-like fingertips.

‘I remember, sir.’ He hesitated before continuing. ‘It was rumoured that some of the Admiralty opposed my promotion – if I may ask, were you one of those individuals?’ The dark-skinned creature’s head jerked back at an unexpected peal of dry laughter.

‘Me, Mister Althaeon? No – though I will not deny that the sentiment existed elsewhere. I simply had reservations about your attitude, which I felt best to address with you directly – man to man. How we did things as lads in St. Petersburg, not hiding behind a duty officer.’
‘I appreciate your honesty, sir,’ Althaeon replied. It is… discouraging, however, to know that even you hold such reservations. It is said that you are one of the most war-minded of Starfleet’s Admiralty.’

‘It’s said truthfully,’ Yanishev replied. ‘And that’s just the problem. There are still doves in Starfleet, and they resent the big bad bulls like me. And the fact that the Kaerbadii make me look a tame old cow makes them nervous. It makes me nervous. The Federation has a noble purpose – one that Starfleet has been a part of from the outset. And as much as your people have rich science and art and architecture, they remind people of the Klingons. Militarized. Dangerous.’

‘You know why that is, sir,’ he began. ‘The ‘doves’ as you call them – they mistake pragmatism for belligerence; directness for lack of wit or culture. The homeworlds of the Federation have seldom faced war – real war – even now with the Klingons. It is a distant thing, unfortunate and regretted – not feared and fought every day. We might have been like Humans, if it were not for the Hirogen, or for the Vraki, or for the Borg. They do not honour your Prime Directive or recognize rights. The Kaerbadii today are not the ones who prospered and explored and discovered – they are the ones who survived. That’s what we are taught when we are young, because of how our parents learned – to survive, to defend our own, by any means necessary.’

‘Exactly, Lieutenant,’ rumbled Yanishev. ‘And that’s what I’m afraid of. You already have reputation. That you accomplish things by any means necessary. Now, as the first of your species with a command role, just as negotiations with your homeworld are on the verge of collapse, that reputation matters. It’s not just about your reputation for bloody efficiency any more; it’s about how that reputation reflects on all of Kaeribad. And that’s what I’m afraid of, and why I asked you here.’ There was a pause before, as if coming to a sudden and profound realization, the alien cast his head back and set his jaw.

‘You are not afraid of me, sir,’ Althaeon said quietly.
‘What was that, Lieutenant?’ Yanishev snapped back, eyes narrowing.
‘I do not believe you are not afraid of me, sir. Nor are you afraid of the Kaerbadii, or our nature. You are afraid of what we mean for Starfleet – for your Federation. Not that my reputation will scare them into denying Kaerbadii membership, but that the war will scare them into accepting it regardless. You are not afraid of us bombarding cities to rubble or seeing my claws dripping with Klingon blood; you fear that this war will make it necessary. You fear that all of your ships and all of your brave young recruits won’t be enough when all the cards are on the table, when soldiers have to be soldiers and not explorer-ambassador-poets. That one day soon you will have to beg for us to fight a bloody war – a real war – to keep the utopian Federation and its ‘noble purpose’ safe.’

Yanishev inhaled, pushing out his barrel chest, and opened his mouth to speak before reconsidering and pressing his lips together till they turned white. Finally, he broke the uncomfortable silence.
‘One day. Maybe soon. Not yet. That will be all, Lieutenant-Commander.’ The newly-minted officer saluted crisply, hooked talons glinting in San Francisco’s midmorning sun.
‘Sir, yes sir!’ barked Althaeon in reply.

Looking very good so far, Venator. I'm looking forward to the rest.

Falkenhorst wrote:Looking very good so far, Venator. I'm looking forward to the rest.

Much appreciated! I'll throw up another couple of chapters now.
U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

The pair moved almost silently, taking advantage of the inconsistent lighting and general chaos of battle damage to evade the occasional Borg patrol. Once, they had stopped to consult a schematic of the ship to seek an alternate path; the design of the Royal Hunt with the saucer section hanging below the impulse engines and elegant, slender pylons swinging down to connect to the nacelles rendered knowledge of many of the conventional shortcuts and Jeffries’ tube pathways found on larger Starfleet ships redundant.

Amra was well aware that she would have trouble out-pacing even a lumbering drone with her leg in its current state, but had little doubt that her new companion – new commander, she reminded herself – could outrun them even with her over his shoulder. He moved from shadow to shadow and cover to cover with the well-versed timing of someone who had grown up with no fear of dark corners.

‘Auxiliary command should be just ahead,’ she breathed as Althaeon fell back into step with the ailing Andorian.
‘Indeed,’ he whispered back. ‘I will check the corner.’

Amra nodded and limped back to cover in a doorway, while Althaeon pressed himself into the wall closer to their target and creped forward, cradling his new weapon in clawed hands. Both had re-equipped themselves; the de facto Captain with a hand phaser and a long supporting brace which had twisted to an ugly point, which he now held like an ancient tribesman’s spear, and Amra with a replacement rifle and a photon grenade. She had done her best not to look at the face of the security officer she had taken them from.

Althaeon inched his head around the corner, exposing as little of himself as he could before snapping back around. He gestured to Amra to withdraw, a look of what she thought might be consternation on his face. Once they were nestled into another doorway he spoke again.

‘Five drones. They do not appear to have accessed the secondary command itself, but they are directly in our path.’
‘Five… what type?’ Amra’s voice was low and wary.
‘One technician, that appeared to be interfacing with the ships’ computer. Two freshly assimilated units without major implants and one average drone,’ he paused, as if to prepare Amra for worse. ‘-and one larger drone. Likely heavily armed and armoured.’
‘We could try forcing our way into the recreational room nearby,’ the Andorian replied. She paused, mulling information in her mind. ‘There’s a Jeffries’ tube connecting the two… but blasting through the door would bring them down on us.’
‘I had considered that too. We can attempt to fall back that way, but it is… not an optimal plan.
‘Would now be a good time to contact the rest of the crew?’ Amra ventured. ‘We could assault the passageway if we had more firepower.’ Althaeon shook his head dejectedly.
‘They will certainly have taken over the communications and jammed them; they had already begun to do so when I lost contact with the bridge crew. At best we would get no response… but we also risk alerting the Borg to our exact location.’
‘Yeah, I’d rather not,’ hissed back Amra, cracking a grin in spite of everything. Althaeon responded with a nasal chuckle.
‘We should take them by surprise– try to neutralize the heavy drone outright. The recently-converted will lack shields and I can handle the technician even unnamed.’
A curd nod was Amra's only response, equally full of fear and respect.

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

The grenade came around in a perfect arc, deflecting off a bulkhead and rolling to a stop right at the feet of the largest of the cybernetic monstrosities. Amra ducked back beside her compatriot as it detonated, seeing the wash of blinding light and feeling the wash of searing heat on her face.

As one, the duo swung around the corner a second time and unleashed an orange storm from their phasers, only to be forced back into cover by a tempest of sickly green retaliation. The grenade had obliterated the standard drone and crippled both of the newly-converted units, which their shots had finished off along with the damaged technician. But the heavyweight drone, the true threat, appeared totally unscathed.

‘It has particle shields!’ Amra heard Althaeon bellow over the din of disruptor blasts. ‘Fall back!’

She didn’t have to be told twice. As fast as her leg would allow she stomped back towards the recreation room entryway, firing at the centre of the door as she went. Her new leader fell in beside her, adding bright streams from his sidearm to her zipping bolts. She realized he was bereft of his makeshift spear, and guessed he must have hurled it at their attacker in a futile attempt to slow its progress. The door, glowing hot and sagging in its frame, began to buckle and give way.

‘Go!’ Althaeon shouted, urging her through. She hesitated, realizing how menacingly close the sounds of the Borg’s footfalls were behind them, but vaulted for the opening when he repeated the command.

She arrived messily, coming up onto her feet a moment later. Her uniform had snagged on bits of charred composite and her boot soles fizzled, but she was otherwise unharmed. Althaeon was a few seconds behind her, and urged her to find the Jeffries’ tube access. She saw him jab settings into his phaser with one claw before he discarded it in the doorway.

Fumbling in the dark, she found the access panel, released its lock, and tossed it aside just as the drone battered through the remains of the door. She wormed her way inside, finding handholds and then the rungs of the ladder. Althaeon was on her heels, throwing himself to the ground to avoid a phaser overload blast for a second time. Twice per day more than he enjoyed doing so, he would later note.

His head snapped around as he rose, and time stopped for a moment.

The drone was still standing.

It was clearly damaged by the blast, shields finally having caved after weathering the force of two miniature supernovas. But it was unmistakeably still moving, and came inexorably towards the shocked Starfleet officer.

‘Go, go, go!’ Altheon howled, urging Amra onward. He realized that the drone’s disruptors must have been disabled, given the fact that the Borg construct hadn’t annihilated him with green ruin. He weighed his options, and then turned away from the vent, squaring his stance with a grim finality. ‘Lieutenant,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘Keep moving. Seal auxiliary command and contact other survivors. That is an order.’

He grabbed the closest object that came to hand – a hand-weight from the rooms’ exercise set – and lunged.

Altheon is shaping up to be quite the badass; I'm really enjoying this so far.

Falkenhorst wrote:Altheon is shaping up to be quite the badass; I'm really enjoying this so far.

Thanks! And he is - but sometimes to his detriment when he doesn't know to turn that badassery off, as the next chapter explains a bit.
U.S.S. Emissary, Deep Space, 2405

Footfalls of heavy boots rapped crisply on a mesh floor grating. The owners of most of the boots seemed self-conscious of the clatter they generated, measuring their footfalls to attenuate the echoing metal din. There were two exceptions were stocky, grime-coated engineer and a tall, blue-skinned science officer with a long mane of white hair tied back in a simple knot – both seemed more at home on the unyielding metal than the carpet endemic to other Starfleet vessels.

The Emissary was no such vessel; larger and more advanced than anything else in service, it was seen as the pioneer of a new era; like all of the class which bore the name, the Emissary’s hull was studded with phaser stations and her interior traded observation decks and botanical labs for dense armour and redundant shield generators. It mirrored the no-nonsense persona of the man who the boots came to a halt in front of – Admiral Grigori Yanishev, Director of Fleet Operations.

‘At ease,’ the barrel-chested Russian boomed, tone leaving no doubt that ‘ease’ was the last thing the assembled party should be feeling. Nonetheless, they smartly relinquished their salutes for hanging hands and relaxed their ramrod spines incrementally.
‘Lieutenant Cole,’ the Admiral aimed at the first of the party, ‘please summarize the purpose of Task Force Gemini.’ A flicker of confusion crossed the brunette Human’s expression momentarily.
‘Sir, Task Force Gemini is a training exercise. Its purpose is to test new tactics and give new officers the opportunity to take part in realistic field simulations, sir.’ Straight from the operational brief – almost.
‘You sell yourself short, Miss Cole,’ the Admiral replied. ‘Gemini’s goal is to give promising or exceptional new officers that opportunity. Lieutenant Phogi,’ he continued, turning to a thin Bolian, ‘please summarize the planned simulation concluded at oh-nine-hundred hours.’
‘Sir, the simulation was an exercise in working in delicate situations involving pre-First Contact civilizations, sir,’ he belted out hurriedly, hoping his time under the Admiral’s hawk-like scrutiny was over. Predictably, it only attracted his attention like the panic of a wounded rabbit.
‘Excellent, Mister Phogi,’ Yanishev nodded. ‘Please elaborate.’
‘Sir... the exercise centered on a Federation observation post and a tribal society living on a floodplain near a dormant volcano, sir. Romulan loyalist forces had surrounded the tribe and set up transport inhibitors, intending to capture and interrogate the observation post’s staff. Our objective was to extract the Federation observers without contaminating the indigenous population, sir,’ he finished breathlessly, hardly having taken a breath during his description. It seemed to satisfy the Admiral, at least. He turned to the muscular blue-skinned officer, who stood at least a hand taller than any of the others.

‘Lieutenant Althaeon,’ Yanishev began with the tone of a man addressing a particularly stubborn and evasive housefly, ‘please explain how you arrived at the plan you enacted when given the command role.’ Like most of the other exercises the Gemini force had put its recruits through, in this one the young officers taking the lead in turns, and a new approach or variant tactic was expected from each. Though it was clear he was intimidated in the Admiral’s presence, the Kaerbadii showed none of the fidgeting fearfulness the other two had done in his response.

‘Sir, I hypothesized that it would be possible to create a distraction by forcing the team posing as the indigenous tribe to evacuate the area. Available intelligence suggested that the fictional tribe in question was nomadic and frequently relocated due to volcanic activity, and I believed that as the team was composed of a range of anthropologists, archaeologists and xenobiologists they would mirror the expected behavior of the tribe they portrayed.’

The normally stoic Admiral blinked at the thoroughness of the response – or more likely at the lack of fear or self-doubt audible within it. He narrowed his eyes, holding the gaze of the alien he addressed.
‘Very well, you extensively studied the background material. Please elaborate on the plan itself.’

‘Sir, I believed the best way to provoke a tribal migration was to simulate a volcanic eruption. To prevent contamination of the local tribe, I ordered a defused photon torpedo with the warhead replaced with concussion charges to de dropped during the night into the volcano’s mouth. This successfully simulated volcanic activity and provoked the so-called tribe to begin to break camp and effect a migration.’

‘And the extraction itself – do explain how you evacuated our observers,’ the Admiral pushed, seemingly more at ease as he absorbed the information and zeroed in on his point.

‘Sir, I monitored the deployment of the Romulans from the ship; while some teams fell back from the volcano itself as a precaution, they retained an effective perimeter with transport inhibiter coverage. I isolated one team which was geographically isolated from the others, and elected to lead a small team to neutralize that team by beaming down beyond inhibitor range and closing on foot.’

‘Very well,’ the Admiral replied. ‘Obviously, you had to prevent that team from alerting their comrades. So, you ensured that they would be unable to do so by jamming their comms, correct?’
‘Correct, sir. Once they realized their communications had been blocked, they attempted to spread out for the dual purpose of making contact with other surveillance teams and intercepting the observers.’ Althaeon paused, but continued at a nod from the Admiral.
‘Our jamming prevented us from warning the observation team, and due to proximity weapons’ fire may have alerted the indigenous tribe. I elected to engage the proxy Romulans by way of ambush.’ At this, Yanishev raised a PADD, retaking control of the dialogue.
‘Indeed. And, as a result of this ambush, I have reports that five Starfleet officers received between them,’ he raised the data screen for dramatic effect, ‘three broken ribs, one dislocated shoulder, four concussions, a sprained ankle and a broken wrist. Not Romulan soldiers, Lieutenant. Starfleet officers.’ An uneasy silence settled over the group. ‘Do you care to explain your actions?’ The Admirals’ voice was level, but full of menace.

‘Sir, the objective of the exercise was to provide a realistic simulation of special assignments. I attempted to force each to surrender without causing harm, and attempted to minimize injury and prevent lasting trauma when they elected to fight instead – presumably as per their instructions for the exercise. As a result of my actions, the observers were extracted without injury and with minimal impact to the indigenous peoples, sir.’ Althaeon’s reflective blue eyes were fixed on the Admiral, but he could not fail to catch the mixture of disbelief, horror and – though only visible by subtle hints – begrudging assent that was written on the faces of Cole and Phogi.

Though Admiral Yanishev had long-since learned to keep his temper under control – a necessity to ascend from a simple hotheaded ships’ Captain to the commissioner of Starfleets’ substantial resources – it was clear that he was within a hair of exploding now. He rounded unexpectedly on the remaining member of the group, the stocky and lubricant-coated engineer.

‘And you, Lieutenant Fergusson. How would you describe Mister Althaeon’s performance?’
‘Well, sir – it worked, didn’t it, sir? His was extreme but he got the job done, didn’t he, sir?’ the squat-figured man bumbled in a heavy Yorkshire accent. His eyes darted to the others just long enough to catch a shrug and a nod of what seemed to be reluctant agreement from Lieutenant Cole.

A few minutes later, Althaeon stood alone with the Admiral, six pairs of boots drumming up an indecent clatter from the metal decking as they retreated into the distance with no regard for the noise, only the speed with which they were able to put distance between themselves and the remaining pair.

‘You risked contamination of a pre-warp civilization, and you brutally beat your fellow officers to win a training exercise. And it worked,’ admitted the Admiral wearily. ‘You took matters on the ground into your own hands rather than remaining in control of the overall scenario. And it worked.’
‘I felt that my skills were most valuable where I applied them, sir,’ Althaeon responded. ‘I assigned others to roles they were naturally suited for and thought it obvious to apply the same metric to myself.’
‘Like I said, it worked. Not many others accomplished things so cleanly, or at all. Just remember that one day, you will find a place where brute force and clinically-applied violence aren’t enough – where you have to rely on teamwork and trust, not muscles and claws.

The first flashback, between Yanishev and Althaeon in Starfleet Accademy, wasn't sitting so well with me; I felt that Yanishev was too much of a strawman and Althaeon was too readily sympathetic for such a cold character. So I've gone and re-written it somewhat. I've changed the post but also quoted the changes here for ease-of-use.

Original:

Althaeon exhaled through his flattened, wide nostrils and turned his head to take in the warm sunlight of Earth’s star, and the throngs of new recruits milling about the green spaces that interspersed Starfleet Academy’s grounds.
‘You know why that is, sir,’ he began. ‘The ‘doves’ as you call them – they mistake pragmatism for belligerence; directness for lack of wit or culture. The homeworlds of the Federation have seldom faced war – real war – even now with the Klingons. It is a distant thing, unfortunate and regretted – not feared and fought every day. We might have been like Humans, if it were not for the Hirogen, or for the Vraki, or for the Borg. They do not honour your Prime Directive or recognize rights. The Kaerbadii today are not the ones who prospered and explored and discovered – they are the ones who survived. That’s what we are taught when we are young, because of how our parents learned – to survive, to defend our own, by any means necessary.’

‘Exactly, Lieutenant,’ rumbled Yanishev. ‘That’s what I am afraid of.’ There was a pause before, as if coming to a sudden and profound realization, the alien cast his head back and set his jaw.

‘You are not afraid of me, sir,’ Althaeon said quietly.
‘What was that, Lieutenant?’ Yanishev snapped back, eyes narrowing.
‘You are not afraid of me, sir. Nor are you afraid of the Kaerbadii, or our nature. You are afraid of what we mean for Starfleet – for your Federation. You are not afraid of us bombarding cities to rubble or seeing my claws dripping with Klingon blood; you fear that this war will make it necessary. You fear that all of your ships and all of your brave young recruits won’t be enough when all the cards are on the table, when soldiers have to be soldiers and not explorer-ambassador-poets. That one day soon you will have to beg for us to fight a bloody war – a real war – to keep the utopian Federation and its ‘noble purpose’ safe.’

Revised:

‘You know why that is, sir,’ he began. ‘The ‘doves’ as you call them – they mistake pragmatism for belligerence; directness for lack of wit or culture. The homeworlds of the Federation have seldom faced war – real war – even now with the Klingons. It is a distant thing, unfortunate and regretted – not feared and fought every day. We might have been like Humans, if it were not for the Hirogen, or for the Vraki, or for the Borg. They do not honour your Prime Directive or recognize rights. The Kaerbadii today are not the ones who prospered and explored and discovered – they are the ones who survived. That’s what we are taught when we are young, because of how our parents learned – to survive, to defend our own, by any means necessary.’

‘Exactly, Lieutenant,’ rumbled Yanishev. ‘And that’s what I’m afraid of. You already have reputation. That you accomplish things by any means necessary. Now, as the first of your species with a command role, just as negotiations with your homeworld are on the verge of collapse, that reputation matters. It’s not just about your reputation for bloody efficiency any more; it’s about how that reputation reflects on all of Kaeribad. And that’s what I’m afraid of, and why I asked you here.’ There was a pause before, as if coming to a sudden and profound realization, the alien cast his head back and set his jaw.

‘You are not afraid of me, sir,’ Althaeon said quietly.
‘What was that, Lieutenant?’ Yanishev snapped back, eyes narrowing.
‘I do not believe you are not afraid of me, sir. Nor are you afraid of the Kaerbadii, or our nature. You are afraid of what we mean for Starfleet – for your Federation. Not that my reputation will scare them into denying Kaerbadii membership, but that the war will scare them into accepting it regardless. You are not afraid of us bombarding cities to rubble or seeing my claws dripping with Klingon blood; you fear that this war will make it necessary. You fear that all of your ships and all of your brave young recruits won’t be enough when all the cards are on the table, when soldiers have to be soldiers and not explorer-ambassador-poets. That one day soon you will have to beg for us to fight a bloody war – a real war – to keep the utopian Federation and its ‘noble purpose’ safe.’

And while I'm at it, to finally resolve that bloody cliffhanger!



U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

The Borg drone lumbered in, swinging armoured limbs replete with ugly bladed implements towards the springing Kaerbadii. The blue-skinned attacker was quicker, crushing the drones’ jaw into splinters and jerking its head upward. Any normal opponent, even a raging Klingon, would have crumpled to the floor in agony, but the drone hardly seemed to notice. Heavy arms snapped shut like the jaws of a hideous robotic shark, cracking ribs and eliciting a feral bark of pain. Althaeon jabbed the barbell , doing little more than denting a chest plate, but giving him momentum to twist free of the constraining arms. He raked low and high with his claws, tearing wires and flesh from the drones’ leg, before being lifted off his feet by a blow to the side of the head.
Hazy and disoriented, he tried to rise but barely had time to bring his hands up in self-defence before one of the drones’ arms crashed down, cracking a forearm bone and sending him sprawling onto his back. He threw a vicious kick that glanced off an armoured shin, and tried to roll away, but the over-grown cyborg was bearing down now with lethal intent. Wicked, bladelike manipulators glinted in the dying firelight and crushing pincers whirred and clicked in anticipation of crushing bone.

Then half its head disintegrated, and it slowly toppled sideways like a clockwork toy run out of time. Even so, bolts of brilliant orange continued to smash into both metal and exposed flesh, leaving only a tattered wreckage smoking on the ground.

Forcing his eyes to clear, Althaeon turned to the source of the firing to find Amra Du’Shen sprawled awkwardly in the opening of the Jeffries’ tube, panting heavily with eyes burning and full of defiance.

‘I ordered you to seal yourself inside the command room,’ Althaeon stated simply as she approached.

‘And I’ve always been terrible at following stupid orders, sir,’ she replied tartly as she pulled him up by his good arm, phaser rifle cradled in her other elbow and covering the doorway. ‘There’s a reason I got drummed out of the Imperial Guard.’ For the first time, Althaeon cracked what was recognizable as a grin, before accepting Amra’s arm and gingerly lifting himself up the ladder and towards the crawlspace.

Hey look, an update!
U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

The Royal Hunt was one of the newest light cruisers in Starfleet, of the Gyrfalcon class. The pair of blue-skinned officers which now occupied its auxiliary command centre were quietly thankful for the fact, and the practical innovations it incorporated, as a thick blast door dropped into place outside of the room’s entryway. It was preceded by a high-powered emergency forcefield, of course, but the Borg had showed little mercy for such defenses in the past and usually over-rode them or denied them of power. At times, the seemingly primitive solution afforded by a solid foot of durasteel was the best one.

‘Blast door locked in place, sir,’ commented Amra. ‘Though it appears that it’s about the only thing in here that’s working properly,’ she added ruefully. She was perched on the bench seat which served both helm and operations consoles, sliding between the two in an attempt to get as many systems online as possible.
‘I can access a few onboard sensors and… control the maintenance cycles on the EPS system, whatever good that will do,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Roughly what I expected,’ Althaeon replied consolingly. For his part, he had eschewed the Captain’s chair for hovering around the rear of the cramped compartment, moving between the tactical, engineering and science consoles. If nothing else, he was grateful for the compact nature of this backup bridge; it would have been intolerably cramped with a full complement. However, it appeared some engineer had the foresight to expect it might be crewed by only a few officers and laid it out so that the pair currently occupying it was able to dart between stations rapidly.

‘I’m locked out of core systems,’ Amra began in distress, before visibly brightening. ‘But it looks like a Starfleet lockout… at least it’s nothing like the Borg infiltration slims I trained on.’
‘Perhaps the Captain ordered it when the bridge was threatened?’ Althaeon appeared at her shoulder, inspecting the code scrolling across her panel.
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Amra replied hesitantly. ‘I can’t find any command-code authorizations; it’s almost like physical access to the systems has been cut and the software lockout is just to protect the ships’ computer itself.’

‘Engineering.’
The pair had said the words at nearly the same moment, sharing the realization – someone had dismantled, disabled, or simply demolished the lines connecting the ships’ essential systems to the central computer in a desperate attempt to keep their control out of Borg hands. And that feat couldn’t even be done on the ships’ brain, its bridge, but only in its heart – main engineering.
‘Lieutenant… is the emergency comms system functioning?’ Althaeon queried.
‘Possibly… yes. We still have the em-comms, sir,’ she replied. ‘Should we contact engineering?’
‘Do it.’

"Oh hey, I haven't been on SDN in forever, I wonder if HOLY SHITBALLS that's a lot of views! I guess I should really update..."

Sorry for the delay everyone. Going from lay-off to a linchpin role in a start-up has some serious impacts on the amount of free time one has.
U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

Petty Officer Fox almost jumped out of her skin when a voice started calling out from the wall less than a meter away from her. It took her a moment to realize that she wasn’t hallucinating from stress; like other Starfleet personnel the use of her combadge was so ingrained into her routine that it took her a moment to connect the voice asking for a response to the wall-mounted console and to remember her brief training on the system, another new addition Starfleet vessels.

‘I repeat, this is Lieutenant-Commander Althaeon to engineering,’ the voice called again. ‘Please respond.’
‘Engineering here…’ Fox began, still partially dazed, before snapping back to alertness. ‘Petty Officer T’Mia Fox reporting, sir.’ There was an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the line.
‘Thank you, Miss Fox. We are contacting you from auxiliary command. What is the situation in Engineering?’
‘Sir, we sealed off Engineering. The warp core is stable but we’ve had to shut down nearly everything to stop the Borg taking control of the ship.’
‘Well done, PO,’ came the deep yet sharp-edged voice over the speaker. ‘I have been informed that Chief Staunton was killed in action. What is the status of personnel there?’
‘There’s maybe twenty of us down here, sir,’ she replied. ‘I should get you the Lieutenant, he was just checking on everyone…’ Her voice trailed off for a moment before resuming, sounding distant.
‘Lieutenant Fergusson! LT! Fergie you deaf bastard!’ At the other end of the line, Althaeon turned to Amra with a raised eyebrow. There was a sound of shuffling and mumbling over the speaker.

‘Yes, hello? Lieutenant Fergusson here! Who is this?’ The fumbling Yorkshire accent was unmistakable.
‘Mister Fergusson,’ Althaeon replied, ‘this is Lieutenant-Commander – strike that – Acting Captain Althaeon. It is good to know that you are safe.’
‘And you too, sir! I told my lot that you’d be just fine, didn’t I, Mia?’ The question was answered with a frustrated exhalation. ‘Any rate, where are you sir? I’ve got Engineering bottled up tighter than a vir– no I won’t say that – but I’ve no idea what’s going on outside.’
‘I am holding auxiliary command with one other survivor. What is the status of your personnel?’
‘Just the two? Bloody hell… I’ve got more than two dozen down here – I’ve lost ten of my lads, but there’s the leftovers of a security team and a handful from medical. Five of them are on stretchers and not hopping up any time soon.’
‘Understood. And you’re certain that Engineering is secure?’ Althaeon sounded sober and deflated as he replied. Amra, having done the tally herself, realized that he too must be accepting burden of how few were left; the Royal Hunt had a crew of one hundred and eighty. The engineer interrupted her train of thought.
‘Locked up tight, sir! We were almost overrun but got the blast doors locked in place. They were trying to break in, but seem to have given up… been all quiet for the last– wait one.’

Sounds of shouting and the disjointed clatter of footfalls and moving equipment filled the channel and Althaeon met Amra’s glance, both faces filled with worry. The former snapped back to the communicator and all but yelled into it to make himself heard.
‘Lieutenant Fergusson! Engineering, report!’
‘The Borg are trying to crack the blast doors!’ Ensign Fox’s voice was filled with panic. ‘They must have taken charges from the armoury!’ Althaeon started to respond, but Amra cut him off, eyes locked on a schematic she had brought up on her console.
‘Ensign! Which door are the Borg attempting to breach?’
‘Main access to deck six, ma’am. I have to go help!’
‘Wait,’ Amra snapped decisively. ‘Do you still have manual control over the EPS distribution system?’
‘Well, yes, but… ah,’ Fox replied, voice shifting from bewilderment to realization. ‘I need master valve three… but I can’t get to the secondary controls in time!’
‘Do your part. I can put the secondaries into maintenance mode and lock them from here.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ the Ensign breathed, and was gone.

---

... this also gives me motivation to re-write the second half of this chapter as I've wanted to for some time.

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

It’s an oft-repeated axiom among Starfleet crews that while serving on the bridge depends on making quick decisions, serving in Engineering depends on quick actions. By that token, it was no small statement that T’Mia Fox was acting faster than she ever had before.

She moved like living lightning, sprinting and shoving past crew who were preparing to give their last repelling the imminent breach. She sidestepped a panicked crewman what was frantically gesturing for her to return to the shuddering blast doors which fumbling a phaser with his other hand, only to burst into profanity when he caught her arm as she passed. Unable to coherently phrase her task over his protestations, she simply jabbed him hard in the gut and sprinted up the metal stairwell as he folded over.

Reaching a console, her fingers danced across one panel as her other hand gesticulated curtly to a crewman manning another, belting out instructions over the shouting and alarm sirens as she did so. She moved along the main trunk of the EPS system, the heart which fed the many veins running through the ship, hammering codes and instructions as she went.
When one system died completely she blessed her half-Vulcan strength as she reached for and began twist the armspan-wide auxiliary valve open by hand, but even so she could only turn it so far before her muscles gave way.

She could see the doors tremble as another explosion rocked the entryway and threw herself back onto the heavy wheel, but would not have succeeded if it weren’t for the timely appearance of her commander.
‘It’s a two-person job Mia, even for you, isn’t it?’ he chided through clenched teeth, sweat dripping down his face. Slowly, under the combined grunting assault of the two engineers, the wheel began to turn inexorably, a malevolent rushing gurgle raising in their ears as it did so. When finally the valve gave way fully, the pair stumbled and toppled together into an ungainly heap on the grating of the walkway.

In the claustrophobic confines of the auxiliary bridge, the minutes that passed while the engineers did their work were among the longest of Amra’s life. The sound of muffled explosions, alarms, and distressed yells resonated through the silent room, individual voices and distinct noises mingling and being lost in the general chaos. Slowly, a new sound resolved itself and began to build; a steady hum growing to a roar, all but drowning out the new and even more urgent alarms that began to blare. Over-stressed machinery groaned malevolently and the hiss and gurgle of pressurized fluid flow rose and fell, and then the whole cacophony died abruptly, leaving the alarms to howl in isolation for another few moments before they too fell silent.

‘Whoever you are, lass,’ came a weary Yorkshire voice that startled both of the listeners, ‘you need to stop putting ideas in Mia’s head. She’s enough of a handful already.’
‘Report,’ Althaeon replied as much to Amra as to Fergusson. ‘What just happened?’
‘Mia locked all the secondary plasma distribution systems down and then opened up on of the masters all the way; it had nowhere to go and flooded the corridor with the bloody Borg in it. I’ll have to remember that one next time someone from top brass comes poking around with an inspection in mind.’
‘Have the Borg been eliminated?’ Althaeon demanded.
‘Sir, the bloody walls have been eliminated. The security team went out to mop-up after the emergency vents had done their dance and I could see into all the maintenance bays across the way.’

Amra sat, stunned and looking more than slightly sheepish at the thought of the damage her plan had caused. Althaeon approached her and patted her on the shoulder, delicately avoiding catching her with his clawed fingertips.
‘Well done,’ he said simply, and then cracked a wry grin. ‘Now that we’ve taken care of the interior redecorating, let’s take our ship back.’

One more for the night - bit more exposition to explain how the Royal Hunt got herself in such a mess to begin with.

---

U.S.S. Emissary, En route to Vega System, 2408

Captain’s Log, Captain Joachim Hayes. March 25th, 2048. Stardate 85230.

Though the DFO spends so much of his time here that I’m used to it, I’m always ill at ease when the Admiral takes the reins; not because I have any lack of faith in his abilities, but because there’s only so many chairs on the bridge and the whole structure of command seems to get confused and crowded very quickly.

On the upside, handing him the ‘big seat’ has given me time to record this log while we’re at warp. On the downside, we’re only in this situation because of something I had hoped we’d never have to face… as much as I knew we would one day. The Borg have returned.

I’m encouraged by the fact that the Admiral is living up to that title, Director of Fleet Operations – he’s certainly brought enough ships to be worthy of a fleet. The Emissary is worth a small one in and of herself, and he pulled a Sovereign and two Galaxy-classes from their regular patrols in addition to a smattering of escorts and smaller cruisers; I can see a new Exeter out of my window right now.

We had very little intel initially; Vega colony itself only had time to report a single Borg sphere and a number of small probes before we lost communications with them. Most of the information we have comes from the occupants of a pair of shuttles packed far over capacity that we intercepted; they were from the light cruiser Royal Hunt and fear they might be the ships’ only survivors, having fled to the shuttle bay and been forced to shoot their way out when the Borg cut their access to the bay doors.

Though patching together a coherent report from forty-odd survivors was a nightmare, what we’ve gathered is that the Royal Hunt intercepted the Borg sphere along with another light cruiser, the Gemini, and the old Stargazer-class Athabasca. The Athabasca was destroyed, but between them they damaged the sphere and drove it off. When the Gemini took off in pursuit to protect the colony, the Borg probes jumped on the Royal Hunt and boarded it. I don’t envy anyone left on board now.

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

Cautious inspection by the security team from Engineering found barely any trace of the drones that had besieged them, and so they grew bolder and pushed their perimeter out hall by hall and deck by deck. Given the estimate of numbers that Fergusson had provided, though, Althaeon was less surprised than most to find that the ship appeared free of intruders.

‘We destroyed two of the three probes in battle,’ he explained, ‘and we may have eluded the third after I disabled its tractor beam and a survivor on the bridge executed the emergency jump to warp. Even if the destroyed probes were able to beam most of their complement over before destruction, each holds a tiny crew by Borg standards. Based on the estimates of the number destroyed when the crew on the shuttles exposed the shuttle bay to vacuum, there are likely only a few remaining if any.’ Althaeon had finally deigned to sit in the ‘big chair’ of the backup bridge, and was speaking in a hoarse voice. Amra belatedly realized how much difficulty he must have had retaining his composure before, though he waved her back to her duties when she attempted to aid him and instead bound his cracked arm and ribs as best he could while helping her coordinate the movements of the crew sweeping the ship.

‘Huran to auxiliary command,’ a voice came across the comm from the leader of the security detail.
‘Go ahead, Lieutenant,’ Althaeon replied.
‘Still no sign of additional drones, sir, though we’ve destroyed some technology they left trying to access the computer.’ A moment’s hesitation. ‘I don’t like this, sir. They can’t all have been at Engineering.’
‘I agree, mister Huran,’ the Acting Captain responded after a moment. ‘It would have been logical for them to at least attempt to isolate or defeat other known survivors. Like us.’

The last word was spoken with a glacial tone of horror as the blast door to Althaeon’s left began to glow brightly. Amra, diving for cover, barely heard Huran bellowing for his team to move before the comm signal cut out.

Althaeon cast his eyes around, looking for defensive options and weapons, and finding little but he the Jeffries’ tube hatch – which he urged Amra towards. Before she could even climb the first rung, though, the doors folded inwards and both of them were knocked off their feet by a concussive wave of heat that the hallway had channeled towards them.

Amra opened her eyes slowly, seeing a figure striding through the hatchway – in a Starfleet uniform. Her heart skipped and, between coughs, she managed to acknowledge Lieutenant Huran’s salute.

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

As the teams had moved out to secure the ship, more of the crew was found in ones, twos and handfuls. Half a dozen enlisted men and women were found in the brig, seemingly having been left for safe keeping by drones who overpowered them but lacked assimilation abilities. The ships’ cook and a pair of ratings were discovered in the fridge, and were treated for hypothermia by the Chief Medical Officer. The CMO herself was using the case as a distraction from the horror she had endured – the Andorian woman had stayed behind in sick bay when her staff evacuated, and a security detail found her smeared in blood and viscera, wedged into a mortuary storage locker alongside a crewman who had died during the first moments of the battle.
‘They can’t assimilate the dead,’ had been her only words on the hiding spot.

All told, though, only twenty-two more of the crew had been discovered. Despite the optimistic estimate of forty escaping in shuttlecraft, the news was bleak – more than half the complement of the Royal Hunt was gone.

The ship herself had, if anything, fared better than her crew; though heavily damaged she could still move under her own power and even raise shields once the severed computer connections were repaired, albeit falteringly and with power disruptions elsewhere aboard. Althaeon gathered all these reports piecemeal; he had finally allowed one of the medical staff to properly tend his broken bones and skin burns, but had refused to rest afterwards and seemed to Amra to be everywhere – resetting and reconfiguring the sensor array when her leg was being treated, grimly bearing the dead back to sickbay as she left. Too restless to do anything but follow his example, she had brushed off the medic and limped towards him as he reverently lay down the remains of Captain Grumman.

‘He would have been proud of you,’ she began gingerly. ‘You saved his ship.’
‘Only with your assistance, Lieutenant,’ he replied earnestly. ‘Should you not be resting?’ he asked pointedly, indicating her heavily-bandaged leg and the attempts of an over-worked orderly to beckon her back for more care.
‘That’s what Du’Toni told me, but we’ve been over this before – terrible at obeying stupid orders, remember?’ She smirked, before putting on an expression of resolve. ‘And I won’t look weak on my CO’s watch – you’re still up and about,’ she said, taking a step forward before slewing over sideways gasping in pain. Althaeon caught her deftly, letting free a bestial growl himself as he took her weight on his injured arm.
‘She told me the same thing,’ he replied through gritted teeth as they steadied each other. ‘I will pretend I did not see that and clear you for duty if you pretend you did not almost re-fracture my arm,’ he offered.
‘Deal,’ she replied with a furtive smile. ‘Where do you need me, sir?’
‘Most systems are now functional – those that we can repair, in any event. I will be returning to the
bridge… and I still require an Acting First Officer.’ His eyes, shining uniform blue gems, bored into her.

Amra exhaled heavily, straightened her charred and torn uniform, and nodded.

I like this.

LadyTevar wrote:I like this.

Thank you !

Was going to just do one more chapter, but these next two are really meant to go together like the other flashbacks. So, two it is!

---

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

Amra had only visited the bridge of the Royal Hunt during training and orientation; it was in ways just as familiar as that of any other Starfleet vessel, but in others it was unrecognizable. Wall sections were charred black and computer panels shattered, dust and debris still strewn about the space and kicked hastily out of the way. The essential consoles seemed mostly in order, coming to life at her touch or spoken command, and Amra marveled at how quickly the crew had worked to restore at the vessel to working order.

It had been less than six hours since a torrent of superheated plasma had broken the Borg incursion, though, so the wreckage and detritus remained – along with the blood. Althaeon paused at the science station at the rear of the bridge, which she assumed was his regular post, and ran his hand along a seam of disruptor-blasted chasms in the screen. He stopped when his claw met an ugly stain across the surface and Amra realized that the blood must have belonged to whoever replaced him at his post; someone who he had known and who had died in his place. Someone whose sacrifice had let him succeed in the mission that had eventually led to the pair of them standing amid the wreckage and ruin, tried and tired but alive. As she thought of the miracle that they were in fact standing on the bridge once more, Amra realized belatedly how difficult it was for her to keep upright. After a pause as mentally agonizing as it was physically, she slumped down into the First Officer’s chair.

What would Commander Bodun say?

I wasn’t exactly his rising star.

But he died saving me. He would be proud that he didn’t die in vain.

She brought up a console from the arm-rest and began testing systems and connections, dragging her mind from the nightmare of the past day and to the tasks at hand. Some moments later her commander joined her, though he did not take the chair to Amra’s left.
‘We need a new bridge crew,’ she began. ‘I can handle the tactical station – there’s not really enough people to keep the phasers and launch tubes working if we pull someone else out. I had enough trouble just finding three people with photon torpedo training who weren’t needed elsewhere to take my place.’
‘Excellent. We also require a helmsperson – Lieutenant Firgu will be missed, he was an excellent pilot.’
‘He was,’ Amra confirmed sadly. ‘I met him when we ran torpedo drills on the holodeck – my team could hardly hit the broad side of the Enterprise if he was flying it.’ She skimmed through a manifest on her panel.
‘What about Pavemir?’ she suggested. ‘He used to be a fighter pilot – you might have flown with him, it says he was on the shuttle crew for some research missions?’
‘Samtha Pavemir? The Catian?’ Amra nodded. ‘If some of our crew had not destroyed the evidence in their escape, I would show you the dent he inflicted on the shuttle-bay floor.’
‘Ah,’ Amra grimaced. ‘Not ideal, then.’
‘He is,’ Althaeon replied ruefully as he browsed the crew manifest on a PADD. ‘So long as he remembers that not all vessels maneuver quite as nimbly as a Catian fighter.’
‘I’ll contact him, then,’ Amra said, closing the issue. ‘And make sure he has time to learn a Gyrfalcon-class’ maneuvering specs. Now… should we appoint a head of security? There’s a no clear leader among the ones left, though they worked well together in clearing the ship. Or do we just give you a bat’leth and beam you over to fight the whole Collective yourself?’ Althaeon coloured in what might have been a blush.
‘I would prefer a rysar… a hunting pole-arm… an explanation can wait,’ Althaeon cut himself off awkwardly. ‘Huran will suffice – the Betazoid. I have trained with him before and he knows his craft well. If we re-engage the Borg we have to expect boarders and security will need a clear chain of command.’ It took Amra a moment to accept the implication, though she had already known deeper down it was coming.

‘So we are going back? The ship should have warp drive back soon, but the crew…’
‘… will have to work together and endure the circumstances,’ the Acting Captain finished for her. ‘With luck the Gemini has been able to finish the sphere and the remaining probe, but the Borg may have summoned reinforcements. Vega colony is virtually defenseless, and protecting the citizens there must take precedence.’ Once again, Amra felt an odd balance of fear and respect for her new leader. She turned back to her panel.

‘What about an Operations officer?’
‘Fergusson is more than capable of taking over as Acting Chief Engineer,’ he began. ‘I spoke to Ensign Fox; she will join us in the Operations role once they have Engineering under control.’
‘The two of them seem to do their best working together down there, sir,’ Amra ventured. ‘Does it make sense to separate them?’
‘Miss Fox conceded that with the ship in such a debilitated condition, it made sense for there to people with such as strong rapport at both ends of the command chain.’ He paused. ‘I also, ah, believed they would benefit from the excuse to be separated briefly. They were… distracted by a... personal interaction when I approached them.’

Amra stifled a laugh, then gulped back a second, and then gave in and burst into a peal of hearty laughter that caused her sides to ache. Althaeon joined her, doubling over and laughing along until laughs turned to wheezes and he collapsed in a fit of coughing. He forced away the infectious desire to laugh again with deep breaths, holding his fractured ribs for support. Amra looked to him approvingly and he collected himself long enough to realize that what he had collapsed into was the Captains’ chair; he straightened himself immediately, as if to reclaim lost dignity, and fell silent.
‘Won’t you have to discipline them for fraternization in the chain-of-command?’ Amra asked, as much to spare Althaeon awkwardness or second thoughts as out of genuine curiosity. He sighed.
‘One benefit of being the Acting Captain is that I can leave such problems for others to address. In any event, I respect Fergusson’s professionalism – in spite of his demeanor, I feel he prioritizes well and puts duty ahead of his own feelings.’

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Antonius Sigma System, 2407

‘Lieutenant Nathan Fergusson?’ the stocky Yorkshireman turned at the question, eyes first scanning upward to find the face of the asker and then widening in recognition.
‘Althaeon, isn’t it? Lieutenant-Commander Althaeon, no less – ah, uh, sir! What can I do for you, sir?’
‘Firstly, just to ensure that my identification of you was correct – I did not realize you had been transferred to the Royal Hunt.’
‘Just last week,’ Fergusson replied proudly, puffing out his barrel chest. ‘I’ll miss the Thunderchild, but they need to get other personnel trained on those systems if they’re going to start running up the production. Can’t say I mind being able to hear myself yell, either!’ Althaeon nodded in acknowledgement; the U.S.S. Thunderchild was the lead ship of the class and despite being notoriously primitive in some aspects – Fergusson still bore traces of plasma sealant and talked at an un-conversational volume that attracted glances from a few passing crew with laden mess trays – the heavily mechanical and thoroughly reliable warp core she bore was seen as a bold new direction for Starfleet.

‘The second reason I wished to speak to you,’ Althaeon continued, ‘was because I did not have the opportunity to do so after our debriefing in Task Force Gemini. I was curious why you defended my actions.’ Fergusson swallowed.
‘Well, you see, sir… much as I thought you were a sociopathic blue thug – sorry sir – when I first heard about what happened, I thought – you did get the job done, didn’t you? You were off-duty when I had my run through; it was a bloody mess. I can make a warp core uncouple itself and dance a jig for you, but I might as well have flown in in a shuttle with a marching band playing out the hatch for all the good I did. You got in and got everyone out clean as you like, and as much as you left some good people on sick leave, I can only argue so hard with that, can’t I?’ Althaeon nodded and carefully offered his hand, fingers bent inward to keep his claws at bay. To his surprise, Fergusson grabbed his hand unhesitantly with a massive work glove-encased paw and shook it.
‘I look forward to serving with you, Mister Fergusson,’ Althaeon said. ‘And I hope to hear from you more in the future.’
‘But not too much,’ Fergusson replied with a wink. ‘You know how it is, a training ship like this with too few higher-ups to keep their eyes on things and too many impressionable, pretty young things right out of the Academy running around.’ The cold blue eyes narrowed and seemed to flash darkly, but he smiled after a moment.

‘I will do my best to warn you of my approach, in that case,’ he replied.

U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

The personnel assignments had been handed out and introductions made; the catlike Pavemir was acquainting himself with the ships’ controls and calibrating the columns to his reach, while a flushed Ensign Fox set about double-checking her systems after a quick salute and gaze averted from the Acting Captain, who then met Amra’s eye and flashed a grin which she returned. Long-range communications and sensors were still offline, so the ship left a probe broadcasting a report of the situation across the stars. Once it was away, Althaeon keyed in a code and addressed the ship overall.

‘Attention all hands,’ his voice rang out through darkened corridors, under-manned stations and an over-crowded sickbay. ‘This is the Acting Captain speaking. Over the past hours all of you have endured suffering and worked harder than anyone could ever have expected of you. But I must ask you to ready yourself to prepare for a greater struggle ahead. We will not know what we face until we arrive, so I ask you to prepare yourselves to fight once more. I wish it were possible to head to safety and seek care for our wounded, but we must protect the people of Vega. If we are needed, we will be ready; we will protect them from the Borg – and we will avenge the Athabasca, and our own shipmates. The Kaerbadii have a saying: ‘one who has spurned the face of Death once will not turn aside when they see it anew’. Crew of the U.S.S. Royal Hunt, together we have all faced Death and denied it, and together we will again!’

‘You speak well, sir,’ Amra remarked as Althaeon regained his seat.
‘Kaerbadii tongues tend towards the verbose to begin with – and collecting historical speeches is a pursuit of mine,’ he confessed, before turning his view to the rest of the bridge. ‘Mister Pavemir, is our course laid for Vega Nine?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came a curt response from the Catian.
‘Very good. Miss Du’Shen, go to yellow alert and prepare to raise shields as soon as we exit warp. Miss Fox, standby for a sensor sweep at greatest possible range once we arrive as well.’ A pair of confirmations echoed after his commands. ‘Helm, warp four. Engage!’

I approve of this Acting Captain

LadyTevar wrote:I approve of this Acting Captain

Thank you!

What about his second-in-command? I've been trying to make her more sympathetic and human than the Althaeon himself, I just don't want to unrealistically contort either character in the process.

Will have another chapter up later - in the midst of some actual writing right now.

Sorry for the chapter numbers jumping from 15 to 17 - an error I fixed in the source document, will have to fix here when I have more time.

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U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

The Royal Hunt flashed back into perception with the light of Vega shining on her pitted and scarred hull and the dark-green mass of Vega IX hanging directly ahead, wisps of cloud and – to the immense consternation of those on the bridge – great swathes of fire visible from orbit.

At once, the ships’ shields flickered to life, the bridge lights dimming momentarily as they did so. Ensign Fox pushed the worn sensor net to its limits, probing both the world below and the depths of the surrounding void for friends or foes.

‘Sir,’ she snapped after a moment, ‘I’m reading widespread forest fires and Borg life-signs on the surface. The Borg are concentrated in and around major population centers.’ The image of the planet on the main viewer panned about, showing places where the purple-green forests were being eaten away by seething red-orange wounds, the view becoming hazy and occluded by great clouds of dark smoke.

‘Aftermath of an orbital bombardment?’ Amra pondered, ‘or even an attempt to isolate the drones down there?’
‘Perhaps,’ Althaeon agreed tentatively. ‘But what would they gain from bombing the wilderness? Miss Fox, what about ships?’
‘I’m reading… multiple Starfleet vessels!’ Her voice rang with joy. ‘Sensors show one very large ship and several smaller vessels, including the Gemini! Contacts are bearing… three-two-zero mark fifteen. There’s one other contact… oh no…’ she trailed off.
‘Ensign…’ the Acting Captain prompted sternly.
‘Sir,’ she replied with an air of fatalism, ‘I’m picking up a Borg cube.’
‘On screen,’ Althaeon replied, voice filling a vacuum of sudden silence.

On the main screen, an image clicked into view and then sharpened after a moment. In its centre was the unmistakable, malevolent mass of a Borg cube, sickly green lighting and bursts of orange flame suffusing it in a Halloween-light glow. To its right was the unmistakable bulk of the U.S.S. Emissary, columns of phaser fire and volleys of torpedoes streaming out from weapons’ stations along her sleek hull. In another direction, a pair of large cruisers – a Sovereign and a Galaxy – were supported by a number of smaller ships and making an attack run across the enormity of the cubes’ surface. Amra was immediately impressed by their coordination as they focussed their fire on specific points and weaved together to avoid retaliation. Even as she watched, though, a small Exeter-class cruiser was raked across the saucer section by a strobing ray of green light and fell away from the main group, engines flaring after a moment to take her out of harms’ way.

‘Miss Fox,’ intoned Althaeon, once more breaking a stony silence, ‘attempt to hail the Emissary. Helm, take us in.’ The pair addressed exchanged a nervous glance but confirmed almost in unison.
‘We’re receiving a hail from the Emissary, sir,’ Fox signaled a moment later.
‘On screen,’ Althaeon replied, eyes taking in the imposing figure of Admiral Grigori Yanishev once more. Behind him, men and women rushed about, smoke and crackling sparks polluting the view of the Emissary’s bridge.
‘Althaeon?’ he barked in momentary confusion, before regaining himself. ‘Report!’
‘Sir,’ Althaeon replied solemnly, ‘Captain Grumman and Commanders Bodun and Staunton were killed during the Borg boarding action. The Royal Hunt is damaged but combat-capable,’ he continued with the barest hint of pride.
‘Understood,’ the Admiral said slowly, appearing to consider his options. ‘Right now we need every ship we can get. Fall into formation with the attack group – the Valkyrie will send you tactical data.’ Althaeon barked a crisp affirmation.

Let's see how a fight with a Borg cube plays out when you have fleet tactics and no special effects budget to worry about...

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U.S.S. Royal Hunt, Vega System, 2408

Deftly, Ensign Pavemir guided the ship into proximity with the rest of the battle group on a retreating arc, turning with the other vessels back towards the towering enemy. By now, deep rents and internal fires were visible through the confusing tangle of he cubes’ surface, but none of the Starfleet vessels facing it were free from damage. The Valkyrie, the Sovereign-class leading the charge, was trailing smoke from tears across her flank and the Exeter-class cruiser they had seen disengage was out of the battle entirely; a report came in indicating that she had fallen back to engage the Borg on the surface. Fox had grimly reported the discovery that the forest fires on the world below were a result of the remains of the U.S.S. Triumph, a second Galaxy-class ship, which had broken up and plummeted downward in a rain of molten duranium after her warp core had breached.

Then the ship was committed to an attack run, and all other thoughts subsumed by the vicious spectacle unfolding through the viewscreen. Each ship locked phasers and fired, orange columns searing out though the darkness that was hardly dark any more. Even though her lights flickered with every discharge, the Royal Hunt’s phasers licked out time and again along with the rest of the fleet, stabbing at the profane mass of the Borg vessel that loomed ahead.

Their photon torpedoes remained unlaunched, however, waiting a critical order. The collected ships streaked closer, Borg beam-weapons and plasma torpedoes slashing and blasting into the battered Starfleet ships.

‘All vessels!’ Yanishev’s grave baritone barked through the static of Borg jamming, ‘fire torpedoes on my mark – now!’
As one, the ships fired. They disregarded tube lifespans, firing chained salvoes and filling the closing gap with a riptide of blazing red orbs. Moments later, as the ships broke away on predetermined escape vectors, the massed barrage came crashing into the uneven surface of the cube and detonating in flares of blinding antimatter-borne devastation.

As each ship veered away to disengage, they had pushed their impulse engines to the limit to evade the retaliatory fire that followed them. Pavemir deftly rolled the ship over, allowing the rear phasers to bear on the heavy plasma charges that the Borg had launched, and orange beams struck the coruscating green orbs and dissipated them in shuddering bursts of energy. One made it through the Starfleet crossfire and burst in a far more violent detonation against the Galaxy-class’s nacelle. The resulting shockwave sent the Royal Hunt rocking and pitching like boat in a gale, piling the bridge crew against their seat restraints and eliciting a groan from Althaeon where his ribs were compressed by the harnesses.
‘Aft shields are buckling, sir,’ Fox called out. ‘Diverting auxiliary power to compensate but they’re bleeding energy as fast as I feed it!’
‘Cut the additional power,’ Althaeon ordered. ‘Re-route the auxiliaries to maneuvering thrusters. Helm! Keep our aft out of the cubes’ firing arc.’
‘Yes sir,’ Pavemir replied calmly, tipping the ship again to put the left nacelle between the cube and the exposed trailing edge of the ships’ saucer.

As the ships wheeled about for another pass, the Exeter-class was visible in the distance for a moment exchanging fire with something on the surface, bolts of orange stabbing downward and steams of green slashing upward in response. Each impact caused the cruisers’ shields to flash and glow, catching fleeting reflections of the fires on the world’s surface as they did. Belatedly, Amra realized that the sphere they had fought off must have crash-landed and spawned the Borg infestation of the poor colony.

As the Royal Hunt came about and the cube filled the viewer once more, Amra and Althaeon leaned forward with rapt attention – the Emissary’s phasers and brilliant blue quantum torpedoes were continuing to rain on one facing of the angular vessel, and secondary explosions deep within it were beginning to become visible through the bulk of the cube which lay between the giant flagship and the remainder of the fleet. The damage of the massed torpedo attack was clearly visible, the entire facing of the cube which the fleet had attacked seething with baleful green fire and tatters of ruined alloy.

A new set of coordinates flashed across Pavemir’s console and he followed the other ships in eagerly, the tiny vessel adding her own phaser fire and torpedo volleys to the destruction. The cube continued to lash out in return – an Akira-class escort was stripped of her upper hull by a cutting ray, debris and unfortunate crew tumbling away into the void before the entire ship sheared apart. The Gemini was caught by the same ray, and though her helmsperson was able to veer away from the bulk of the impact, her impulse engines were shredded by the deadly energies. A plasma charge left a devastating wound on the Galaxy-class’ nacelle pylon where it had been already weakened on the last pass, and the whole structure went dark and cold, bereft of its usual red-and-blue glow.

But all the ships continued to fire, and the patchwork of exposed systems which made up the cubes’ surface was stripped away in a precise line of molten and vaporized metal. The Royal Hunt’s own torpedoes were firing in a lightning-fast stream of miniature red suns now, the green crew’s eagerness to even the score goading them to indecent haste; one torpedo crashed into the hull but failed to detonate at all, having been armed improperly in the rush. Still though, the others exacted a heavy toll. Under the combined onslaught, the line of ruined and scarred hull became a crack, and the crack became a chasm. Then, the secondary explosions visible within blossomed into tertiary detonations and an entire section of the cube, perhaps a third of its mass, sheared away as a particularly brilliant blast out-shone all the others momentarily. Defiantly, the cube launched a last volley of plasma torpedoes, and then the remaining structure of the loathesome vessel twisted and tore itself apart, finally succumbing to the apocalyptic torrent of fire it had been subjected to.

The bridge crew of the Royal Hunt cheered, a triumphant gesture they knew was being shared across the fleet, until it was cut off by a panicked warning from Pavemir.
‘Sir, the last volley of plasma torpedoes – they’re homing on the Gemini!’ An image of five deadly charges roiling through space toward the stricken and immobile light cruiser jumped onto the viewscreen.
‘She’ll never survive that,’ Amra said with wide-eyed horror. Her revere was broken by Althaeon.
‘Pavemir!’ he bellowed, ‘get us between the Gemini and those charges!’

very good story so Far, but has not voyager arrived yet ? with Ablative armour , Transphasic torpedoes , so Upgrade Starfleet Warships . And Ready to crush the Borg. Cant hardly wait for the next chapters .

if it's going by STO timeline Voyager should be back, but the Borg have adapted and upgraded too.