Star Trek: Valley Forge (Chapter Thirteen posted July 4!)

[General Brock]

Very entertaining indeed. Although, I've never seen an instance in ST where the seats and consoles came loose from the floor....

[The Aliens]

Very entertaining indeed. Although, I've never seen an instance in ST where the seats and consoles came loose from the floor....

Heh, Valley Forge is a flying wreck- things have been done half-assed just to get them done and on to keeping the ship from blowing apart. Might have been two or three bolts holding that console down, not surprising it came undone.

[The Aliens]

Chapter 8

“I don’t see how my console just broke off like that,” said Traab.

“We were given ten minutes to strap it down, so we stuck a few old bolts we found lying around in there. If you weren’t leaning on it all the time, it would have been fine.” Davits looked unconcerned, and was staring at Scott.

“If the ceiling was higher I wouldn’t have to.”

“If you were shorter you wouldn’t have to,” retorted the Engineer.

“He nearly was with his injuries,” hissed Khaaten, sounding incensed.

Senior Commander Elliot Scott looked around his senior staff, surveying them for their opinions before he asked for them. Traab looked angry and in pain, not surprising, since an enemy attack and friendly ignorance had just caused him to spend an hour in surgery. He wore a large metal tube on his upper leg, which Scott assumed was mending the bone, as he wore one himself on his arm. Doctor Khaaten’s face was as inscrutable as always, her feline features concealing most of her emotions, but the way her claws were bared indicated a deep discontent. Davits was reading Scott’s mind, it seemed, based on his steely look, so Scott ignored him, and came to Melan, his eyes closed and lips moving in silent prayer. Scott had no idea how one could be so devout to a god that required so much in the way of trickery and debauchery from its subjects. T’Sav, as always, looked bored, and Evan Crespin seemed to be slightly anxious about a number of things, based on the slight jitter in his neck.

“Lieutenant Junior Grade Davits, cut that out,” said Scott, with no premeditation. Davits looked stunned, and his pupils shrunk- Scott could tell he had caught the Engineer by surprise, something that didn’t happen often. “Reading my mind is akin to looking at classified documents, and you know the penalty for that. If I notice it happening again, and I will, you’ll be Engineering an escape from the brig. Am I understood?”

Scott did not wait for an answer. He had not needed to voice his rebuke to Davits, he could have thought it and the point would have been made equally well, but Scott knew the psychology of his crew, and demonstrating discipline in front of them would make them feel they had a little more structure on a ship that was falling apart at every rivet. “Now, I need a report on the status of the ship.”

Davits, looking brash as always, spoke in a voice that demonstrated his sheepishness at having been caught reading minds. “Warp Core is obviously gone, and with it most of the power to the ship. Auxiliary generators are covering life support and propulsion, as well as the power Ops needs to keep the ship running. The big power-drainers, like shields and weapons, will be offline until we get a new core.”

Traab laughed. “That won’t be for a while, Lieutenant. I’ve been on the comm for the last 20 minutes with every Starbase and supply depot in the federation, and the nearest warp core that will even fit into place will be here in about 3 weeks, travelling at maximum warp. That assumes that we’re even going to get it- I still have to make an official requisition through our friend Maull Inor-“ some of the staff groaned at the mention of the tyrannical Fleet Captain, “and explain where the last one went. She’s probably not going to be happy. For the time being, we’re defenseless and immobile.”

Davits shrugged. “Fuck it, then. At impulse it’ll take around 12 years to make it to the Dorran system, and about 50 to get to the nearest Starbase. This mission is over.”

Scott clenched the PADD in his hands, turning his knuckles white. “Not yet. Ops, report.”
“We’ve gotten far enough away from the supergiant that our systems are staying on line as soon as they’re repaired, so barring some kind of cataclysm-“ he made a gesture with his hands that was obviously religious in nature, “I can have Ops running at full steam within 3 days.” The Bajoran looked pleased he had much better news to report than the engineer did, who he smirked at.

Khaaten, the Doctor, drummed loudly on the desk with her claws. “Sickbay has treated 47 minor injuries and 4 major ones, including our illustrious Commander Traab. Your warp core action caused us to have to treat 25% of the crew, and our resources have suffered accordingly. Barring some kind of cataclysm-“ Melan made the religious gesture with his hand again, “we’ll be fine for several months.”

Crespin, next in the circle around the table sat ramrod straight in his chair. “There is nothing to report among the starfighters, sir, we are operating at full combat readiness, such as is permitted by the inexperience of our pilots, should the Valley Forge need to defend herself.”

Traab assumed an expression of deep loss, and carried on the reports. “The outside wall of Cargo Bay 2 breached in the core blast, meaning most of our organic food is free floating in the supergiant. I’ve ordered replicators replaced.” The expressions around the staff table brightened noticeably, and Melan pumped his fist, saying some kind of Ferengi thanks to the Blessed Exchequer.

Scott sat back in his chair. “Well, altogether not as bad as I’d feared. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon, but that’s fine. However, I have some bad news of my own. I’ve been on the phone asking about a tow back to space, because in my opinion our mission has failed. Fleet captain Inor, however, thinks differently, and has ordered us to stop the sale in any way possible.” Scott looked around the table at his staff, whose joy at ‘real food’s banishment had slipped into a sort of stupor. “So, we need options.”

The room was silent, but for the scrapings of machinery and repairs on the bridge, where Traab’s console was now being firmly bolted down.

“Shuttles,” said Crespin, after a moment.

“Shuttles?” asked Scott.

“Shuttles. Our fighters can’t make warp, but we have one shuttle that can. Louis XIV, I think it’s called. We can get a team to the Grek’Nar in that.” Crespin looked pleased, as if this solved everyone’s problems, but felt the confusion radiating off the other officers, and schooled his face into a more impassive expression.

Traab voiced the question everyone else as thinking. “So what? Four people on a ship the size of my dress shoes, going after the largest vessel in this sector. Probably not.”

Crespin looked unconcerned. “We take a group of specialists in. A telepath to detect treachery, a pilot to fly the shuttle, a security officer to blow things up, and Melan here to hack computers. Every plan I can think off involves some permutation of blowing things up, breaking into computers, and flying. We go in s a small mercenary troop in a shuttle disguised as stolen, make inquiries about a cheap freighter they’re selling, and figure out how to stop the Grek’Nar.”

Scott sat back in his chair. Crespin was confident, he saw, and Scott trusted the Major’s judgement. Traab looked enthusiastic about blowing things up, and Melan seemed pleased he had been asked for specifically.

Davits crossed his arms. “That’s a suicide mission. I don’t want to go.”

Crespin looked surprised. “Who said you were coming?”

“You said a telepath,” responded the Betazoid.

“That meant T’Sav. She’s less likely to have us discovered than Happy McStabsomething here.” Crespin looked at Scott. “I can have the shuttle ready in 24 hours. Once we get to Dorra Prime, we’ll be out of comm contact to prevent detection, so you’ll have to wait here until we come back or send word somehow.”

Scott did not have a good feeling about sending four of his senior officers, such as they were, behind enemy lines with no hope of rescue. However, he had no better alternative, and he had been told that if he failed to come home with his objective complete, he had might as well not come home at all. Scott nodded to Crespin. “Major, you’re in command of this mission. Traab, T’Sav, and Melan, be ready to leave in 24 hours.”

*****

The Klingon Negh’Var class cruiser Voth’s Fist cut through the space traffic around Dorra Prime like a blowtorch through butter. It was not the Klingon way to request clearance, or stay in designated lanes for large craft. Rather, the Helmsman had picked a gate on the main Dorran shipyard that he thought suited the vessel and headed straight for it. Small vessels skittered and slid away from it, and larger ones lumbered out of the way.

“How long until docking?” asked the man in the Command Chair.

“Thirty seconds. Slaving computers to automated landing procedures… now. Twenty-five seconds.” The Helmsman turned back to his console, and watched the ship close the remaining distance, like a massive predatory creature on the hunt. It slowed, the hiss of manoevering jets was heard through the ship, and it settled into the dock neatly. The shipyard’s enormous size dwarfed the massive cruiser, but the ship was still large enough to cause a stir among Dorran security.

Inside the station, officers were scrambling to defend the doors, and all sorts of overrides were being used to bar Klingon entry. This vessel, according to Dorran computers, was the flagship of the Voth fleet, and its presence here was not likely to be a friendly one. The Klingon ship’s doors opened, and the airlock pressurized. The doors struggled to open twice, before a massive blast blew them off their hinges and four heavily armed Klingon warriors strode into the station. No one fired a shot as the smoke and debris cleared.

A moment later, a tall Klingon, his face brutally battle-scarred, emerged into the corridor. “My name is Karta Voth, Glorious Leader of the Independent Klingon House of Voth. You will take me to T’thak Voth’s quarters immediately.” Karta’s request was quickly run through the computer system of the Dorran station, and the Dorran command made a snap decision to allow the Klingon party aboard the station, in a desperate hope to avoid further damage to their station. They still had the Grek’Nar, and could simply add the damages to the bill.

The Dorran guards stood aside, and one stepped forward. “I will take you to T’thak Voth,” the guard said, and the party of five Klingons began their walk through the station.

*****

“Elders,” said the Dorran officer, upon entering the room in which the Dorran Highest Command sat. They were all small, green creatures, much like every Dorran. They did not seem to change much with age- perhaps the dulling of their eyes to grey from the usual colours was the only indication. They sat on the floor, around a small, low table, which was brightly lit, unlike most rooms on the station.

“You have information for us?”

“A Klingon vessel from the House of Voth has appeared, and done damage to one of the doors on the station. They demanded access to T’thak Voth, their negotiator, and we granted it, hoping to avoid conflict.” The officer finished his report, looking nervous.

“This is not good. We desire simply money to expand our colonies, not war. We are not adverse to any one faction, we wish merely to remain independent. If it appears we are associating with the House of Voth, the Klingon Empire will believe us to be in conspiracy against them. We must track the Voth vessel to determine its intentions. Are the probes ready?”

Another of the elders spoke up. “Yes, their final test was verification of the destruction of the Federation vessel, and they succeeded.”

The first elder nodded. “We will attach one to the Klingon vessel’s hull, and instruct them to leave. We must see what the Klingons plan to do, and for that we must know where they go. We must not be interfered with. We must continue to expand.” The other elders nodded.

“Ratification. Track the Klingon vessel.”

*****

T’thak fell to his knees when Karta entered his quarters. Karta kicked out at his face. “You are worthless, T’thak Voth.”

“My lord, please, I beg mercy.”

“You have failed to bring glory, or the Grek’Nar to the House of Voth. You are not worthy of my mercy.”

“My lord, I have a proposition.”

Karta sat down on one of the spartan chairs in the room, and glared at his prostrate underling. “Tell me.”

“Honourable negotiations have thus far failed in bringing us our objective, correct?”

Karta nodded, not wishing to waste any more of his words on the worthless negotiator before him.

“Then it must be concluded that the Dorrans are not honourable. To fight the dishonorable, one cannot fight with honour, that is a path to defeat and thus loss of honour. He must then fight deliberately.”

Karta growled out an inarticulate noise of rage. In a lighting-quick move, he upended the chair on which he sat, and smashed it over the head of T’thak, sending splinters and dust everywhere, and knocking the T’thak to the floor face first. “You dare to use your Vulcan logic to suggest the House of Voth take dishonorable action? I will rend you for your impudence! You will return to Voth immedietly where you will be pecked to death by birds of prey in front of the entire great city of Voth!” The dorr hissed open, and Karta’s guards checked in to see the source of the noise. Seeing their leader was not in danger, only his underling, they looked out again and the door hissed shut.

T’thak, the back of his head bleeding, rose to his knees. “My lord, please! I beg of you, just this one chance! I will get the Grek’Nar, and I will not tell you how, so I dishonour not even the air you breathe!”

Karta stood, quiet. “This is your last chance. Your failure on this new plan will result in your death.” He knocked the pieces of broken chair out of his path, and rejoined his guards outside of the door. T’thak prayed his plan would work. He knew what he must do- he had to steal the Grek’Nar from under the Dorrans’ noses.

A/N- Ready, Set Thievery! The Klingons have a small group trying to steal the ship, the Federation have a small group trying to stop them, and the Dorrans are relying on some very shaky intelligence! What happens next? Find out in Chapter 9!

[darthdavid]

Most execellant. I'm glad you're writing this again.

[General Brock]

Awaiting Chapter 9. Thread bookmarked.

[The Aliens]

Chapter 9

The main hangar was quiet as the Away Team met with the captain for final briefings and instructions. The Louis XIV was hardly recognizable now, with massive phaser scarring down the side, which had been done gleefully with a laser torch by Traab, covering the walls. The identification number on the side of the vessel was also different, reading as the USS Macduff, Shuttle C. One of the nacelles had been adjusted so it appeared out of alignment, giving the illusion the vessel was slower than it was, and the phaser banks had been made to look in a state of disrepair, where in reality Crespin's techs had been working on it for 36 standard hours.

“Alright, so give me the summary,” said Scott, sitting on a packing crate in front of the vessel.

“Well, this is no longer the good ship Louis XIV,” said Melan, “the transponders have gone to two different levels of encoding. The first is done sloppily, giving off the transponder signal of the Night Stalker, the name we decided on for the ship.” Melan pointed, and indeed the name had been cut in with Traab’s laser torch in haphazard capital letters.

“I hope the second isn’t haphazard?” asked Scott.

Melan snorted. “Of course not. It’s airtight, programmed to look like we stole it off the Macduff, which is on record as having lost a shuttle that was never recovered. Any query will return the Night Stalker, and anyone with half a brain will identify it as having been stolen from a Federation vessel. That makes us look like enemies of the Feds, which the Dorrans will like, considering their feelings towards us at the supergiant.”

Scott nodded. “That’s rather insightful, Officer.”

“Thank you, sir, I try.” Melan did a sort of bow, and moved his hand in a gesture of thanksgiving, likely religious in nature. “For the record, the Macduff’s shuttle reads as ‘stolen’, not ‘lost’, I hacked Starfleet and filed a report on top of the existing one. They can find the original report f they dig, but all hotlinks point to the made-up one.”

Scott glared at Melan, his expression removed from his previous cheerfulness. “You falsified a report in Starfleet computers? If this comes up and bites me in the ass, you’ll be out the airlock before you even know what happened to you. I hope your coding is as good as you say. Traab, costumes,” said Scott, switching his demeanor on a dime. He could tell that his quick shifts of personality were beginning to unnerve the Bajoran officer, and relished these shifts as tools over the idiosyncratic programmer.

Traab responded to the Commander’s request in dramatic fashion, jumping out form behind a packing crate wearing a solid black form-fitting jumpsuit with cape, resplendent in red piping and rank chevrons on the right sleeve. Scott thought he looked like a mercenary out of a 23rd century holonet serial, but kept the comment to himself.

“Explain, Traab.”

“The Dorrans have no idea who we are of what we’re like, so I made us into stereotypes. We’re stock-standard pirates, all dressed in black with primitive rank chevrons and impractical capes. By making us look two-dimensional, we’re giving ourselves a weapon over them by doing something out of character. We might catch them out of place, and five seconds might be all we need at some point in the mission.”

Scott smiled again. His officers were beginning to think, and while Melan was still annoying and Traab still boisterous, they were using their minds to think of ways to keep the enemy off-balance. They were thinking like Scott himself, and it gave him a surge of confidence in his officers he’d been lacking since the death of the Luxembourg. He saw a mission taking shape of its own accord, with a diverse group of people working on it, and felt reasonably safe now sending them off to do this job. He was beginning to trust them. “Major Crespin, any other notes?”

“No, sir. We’re carrying a lot of Federation equipment, ‘modified’ by Commander Traab to look worn out and worthless. Again, we hope that by playing to what the Dorrans expect, we’ll be able to infiltrate and come up with a more effective strategy than simply blowing the whole station up.”

Scott looked stunned. “That’s an option?”

Crespin nodded. “Yes, sir. This shuttle is loaded with the Valley Forge’s entire explosives cache, short of what was actually strapped to the fighters. We will not let the Grek’Nar escape the station. Our priority is to the Federation, and we will die to defend her.” Traab and T’Sav nodded with the pilot, and Melan looked nervous.

Scott rose from the box, and extended his hand to Crespin. “Well, then, Major, I wish you luck. Finish your packing and depart when ready. Crespin took the Commander’s hand, spun on his heel, and waved to his crew. Traab, Melan, and T’Sav, all in various levels of their pirate costumes, boarded the shuttle, and the last case was brought on board, followed by Crespin. The technicians scurried away, and Scott was left standing alone on the deck.

Inside the shuttle, Crespin keyed the comm. “Independent Shuttle Night Stalker, request- oh, fuck it. We’re pirates, and we’re leaving anyway. Sod off, Valley Forge. The shuttle’s engines glowed live, and the thrusters took over and gently glided the craft forwards, Scott felt the pop as it cleared the magcon field, and then it was streaking away, out into space, an artificial comet seeking its solar oblivion. Scott smiled, briefly, and turned away. He still had work to do.

*****

“I still have work to do,” yelled out Lieutenant Junior Grade John Davits. His response seemed to shock the young enlisted woman, who was merely about to ask for a hydrospanner, and she took a step backwards. Davits, snarling, pulled his head out of the circuit relay in which it was. The young woman had not even asked the question yet, but Davits could sense it was coming and responded without waiting. “Captain Bajoran and the Wonder Police have all left, so who’s left doing Ops’ dirty work for them? Me. And that’s ruined my day. So sorry if I’ve offended you in any way. Now get the hell back to work.” She turned away, dumfounded, and asked another officer working nearby for a tool, who gladly gave it to her.

Davits let out a deep sigh. He had been sitting in the Engineering Room for 36 hours straight. Luckily, Betazoids were able to suspend sleep for up to a week, so he had yet to feel any ill effects, but the pressure of getting the ship repaired was beginning to show. He was not even allowing any remotely telepathic officer to talk to him, using his mind alone. He would even transfer thoughts to Ensigns of how to compete tasks far beyond their experience- a very risky practice. If Davits was thinking about a cheese sandwich, for example, while thinking about reversing plasma flow in a single conduit, the junior officer could very well blow up the ship with their mixed messages.

However, his strategy appeared to be working, and the ship was running at 85% of non-Warp Core ability, which was a very impressive rate, considering the ship had been at 36% a day and a half ago. The junior officers worked their shifts efficiently and in silence- while they recognized Davits was a very talented engineer, they did not want to draw his ire for even one second. After all, it would not do to be written up for incompetence in many of their first of second assignments. With this sort of mechanical precision, Davits felt he could relax for a few moments.

“Sir, I need to find the GJW-342 Cords, they’re not listed in inventory,” said a young Andorian. Davits surveyed the man, scrutinizing for weakness, and considered telling the Crewman to find his own damn cords, but shrugged and turned off the PADD in his hand. For his part, the Andorian was expecting an explosion of some kind, as he knew fine well where the cords were. A human on his team had bet him 100 credits he would not have the nerve to do what he had just done, and he was looking forward to purchasing a good night out when he got back to Starbase.

Davits, threw open one of the storage lockers, and pulled out a cord that looked as if someone had funneled a solar flare into a flexible clear tube, and tossed it to the Crewman. “Storage locker 43, remember that. The hell do you need that for, anyway? Without the Warp Core, we won’t need to flush the manifold, so you won’t need to hook up the anterpressor.”

The Crewman looked nervous, as if caught in a lie. Davits saw this, and pressed open the Andorian’s mind. “A bet, eh? A hundred credits? I’ll be you 150 you won’t punch that oddsmaster chickenshit over there in the face. Tell him he can get his own damn jollies next time, and that he’s on Jeffries’ Tube scrubbing for the next three days.” Davits smiled, and gave an obscene gesture to the watching human, who was looking both relieved that he had not lost the credits, but panicked he’d be working in the most cramped conditions on the ship for the next three days.
The Andorian ran off, and Davits went to close the storage locker. As he did so, however, a brief flash of something out of the ordinary caught his eye. Most engineers were able to tell if something was out of place on their ship, and Davits was no exception. He looked closely into the locker, and looked for the back wall. It appeared to be too close to the door, almost as if there was something behind the locker pushing the back wall forwards. He pulled out a glowrod, and peered inside. There was a definite seam on the wall, and Davits reached for his toolbelt. He pulled out a sonic hammer, and pointed it at the back of the locker. The small wall cracked and split, and Davits scooped out the pieces. There was something at the back now, a small container. Davits pulled it out.

It was about the size of an old can of soup, and bright blue. In fact, it looked almost exactly like a shrunken down version of the blue cylinders used by Starfleet to transport hazardous materials on starships. Davits unscrewed the top of the cap, and a small mist came from it. It was not, however, the kind of mist a chemical reaction would give off, rather, it was clearly a powder that was very fine and very light. The powder inside the container was a particular shade of greenish-yellow, one instantly recognizable to the Engineer.

Davits’ eyes widened. It couldn’t be, he hadn’t seen a carton of this chemical since his Academy days. He had to check. He sniffed briefly, and then licked his finger and dipped it in, then licking the stuck powder off his digit. His eyes squeezed shut, and he shook his head violently as the bitter tastes ran through his mouth and slipped deftly into his bloodstream. He felt light, calm, and strong. And he was right.

It was Protamine. The drug of choice at the Academy in his days, it was taken by virtually all upper-year students at parties. It gave the user a feeling up upliftedness, of invincibility. And it was very dangerous to have lying around a room in which the slightest mistake could bring death to everyone aboard the ship. Davits was stunned. Questions raced around his mind. How did it get aboard the ship past biofilters? Who had placed it in Engineering? He scanned the room, listening to the thoughts of people around him. There was no trace of suspicion among any of them. None of them knew the drug was even there, it seemed.

Davits fought a brief internal battle. If he brought the vial to the Captain, it would look bad on Engineering, as if all his crew were working while not in their right state of mind. It could cast doubt on everything his team had accomplished in 36 hours and could necessitate going back to square one. However, if he left it, there was a possibility that his fears, engineers doing dangerous work while not in a position to handle it, possibly with catastrophic consequences, could be realized. There’s no danger right now, at least the ship is safe. We’re not going anywhere, so if we need to test everyone and start over, then fine, we have the time.

Davits nodded, as if to settle some internal discussion. The container had to go to the Captain.

*****
Engineering was quiet. It was Delta Shift, with the enormous majority of personnel sleeping or off-duty. There was a simple skeleton crew in Engineering, not required to do repairs, simply to make sure nothing went wrong. These were the youngest, most inexperienced officers on the ship, and for 6 hours starting at 2 AM ship time, Engineering was theirs.

And no-one suspected a thing when a young Terran officer, Hersheld Qitz, sneaked away from his duty station and opened up Storage Locker 43. However, as soon as he opened it, he realized it was a mistake. The fake wall at the back of the cubicle that he had painstakingly installed a week earlier had been removed, and a fine green powder lay over the outer edge of the cupboard. His stash had been found.

He began to panic. People in Flight Ops had already paid him a good amount of credits for the drug, and it was gone. He had other stashes, of course, hidden in Jeffries’ tubes, but he didn’t know when it would be safe to retrieve them. Besides, he had had exactly enough, before Locker 43’s disappearance, to provide everyone. Someone, now, was going to be left out, and that person would likely ensure Qitz had dealt with his fair share of the broken promise, possibly even with his life. Qitz fondled the plasma torch he wore, and began to shake.

He was in trouble. He was going to get killed, he could see shapes everywhere, reaching out to throttle him in his sleep, and he could hear the sounds of clients plotting to kill him, to tear him, to rend him. He could smell his own fear, feel his own heart palpitate. And he knew now that he needed his own fix before his brain shut down from the lack of the chemical that was as important to him as oxygen.

A/N: Oh no! The Forge’s problems aren’t over yet! Can Crespin and Company stop the Grek'Nar before the House of Voth steal it? Can Scott ferret out who's got his crew addicted to a dangerous drug? What's the relationship between T'thak and the rest of teh House of Voth? Stay tuned for Chapter 10!

[darthdavid]

CRACK ATTACK!!! Yesss, another fix. You are a god among men.

[General Brock]

Coke on a Fed Starship.... What would Janeway say! I was expecting Davits to keep it for himself, too. This is better than anything Paramount would allow, let alone come up with!

Good pacing, spelling, grammar, and paragraph setting. The story just flows along; it has that charisma like one is experiencing it more than just reading it.

[The Aliens]

The Klingon Negh’Var class cruiser Voth’s Fist streaked away from Dorran space at an almost incomprehensible speed, transforming the very stars, unchanging anchors on some worlds, into streaks of light. Watching this stellar spectacle from his private chamber was a Klingon by the name of Karta Voth. His face was recognizable in virtually every planet the House of Voth controlled, and his name was revered, as he was the Klingon brave enough to stand up to the Empire and leave it. To his people, he was a hero, and to the Empire, he was a traitor.

However, for the past few hours, on his journey away from Dorran space, he felt not in the least the powerful and capable leader his reputation made him out to be. He felt small, insignificant, even weak- tied to a raft being battered about by the seas of his enemies, falling in on him from all sides. The Dorrans were doing their best to prevent him from obtaining the Grek’Nar, the most powerful battleship in the sector, and it would be only a matter of time before the Klingons came to annex his House again. And even the Federation, which had done naught but send peaceful ‘diplomatic envoys’, seemed to be readying for an assault on Karta’s resources, worlds, and ways of life. His honour, which he had worked his entire life to obtain, was at risk by defeat at the hands of those whom he had defied.

Karta was puzzled. His entire life he had been revered by those around him for his wisdom. In times of war, he developed cunning strategies that took advantage of enemy weaknesses instead of wasting vessels attacking their strengths. In times of peace, he was sought after for advice on daily problems by Klingons from all over the Empire. At his Succession, he was praised by many for his wisdom in leaving the Klingons, who were becoming a stagnant power in the Beta Quadrant. He was a leader and a teacher, not simply a warrior.

But now, he needed to come up with a way to defend his honour. He sighed, and contemplated. What, in the end, was honour? Obviously, it was conduct that increased his status in the eyes of others, by following definite protocols. But who had set those protocols? If myth was to believed, Kahless himself. However, as a scholar, he doubted that interpretation, and therefore came to the conclusion that it was simply a group of Klingons in times long past that were shaping his decisions. That gave him pause.

Surely, there had to be some sort of reasoning behind the code of honour. Naturally, it was to rigidify combat, to prevent needless death. He could prevent the deaths of many Voth Klingons if he obtained the Grek’Nar, but the only way he could possibly achieve that was to steal it, a dishonourable act. He could not give the Dorrans the money for the battleship, even though it was possible, to deny the dishonourable merchants the ability to create a tritanium plant. If he gave the money, he would gain a temporary strategic advantage, but would lose in the long run as the Dorrans were able to create many more ships.

Karta growled in frustration. The only way to save life, an honourable act, was to steal, a dishonourable act. It was a maddening dilemma. However, as Karta calmed, he was able to see the situation more clearly. The defense of thousands of people sworn to his care was much greater in terms of honour than stealing the Grek’Nar. Kahless would forgive him for breaking one law to uphold another, one far more important. In the end, Klingon Empire honour was different from true Klingon honour, as the Empire did not endeavour to preserve life. There had been a reason Karta had separated the House of Voth from the Klingon Empire- to ensure a brighter future for his people. He needed to remind the galaxy why the Voth were different from the Empire, and the defense of his realm by ‘dishonourable’ means would send exactly that message. Karta nodded as he came to his conclusion, and keyed his comm.

“Communications, get me T’thak on Dorra Prime Shipyards.”

The Klingon on the other end of the comm nodded. “Immediately, Master Voth.” Within two seconds, the face of T’thak appeared on the small screen in Karta’s quarters.

“Yes, Master?” T’thak looked frightened, but determined to succeed in his plan.

“I have been doing some contemplating. On the question of honour.” T’thak looked surprised, but new better than to push the elder Voth into a quick explanation. “I have determined,” he continued, “that defending the House of Voth from enemy invasion is of higher honour than the loss from stealing a starship. Our actions are dishonourable by the Empire’s standards, but necessarily by those of the Voth.”

“Then you will support the theft?” asked T’thak, expression changing to an almost pathetic hope. “You will help us prevent the creation of the tritanium factory while reaping the benefits of a dedicated battleship?”

Karta nodded. “I will. The full resources of the House of Voth lie at your feet. You will succeed in this mission, and you will save the Voth from occupation. You will be exalted among our people, for you will be the Deliverer. You will not fail.”

T’thak knew Karta was not being simply optimistic- the price for failure would be beyond anything. “Yes, Master. Your will be done.” He waited, not wishing to invoke wrath by cutting off the elder Voth should he have anything else to say. However, T’thak’s fears proved baseless, as with a knowing glance, Karta shut off the transmission.

*****

Deep in space, a small, round, black probe began coming to life. Lights appeared on its outside edges, and four nacelles, each spaced equidistantly, emerged from the hull. It had been triggered by a communication from a Klingon vessel, which it had been instructed to keep under surveillance, to a Klingon party aboard the Dorra Prime shipyards. It followed the transmission, and recorded it in its databanks. And then, in a sort of spin that would have been very familiar to the crew of the Valley Forge, had they have been around to see it, it streaked off in the direction of Dorra Prime, carrying a message for its masters.

*****

“This is the independent vessel Night Stalker, requesting permission to land in hangar 93 on Dorra Prime Shipyards.” Crespin’s transmission was short and to the point, conveying his required message with what he calculated to be the exact required amount of pirate bite.

“Nutcracker, your entry is denied. Assume a holding orbit at a distance of 1000 km or face termination.” The reply from the yards was cold and precise.

“Dumbass Prime, we’re here to buy a freighter.”

“Nosebleeder, permission is denied.”

“Dorra Slime, we’re landing. Customer is always right.” Crespin was gambling with this- if the Dorrans were unlike what he had read in the official reports, he might very well become terminated. He was baking on the Dorrans’ love of power, however, and the fact that they would never destroy a paying customer, because it would cause them to lose power over the people on the shuttle. He was rewarded a few seconds later as the shields came down around his chosen dock, and no gunnery turrets swiveled to confront him on his way in.

The shuttle gilded to a halt, made artificially jerky by Crespin to give the impression of major damage, and crashed to the floor. The shuttle’s ramp lowered, and the four officers on board exited into the face of at least a dozen Dorran guards armed with disrupters. They wore the same identical green uniform, which was complimentary shade to their skin, and brandished the weapons in such a fashion that even Traab, three feet taller than the tallest, felt slightly intimidated.

“You have violated Dorran law,” said the leader, who had one more red rank bar on his chest then the other guards around him. “You have violated the sanctity of this station.”

“You didn’t shoot at us,” said Traab, backing away from two small guards approaching his flank.

The Dorran paused. “You are customers.”

“So you’re going to shoot us now?” Traab looked confused.

The Dorran mirrored his expression. “You should be executed, but have been ordered to bring you to quarters. You will come with us.” Traab contemplated asking ‘why’, as the Dorrans were clearly incapable of having them detained, but decided not to argue with an enemy who was doing what he wanted anyway. He caught Crespin’s eye, not difficult as the pilot was clearly sensing Traab’s feelings, and nodded in time with the Major. Within moments, they were swept away by the tide of green uniformed officers, towards their brief safe respite. Traab was able to stall just long enough to see Melan lock the Stalker, then he too was dragged along, the Bajoran just behind them.

They were swept through hallways at a quick pace, too quick for Traab to recognize where they were going, or even how to get back to where they came from, but he had faith T’Sav was making a mental map as accurate as any anyone else on the team could create with mapping equipment. The hallways were non-descript, standard size and standard colours, forcing Traab to duck when he encountered a hanging piece of pipe. It seemed as if the Dorrans were opposed to doing anything any potential visitor to the station could consider offensive, and thus made their station as neutral as possible.

Within minutes, the Dorrans stopped moving forwards, and opened the door to a fairly large set of quarters. There were four beds, a replicator, a small, low table, and several comfortable looking seats. Without a word, the Dorrans began walking away, and so the Away Team had no choice but to enter the room, or risk becoming terribly lost inside the swirling maze of hallways.

T’Sav immedietly sat at a table and pulled out a PADD from the small grey briefcase she was carrying, and began to transcribe her mental map to a more solid form. Traab chuckled at her predictability, and sat on one of the large puffy seats, which held his mammoth weight without complaint. Crespin Also sat on one of the seats, in a less dramatic fashion, with a steaming cup of the replicated, Dorran version of coffee. Melan, predictably, went straight to the public access terminal, turned their computer defenses into Swiss cheese within 3 minutes, and began reporting on what he’d found. However, as he saw one piece of data scrolling along the screen, he paused.

“Major, you’d better have a look at this.”

Crespin rose from his chair, seemingly thankful he had an excuse to put down his ‘coffee’ without looking stupid, and went quickly over to the terminal. He could tell Melan believed that this was the truth, so he did not even ask for verification. “Jesus Buggering Christ on a photon torpedo,” said the Major, emphatically.

“Is there a problem with the plan, sir?” asked T’Sav.

Crespin shrugged. “You could say that. The Voth are on this station right now. We don’t have nearly as long as we thought to prevent this sale. We need to act soon, and we need to act decisively.”

*****

The Dorran High Command was becoming nervous. It seemed over the past couple of days that the number of violent groups forcing their way onto the station had increased greatly. The High Command still had firm control of the situation, according to their tactical computers, but the actual Dorran elements of the Command were beginning to feel their control slipping out of their fingers.
“This situation is becoming untenable,” said one of the more junior members of the Command.

“Consensus,” said the Dorran at the head of the table, the High Commander.

“There is one factor we can trace these events to. The Voth violating our space, the Federation lurking in our testing grounds all come back to the selling of the Grek’Nar. Our deep space probes have detected strange movements of troops behind Klingon lines.” The junior member looked as panicked as any of te High Command ever were, fear masked in discipline.

“Our deep space probes recorded a transmission from the Voth’s Fist to the Voth emissary aboard our station. It seems the Voth have in place a plan to procure the ship illegally.” Another officer spoke, stating the Voth plan as a simple matter of fact, with no commentary on it.

“Their plan will fail, the ship is too well defended for the Voth to even get on board. What are the options for getting rid of the battleship?” The High Commander surveyed his advisors.

“We cannot use it ourselves,” started the first advisor, “because that would still cause foreign powers to intervene in our affairs. We cannot give it to the Federation as they will not take it, and the Voth are too great of a risk. We must sell the vessel to the Klingons, at cost. We will lose the new tritanium plant, but we will retain our independence.”

The High Commander nodded. “Affirmative. Contact the Empire. The Grek’Nar is theirs, for 10 million credits.”

*****

Scott, Khaaten, and Davits sat around the lone terminal in the Valley Forge’s ‘conference room’. They had been trying for the last hour to determine who could have brought the container of Protamine aboard, and having no success. The transporter logs were a confusing, jumbled mess, having been done by an Ensign on equipment older than her, and not helped by the sensors’ lack of ability to pick up specific chemicals.

“Well, why don’t we look for shapes? Find someone that beamed aboard with a similar container?” Davits was beginning to get frustrated with the investigation’s lack of progress.

Scott nodded, and ran the search. “Five suspects, down from more than 200. That’s improvement,” said Khaaten, upon seeing the results. Scott’s face fell, however, and he turned to Davits.

“Lieutenant, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. This investigation could implicate you, and you are now a partial officer. You can no longer be involved in it. I’m sorry.” Scott’s face was sincere, obvious that he was doing what he was doing out of duty, not out of a dislike for the engineer.

Davits, however, exploded. “What the hell are you talking about?” He slammed a PADD down on the desk, cracking the screen and causing nonsense data to scroll across it. He threw it across the room behind him, where it smashed into the wall, breaking in half. “You’re full of shit! You only suspect me because of what my record says! You have no fucking idea, Scott, not a fucking clue, and if you think-“

Khaaten cut him off with a shard hiss, and an unsheathing of her powerful claws. “Shut up, Lieutenant. You never, never address a senior officer that way.” Davits, caught in what he was doing, recognized the fury in Khaaten and the steeliness in Scott, and returned to his seat. His face smoldered.

“Wait… Davits… that entry on your record for gross misconduct-“ Scott’s face froze as he recognized where Davits’ outburst had come from. “You were at the Academy at the time of the Protes Cartel. The Academy found a ring of students distributing the drug just after exam time, but it turned out that so many people were implicated they had no choice but to let you go, or lose an entire year of cadets. It was just after the Dominion War, so there was no way we could lose that many future officers, so you were all let go with massive spots on your records. Assigned to the worst postings. That’s why you’re still a junior officer after 10 years of service, and why you’re on this boat.” Scott could see from Davits posture, a slackening of his rage, with his head down, that Scott had found the truth, a truth the engineer was ashamed of.

“Lieutenant Davits, on this vessel the past means nothing. Every single one of us have things we’d rather forget, that’s why we’re here. We’ve all fucked up at some point, but on the Valley Forge, all is forgiven as long as you can overcome it to be a good officer. You’re done exemplary work in getting this ship running, Lieutenant, and I trust you completely. However, I can’t allow you to stay on the investigation, and I have to confine to quarters until we can prove who the culprit was.”

Davits nodded. “I know, and I believe you. But please believe me when I say I had nothing to do with this. I f I thought it would cause me to lose my job, I would have kept this secret, but I tried to do the right thing.” The walls the Betazoid had put up, the walls of anger and hate to block out the pain of having his career destroyed before it had started were beginning to crumble on this tiny, crippled ship, out in the backwaters of the universe. “All I ever wanted was to be an engineer, fixing things. Please, sir, don’t take that way from me.” Davits’ anger dropped from around him, and grew into fear, of losing everything he had ever worked for because of someone else’s mistake.

Scott nodded. “Go back to work, Lieutenant. You’ll be the first to know what the investigation comes up with.” Davits nodded, schooling his features back into the hardness he was so well known for, and left the room. Scott looked at Khaaten, exchanged a knowing look, and returned to work.

A/N: A bit of a breather, setting up for the final crisis. The hour of deliverance is near! Reviews appreciated!

[Crazedwraith]

Sweet!

[darthdavid]

Awesome.

[The Aliens]

Chapter 11

T’thak’s plans were progressing marvelously. As soon as he had been given Karta’s support, the ‘diplomat’ began drawing up all manner of timetables and plots, in an attempt to use as much of his new power as possible. He knew that he would be able to get the Grek’Nar to safety as soon as it was captured, so the plans rolled along with the sheer confidence of the one who believes himself to be invincible. Karta was going to be pleased with him, T’thak vowed to himself. He had waited almost his entire life to rise up past his current position in the House of Voth, and he needed Karta to support him. Ever since he was young, Karta had always been one step above him, always the goal to beat, always the one person that needed to be cowed so T’thak could move forwards. Now, he had that chance.

However, there was one snag in T’thak’s plan that the Klingon was painfully aware of. He had no way of getting on the ship. The doors were locked, and if he blew them in, the entire Dorran Guard would be on him in moments. He needed at least half an hour of unfettered time on the ship to get it ready to leave, and if he made an obvious entrance, he wouldn’t get it. And, since he had only five Klingons on his team, there was no way he was going to be able to penetrate their defenses anyway. He could always bring in reinforcements, but if a group of heavily-armed Klingons showing up on the station and reporting T’thak didn’t set off some alarm bells in the Dorrans heads, he could probably just ask politely for the ship and he’d be given it.

He needed cheap reinforcements, and he needed some way of breaking into the ship. T’thak growled at his terminal in frustration, a growl that echoed through his small, private chambers on the Voth Rampage, the small Bird-of-Prey that had served him as headquarters for the past few weeks. He opened up access to the Dorran network, and started flicking through the guests. He was being specific- he needed a group of mercenaries that were not affiliated with any government, ones with good computer coding skills, and enough muscle to back up an assault.

Within moments, a small group based off a shuttle named the Night Stalker, appeared on the main screen. They were led by a Trill-looking man by the name of ‘Ernesto Castar’, and had a group comprising a Bajoran computer tech, a Bolian juggernaut, and a Vulcan. Cheap reinforcements, completely disposable, with the skills necessary to get me on board, thought T’thak. Perfect.

*****

Evan Crespin could hardly believe his luck when the face of T’thak appeared on his communications terminal. The small group from the Night Stalker had been doing near round-the-clock sorties around the station, searching desperately for the Voth contingent on the station. They had been doing stake-outs, surveillance of cafes and stores, even cursory looks around the docks searching for a clearly Voth ship, and had come up with next to nothing. The Away Team were tired and irritable, and almost to the point of simply leaving, and telling Scott that they had tried their best.

However, all that changed with T’thak’s message. “Good crew of the Night Stalker,” it began. “The Klingon House of Voth is planning an operation that could benefit from your particular experiences, and would reward you handsomely. If you are interested in the possibility of a great reward, please meet us at ‘Danson’s on the Downdecks’ in 20 standard minutes. We will be sitting at the table furthest from the bar.” With what seemed like a smile, the transmission ended. Crespin looked to his team.

“There are two possibilities here- he’s stupid, and doesn’t know who we are, or he knows exactly who we are and is luring us into a trap. Discuss.”

T’Sav spoke first. “If it were a trap, it would be illogical to trap us in a public place. We will be armed, presumably, and so they would not be able to take us anywhere we do not wish to go. I have read about the structure of this station, and it is specifically rigged to prevent site-to-site transport, thus preventing any such kidnappings from occurring. This measure was first introduced after a spat of brutal-“

“Thank you, Ensign,” said Crespin. “Any other thoughts?”

Traab shrugged. “Well, they could honestly be looking for a bunch of mercenaries. From what we know, the Voth don’t have unlimited resources, so quick shock troops might be needed. It’s not like we tried to hide our skills when we gave the Dorrans our information, so they could have just run a search for a hacker, say, and come up with our friend Melan, here.”

Melan nodded. “They mention a reward- it could bring great profit to us if we were to go along with their plan. We can demand an advance and use that money to buy our way off the station if the situation proves untenable and we lost the Night Stalker to sabotage. The Blessed Exchequer smiles on this meeting.”

Crespin smiled, and sat back in the comfortable chair, raising his hands behind his head. “Well, who can argue with that? I have 20 minutes to look like a pirate. See you soon, everyone.”

*****

Within a minute of entering, Crespin recognized that ‘Damson's on the Downdecks’ was a dive. The tables were covered in all manner of grime, and he nearly lost a shoe to the gunk on the floor. It was in the lower decks, as the name implied, but was also terribly lit and terribly cleaned, which lent the impression of a place to not enter without a good sidearm. Crespin himself was dressed in his full pirate best, the black uniform with red piping, and an obscene number of replicated medals running down his sleeve under his rank insignia. He had

They found the Klingons without difficulty, and sat down. T’thak smiled. “Welcome to Damson’s. It is one of the finest locations for Klingon cuisine outside Voth territory.” Crespin could feel the near panic inside the man, he knew that if he refused the Klingon, T’thak would be in a lot of trouble down the road. His desperation calmed the pilot, and encouraged him that a slight slip-up would not jeapordise his identity.

“You must be wondering why you are here,” said T’thak, his voice a purr. His entourage looked menacing, all of them with their weapons drawn and teeth bared.

“I must say I’m curious. Who are you?” Crespin smiled. It was best to play ignorant.

“I am T’thak, from the Klingon House of Voth. You are Ernesto Castar, from the Night Crawler. This is your loyal crew, with much combat and insertion experience. I have been doing research, for I must do some insertion of my own.” T’thak looked at Crespin. “Would you like something to drink?”

Crespin tilted his head, and T’thak gestured at a waiter. A moment later, a thick cup of liquid with a viscosity like tat of molasses was put down in front of him. Crespin sipped it, and forced himself to keep it down- it was like drinking roast beef. However, he was encouraged- T’thak had no idea who he was, which meant Crespin could get close to him without much effort. As soon as he found out the Klingon’s plans, he could figure out how to thwart the purchase of the Grek’Nar.

“So, my proposition. You have seen the large starship outside?” Crespin nodded, he knew where T’thak was going. “It is called the Grek’Nar, and we are going to steal it.” Crespin very nearly spat out his roast beef slurry, instead, he managed a feeble croak and turned pale. That was impossible, it was almost too easy! T’thak was stealing the ship, which meant he needed Crespin to help him, which meant the Away Team would have any number of plans to stop the ship.

“I see your surprise, but with your help, it is possible.” Crespin regulated his features. T’thak was obviously terrified of failure and not perceptive whatsoever, he was simply obsessed with getting the ship. Crespin could feel T’thak’s turmoil, and knew that T’thak would trust just about anyone if he could repair a relationship… no, steal the ship.

“Alright, what would you need my team to do?” inquired Crespin, attempting to mask his excitement at being simply handed the solutions to his problems.

“You would need to break into the ship without being detected- it seems your computer tech would be able to do that. Then, you would have to overcome internal defenses to get my team to the bridge, activate the shields and weapons, and help us repel boarders. We will have to make a short run until we can rendezvous with a fleet, which will be jumping in to cover our escape. You will receive a hundred thousand credits for your assistance, one quarter in advance, with bonuses for outstanding service. This will take place in 72 hours. I do not require your answer now, you have 12 standard hours to send a response to this frequency.” T’thak handed Crespin a piece of paper with a number written on it.

Crespin stood from the table. “Thank you for the opportunity.” He could tell T’thak planned to kill him if he turned it down, but that was not in his plans anyway. “I will be in touch.” He turned and left, eager to escape from the tiny café in the decks that hygiene forgot.

*****

“So, it’s a plan,” said Crespin to the Away Team, in their quarters. They had been swept twice for listening devices, and they all stood in the bathroom with the pipes running. “The Voth are going to steal the ship, blow their way out of the station, and meet a Voth fleet that will be jumping in at the same time. All we need to do is make sure the shields don’t come up, and transport ourselves to the Night Caller, and the explosives to the engine room of the Grek’Nar.”

T’Sav shook her head. “Sir, that plan will not work. We are not able to transport to the station.”

Crespin smiled. “I’m a pilot. I’ll be bringing in a PADD with me that’s tied into the Night Caller’s navigation systems. I’ll fly it out of the hangar and into transporter range, and initiate a site-to-site. No problem.”

The Away Team looked around at each other nervously. They would be working with their enemies, trying to steal the ship, and it was very possible that they’d be executed as soon as they got onto the ship to prevent leaks of information. So much could go wrong- discovery, treachery, technical problems…

“This won’t be an easy mission,” said Crespin, “but the Federation depends on it. We all knew what we were getting into when we signed up. We simply act as effectively as we can, and we hope it’s good enough to stop the ship, before it destroys a colony on some backwater world somewhere. The Federation is about different people joining together to work towards a common future. This Away Team is about as different as they come, so let’s show people what the Federation is all about.”

*****

The Dorran Central Command felt relief as the Klingon Empire’s War Chief disappeared from the screen. He had agreed to purchase the Grek’Nar for the 10 million credits requested, and while Tritanium production would be down 50% from projections for the next three standard years, there would be no invasion of Dorran Territory by the Voth or Federation. The Klingon fleet was on its way to pick up their new flagship, and would arrive in precisely 72 hours.

*****

The Valley Forge hung in space, a collection of junk and debris held together by force of will and superior innovation by her engineering staff. However, over the past hours, more and more of the ship had been coming together, as computers were overhauled and Jeffries’ tubes violated to make power and information run better. Among the crew, however, a much more contradictory change was occurring, as the supply of Protamine began to run dry.

Crewman Qitz sat in his quarters, panicking. He had his fix, so his world was more anchored than it had been for the past few hours, while he was running around in search of more of his stash, but he was still taut. He knew people would be coming for him, he just didn’t know when.

His door chimed. He now knew when his death was coming, likely in the next thirty seconds. He considered running, but had nowhere to go. Besides, he could not meet his death like a coward, he would go down fighting. And with the drugs in his bloodstream, he convinced himself he could even win, no matter who was on the other side.

“Come in!” The door slid open, and two large human flight technicians entered, one armed with a hydrospanner the length of his forearm, and the other with a vicious-looking plasma torch.

“Where the fuck is our shit, Qitz?” said the man with the torch, entering the room and allowing the door to close behind him.

“Gone, man!” His invincible feeling was leaving him, replaced with cold fatality.

“What the fuck you talking about? This is fucking serious! You’re two days late and I’m fucking jonesing,” exclaimed the one with the spanner.

“No, I went to Engineering to get it and it was confiscated. I can’t get it back right now! You’ll have to wait-“ Qitz was cut off by his coffee table being smashed in by the hydrospanner.

“Give me my fucking money back, then,” said Hydrospanner, from within the ruins of the glass table, his arm dripping blood.

“I can’t! It’s on Ferenginar, getting clean! Look, man, I need some time!”

Spanner shrugged. “You’ll have plenty of fucking time in Sickbay.” He swung a vicious hook at Qitz, who ducked and sidestepped left. Plasma Torch moved over to cut him off, and lit the flame, narrowly missing punching through Qitz’s ribcage. Qitz lashed out with a desperate kick, and connected with Torch’s thigh, but it simply bounced off. Stunned by the kick'’ ineffectiveness, Qitz simply stood still and Hydrospanner whipped his weapon round in a low blow that caught Qitz’s knee, bending it sideways. The two men, satisfied their statement had been made, left the room. Qitz, through a red haze of pain, hit his commbadge.

“Qitz to Sickbay, Medical Team to my quarters. Please hurry,” he said, and collapsed to the ground.

*****

“Doctor Khaaten, I don’t understand,” said the Lieutenant in Sickbay. The feline doctor came over to Qitz’s bedside, and looked at the screens showing patient information. “His brain chemistry is entirely out of whack, he’s not even acknowledging that he’s hurt, and I don’t know if he can feel anything anymore. He has a chemical in his bloodstream and I have no idea why it’s there. It’s almost as if he’s been dosing himself with Protamine, but that’s banned throughout the federation, so I have no idea where he’d get it from.”

Khaaten attempted to cover up her surprise. She had found at least one of the drug users on board, and it looked as if he’d been violently attacked. “I’m not sure, Lieutenant. Just keep treating him, and we’ll uncover the cause of his chemical imbalance.” Khaaten left the room, and sat in her modern, private office.

“Khaaten to Scott,” she said.

“Scott here.”

“We’ve found a drug user, a Crewman Qitz, Terran. He’s under the influence right now, but it looks as if he’s been the victim of a violent attack. He needs to be moved somewhere for his own safety, but then you should question him.”

Scott sighed, a noise audible over the comm. “Send him to the brig as soon as he can be moved. I’ll be right down.” The comm popped off, and Khaaten curled up into her chair. Maybe now she could move towards stopping the flow of this drug, and treating patients who deserved it. She flicked open the records on Crewman Qitz, and began searching for something, anything, that could help bring the mystery to a close.

A/N: Hurray! Klingons are showing up at the same time as the Voth are bringing their fleet, so I’m sure you can guess there’s a space battle in the works! Stay tuned!

[Crazedwraith]

*bad quitar music fills the thread*

excellant, keep it up.

[darthdavid]

Great stuff.

[The Aliens]

Chapter 12

The Dorran lieutenant was nervous as he approached the Central Command room. He did not think he was in any personal danger, despite bringing bad news, but being this close to a hallowed seat of power unnerved him. He rang the door chime, and it swished open after performing a short retinal scan and DNA analysis. Before him sat the entire Dorran High Council, dressed in starched robes, and from their elevated position it was obvious that they both literally and metaphorically looked down upon the new entrant.

“Report, Lieutenant,” said one of the Elders. The sheer spectacle of the room prevented the Lieutenant from determining who was the speaker.

“I have the results from the background examination of the Night Stalker,” voiced the Lieutenant.

“And?”

“We have determined some very unusual things. We were aware that the shuttle had been stolen from a Federation vessel through circumstances unknown. However, they have been observed to be spending much of their time in residential quarters, and have yet to make a single offer on a spacecraft, despite that being their stated reason for entering the station and their stay of almost a standard week. We believe they are surveying someone or something, likely with illegal aims.” The Lieutenant spoke very quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth in his haste to escape the upper echelons of the station.

The Elders nodded in unison. “We will continue to monitor them from here. Thank you, Lieutenant.” The young Dorran rushed from the room, and the door slammed behind them. A schematic of the shipyards appeared, and every emergency measure was initiated to locate the crew of the Night Stalker.


*****

Crespin and his team sat in full pirate regalia on a small briefing room aboard the Voth’s Rampage, T’thak’s personal vessel. The room was very hot, far more than was comfortable, and the Away Team were sweating profusely. However, this inconvenience was dampened by the sheer victory they felt by being aboard the Voth vessel, as trusted allies. There was only one small window in the room, and it was lit red by the glow from the electronics around the fringes of it. It had a very spartan feel, completely utilitarian, with only a few weapons hanging from the walls for decoration. Outside the windows the gentle curve of the Dorran Shipyard could be seen, along with the scattered space traffic of the busy system.

The room was crammed with both Voth and Crespin’s team, increasing the temperature again. Aside from T’thak himself, there were four Klingons of varying height, armed with heavy disruptor rifles and the ubiquitous Bat’leths on their backs. They seemed ready to pounce, and Crespin could feel the anticipation of battle rolling off them. This was what they lived for, and they gave the impression that they could not care less what was said in the briefing.

“Please come to attention,” said T’thak, standing before the small group. He hit a button on the table, and a schematic of the Grek’Nar appeared on the viewscreen on the far wall. “You have all been called here to gloriously assault the Grek’Nar, to seize it and allow the House of Voth to take its rightful place in the galaxy.” Crespin kicked Traab surreptitiously as the Bolian scoffed. No one seemed to notice.

“There are several stages to our plan. The first, is to penetrate the outer locks of the Grek’Nar. The honoured Computer Specialist Mahan Artis,” T’thak gestured to Melan, who looked sheepish and cowered in his chair, “will assist us.” Melan had brought all his equipment with him, having programmed routines to steal the ship since the mission had been made known to him, and had left plenty of clues to implicate the Voth if it was unsuccessful.

“He will penetrate the outer defenses without alerting any Dorran troops to our location. Once he is in, the Voth will take point through the station. The Night Stalker crew will go to main Engineering and activate the engines. From there, they will report to us their status. As soon as the engines are operational, we will raise shields and activate weapons, and blast out of the station. We will attain a position a thousand kilometers from the station, and the Voth fleet will jump in to match our position, covering our escape. From there, we will return to Voth, and the Night Stalker crew will receive payment.” T’thak looked around the small room, from the bloodthirsty Klingons to the vaguely-sick looking Melan. “Are there any questions?”

“When will the attack commence?” T’Sav asked, her eyebrow arched.

“In ten minutes. Gather your equipment, take separate routes to rendezvous at the main entrance. May you bring honour to all of your houses.” T’thak slammed his fist down on the table, as did the rest of the Klingons. Traab duplicated the gesture without question, Crespin did it while feeling self-conscious, T’Sav began rooting through her pack to find scanning equipment, and Melan slapped his chair in a feeble gesture of compliance. The assault troops marched out of the small room, and began flitting through the station like wraiths from a child’s story.

*****

Voth Central Command located the Night Crawler crew moments after initiating their search. However, the location the crew turned out to be in caused great consternation.

“They are consorting with the Klingons,” said one of the elders on the far side of the chamber, as the large viewscreen showed a map of the Voth vessel.

“This indicates a definite strike capacity. The Klingons are planning to steal the Grek’Nar, and they have pirates to assist them. We must freeze their assets.” Another elder spoke hurriedly, as if he could catch the strike team with his words.

“We may lose the Grek’Nar before we receive any profit from it,” said another.

“Silence,” said the lead Elder, at the head of the table. “Deploy defense squads, orders to stop any member of this strike team. They will detain them if it is reasonably possible. Defense of the Grek’Nar is our highest priority. Do not allow it to escape. Alert the Klingon Empire to send in their fleet, we may need to intercept the outbound Grek’Nar.” He motioned to one of his aides, who activated a small hand-held communication unit. Within moments, the message had been sent, and an acknowledgement received. The aide whispered in the elder’s ear.

“The Klingons will arrive within the hour. We must fight to defend our right to free enterprise.” The Elder looked around the room.

“Consensus,” said the assembled group, in unison.

*****

Ensign Carl McNamara couldn’t believe his luck. Lieutenant Davits had assigned him to plasma conduit duty as punishment for a stupid dare, and he was already sick of it. It was not mind stretching work, scrubbing conduits. He was given a small implement with a tiny brush head, that would scour any atomic buildups in the conduits, which could potentially build up, causing an explosion. However, the odds of this were so small that the duty simply existed to punish disobedient officers, and though McNamara wished to deny it, it was effective.

However, it was still not fair. After all, McNamara had undergone four years of strenuous Academy training to be on a starship, with a specialization in subspace communications, not meaningless gruntwork. He had come from a small, but affluent family on a frontier colony world. There were less than 1 000 people there, and existed simply as a political claim to a world that could one day, with enough development, provide 1/35th of the quadrant’s Dotralimine, the compound used to soundproof sonic showers. It was not glamorous, but it did provide enough to live by. However, as soon as McNamara had seen the posting for Academy admissions, he was off like a shot.

And now, after all that work, he was back where he started, scrubbing massive conduits with a toothbrush. Maybe if someone turned on the confounded conduits he could at least be burned alive and leave the sheer tedium of the job.

His tricorder began to beep. This in and of itself was not unusual, the pieces of equipment were well-known for reacting to things that were not really important to the surrounding area, or the crewman who held it. However, it was simply lying on the floor, and McNamara pulled his arm out of the dormant conduit and flicked open the device, thinking perhaps its battery was running down.

This, however, was not the case. There was a strange energy reading coming from one of the nearby conduits, something that he had never seen before. It seemed almost like someone had stuck a sort of box behind one of the logic gates in the ship’s workings, and was conducting power through an exposed wire, heating itself up. McNamara hit his commbadge.

“Engineering, this is McNamara. Can you shut down all power except emergency lighting to Jeffires’ tube… Oh, where the hell am I… 24-C?”

“Engineering, acknowledging.” Within a second, the Ensign was stuck in almost pitch black, with only the thin gleam of the emergency glowstrips illuminating him.

“Thanks, Engineering,” said McNamara, and cut his commlink. “Now,” he said to the power disturbance, “what the hell are you?” He reached back behind one of the pieces of equipment, and felt his fingers brush a small, cylindrical container. He reached in to the elbow, and felt his fingers grasp around the handle. Gingerly, he pulled it out, and examined it. It was small, blue, and heavier than it should have been. It seemed to have a small catch on the top, and without thinking, he popped it open.

“Holy shitting Christ in a toaster strudel,” exclaimed the Ensign as the top popped off and the contents were revealed. It was Protamine, a lime-green powder that McNamara remembered from narcotics lectures at the Academy. He had to have a thousand credits worth in his hands, and he needed to get rid of it before suspicion fell on him.

“McNamara to Davits.”

“Go ahead, conduit boy. This had better be good.”

“Sir, there’s a container in here with- are you alone?”

“I’m with Doctor Khaaten. Anything you need to tell me you can tell me.” The Engineer sounded harassed.

“There’s a container stashed in here full of Protamine. It’s a drug used by-“

Davits made a strangled noise over the comm, and the Doctor sounded as if she had had her tail stepped on. “I know what it is, Ensign. Stand ready for beam-out.” Within a second, McNamara felt the warm glow of the transporter beam as it carried him out of the Jeffries’ tube, and into sickbay. He saw Davits, looking very white, and Khaaten, looking as if she hadn’t slept in days. Davits’ eyes moved quickly, but never broke contact with McNamara’s head.

The Engineer turned to the Doctor. “He found it in the Jeffries’ tube,” said Davits as soon as his mind-reading had finished. “He was cleaning, he has nothing to do with it. And only one other person had access to that tube long enough to plant it.” The two senior officers exchanged a knowing look.

Davits sighed. “It was Qitz, the slimy fucker.”

A/N: Please review me! It's coming down to the crunch, and I'd like to make the last chapters not suck half as much as the rest of it!

[darthdavid]

None of them suck so you're good. I've really liked this bit. You're very descriptive with your writing which is good.

[Crazedwraith]

very nice. Keep it up.

[The Aliens]

Chapter 13

“Can you work no faster,” snarled T’thak to Melan, as the Bajoran coder worked furiously on the doors the Grek’Nar. They were using one of the maintenance doorways, known to very few Dorran personnel, in an attempt to hold off the bulk of the Dorran endeavour to prevent the theft. They were in a ‘T’ intersection, with Traab on one knee pointing his Klingon-issue disruptor down the hall, scope on, and the Klingons providing cover down the other two branches, while Melan worked on the solid wall to gain access to the ship.

“I-if you w-would stop pointing y-your guns at me, I’d g-go faster,” stammered out Melan, in his best attempt to be defiant. When it came down to it, he was not a terribly brave Bajoran, having been raised in the Ferengi system of ‘hide first, ask questions later if it proves to be profitable’, and so working under fire was difficult for him, to say the least. However, his fingers deftly moved along the keypads, and layer after layer of security peeled away under his determination.

“I hear something,” said T’Sav, not moving. She also had a Klingon disruptor, this one a side mount, and she was on point down the left hall, relative to where Traab stood facing down the centre corridor.

“What is it,” snapped one of the Klingons.

“Several dozen footsteps, Dorran. Approaching the lift through the hall directly above us.” Her Vulcan hearing allowed her great ability to detect things without seeing them, and Traab trusted her judgement. He flipped open his scanner, also provided by the Klingons, and scanned for the nearest turbolift.

“Melan, shut down lift A535.” The Bajoran nodded, the task taking only seconds, and T’Sav heard machinery grind to a halt above them

“If they hadn’t been suspicious yet, that will start them,” said Crespin, facing down the hall opposite from T’Sav.

“It’s not important, we will be within the Grek’Nar in seconds,” said T’thak, and that ended conversation. Melan continued to work, but there were now obvious signs of a military approach. One of the Klingons peeked his head out of cover to glance down the hallway, and a moment later it had been reduced to charred bone and dripping flesh. The warrior fell to the floor, the rest of his body weeping fluids, and Crespin flinched away from the grizzly cover.

“They’re here,” announced the pilot. He was taking advantage of a small ledge for cover, and flipped on his scanner. “Three of them down this hall, armed with medium-sized anti-personnel weapons. Taathak,” he said, addressing Traab, “grenade, please.” The Bolian nodded, and tossed a photon grenade to Crespin, who pulled the activator and sent it skittering down the hallway. “Shield your eyes,” he announced. In only moments, there was a bright flash, and parts of Dorran uniform and corpse fell in a grizzly rain behind the cover.
“That door needs to be open now,” said T’thak, leveling his disruptor at Melan.

The door hissed open, and Melan smiled. “Done,” he said. The remaining four Klingons and Crespin’s team entered the ship, slamming the door shut behind them. Traab adjusted his power settings, and began spot-welding the door shut. T’thak addressed the group.

“They will have heard the grenade. Voth, with me to the bridge. Castar, take your pirates to the Engine Room and get ready to power up.” Crespin nodded, and his team split from the Klingons. As soon as they were out of earshot, Crespin called to his group.

“How many Dorrans stand between us and the Engine Room?” he asked.

Traab manipulated his scanner. “They’ve all been alerted, and by know they’ll know our point of entry. We can expect at least one roadblock, but we have enough explosives to get the job done. Here, we don’t need to worry about blowing a hole through the bulkheads, since they’re hermetically sealed, we won’t penetrate them form the inside. I vote we go through standard procedure for clearing a starship of foes- take points and run through on the fastest course to main engineering.”

Crespin nodded. “Traab, you have experience, you take point. Melan, you’ll be in the middle, prep the Night Crawler to lift and beam us out of here as son as we deactivate the shields. T’Sav, cover him. I’ll bring up the rear. Are we clear? Questions?” The four officers met each other’s eyes, and it was obvious everyone understood the consequence of their mission. “This isn’t a pep talk, just a reminder. We’re the last group the Federation has out here, and if we fail to stop the Voth, the entire quadrant could go up in war. Shoot twice, shoot straight, and shoot faster than they do. Break.” Within moments, they had assumed something approaching a battle formation, and swept through the ship.

The lights switched off as soon as they had gone 20 steps, an obvious countermeasure. Without speaking, T’Sav, Traab and Crespin activated their wrist-lights- Melan was lost in the glow of his PADD. They heard rustlings, but encountered no resistance, until they happened on a patrol. Traab snapped off a quick shot at the leader, which struck in the body and spun the Dorran around. T’Sav bodily hauled Melan out of the line of fire, and Crespin snapped off two shots in the attackers’ general direction. Knowing the importance of stopping the enemies before they were able to relay their position, Traab ducked low out of cover, and fired a stunningly accurate shot into the face of the third Dorran, who fell to the ground, his eyes bloody pools of superheated flesh. Crespin fired into the bulkhead above the remaining Dorran, casting down sparks and metal, and the man dropped to the ground in agony. He didn’t even feel Traab’s snap-kick to the face, which broke the Dorran’s neck, ending the skirmish.

Traab did not speak, merely motioned the rest of the team forwards. They progressed through halls, sweeping around corners with their light, until a large, green bolt snapped over their heads, super-heating the air and causing the team to drop to the ground and scurry for cover. Traab looked at his scanner.

“They’ve got an anti-personnel gun there, it’ll carve us up if we try to hit it. We need to circumvent it.” Traab looked at the group for options.

“Let’s go up, said Crespin, and fired a shot at the ceiling on the other side of the hallway. Traab smiled, knowing what the pilot had planned. He rolled across the floor, drawing fire, none of which hit him in the dark, and jumped vertically into the air. A regular person could not have done it, but Traab’s head nearly touched the ceiling, and years of tactical work had given him super-Bolian strength. Traab found himself in a deserted hallway, and walked along until his scanner told him the garrison was right below him. He triggered his disruptor to level 6, and carved out a square of floor, held together by two small braces. He almost laughed as he stomped out the floor, and it fell onto the garrison. He heard an explosion, likely that of the anti-personnel gun’s power source blowing, and dropped down into the hole. It was a grizzly sight- the four-foot by four-foot square had come down neatly on the back half of the gun, squashing the operator, and it lay across several Dorrans, some of whom were obviously dead, with heads or chests crushed by the enormous weight of the floor. He pumped shots into the living, to ease their agony, and turned to the team. Melan looked pale.

“I feel sick,” he proclaimed, and looked as if he was about to faint.

“We’re almost there,” said Crespin trying to be encouraging, but put off by Traab’s apparent delight in the liquidation of the remaining Dorrans. However, the four of them crossed over the fallen piece of floor, and within thirty seconds, burst into main Engineering.

Traab fired three shots as he entered the room. “Attention all Grek’Nar crew! You are now prisoners of the Night Crawler! You will not be harmed if you follow instructions. Now sit over here!” He gestured to a piece of floor near the door with his gun. There was no resistance.

“Melan, seal those doors, T’Sav, watch the prisoners. Major, sweep through the room and find any stragglers.” He hit his comm. “Voth, Engineering is secure.”

“Excellent. Start the engines.” Melan, the doors sealed, hit a string of commands, and the central reactor revved to life, casting the entire engineering room, a large rectangular place with two stories, into a fierce red glow. Within five seconds, the ship began to vibrate, and Crespin knew that they were pulling away from the station, probably without following any sort of standard procedure.

*****

The Klingon fleet dropped to impulse near the edge of the Dorran station’s space, and began angling for attack as soon as it saw the situation. The Grek’Nar was pulling away from the station, which was burning from several gouts in its hull, likely caused by the umbilicals’ forced release. The station had shields up, and weapons were moving to track the large ship.

“All vessels, battlestations,” announced the Klingon fleet commander. “Stop the Grek’Nar, but do not damage it! Inquire as to the station’s situation!”

*****

On the bridge of the Grek’Nar, T’thak was panicking. A whole Imperial Klingon Fleet had arrived, and they were not happy. Already the Vorchas and Birds of Prey were moving to intercept the massive vessel, and it looked as if they would catch it before the rendezvous point. With the entire bridge crew executed, T’thak turned to the two remaining Klingons. “Bring all guns online, begin firing at the station, disable its defenses. Signal our fleet to jump in! We must retain victory!”

The Grek’Nar unleashed its cannons into the station, ripping out massive gouts of flame. It chewed through the outer layers like a mighty beast, and shrugged off the paltry return fire coming in. The Klingon at tactical deftly angled the weapons to annihilate gunnery towers on the station, and with every second, the Grek’Nar’s situation improved. And then the Vorchas were upon them unleashing their weapons’ fury into the battlecruiser. T’thak saw one of the flame into incandescence as it caught a shot from the main batteries, and relaxed. This could still be won.

*****

“Ensign Qitz,” said Scott, entering the Brig. The Terran snapped to attention, and looked hopefully at the Commander. “Wipe that look off your face, Ensign. We know it was you.”

The Ensign tried to look innocent, and failed. He contemplated leading ignorance, but decided against it. He was found out. “How?”

“In cleaning the Jeffries’ tubes on Deck 7, we uncovered a stash of Protamine. You were the only person to have access to that section before it was found. You were high on the drug when you were evaluated in sickbay, and your injuries were almost certainly sustained by an attack, as opposed to tripping over a coffee table, as you claimed. All fingers point to you.”

Qitz looked panicked. “They’re going to kill me.”

“Who?”

“The buyers,” said the Ensign, clearly petrified. He was obviously crashing.

“We can guarantee you protection if you tell us who bought from you. We will find them ourselves, of course, but with a lot of time. Every man-hour we save looking for them we’ll take off your sentence, if you tell us.” Scott shrugged, nonchalantly.

“I.. I can’t.”

“Fine. I hear New Zealand’s very nice this time of year.” Scott moved to turn, and as expected, Qitz broke. He knew exactly what he had to lose. His career was gone- smuggling drugs was not the amusing kind of blunder Starfleet would let go. He would likely be ‘rehabilitated’, a process that would take years, and be forbidden from Starfleet service every again. His family would be shamed; he would lose almost everything.

“Please, sir, don’t leave. I.. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course you did. You could have looked at your dealer and said ‘no thanks’. You didn’t This has failed o be my problem, but I will help you, the same as I would help any of my crewmen. You tell us who bought it, it’ll be shorter sentences all around. You’re a good officer, Ensign, who made a mistake. I’ve been there. Commander Traab has been there. Lieutenant Davits, Lord knows, has been there. We can help you, but we need you help.”

There was a silence. Qitz, tears welling in his eyes, looked up at his Commander. “I’ll tell you.”

A/N: Yay! War! Feedback appreciated.

[Crazedwraith]

Drooping floors/ceilings on peoples heads I like. Although I wonder why a hand gun is powerful enough to cut through enitre decks.

[The Aliens]

Out of Universe: Willing suspension of Disbelief, that's why .

In Universe: The Dorrans, wily buggers, were doing the job on the cheap, so they used an alloy just thick enough to support the weight of a few Dorrans. Traab gunned the disrupor, not worried about cutting through the outer hull, nad carved through it. There weren't any wires of panels are anything in the way because that section hadn't been finished yet, they were going to come back and do it later, so it was just two thin pieces of metal with nothing in between them.

[Crazedwraith]

yet it still had the massive to crush dorrans/weapons emplacements?

[The Aliens]

yet it still had the massive to crush dorrans/weapons emplacements?

Dorrans are four feet tall- they don't take a lot of crushing. It had force imparted on it by the kick, and it would have gained momentum from the fall. Most of the damage would have come from the little generator being smashed. Like I say, willing suspension of disbelief

[Trekdestroyer]

It's all very interesting and is better than the stuff that Paramount used to make. I thought the drug thing was a little silly, but it ended up not being stupid after all. I just want to point out that the name of the klingon homeworld is Qo'nos (pronuounced Kronos).

[General Brock]

Chapter 11


*****

Within a minute of entering, Crespin recognized that ?Damson's on the Downdecks? was a dive. ... Crespin himself was dressed in his full pirate best, the black uniform with red piping, and an obscene number of replicated medals running down his sleeve under his rank insignia. He had [????]

They found the Klingons without difficulty, and sat down. ...
[/i]

Just one question on chapter 11; was that last sentance clipped [????], or not supposed to be there?

This is really an enjoyable read. Tsk, Tsk, such colorful metaphors by the crewers heheh...

Nice background on the rebel Klingons. The Dorans turned out the lights as a tactical measure; take that, Nemesis.

Trekdestroyer wrote [snip]

No kidding, but TA dosen't have a bunch of Cling-ons and wannabes tacking their wagons to the gravy train. This script would never survive the Berman vetting process.

[The Aliens]

Heh, the chapter 11 sentence shouldn't be there- I guess I just had an editorial brainfart.

And no, I don't think very much of this story would make it into a Paramount movie- too gritty and far away from the ideal of Starfleet we've been weaned on. I can just imagine Trek wankers: "But the Federation doesn't have broken-down ships, they'd just replicate new parts roflolwtfomgbbq stupid The Aliens."

I should have Chapter 14 done sometime this evening, I hope.