"The Devil to Pay" - The Federation Civil War (TGG

[Steve]

Hawleyville, Gregson III
Sector 61G Commonwealth, Colonial Territory
7 February 2166 AST
1 September 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The mid-populated world of Gregson III was one among many hundreds of similar worlds wherein many more dozens and hundreds of small towns the same scene was taking place.
First came the speakers. Prominent politicians and leaders, well known officers of the law and of the militia, or simply popularly-known men, standing upon a makeshift podium in the middle of town and speaking for ten minutes on the need for volunteers for the war effort. The images of a conquering Federation turning them into its slaves, working and starving them to death to feed the insatiable hunger for material from the lazy Core Worlders were used to terrify them; the promise of an end to the dues imposed upon their worlds, and the attendant high taxation and the extortionist tactics of Federation BNA Enforcement officials, as a further lure for their support.

Randy Kentworth was one of the young men in the crowd listening and nodding slowly. His father's business had been ruined by extortion from a corrupt BNA Enforcement official that later seized it, and now he and his siblings lived in near-poverty conditions, working twelve hour days with the taxes from the high Federation dues leaving their income so low they were living week to week just trying to keep a single roof over their heads and to support their worn out parents.
Hawleyville was not a wealthy town, and not many stepped forward to serve, but Randy was one of them. His younger brother Oswald (Ozzie for short) did so as well, clinched as much by the promise of pay that would allow their sister and younger brother to better support their parents and infant neice than the labor work they were doing at the moment.

As they walked up to sign the documents, a head of sandy blonde hair moved in front of Randy. His eyes widened a bit at seeing his girlfriend step in front of him. Mary Culling was a lovely girl his age (Twenty-two), the daughter of a town deputy who worked on the same farm as him. She had a sweet smile, an attractive figure, and a high, cute voice. "Mary?" he said. "You're... you're not going to war too, are you?"
"Of course I'm going," she replied. And, very rare for her, there was an angry edge to her voice. "I'm tired of workin' so that some fat slobs on Earth can have three square meals a day and a free house. They want that, they can work for it themselves. So we've gotta fight to make 'em, or they'll be makin' us work seventy hours a week so they can stay fat and happy."
At that, Randy could only nod in agreement. She was completely right. The Core Worlders were all fat, lazy slobs, willing to give up colonies to alien tyrants but not to their own people. Against hard-working people like Hawleyville's, they'd be mismatched.

They got up to the counter where an older man was accepting signatures. Randy briefly went over it, not really reading the fine print, and signed his name at the bottom. "Thanks, young man. You're going to win our freedom, y'know," the older man said. "You'll report to the marshalling camp in Clyde Bluff in four days for basic training."
Randy nodded at that, watching Mary and Ozzie sign up as well. Walking up to his brother and then his girlfriend, he put an arm on both of them. "I hear they're keeping us in regiments by town and region. Maybe we'll get to serve together."
"That'd be nice," Mary said, smiling back at him. "I don't want to die with a bunch of strangers," she added in a sad but cheerful voice, putting her head against his shoulder.
"Ah, we won't be dying now," Randy reassured her. "So, who wants to go over to Mr. Lewell's for lunch? I'm payin'!"


Reskel'rishk, Andor
Federation Core, United Federation of Planets


Reskel'rishk was a storied place in the history of the Andorian people. Where a number of great nations had met in battle, trying to control it's place on the strategic river of Salkrithk, and the site of one of the storied actions of the Andorian Imperial Guard in the early industrial age, when armored vehicle columns forced their way over the river in the final war to destroy the Andorian Socialist Federation.
Of course, that was typically not followed as much in the modern era, with the Idealogues being founded in the first place by the Andorian Communist Jirvshk la'Jart, who had striven all his life to have the memory of the Imperial Guard victory over the Socialists wiped from the memory of his people, and who as Federation President had nearly succeeded.
For young Ruhronn Shugorl, his hometown's martial history had long been a source of imagination for him. Growing up in his family's government-provided apartment, with his parents only working odd jobs at times to keep occupied and mostly being preoccupied with his schooling, he had ended up spending much time with his schoolfriends' parents. One grandparent, in particular, had captured his imagination with stories of the great Andorian warrior-kings of ancient history and the soldiers who fought and died on the land they called home, and for Ruhronn the prospect of martial glory had always been foremost in his mind.

He was standing along a street corner when the officials came. Men wearing Andorian militia uniforms announcing that the planetary government, in conjunction with the call to arms from the Federation's central government, had announced a general levy of all it's citizens. Every town and city and country region in Andorian territory was to provide a quarter of it's young men and women to be drafted into appropriate fields of service for the military, with all required to report for inspection within the next few days. At the time Ruhronn was still awaiting word on whether he would be accepted into the Imperial Guard Academy, and didn't think he would be picked.
After rushing home to see his parents and tell them the news, Ruhronn returned to the center of Reskel'rishk and stood in line to be inspected by the doctors, which thankfully didn't take so long since most seemed to be putting off the visit. They checked him for every sort of malady and disease, including a humiliating examination of his body cavities and genitals for venereal disease that Ruhronn had not expected at all (but could not be surprised at, as the nearby metropolis of Rulgo'rn was known for it's denizens wild lifestyle and a constant problem with diseases that had unflattering translation names (in English they'd mean things like "cuntpus" and "dickrot").

He was directed to meet with an older Andorian, a woman, who looked him over. "You're cleared for duty, young man," she informed him briskly. "Your name will be in the drawing to be held in four days."
"Ma'am, I would like to volunteer," he said frankly. "I have already applied for admission into the Imperial Guard Academy."
She grinned with amusement at him. "A young runt like you? In the Imperial Guard? I've seen crazier things.... but very well. We'll sign you up as a volunteer, and hold off your assignment until the Academy replies to your admission. No matter what, you'll be seeing action if that's what you want."
Already Ruhronn was looking forward to adding to the martial splendor of Andor's past. He envisaged himself as a great warrior, off to destroy treason and disunion. Andor, as well as all the other central worlds of the Federation, had raised those colonies. They'd fed them while they were new, defended them, worked hard to make them work. And now the colonies were repaying them with revolt? No, they would be defeated, and he, Ruhronn Shugorl of the great town of Reskel'rishk, would take part in the campaign to restore them to the Federation.
He couldn't wait for the glories that awaited him.

[Steve]

Rub'torak System, Rul'sakar Confederacy
Disputed Territory
21 February 2166 AST
15 September 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The Galaxy-class starship U.S.S. Juno hung in formation with the 15th Fleet, a collection of one hundred and eighty-eight Federation starships that were once responsible for the border region facing the Tsen'kethi. They had fallen back after early skirmishes with revolting Colonials and now held a position in Rul'sakar, which had already been secured for the Federation with its government under arrest, their presence freeing up the 8th Fleet to attempt a counter-attack on approaching Colonial forces in Sector 109.
On the bridge of the Juno was Admiral Samuel Milne, a man of borderline capabilities who would likely not advance much further in Starfleet. The favored nephew of Rebecca Luce Lark, a sitting member of the Federation Security Council, he owed much of his recent walk up the ladder to Party favor and not the favor of the review boards. He was no idiot, and in peacetime was a capable administrator at the fleet level, much an aid to his holding his position.
But, of course, it was no longer peacetime.

Still in his mind was the recent order from Starfleet Command: prevent Rul'sakar, and its valuable stores of dilithium and the number of precious orbital fabrication facilities around the Confederacy's worlds from falling into Colonial hands; counter-attack any failed strikes on his position to reduce the enemy fleet; provide any aid necessary to the counter-stroke of 8th Fleet in Sector 109. These orders were somewhat contradictory, but he intended to carry them out.
At around 14:10 on the 24 hour Earth day, a call came in from Admiral Rultaria, the Centauran commander of 8th Fleet. The text order requested assitance in the area of Pulmaris VII, where her fleet was falling back after being battered by a superior Colonial force.
At this point, Milne's choices all seemed bad. If he went in force to save 8th Fleet, he'd leave Rul'sakar vulnerable to the Colonial forces known to be operating in nearby sectors, or even allow for the locals to successfully rise up against the occupying Starfleet Security forces. If he stayed, 8th Fleet might be destroyed or otherwise rendered out of action; isolating 15th Fleet against a superior Colonial force. Either way, he'd be violating his orders.
A bolder man would have chosen either and allowed the chips to fall, but Milne tried to do both. He opened a comm channel to the Galaxy-class Bayern and his immediate subordinate, fleet vice-commander Admiral Georg Mainz, a stiff-necked German officer who was among those contemptful of Milne's position. "Detach Wings 2 and 5 and depart for Pulmaris immediately to aid 8th Fleet," Milne ordered.

"Admiral, pulling eighty ships out of the fleet will leave your position untenable," Mainz protested. "I don't think...."
"Starfleet didn't send us here to deliberate, it sent us here to follow orders. We're supposed to support 8th Fleet and to defend Rul'sakar. I'm sending you to do the former, I'll do the latter. That is all." With that, Milne cut the channel.
Moments later, the Bayern and seventy-nine other starships moved away from Milne's force and went to warp toward Pulmaris to aid 8th Fleet.


At a short distance away, the cloaked U.C.S. Defiant slipped out of the system, not broadcasting until it was safely guaranteed of non-detection.


U.C.S. Indefatigable, Interstellar Space
Sector 116, Colonial Territory


Sisko found that he missed the Defiant. It was far more personable a ship to command than the mammoth Indefatigable, one of the handful of Alliance Freedom-class superdreadnoughts that were actually sold after the Dominion War. Badly damaged at the great Battle of Alpha Paternis and initially set aside to be scrapped after going unrepaired during the war, her hull was instead repaired and the ship sold to the Mantsill colonies, which managed to restore most of her particle cannons by scrap buys but had to contend for replacing two turrets with phaser cannon emplacements. Nevertheless, Indefatigable was a powerful ship, still more powerful firepower wise than any ship in Starfleet, possibly only challenged by the Federation-class ships being built based on old Kirk-era hulls and designs.
Dax's face was on the screen, informing him that Milne had split his fleet in half to deal with Admiral Odak's attack on 8th Fleet in Sector 109. "Benjamin, it's now or never," she told him.
Sisko nodded. "I'm sending squadrons to reinforce you. Captain Picard will be in command. I want to see how Milne will react to a feint." He was aware of Samuel Milne's abilities, or rather lack thereof. Splitting his forces to accomplish two objectives thinly rather than accept any risk was just the thing Sisko would expect. Now he wanted to see how Milne would react if given a golden opportunity.


U.S.S. Juno


Milne returned to the command bridge the moment the call came of approaching enemy units. "Report?"
The Betazoid lieutenant at sensors remarked, "Sir, picking up roughly sixty starships approaching us. Most seem to be Starfleet make, and IFF codes we're receiving indicate defectors...." After a moment, the young man's head raised up. "One of them is Enterprise."
Milne settled into his chair. Hearing of the approach of Enterprise brought his spirits up a bit. To disable and take her... it would end the grumbling and complaining about his connections once and for all. The victory would be proof that he was a worthy admiral after all.
"All ships, prepare for action!" As alert klaxons filled Juno, Milne settled into his seat and waited for the distance to tick down.


U.S.S. Enterprise

Very few of the Starfleet defectors had resisted redesignation, but Picard had been one of them. The Enterprise was a symbol now, a torch representing the ideals and principles of the Federation even if those principles had been so vilely betrayed. And for all that Picard had, in his despair, accepted the death of his dream, he could not betray the memory of it. He could not bring himself to that final severence, and the Colonials had been reluctantly accepting of this principle (Sisko less-reluctant).
Picard technically commanded only one squadron heading to Rub'torak, with nineteen other starship captains and many hundreds of officers and crew who felt as he did. Men and women who still proudly bore the flag of the United Federation of Planets with them into battle, representing the Federation of enlightenment, the Federation devoted to the renouncing of material gain and dedicated to the betterment of all. This devotion to a Federation dead at its own hand had earned them ridicule so far. They were already being derisively called "The Deluded" by their Colonial allies. But even this would not dissuade Picard and his peers. If the Federation they dreamed about was dead, they would still yet fight for the memory of it and of that gilded, so innocent-looking age.
Riker's absence, now replaced by Commander Halaran Turis - a card-carrying Idealogue Betazod - and the similar absence of Troi was a painful vacuum in Picard's heart, one he endured every day, and it was only slowly starting to dull in the presence of so much new pain to be added. He could already see no less than four ships captained by officers he knew in the Academy or in his early career. More friends, more brother officers, he would have to kill in battle. But such was the madness of the times...

"Captains Zoma, Asmund, and Kiser report readiness," Data replied, referring to the commanders of the three Galaxy-class ships in their squadron. "Enemy ships are arming weapons."
"Aim us straight for Juno," Picard ordered. "All ships, fire when in range."


U.S.S. Juno

The Enterprise dropped out of warp, Kiser's Idaho and Asmund's Dauntless flanking her closely and firing on the ships covering Juno. Sixty ships against just over a hundred was not even, but the disparity was not large enough that it couldn't be a feint, an attempt to tie 15th Fleet down or some other Colonial maneuver. Milne considered it likely just that, an attempt to force him to remain in place and not aid 8th Fleet.
He responded by maneuvering his superior numbers to envelop the defector fleet. Juno sank from the fury of the Enterprise, but as a Flight III Galaxy-class she actually had superior firepower. Her bow-mounted pulse phaser cannons raked across Enterprise's shields and allowed for a spread of quantum torpedoes to batter at them, one torpedo attaining enough bleedthrough to damage the Enterprise's hull.
The Dauntless cut across their path, protecting Enterprise from another barrage as her phasers lashed out at Juno, her torpedoes targeting another of Milne's ships. Enterprise maneuvered in turn to start blasting Juno again as she briefly turned her attention to Dauntless.

Milne panicked slightly at seeing his ship taking a battering. The vigor and strength of Picard's attack astounded him, and it was strong enough that it threatened to break his formation, but he knew he couldn't break; it would simply prove all those assertions about him right. "Bring Wing 4 in above us," he ordered, and in doing so the ships immediately behind Juno yet to engage moved "over" the ship and toward Picard's force.
Naval battle in space was a complicated affair. Ships moved about more like aircraft, if one is thinking in a terrestrial frame, using all three planes of potential maneuver to protect weakened sides and present strong ones, while also trying to maintain formation with other ships in the fleet. It was a dangerous balancing act, an intense strain on captain and helm officer alike, and the wrong turn, spin, or maneuver could result in a ship's destruction.
Milne's flagship was not immune to this, and even as he manned the command bridge - the former "battle bridge" - Captain Lucien Tasker was commanding the Juno's actual maneuvers. Milne could order changes, but he didn't; he was too busy trying to command the fleet itself. Wing 1 was his wing, and was holding strong, but to his immediate "bottom" and right Wing 3 was starting to buckle and threaten to collapse.

"All Wing 1 ships, full impulse, break the enemy formation!" Milne ordered, trying to salvage his position while Wing 4 did the work of hammering Picard.



U.S.S. Enterprise

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Picard's lips only slightly moved as he whispered the stanza at a volume only Data could hear. He had already gone through the rest of Tennyson's great poem during the course of the battle, but now his voice returned as he gave an order to one of the accompanying squadrons of light Colonial ships to pull back from its bold thrust into the enemy formation. Milne was not a complete idiot, and he was using his superior numbers intelligently; it was time to go.
"All ships come about and prepare for warp," Picard ordered as Enterprise shuddered under another barrage of torpedoes from Juno, Milne sending his flagship after Picard personally. Torpedoes from Enterprise's aft launcher slammed into Juno, penetrating her shields and one torpedo savaging her saucer hull, blowing apart one of her pulse phaser cannons.

Not all of Picard's ships could make warp. Gilaad Ben Zoma's ship Hedderjin was trailing plasma from the port nacelle, and Eina Zeiss' San Francisco was completely disabled. Only forty-six ships remained intact enough to go to warp, testament to the hammering they'd taken in the intense minutes of the skirmish.
Hoping that those ships could be preserved by bringing Milne to battle with Sisko's main fleet, Picard asked, "Mister Data, status of the 15th Fleet?"
"Lingering back for a moment, sir...." Something brought Data's attention. "Reading warp signatures now. Sixty vessels have gone to warp in pursuit of us. Juno is among them."
"Then let's give him what he wants," Picard replied. "Prepare to come about and re-engage, and signal Indefatigable."



U.S.S. Juno


Milne hadn't been about to let Picard go, and as his orders allowed a pursuit of failed enemy attacks, he resolved to take three squadrons with him in chasing Picard as far as he dared before returning to Rub'torak, already successful in disabling 14 ships that could now be reclaimed by Starfleet for the war and their treacherous crews imprisoned.
So his fleet drove on, following Picard out of the system, intent on overtaking him... so intent that Milne began to overlook a gap in his fleet as ships with damaged warp drives, or simply not up to sprints at these speeds, began to fall back, spreading his fleet out.
Juno came out of warp near the front of Wing 1, bearing down on Enterprise with all of her firepower. Milne made sure that all shots were to disable, wishing to bring Enterprise back to Earth as a trophy, the Federation flagship reclaimed from the rebels. The rest he couldn't care much about - all he wanted was Enterprise and victory.

Enterprise and her force did not turn and fight, but began to evade, some ships even breaking off and making for Colonial bases in the sector, but Picard seemed determined to regroup and fight it out. Something occured to Milne, here in these moments.... why was Picard fighting so doggedly after running so quickly from his charge back at Rub'torak? It didn't seem right, and Picard was not an idiot. He had to have something up his sleeve....

And that's when the sensor man began screaming out the sudden surge of warp contacts approaching at point-blank range, coming out of warp in five.... four.... three....


U.C.S. Indefatigable


The massive superdreadnought shuddered a little when it dropped out of warp, showing some of the need for further maintainance that Sisko had been warned about. Sisko himself was somewhat stunned in just how well Milne had fallen for his trap. He'd expected Milne to detach an equal harrassing force to cause as much trouble as possible, not to lead most of his fleet in chase and only a small guard back in Rub'torak. He likely wouldn't have fallen for it if not for the effective jamming that Sisko's fleet's E-warfare destroyers hadn't been putting up, jamming that was thankfully prevalent enough in the local sector from the constant attempts at blocking sensor sweeps by both sides and thus easily hidden from detection until he was right on top of Milne.
Detaching two squadrons to Rub'torak to help the disabled vessels there, the rest of Sisko's two hundred ship force fell upon the sixty detached parts of the 15th Fleet like a hammer. They represented the three thousand or so ships purchased from the Alliance by the various Colonial governments, each of them superior to a Federation ship at the same tonnage when it came to defense and, usually, to raw firepower.

Juno came under fire from Indefatigable herself, two of her 310mm plasma cannon quad-turrets raking the Galaxy-class with beams of intense blue energy. Energy that sliced through Juno's shields and into her hull, only her upgraded armor saving her for the moment from being sliced apart. Atmosphere leaked from the hits, after which a terrific explosion ripped through the Juno's navigation dish, her torpedo magazine detonated by a phaser hit from the Enterprise. Further strikes furthered the crippling of Admiral Milne's flagship while the rest of the fleets struck at one another. Again came the chaotic ballet of space battle; maneuvering to protect wounded portions as phaser and particle beam flashed through space, accompanied by the strikes of torpedoes that terminally wounded ships and murdered crews within.
15th Fleet disintegrated under the attack from the heavy Colonial fleet elemetns at Sisko's command. Beams of ruby-orange phaser energy and glowing torpedoes retaliated, but not to the level of the slashing particle beams and pounding pulse phaser cannons of the Colonial Fleet. Ship after ship, already among the damaged from Picard's dash in Rub'torak, broke formation with intent to retreat, not up to taking on a fresh and unharmed fleet of Alliance-built heavy vessels. As Juno drifted helplessly after a photon torpedo ripped open her drive hull and forced the SCRAMing of her warp core, Milne's fleet left him behind and sought sanctuary in retreat.

Observing all of this almost dispassionately, and very somberly, Sisko finally shifted in his seat and turned to the comm officer. "Detach pursuit squadrons, but only to a light year beyond Rub'torak. As soon as 15th Fleet is cleared from Rub'torak we are bound for Pulmaris to support Admiral Johnston."


U.S.S. Juno


Milne was actually weeping in the darkened, ruined interior of the Juno as the first order to surrender came from Enterprise. He had fallen for such an easy trap that Milne began to believe the others were right about him, and he started cursing his aunt for putting him in this humiliating position.
He had ruined the Federation. 15th Fleet was divided, Mainz's squadrons heading off un-supported to beleaguered 8th Fleet, the rest of it shattered and falling back from Rub'torak. Rul'sakar itself would inevitably fall; only a handful of individually-operating picket starships could get to it before Colonial troops could get into orbit, and the Federation militia occupying the planet would likely retreat the instant news came of Milne's defeat. With Rul'sakar under rebel control all of the sector 110 block was prone to fall to the Rebellion, and this brought it one step closer to severing the Rimward Homeworlds from the bulk of the Federation in the Colonial drive to shorten the lines of communication between the Alpha and Beta Quadrant colonies. And with that success.... who knew what would become of the Federation?


U.S.S. Bayern, en route to Pulmaris VII


The emergency signals told Admiral Mainz all he needed to know. Admiral Milne had failed, and failed miserably; 15th Fleet was broken, and the eighty Starfleet vessels under his command were the only coherent, fresh part of it that could still be thrown at the enemy.
He now had to make a decision; join Admiral Rultaria at Pulmaris and risk annihilation when the two Colonial fleets in the area unified, as they inevitably would from such a strengthening of 8th Fleet and the loss of the 15th, or preserve his ships to re-group with the 15th at Starbase 294 in Sector 125, the one location within fifty light years that could possibly resist anything but the most determined Colonial assault.
Milne would have followed orders to the letter; Mainz, however, considered orders from Starfleet Command to preserve as many ships as possible to supercede all others, and he gave the order: withdraw to Starbase 294. He informed Admiral Rultaria of his decision by subspace and waited for a reply.

His decision was born out when Rultaria's reply came; 8th Fleet could not hold with the loss of 15th Fleet, and in light of the imminet fall of Rul'sakar, she was falling back on Starbase 294 and Mainz was to follow - which, of course, he already was.
As he did so, Mainz thought bitterly at the foolishness of his commander. He intended not to make those kinds of mistakes when his time came...

[fgalkin]

Nice to see Picard abandoning his fancy diplomacy and kicking some ass for a change.

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

[Steve]

Starbase 67, Reynolds System
Colonial Territory (New Gdansk-R'Toak Confederacy)
25 February 2166 AST
19 September 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The celebrations for the Colonial victory were still underway when the Theodore Weld slipped into dock. Spock and Scotty emerged from the airlock with handfuls of the Weld's interracial crew, going out for liberty to work off the frustrations of the tense, if ultimately uneventful, path through Federation space they'd taken.
At the airlock door, they were seen off by Captain t'Prinn. Asako t'Prinn had not lost her edge over the years, having worked a while doing oddjobs for contacts in what she was certain was Alliance Intelligence, including covert arms to the Maquis and other resistance groups and other courier ferrying. The Weld was one of the fruits of that job, the Denmark Vesey serving more legitimate business under her Edo recruit Larrisa. She would go back to other work undoubtedly; her cordial alliance with Colonial interests didn't extend to aiding them in destroying the Federation, though she did give Spock the necessary condition for her support: "No more race. Just mix us all up and call us people. If you can make the colonies recognize our equality you'll have done the greatest service possible to this universe." It was a statement that Spock found laudable, and hoped to fulfill in whatever capacity the Colonies desired him to serve.

But he hadn't expected on just what capacity that would be.
His arrival with Scotty at the delegates' chamber brought cheers. The Colonies may have long grown sour on the Federation of the present, but they often had a romantic view of its past, and considered James Kirk and his crew every bit as heroes as Core Worlders did. After the standing ovation, Spock and Scotty were granted seats of honor by the hastily-elected Speaker of the Congress, a Bolian named Huvo Durik, and allowed to sit on the political discussion.
Before Spock had arrived, the office of the President of the Allied Colonies had been up for debate. No Colonial figure of prominence had won necessary acceptance, and Admiral Ross had refused to accept a political office. Now with Spock and Scotty present, however, it took no time at all for a motion to be offered to offer the Presidency to him.
Spock watched stoically as the legal niceties were debated. He was officially a citizen of Vulcan, which remained loyal to the Federation; he was not a Colonial; how could these issues be reconciled? Inwardly it was not a position he desired to hold; he had satisfied all ambitions he might have had in his life. When it came to politics, Spock was experienced but uncertain. Frequently politics were too messy, too illogical, too populist, for him, too much unlike the orderly debate and decision-making of the Vulcan hierarchy. And, of course, it occurred to him that it was this very gap that led to Sirok's disasterous political movement, which brought them to this very situation.

But by the time the situation had been handled, by the time one of the interracial colony federations - the Stahlmann-Vurosk Confederacy - pronouced the willingness to accept Spock as a legal citizen, Spock's sense of duty had prevailed over his qualms, and when the vote came through and the delegates offered the Presidency to him, Spock stood and, in a firm, cool tone, stated, "In the interests of the principles I swore to uphold, as a Starfleet officer and as an Ambassador of the Federation and Vulcan, I accept the Congress' offer of the Office of Presidency of the Allied Colonies."
"That a boy, Mister Spock," Scotty murmured to him as the applause rang out.
"Do not be surprised, Mister Scott, if I should see you suffer as I am about to," Spock remarked in the kind of tone that, for all its stoic cold, a close acquaitance would know as mirthful.
And given the magnitude of the new duties at hand, a small bit of mirth was entirely worthwhile.



Paris, Earth, United Federation of Planets
Universe Designate ST-3
27 February 2166 AST
21 September 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The defeat at Rub'torak and Pulmaris had struck home hard; it was the first major engagement between fleet-sized contingents of the Colonials and Starfleet, and the Colonials had won a major victory. Rul'sakar had already gone over to the Colonials. Jackson's World and Kul'vara had joined, and the Federation had lost its only remaining line of communication with the Danteri, undoubtedly making that empire likely to make a seperate agreement with the Colonials. A new "front" was being established along the Sector 80 block, a position strengthened by the presence of Starbases 39, 46, and 62; if Sectors 82, 80, and 84 fell, it could cut off one quarter of the loyal Federation from the rest and vastly shorten the lines of communication for the Beta and Alpha Quadrant Colonials.
So was the strategic situation outlined for Ovnork by Milano and Wilmington. Their proposed measures were strong; forced labor conscription of the unemployed on occupied charter colonies and a new initiative requiring every family unit in the Core Worlds to give one volunteer to either Starfleet, the Federation Militia, or the Federation Industrial Corps to maintain 100% of their BLN benefits. Such things were only possible under emergency war powers. They represented a violation of everything Ovnork believed in.
And yet still he signed.

He dropped the PADD stencil down as if he had just signed a document of surrender. Which it really was, just not the same kind of surrender. Looking at the AFU leaders, he handed the PADD to them. "There you go, gentlemen. What next?"
"We reform the defense line centering on Starbase 39," Milano replied. "We're moving reinforcements in from the interior, and rushing ships out of the scrapyards and shipyards as fast as we can. The Colonials have already taken a number of our scrapyards, but thankfully none of them with the last Defender hulls, which were now being filled out and prepared for service."

Ovnork grunted in reply. The mammoth ships, over a mile long, were relics from Kirk's day, when a handful had been built to serve as fleet support and command ships in conjunction with the Federation-class dreadnoughts now being reconceived; today they were being refurbished, a project starting from the Dominion War under Ovnork's predecessors, to be used as fleet flagships. Tonnage wise they were impressive, though their ancient hulls and structural difficulties in armoring them would likely leave them as glass cannons compared to thick-skinned extrauniversal warships, a defect only partially offset by multi-layered shielding.

"Nevertheless, Mister President, given our increasing difficulties due to losing shipyards and the industrial output and resources of so many of our colonies, I believe we should consider seeking... outside sources of aid."
Wilmington's suggestion made Ovnork look over. "What do you mean?"
"Well, Mister President, I took the initiative to begin speaking to a number of foreign embassies. I've already nearly finished an agreement with Governor-General Katherine Davion to exchange technology and latinum for new weapons for our army, and I've begun similar discussions with the Taloran and Habsbug diplomatic missions here. As well, there is the question of hiring foreign specialists to help train the militia faster, and to restore Starfleet's personnel levels given the number of defections and losses..."
"Yes, yes, do what you see fit," Ovnork replied. "Is that all gentlemen?"
"It is," replied Milano.

After excusing themselves from the office, WIlmington looked to Milano. "He certainly seems docile these days. He used to wiggle so much."
"He knows how things are now," replied Milano. "Ovnork's days are over. He's just too weak to actually resign like he wants. You and I control the Federation now, Jacob. It's up to us and the Association to save it from all of its enemies. The Alliance, the Colonies, PAPAL..."
"And not to be split from each other," Wilmington finished for Milano. "No turf wars?"
"None. The day will come when you are President, and I'll remain in charge of Starfleet. That's how it should be. We must be united if we want to win."
Wilmington nodded in acceptance. "Speaking of the advisors...."
Milano grinned slightly. "Oh, I already got the reply from Wayne Waco. Waco's Rangers are already en route to Rasalhague to make the jump to New Ivers. Waco thinks that he can get together what's left of Bronson's Horde and Smithson's Chinese Bandits to join him in the next few months."
"Oh, good news then. What about our feelers to..."
"Our people on Talora Prime have already sent messages to a number of retired or reserve Taloran officers, Army and Navy. We're offering top dollar. More than we probably should, but no use in crying about doling out latinum when the Federation is facing its worst hour." Milano paused for a moment. "I'm thinking of sending Janeway to command the Inaieu when they finish the refurbishment."

"The Denebians aren't going to like that. Inaieu was their's."
"It was. But they haven't been that cooperative with the AFU, I don't want to trust our future to one of them" Milano went quiet as they waited for their private aircar to take them to the transporter terminal. Wilmington was due in Trier for a Party Central Committee hearing, Milano in San Francisco for a Security Council meeting, where he was anticipating Rebecca Lark's resignation after her nephew's ignoble failure at Rub'torak. Within the secured vehicle, he continued. "Janeway has some intelligence, and she's steadfastly loyal. Passed Intel and Security's tests with flying colors. She'd blow her old crew's heads off, one by one, if she thought it was for the good of the Federation. Put her in command of 4th Fleet at Starbase 39 and let the Colonials hammer on her all they want, she won't budge. Should give us plenty of time to prep for a counter-attack."
"Hopefully she'll at least buy us time for some of our initiatives to beat fruit. So long as we keep other powers out of this war or only on our side, it's ours to win," Wilmington remarked happily, and the two men found themselvs chatting on less-weighty things for the duration of their trip.

[Asdeed]

Who do I have to bribe to make sure Janeway's death is as humiliating as possible?

[Burak Gazan]

The Denebians aren't going to like that. Inaieu was their's

*Now there's a name I've not heard in a long time

[Steve]

First part by me, second by Marina and myself:


The pressure's on and the Reb's attack
The Yanks must hold, They can't fall back
Just two Brigades, 2,000 strong
Against 20,000 they can't hold long

General Reynolds makes his way
Expect no mercy from the Iron Brigade
Until he shows they're on their own
But Buford's men have a will of stone

Bayonets gleam in the morning sun
Smoke and Fire belching from their guns
Another Volley and again they strike
Thousands more comin' down the Chambersburg Pike!

"The Devil to Pay; Gettysburg Day 1" by Iced Earth


Chapter 3 - Ripples


Washington D.C., Earth, Alliance of Democratic Nations
Universe Designate HE-1
3 March 2166 AST
25 September 2380 ST-3 Calendar


There were one hundred and eight men and women assembled in the Alliance Council Chamber, the legislative body debating law and policy for a union of polities commanding about ten trillion souls; one of the three Great Powers of the known Multiverse. Standing at the head of the Council to direct its deliberations was Sir Kevin Maxwell-Fyfe, the newly-elected Chancellor of the Alliance Council. The older British statesman was a Federalist, and his election represented what political commentators were calling the "Federalist sweep" in the past two elections, with the Federalists completely controlling for the first time in their sixteen year existance the White House, the Chancellory, and the Alliance Council, where they now enjoyed fifty-four seats compared to the Democrats' forty-eight; two seats were held by the LFPD and three by the Alliance Unionists, the Freedom Party absent for the first time in its history due to the splintering of the party down pro-Taloran and anti-Taloran lines the previous election cycle and its fall precipitating Federalist gains in several key nations.
The "Federalist Sweep" had been made in part possible by the rise of war-weariness, a desire for stability, and an end to the "military adventurism" of the Mamatmas Administration, whom some blamed for the Great War that had claimed billions of Alliance citizens' lives. This situation would, from the place of an observer from the dawn of the 21st Century, be most ironic; the left-wing parties - the Democrats and LFPD - were seen as more prone to unilateralist policies and conflict than the right-wing parties now that the Freedom Party was broken and the unilateralist arm of the Allied Nations' political Right was splintered over the issue of the new treaty with the Taloran Empire (while the unilateralist Left tended to dislike the treaty, or at least other policies of restraint in regards to the Talorans).

The new Council had its own plans on its early weeks, but events had overtaken them much as had happened to the incoming Council in 2160; that council had been faced with the outbreak of the Dominion War, this one, the Federation Civil War. It had convened with the Civil War in full swing, the lines starting to stabilize, and the effects reverberating across the Alpha Quadrant and the Multiverse as a whole.
On the table now was a law supported in part by Dale, and proposed by Rep. Juan de Silva (Chilè SE-1/Fed.), that would restrict and even halt the flow of a great many materials to the Colonies that had now begun to hit a full stride. Military goods were the primary concern, but there was more considered; every form of good, material, or resource that had military value would be closely monitored and even stopped as well. Paramount was the concern in the government that the Federation would use this as justification to seek foreign involvement in the war, and that other powers might carve out spheres of influence in the former Federation; also concerned was the worry that this apparent support for a rebellion would "prove" that the Alliance and its citizenry did not respect the sovereignty of other states but rather really was a pack of "revolutionaries" seeking to overthrow other governments in favor of those fitting its apparent ideological mold.

Running contrary to this current was the popular sympathy for the Colonies and a long-running, deep-seated distrust and contempt for the Federation. The Federation had been the Alliance's implacable foe for years, long infuriating the people of the Allied Nations with their sympathy for undeserving races and polities in ST-3. The brief detente was now mostly forgotten, and the alliance during the Dominion War had turned to bitter recrimination when the Federation had refused to participate in or even support the Gamma Quadrant campaign, instead at one point banning exports of fuel and goods from their colonies to the war stocks as a result of the resurgence of PAPAL. For many Alliance citizens, the Federation Civil War was a clear case of a moral cause versus an immoral one. The Colonies were in the right, the Federation was in the wrong. Some of their representatives in the Council felt the same way; others not so much as they knew their constituents did.
The Federalist government had planned to put their ducks in a row on the matter. De Silva would propose the measure in an open session. Another Federalist, Johann Suckel, would then second it, and after one dissenter spoke it would come to a vote either for passage, or first to respond to a motion to lay the resolution on the table and then a vote; with 54 seats the Federalists controlled an actual majority of the Council and could win both purely on their own votes, both Maxwell-Fyfe and Dale were expected to ratify, Dale doing so over long-range comms as his ship approached Talora Prime, and that would be that.
And so the plan went off. De Silva made his proposal. Maxwell-Fyfe called Suckel, who spoke on the need for the measure and seconded it. By the protocols of the Council that allowed someone to stand in opposition.

And that woman did. She stood, resplendent in physical beauty, indeed one of the most beautiful women in the room. Her's was a Mediterrenean complexion, with eyes of hazel and dark brown hair kept in respectful buns at the back of her head, a modest business suit only hinting at the gracious, attractive curves of her body. She was almost impossibly young for her position - only forty - her famous mother's youngest daughter and one of the few to embrace politics after a military career that had seen her survive the most hellish fighting of the past decade, when she had advanced up Sutherland's Ridge at Gallitep on Bajor as a Marine private before going into the officer corps and rising to a Major's rank before leaving the Corps following the Great War, her last action being - irony of ironies - in the Marine brigade that accompanied the international relief expedition to the city of Kalunda on Gilead, where for a short time she stood on the same planet as a distant relative who had achieved great fame on that planet: Danielle Verdes, Duchess of Henley on Gilead, second wife of the noted Humanophile and very controversial Taloran aristocrat Princess Jhayka of the Lesser Intuit.
Now Alexandria Verdes, voted for the first time to office in this past election by the United States of America Universe SE-1 - one of the few elections where a Democrat defeated a Federalist - and the daughter of the Alliance's second and most tragically lost President, Jennifer Verdes, stood before the Alliance Council. Attention was given to her not just from her beauty, but also her commanding voice; it had once barked orders to Marines in deadly combat, and now it would speak forcefully on the subject at hand.

Even good men are prone to do seemingly unfair and unethical things in pursuit of what they think is right. Sir Kevin Maxwell-Fyfe was not a bad man; he was a patriot, a decently learned man and capable statesman who was well-respected. But he still was prone to the petty apparent abuses of protocol that any leader might follow in order to get something deemed necessary done quickly and with minimal fuss. So he had picked the pretty young Miss Verdes, a neophyte politician who had mostly her mother's name and her Marine service record going for her.
And now it promptly blew up in his face.

"Mister Chancellor," began Alexandria, as protocol held that all remarks on the Council floor were addressed to the Chancellor and not to the other representatives, "first of all, I protest the manner in which this Council has been abused. A measure like this, regarding trade and the rights of our companies and producers and merchants, should not be rushed through the Council as it has been today! This is nothing more than an attempt to impose by force of majority a measure that will undoubtedly prove unpopular and costly even to Federalist voters but which is popular among the Party leadership!"
"You say you are for the rights of the Nations and their representatives, but you seek to deny us the right to discuss this matter! You say you favor free trade, but you would ban trade to other worlds on the matter of their decision to revolt from an unscrupulous, imperious government like the Federation's! You say you are for stability, but you would willingly stand aside and allow the Federation Civil War to disrupt the entire Alpha Quadrant out of your fear of Taloran disapproval for our policies? The Alliance has the power, it has the responsibility, to bring peace as quickly as it can. Nor does it have the right to forbid the shipment of legitimate goods to populations disrupted, or soon to be disrupted, by warfare."
"Representative de Silva's resolution does not simply ban the selling of military goods and hardware, Mister Chancelor. Through its enforcement even foodstuffs might be legitimately banned from shipment! Men and women who give their time and sweat to serve charities could end up in jail or worse, all because their charity work has gone to send these goods to Colonial worlds. How will this government look to other peoples, to its own citizens, if it allows the starvation or depravation of innocent people because their government is involved in a rebellion that is, frankly, legitimate in the eyes of most of the peoples of the Multiverse. What will we tell the farmers and workers of Nova Savona, of Algrossa, of Nippon, when they have no work because our law has severed their long-standing trade links with the Colonial worlds around them, even more severely than the most mean-spirited tariffs placed on them by the Federation after their independence was granted and their petitions for Alliance membership granted? Are we prepared to ship the grains needed by the people of New Fukosawa because they can no longer reliably trade with Pacifica? Because Pacificans cannot buy their goods from the law we consider here?"

"Representative Suckel tells us that it is important that we assert our neutrality in this war and guarantee the Federation and other governments of the Alpha Quadrant that we do not want to dismember the Federation or subject it to unprovoked aggression. But we are not talking about a choice of intervention or aggression with this resolution. There is no text here proclaiming that a failure to vote for the resolution will authorize military action against the Federation, or the provision of military equipment to the Colonials. We are talking about the rights of Alliance citizens to give and to bring goods to other peoples, and so long as they are doing that work peacefully, what right do we have to refuse them? If you wish to ban military equipment from export, I'll gladly vote for it. But this measure, it has been badly written, and I must move that if Representative de Silva does not modify it, that it be put on the table!"

And so she finished speaking, Maxwell-Fyfe gave de Silva the option of withdrawing. The Chilèan Representiative replied, "I believe that Representative Verdes overstates these matters. Our authorities will use common sense in determining intent of charities and companies in shipping goods to the revolting worlds, and if there is some hardship, it is inevitable for an upheaval such as this. The Alliance's position in the Multiverse demands that we take proactive measures to prevent ideologically-driven citizens from aiding a rebellion against a lawful government. So no, I do not intend to modify the resolution, but desire it be passed as I wrote it."
With this challenge so apparently rebuked, the vote to lay on the table went on - Alexandria made it and Anastase Marconnet (France LRC-19-Dem.) seconded - and was defeated by a vote of 63 to 44, even some Democrats voting to get the mess over with. Then it came time for the resolution vote itself. The votes soon tallied....

Maxwell-Fyfe had seen Council votes end up unexpectedly before, but he didn't quite anticipate this one: by a vote of 59-48, de Silva's resolution was defeated. The Alliance, for the moment, would not forbid any exports to the revolting colonies save the halt on government-regulated military goods by the President's Executive Order.
A breakdown of the vote soon showed that Alexandria had swayed the crucial votes. For one thing, Maxwell-Fyfe had been hoping that the anti-interventionist nature of the Alliance Unionists would lead them to vote in favor, but Alexandria had reminded them of the free trade issue involved, and the Unionists were staunch free trade partisans - all three voted in opposition where Maxwell-Fyfe had expected support. More expected was the pro-interventionist LFPD, which generally regarded the Federation these days as a failed socialist experiment damaging to its own democratic-socialist goals, and which was leery of the AFU's growing fascism.
Maxwell-Fyfe, also seeking to avoid flaunting his partisan advantage too much, had also hoped that at least some of the Democrats would vote in favor as a means of showing their agreement against interventionism, but they had voted as an absolute bloc, rallied to the stunning daughter of their party's matriarch.

But even despite all of this, the Federalists controlled fifty-four out of one hundred and seven seats. Had they voted en-bloc they would have passed de Silva's measure heartily. But they didn't. Six of their representatives had crossed the aisle, metaphorically, voting against their Party and its leadership. To no surprise, four of them were from ST-3. The representatives of Algrossa, Nova Savona, and Nippon were perhaps not too surprising in the long run - Maxwell-Fyfe had hoped that they would stand fast with their party, and that defections from the other side and from the Alliance-Unionists would nullify them. Added to this was the vote from the Republic of New Liberty, which led half of the Alliance Colonial Zone in ST-3, the other half remaining under British SE-1 and Iranian FHI-8 sovereignty. And then came two more votes, from the Federalists from Germany DN-9 and Russia HE-1, that had clinched it. It was a political setback of some severity, and with President Dale far away, soon to arrive on Talora Prime, there was no leadership other than Maxwell-Fyfe's to rally the Federalists to a recovery.
For the time being, the Alliance would allow companies and charities to continue shipping various goods and materials to the Colonials. Of course, it was already widely known that the Federation was finding it's own sources of aid and succor in the rest of the Multiverse....




Palace of the Savaranesi Dukes, South Ina District (On the shore of the Taliya Sea), Talora Prime
Taloran Star Empire
Taloran Home Universe
5 March 2166 AST
27 September 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The mansion was like many Taloran country mansions, a sprawling edifice very ancient with numerous parts of different ages and purposes tacked onto it. It seemed downright primitive, though inside it was thoroughly modern. The guest would have a view of the vast freshwater sea, larger than the saltwater Caspian Sea of Earth by nearly a factor of two, sprawling out like an ocean to the far beyond. The two rivers that flowed out of in different directions plunged into two separate oceans, while those that fed it were tremendous in number; and the locks which had been built on the upper courses of the rivers where their raw power forced their way in tremendous tumults downward, each supported by dams similar in scale to the Yangtze Dam of many Chinas on many Earths, save larger besides, allowed for continuous navigation by seagoing ships of these vast water-courses from the ocean to the freshwater. And it was near the headwaters of the Ta'ert, beyond the low line of mountains through which the river had smashed in aeons past, that the duchy--a component of the Kingdom of Grenya Colenta, so that the Savaranesi Dukes had far, far less power than the likes of a fully sovereign feudatory under the Empress, but still considerable influence--had its nominal capitol, and this manor was situated just inland of it. The visitor today was certainly expected, and the guest she was seeking was notorious, and had rarely been seen out of the house for the past thirty-five Taloran years: More than a human century.

Commander T'Ral was in her eighties, barely approaching middle age for a Vulcanoid, even without anti-aging treatments, a spry-enough looking Vulcan with a strong reserved posture and a stoic demeanor. Her dark hair was cut short, her blue eyes always calm and direct in their movements, even the occasional blink seeming to be completely intended. She carried a Taloran-make digital device instead of a slim Federation PADD, so that she might better speak with her host.

Technically it was the mother of the woman she sought who ruled the house. But she did not receive the guest, specifically for her daughter. The elderly male Majorodomo did that, instead. "Ahh, Commander T'Ral, welcome," he offered, bowing, green hair now just remnants amongst the bright silver that Taloran hair went to in old age. "Would you please come with me? Her Ladyship Slyperia, the Countess Ughamir, is in her suites as usual. She left instructions with me that she'd meet with you attended only by her dhrima and otherwise alone." With that word, he invoked something very obscure in Taloran culture. It meant bodyguard and servant at the same time, and also eunuch. Though the practice had long before been banned in the nobility, those who by accident or defect had developed with the traits of a dhrima naturally still found service among some of the nobility who were quite traditionalist in their old roles. Including, it appeared, Slyperia ghi Ughamir, Vice Admiral of the Red, who was now sought in the Federation service based on the quiet recommendation of the naval attache in Paris who proposed that there might be one Taloran officer of high rank willing to take work with the Federation.

"Thank you, Sir," T'Ral said, following the man through the household. When they arrived at the Countess Ughamir's suites and she was formally presented, T'Ral raised her hand in traditional Vulcan greeting and remarked, "Greetings, Your Ladyship. Live Long and Prosper."

A tall woman with purple hair--well, it must be the dhrima--in the background was preparing water, as Slyperia was uncertain of her guest's requirements. She smiled, though, at the greeting, and nodded somewhat gravely. Slyperia had an interesting brilliant mauve colour to her hair, which showed bits of silver here and there: She was, after all, around 500 years old by the Terran calendar, and the past 135 of those years had been lived in seclusion. Her amber eyes were deeply capable of following the Vulcan, however, studying her carefully. "I have water for you to drink, Commander, as a gift, and can get other things--I presume you're acquainted with our sundry beverages after your time on surface--if you please. But for the moment, welcome, and sit;" she gestured to two chairs set facing each other, with a table between them, murmuring, as she did, "Thank you, Khalis," to the third figure in the room, before settling down and tapping a few keys inset onto the surface of the table, which was a holo-projector for a map of the Federation and nearby space. The gesture could immediately inform that Slyperia had been taking the situation, and the offer, seriously.

"I am thankful for your gift," replied T'Ral as she sat and placed her device on the table. She sipped at the water, appreciating its taste and clarity. "I take it you have been surveying the situation as best as possible here on Talora Prime?"

"With what information has been released from all the sources I can glean it from, assuming the usual bias from the Alliance and so on," Slyperia said, and then added, a bit softer, "Of course, I have some contacts in our Starfleet's Intelligence division who have been sending me our own estimates. You have a serious problem on your hands, Commander, though by all accounts you hold the interior lines of communication. That is what you'll need to win. I suppose that is the gist of what I know right now. And, of course, the rumours. I'm not sure how much you're authorized to tell me." What was clear was that her service record prior to her sacking by Intalasha II under mysterious circumstances had been added by a canny and quick intelligence. Despite being out of the service for longer than T'Ral had been alive, she spoke on the issues at hand with a comfortable familiarity, and this woman had been the operational chief for fleet actions more than two centuries prior, when Vinara IV was still Empress, that exceeded the scope of any the Federation had fought, and in doing so had studied directly under the aged Taloran legend, Jeryllyn Lictor, when she had still been alive, a warrior from a time when the Talorans fought with ships not dissimilar to those used in the first Earth - Romulan War. The accumulated knowledge of operational art in her head was incalculable.

"I anticipate then that you have decided to pursue our offer?", T'Ral replied.

"Absolutely. I'm quite prepared to sign the appropriate contracts and head out immediately, or otherwise wait here for a while to supervise any endeavours you have in our territory. My prospects have been rather bleak for a while, and I'm pleased that you're giving me the chance to serve your government." Slyperia, at least, was quick and to the point.

"My government would prefer you to come to the Federation," T'Ral replied. "Many of our best leading officers of admiral rank are among the defectors, and other competent admirals were among the first to be captured or lost in the opening weeks of the war. While we have not lost all of our better admirals, a number do not have experience in wartime command, while our enemy has several."

"Very well. I suppose your commander situation is... Delicate at the moment." She sipped a bit of water. "I can still put together the recommendations enroute, of course. What's the appointment you have planned for me, Commander?"

"My government would grant you the rank of Admiral and, for the beginning, make you Commanding Officer of the Federation's 1st Fleet, and if you choose to accept the additional responsibility, Chief of the Foreign Advisor Recruitment Staff, in which you would have the primary say and advisory role in recommending contracts to other advisors such as yourself. If this is too much, either position is open to you, or if you prefer another, I am empowered to negotiate the matter with you if you desire, or if not, Admiral Milano himself will take it up with you when you arrive in the Alpha Quadrant."

"Command of the First Fleet? I'm up to that, Commander, and pleased at the honour. It is a challenge that can be handled, at any rate, even with ancillary duties, which are accepted as well. I trust that once I've signed the relevant documents and I'm headed for the Federation you'll release all your information to me to a suitable level of classification so that I can be prepared on my arrival?" She smiled very faintly, her ears stiffly erect to show a certain anticipation of being back in the saddle again after so long. After being unfairly sacked on the word of a madwoman for an act which saved the Empire.

"Of course, though transmission must be done before you leave this universe. Our government is concerned that transmission in CON-5 or our own home universe will find critical details intercepted by foreign sources that could be sympathetic to the rebelling colonies." T'Ral was diplomatically referring, of course, to the ongoing conviction in large portions of Starfleet that the Alliance was responsible for the accelerating influence and power of the colonial secession parties that had, after fourteen years, led them to this point, and furthermore that the Alliance government would likely furnish covert aid to the Colonials, including the provision of intelligence.

"Understood, Commander," Slyperia glanced to the side for a moment, toward Khalis, and then back. "I wish to bring along two individuals. My dhrima and a personal confessor. I can be ready to leave with them in two days, quite reasonably."

"That would be most acceptable," replied T'Ral. She might have been much younger than the woman before her, but T'Ral was still up to the task of seeing her emotional joy at the command to be offered.

"Excellent. Then... Shall we get the formalities over with, Commander?"

"I would be most pleased to do so, Your Ladyship." T'Ral pressed some keys on the digital device and brought up a document, in proper Taloran, of the contract and the official document by which Slyperia would be oath-bound to serve as an Admiral in Starfleet. "If you would make sure the financial restitution and contract terms are to your liking, I am willing to wait. You may then sign both."

"The terms offered are quite acceptable, Commander," Slyperia said after the most brief of glances through the document's financial sections, but a very long and careful look at the loyalty clauses. "This... Is about more than money to me." And with no further words she signed the documents via the digital stylus, and returned it to T'Ral. "To your government I give all my loyalty, save should my Empress command me otherwise. You have my word and my signature."

"Then we shall hope your Empress sees no problem with you serving to protect the Federation from those who seek to renounce her rights and duties," replied T'Ral. "Starfleet is made better by your place in it."

"The Empire's interests are in law and stability, Commander. And now my interests are in putting back together our fleet after such grievous defections, and seeing through the suppression of all rebellion against our duly constituted authorities." Slyperia smiled grimly. "Send me the embarkation information, Commander, and I'll be seeing you the day after tomorrow."

[Steve]

Camp Bullard, Nouveaux Gascony, France
Alliance of Democratic Nations
Universe Designate AR-12
9 March 2166 AST
1 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


Not far from the major farming community of Triep Camp Bullard had been erected, kept in partial commission by the charity and monies of those who had once served in its halls, and some of which were now back to continue the work of before. Where once the landing fields had been empty and grown over, they were now restored to their full pristine black-as-tar appearance with white running stripes, and along the airfields were a collection of older Rafales and American-build TF-19 Aerospace Fighter-Trainers. The work on restoration had lasted two months and cost tens of thousands of francs; the fighters and the base upkeep in general set the wealthy backers of the facility back by a million Alliance dollars weekly, a financial cost only sustainable by the number of contributors and the size of their contributions.
From several buses came crowds of men and women, all of them having endured an eight hour bus drive through the night from the Thierryville Spaceport. They were in civilian clothes, but that would not last, and each of them lined up to receive a set of uniform clothes and provided booths for changing.

Douglas Klavon was a cleanshaven young American straight from Earth, Wisconsin, who gone through his final years of school watching news programs and reading online reports of the Great War. It had ended before he could join the military, and as it was his attempts to join the United States Air Force and the Allied Nations Aerospace Force for pilot training had failed due to a lack of spots, and serving as an enlisted man wasn't quite what he wanted. His intention, his dream, was to fly an actual aerospace fighter. And not just as another carrier jock like in the Navy, but someone who landed on firm soil and got to fly in both the sky and the vacuum.
It was his turn in line, and having planned on trying to impress the officers with his long-practiced French greetings, he was disappointed to see an older American woman complete with gray hair and a wrinkling face. "Here, son, better luck next time," she'd teased him after taking down his name and handing him his uniform in plastic wrapping. He took it into the first booth that became available, noting that a timer popped up to tell him how long he was expected to take in getting changed. He managed it within ten seconds of the limit, placing his civilian clothing in a bag and emerging in uniform.
As a uniform it was somewhat archaic. It wasn't deep blue like most nations' air forces, but a lighter shade of blue that approached gray, and a red beret for a hat. The beret and the uniform patch both possessed the same insignia, the side profile of a Sioux warrior with feathered headdress.
The insiginia of Escadrille Lafayette. The Lafayette Flying Corps.

Klavon joined a host of men and women in Camp Bullard's courtyard. They stood and directed their attention to a podium, behind which the insignia of the Flying Corps was placed between the Stars and Stripes and the Tricolor. A group of officers in the archaic blue uniform that Klavon now wore called for the assembled to stand at attention. "Attention! The Marshal of the Corps is now present!" came the shout in both English and French.
The Marshal was a bicentenarian, and for someone of that era to be a bicentenarian of Universe AR-12 meant that he was effectively the equivalent of a centenarian in the late 20th Century due to the less-advanced anti-aging techniques of his youth. The withered old man, his hair mostly gone with some wisps of gray, was helped to stand at the podium by two uniformed men, wearing a uniform of his own. Klavon and others recognized him from some holo-images: former United States Senator and Governor of Missouri Roger Algeron Willers, co-founder of the Leigh-Willers Trans-Stellar Liner Company, a major corporation in these days that flew literally dozens, hundreds, of space routes. That this old and withered man of wealth was present today, wearing that uniform, was something of a shock, since he'd long been associated with wealth and power, and not the kind to volunteer and risk his life.
"You may all be at ease," the old man said, his voice sounding only slightly firmer than his frail figure. "You young people, French and American, remind me very much of my friends when I was young. And that is good. Times may change, new jets and fighters and weapons might come into place, and we might even salute a new flag now, but that the spirit is the same, that's reassuring to an old geezer like me." He allowed himself a chuckle, signaling the enlistees to do the same, though it stopped in respect and concern when the old man was racked by coughs. "I remember being here once, when I was young, even the Squadron was young then... I made good friends that are passed on now, and you kids.... you've made me remember their faces far more clearly than my rotting brain has permitted me for decades."

Tears were starting to form in the old man's eyes, old ghosts coming back to him. "You've al volunteered to do the right thing. You've volunteered to uphold the principles of liberty and freedom, of the brotherhood of free nations, and the basic equality of men and women of all races, of all nations. And you've said that no matter how much we value an individual, as a person as well as a contributor to society, you recognize that sometimes you have to let them die to serve higher causes, and that you're willing to take that risk, that burden, on your shoulders to fight the good fight." Willers sighed, slumping a little against one of his aides, and with what looked to be a tremendous source of will. "God knows we need people like you alive and that this isn't always possible. In my day, I fought desperate battles, and some good friends I had, some good squadmates, French and American, didn't make it. A bunch of them took turns saving my life. And I thank God for them every day, and I sometimes wish that for all the things I've done since my days in the Squadron, I could give it all up to have them back, and to still be flying with them. To be down there, with you, instead of up here as a useless old man."
Willers was nearly weeping now, and it was clear he'd not been fully prepared for the emotions of this experience, that his aged mind had left his psyche to shattered, perhaps plagued with the guilt of the wealth and power he'd enjoyed and that his friends had not; certainly Klavo figured the old man was disappointed in some of his offspring, especially his ditzy great-grandchildren, about the only members of the Willers family who got any press due to their hijinks. "God be with you all. God bless you all. You're doing great and wonderful things, and I'd give everything to be going with you. Everything. You are the finest of our nations' young people, the hope of France and America, our France and America, to keep our greatness and stand out in the rest of the known Universes." Using what was clearly the last bit of his energy, he stood straight and saluted at them. "Vive la France. God Bless America. Long Live Liberty."
What came next was a custom Klavon had been warned of and told to go with. After they all answered the Marshal's salute, the Americans in the audience proclaimed, "Viva la France!" as a chorus of French-accented English shouted, "God Bless America!", after which all the assembled shouted either "Long Live Liberty!" or "Vive la Liberté!"

Marshal Willers was aided in returning to his seat, and a gruff-looking man stepped up, tan-skinned and looking thick if not stout in figure. In a French accent, he growled, "You will be divided as custom into flights of four, two Americans and two French. You will live together, fly together, fight together, you will become brothers and sisters! Each flight will be assigned a trainer, an officer of the Flying Corps! You will obey his or her instructions!" Picking up a digital assistant, he began reading names.
Klavon's name came about midway; his new "brothers and sisters", he learned, were one Michel Velacroix, Megan Saltzmann, and Ésmée Trebert. Called to leave, he found himself walking with them to their new dorm room, where a bunk bed on either side of the room allowed for four occupants to share the room and four small nightstands. "I call bottom," Klavon said a moment before Velacroix could, while Megan, clearly the American of the two women, called the top bunk for some odd reason.

Michel Velacroix, a native of Nouveaux Gascony, was skinnier than Klavon, possessing brown hair and blue eyes, and a strong masculine jaw. He didn't seem much of a ladies' man, however, and rather humbly introduced himself formally to them.
Ésmée Trebert was a lovely young woman, with long dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a lusciously-curved body. She was from Earth itself, a native of Marseilles, with the dusky tan on her skin to prove it. Her French accent was less pronounce than Michel, and she smiled flirtingly at Klavon and laughed delightfully at his greeting to her in French. "We must work on it," she replied in English, "but it will do for now."
"How did you learn French?" whispered the American girl, to which Klavon replied, "Practice, and the Internet." In replying he turned to her and was able to get a better look at her. Megan Saltzmann was from Carlsbad, a mid-range world closer to the frontier than Earth, but not quite in the frontier. Her hair was a sandy blonde in color, her roundish cheeks freckled and her body slimmer and less-curvy than Trebert's. Brown eyes sparkled mischievously, and she certainly seemed more rough-and-tumble tomboyish than Trebert.

After they were given a couple minutes to put up their bags in the room, they were led out to the airfield, and there divided into squadrons and granted flight names. Their flight name was somewhat uninspiring, being the Greek letter Gamma; the squadron they were assigned to was named the Thenault Squadron, after Georges Thenault, the French Captain who commandeded the original Escadrille Lafayette in the First World War.
Each flight divided up and found its trainer. Klavon and the others soon found themselves facing a woman who had a pleasing figure flattered partly by the LFC blue uniform, though she was rather short. But her voice, tinted with a Scandanavian accent, carried well.
"My name is Hecate Maxwell," she said to them pointedly. "I am a Captain on leave from the Allied Nations Marine Corps and will be serving as your flight trainer. I've flown combat missions in the Great War and participated in the Gilean Expedition, where I was one of the first IEF pilots to launch airstrikes on the neo-barbs besieging Kalunda. I've been given six weeks to drill into you my six years of combat flying experience, and the clock is ticking. We'll be training long and hard, and it'll be a week or two before I even let you kids take a flight stick, probably three weeks before I even let you hit vacuum. You'll be training all the way until you face the enemy, and if you want to come home intact you'll do your damned best. So I don't want to hear any damned whining. The fact is, you kids are lucky that the Marshal and a bunch of other old fliers are spending what savings they have to be able to afford the hands-on training you're about to get, because I sure as hell didn't get to share a flight instructor with just three other Marines. Now, first order of business..."
And so Douglas Klavon's career in the Escadrille Lafayette began; in two months, he and his new "family" would be on the front lines fighting the Federation on behalf of the Colonies.

[Steve]

Kurlon, Trill
Trill Space
Universe Designate ST-3
13 March 2166 AST
5 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The city of Kurlon had once been a gleaming center of industry and commerce for the planet Trill, dominating the economy of the Greater Dul'va Bay Area and possessing a population numbered at one and a half million. Some of the finest goods and crafts that the Trill people had to offer were manufactured in her buildings.
But that was no longer so. Smoke rose from the bombed out shells of arcologies and office structures, factories lay in ruins, and across the town the city's occupants fought ferociously and bitterly against their enemies, flying high the flag of the Federation which had granted them luxury and promised them even more under the Idealogue Party platform. Their opponents represented the majority of the Trill population, an alliance of the anti-Idealogue politicians and the rural and middle class Trill who, while not avidly anti-Federation or even anti-Idealogue, had not been persuaded by the crisis to go the same way as the urbanites.

A scandalous truth had recently been thrust upon the Trill populace. A report in the Trill press, soon verified by other sources, that the Trill Symbiosis Commission had for at least a century covered up data indicating that up to half the planet's population was compatible with symbiotes, as opposed to the fraction of a percent claimed before. The government and the Commission, usually partners, split; the Government demanded that the Commission submit to an investigation, and the Commission resisted and hid behind the constitutional laws placing them in sole custody of the helpless symbiotes - a crisis magnified by the onset of the Federation Civil War as the first news came out.
In the urban areas, Idealogues pounced on the Commission and the Government, proclaiming them as elitist controlled institutions that had "denied" the chance to become hosts to the masses to propagate their own circle; when the Trill Government was finally forced by Colonial military success to recognize them as independent and refuse to participate in the Federation's response efforts, the Idealogues launched attacks with armed cadres that resulted in the deaths of a number of cabinent ministers, proclaiming the Trill government had been taken over by "reactionaries and Alliance spies". The Idealogue attack saw the fall of the capital and, even more crucially, of the Caves of Mak'ala; the home of the unjoined symbiotes awaiting hosts.
There the Guardians had fought ferociously with what few weapons they could acquire before the attack came, and many of them died; the survivors were the ones they trusted to slip through the labyrinth of caverns to safety in the countryside with as many symbiotes as could be carried, where the symbiotes were loved and their Guardians respected. In the Trill countryside news of the scandal had an opposite reaction; enough non-urban Trill had become hosts due to the Commission's policies of equal portions of applicants that the cover-up was seen as protecting the rights of the non-urban Trill to become hosts, as knowledge of wider compatibility would surely, in their opinion, had led to the urbanites using bribery, government influence, and other means to hoard the symbiotes to themselves. Any risk of a further split in the countryside between Commission and Government was ended by an agreement between the two bodies to work together to save themselves, and so the militias and law enforcement bodies of Trill went into action.

Now Kurlon was one of many Trill cities were the Idealogues fought fanatically to hold their own. They were growing hungry, cut off from all supply, with only the occasional friendly ship beaming down supplies to them, but young men like Turo Sal'va were not about to give in. They believed fervently in the Enlightened Society, and saw the rebellion against the Federation, and the Trill government's betrayal of it, as the act of spies and reactionaries working on behalf of masters in the Allied Nations, the bastion of oppression and social elitism in the Multiverse. If only they could hold on, the Colonial dupes would start fighting amongst themselves and the Federation could prevail yet, and the Alliance dare not strike lest its own oppressed workers rise up with a slackening of its military power to fighting instead of oppression of the workers.
Turo was a brown-haired young Trill of 19, carrying a Phaser rifle in his hands with only a few charges left. He and a group of eighteen Idealogue militants were cut off from the others, holding an apartment block that they had already fully scoured for clothes, food, and drink. The city's replicator systems were down due to bombing and they were rapidly running out of water. Turo's clothes were ragged and torn, burnt in one portion where a phaser beam had glanced beside him and killed a friend.
Kem, a friend of his, had stripped down to shorts, being from more northern climes and not used to the warmth of Kurlon in summer. He was not as physically impressive as the others, having been out of a job for a time due the slackening economy. The sweating young Trill looked over at one of the older men in their unit and frowned. "Redel's talking to himself again."
"Yeah, he's never been right since they took Mak'ala," Turo agreed. "Hold it...." Turo raised his rifle to a nearby window, a few of the others doing the same, and they all fired at a number of opponent Trill moving around the house. The figures, whom Turo couldn't even fully make out, dived for cover, one being struck twice and falling dead on the ground.

A piercing cry came from Redel. He was not much older than Turo, being only twenty-five. As ragged looking as the rest of them, he was glaring at his stomach screaming, "Shut up! SHUT UP! I DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO YOU! SHUT UP!!!!["
"Guess the symbiote's bothering him again," Kem muttered. "Redel, knock it off!"
"It won't shut up!" Redel shouted back. "It keeps prattling on and on.... it thinks it's better than me, I know it does! WELL YOU KNOW WHAT YOU FUCKIN' THING?! I'M YOUR FUCKIN' HOST SO I TELL YOU TO SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!!" Frantically Redel picked up a knife from the kitchen, and before anyone could stop him, he plunged it into his stomach. As he kept plunging it in and in, sending blood gushing everywhere, everyone raced to stop him, but he'd already stabbed himself multiple times before they managed to cross the distance and hold him down. Suddenly calmed, he smiled grimly. "That fuckin' thing," he murmured. "I shut it up.... I finally shut it up..... thinks it's so smart.... so much smarter than me..... they all think we're a bunch of stupid fuckers...."

"You fuckin' idiot," Kem muttered, kicking the bleeding man as another of their number tried to patch up his gored stomach. "They gave you a fucking symbiont and you kill it?! That thing would've made you powerful man, all that fuckin' scientific knowledge and secrets to get you to the top? And you fucking kill it?!"
"Fuck the symbiotes...." Redel muttered. "Wish I'd never had the thing... fuck 'em all and let 'em die...."
As Redel slipped into unconsciousness, Kem kicked him in the head in pure anger. "Fucking ingrate!"
Turo pulled Kem back. "Hey, hey, no need to. He's gonna die now anyway. Can't survive without a symbiote once you have it."
"What about us?! That thing was a fucking genius, he could've used it to get us out of here, now we're stuck here until we fucking starve or they kill us, and if we give up, fuck that man, they'll just send us to camps and work us to death so some merchant somewhere can make a few more strips of GPL. I ain't gonna work to get some rich fucks a bit more money!"

"I.... I'll think of somethin', man, I'll...."
There was a roar overhead. Everyone looked out the window in time to see a massive shape settled high in the sky. Much longer and larger than any Starfleet ship, the vessel bristled with weapons. A voice boomed overhead in Trill, though clearly Human. "This is Admiral Benjamin Sisko of the United Colonies Starfleet. On behalf of the legitimate government of Trill, I demand the surrender of all forces loyal to the Idealogue rebellion or I will commence a bombardment of your positions. You have thirty minutes to lay down your arms and surrender."
"That fuckin' scumbag," Kem muttered. "I say screw Sisko and his masters, we'll never abandon the Federation! We're the fucking future!" Looking back to the others, Kem added, "He doesn't have it in him to attack us! Starfleet officers like him would never bombard a city...."

"Kem, this is fucking Ben Sisko," hissed Turo. "This guy poisoned an entire world to catch a Maquis leader! He'll do it, man, he'll do it! And I'm not gonna die here, not like this! I say we surrender."
"Fucking pussy," Kem muttered at him, but he saw the others weren't with him on continued resistance. His moment of bravado collapsed, he dropped his weapon as well, and they went to work assembling a white flag.


U.C.S. Defiant, In Orbit over Trill
Colonial Space


Worf returned to the cramped boardroom he shared with Jadzia and, to his astonishment, heard her weeping while seated at the room's console. He moved up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Jadzia?"
"They're all dead," she sobbed. "Duzen, Kelo, Tr'za, Sintza, Bul'ta, Kahn... They're all dead."
Worf recognized enough of those names to know she was referring to symbiotes. "What happened?"
"Those idiots! Those damned idiots!" she growled in rage, pounding her fists on the panel. "The rebels took the Caves of Mak'ala, Worf. They killed the Guardians who opposed them. The only ones who escaped were the ones who got out the older and helpless symbiotes. They tried to open the waterways for the others to get into the underground lakes, but it was too late..." Dax rested an arm on the panel and used it to cradle her face. Worf reached for the other chair in the room as she wept for a moment more. "Those... those fucking idiot militants!" The use of English curse, and such strong cursing at that, actually made Worf stare in wonderment for a moment. "They drew lots! They cast dice! They PLAYED GAMES to decide who would get to be a host! Then they took the other symbiotes against their will and put them into these fools.... They... they had no chance... they had no testing, no way to make sure they were compatible.... they weren't ready to be hosts!"

Worf remained silent. He knew just enough about the process of Joining to understand what had gone wrong.
"Over half of them died within the first week. They weren't compatible, their bodies weren't ready... their minds weren't ready. The new hosts went right back into fighting with no post-Joining training or therapy. Some died from incompatibility, the other hosts didn't know how to handle the joining and went mad and killed themselves, or got themselves killed..."
At that moment Worf went over to her, and took Jadzia into his arms, allowing her to cry in his embrace. "It must have been horrible. Forced into those unprepared hosts, having to deal with their minds breaking, feeling the host's memories jumble with their own, the hosts starting to fight to maintain their own identity, resist the joining... the pain..."
"How many?"
"Two hundred," Jadzia murmured. "Including some of the oldest and wisest, and some of the most promising young ones.... they're all dead, Worf. So many memories, so much knowledge and experience, and we've lost it. We can never get it back. How could they? How could they hurt our people like that...."
Worf spoke no more, but allowed Jadzia Dax to weep in grief at the deaths of so many acquaitances and friends, victims of an act of arrogance that was now rocking Trill society to its very foundations; as it was, the Rape of Mak'ala was just another ripple of the civil war that was tearing the Federation apart and sending ripples across the Alpha Quadrant... and the Multiverse.

[Steve]

Capital City, Ferenginar
Ferengi Alliance
13 March 2166 AST
5 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The downpour of rain coating the Capital was just another misery to strike the inhabitants of the planet, as the lower class workers and alien laborers continued another day of vicious demonstrations and striking. The assorted DaiMons had called out their security troops to fight back, and for three weeks running battles had stricken Ferenginar and several outlaying systems. Lower-status Ferengi, including clothed women (scandalous in of itself!), began openly defying not just their government but their very society. They threw open the pens of the "indentured servants", they ransacked banks, and in the streets they manned barricades and fought off the mercenaries of the DaiMons.
It was in the midst of this mad chaos that Quark was mumbling and regretting the bitter chill from the rain, his brother Rom at his side. Ahead of them was the Tower of Commerce, surrounded by revolutionaries, and inside of it... former Grand Nagus Zek, declared deposed by the FCA two days before, and their mother Ishka.

As they moved across the streets, avoiding a burned-out franchise store where a gang of vagrants were trying to find shelter from the rain, Quark had a chance to see what he'd long-feared about the Ferengi. They had prided themselves at being the ultimate cutthroat businessmen, and it was the kind of business model he liked, but they had not adapted to the new circumstances. When the Alliance had provided a beautiful opportunity for the Ferengi economically, the DaiMons, even Zek himself, had squandered it in petty diplomatic disputes. They had rigidly stuck to GPL, ignoring the convenience of paper money (Even Quark had soon found himself installing tills and using Alliance dollars when the new space station had been built to replace Terok Nor), and the FCA's Liquidators had soon wrecked Ferengi relations with most of the Multiverse by harrassing Ferengi entrepreneurs who operated outside of Ferengi territory (including Quark himself). Ferengi corporations didn't help themselves either, failing to compete with their Alliance rivals or even to work with them honestly; with some notable exceptions, they clinged to dogmatic "profit now" schemes and attitudes, to the extent that only some of the finest Ferengi goods were able to compete in the interstellar market against the new competition. Combined with the misogynism of Ferengi society riling up the extrauniversals, and Ferengi markets and profit from the slave trade, it was a recipe for disaster.
Boycotts were first, then the loss of their trade partners to the Alliance's capitalists and merchants, then the blows to business from the fall of Orion and the liquidating of the Orion Southern Kingdoms' debts to Ferengi banks. The only bright spots for the Ferengi was that many key DaiMons still enjoyed business relations with Federation officials and bureaucrats, who bought raw foodstuffs from them instead of Alliance sources, in part due to the sheer hunger of the Federation for materials surpassing the available Alliance export market and in part because of corrupt deals between the DaiMons and various Idealogue Party officials in state positions; additionally, the Ferengi had partially bankrolled the Cardassian recovery from the Winter War, and Ferengi shipping concerns had made a killing off of Cardassian orders in the years after the war when the Cardassian merchant marine was still being rebuilt. These sources of wealth, coupled by the handful of Ferengi like Quark who had successfully (if reluctantly in Quark's case) adapted, had kept the Ferengi economy alive.

But no longer. The occupation of Cardassian had severed what few links remained between the Ferengi and Cardassians economically: Damar's Cardassian Republic was an de facto Alliance client state and did its business with Alliance or other sources. The Ferengi economy had barely survived that; now the Federation Civil War had dealt a killing blow. The buyers in the Federation Core Worlds were out of reach, their remaining gold-pressed latinum diverted to paying for the new war costs, and what deliveries could be possible were endangered by the fact that the Colonials had cut off Ferengi territory from the Federation.
The crash of the Ferengi economy began as a deceptively gentle slide, but enough prescient DaiMons and other Ferengi entrepreneurs saw the writing on the wall and left Ferenginar, and they took their GPL with them; the Ferengi economy went from recession to depression and now to crash, with ordinary workers feeling the pinch as they always did until the remaining DaiMons and the always-dogmatic FCA finally pinched too hard, and set off an explosion that their arrogance had long led them to believe impossible.


The singing in the streets made Quark blanch. From the Multiverse had come a host of provocateurs and "reformist" elements who had inspired the Ferengi lower class despite the FCA's totalitarian attempts to block such ideas as "labor rights" and "unionization". The rot went far and it went deep, extending beyond lower-rung Ferengi employees to corrupt the very foundations of Ferengi society, as was clear by the sudden appearance of women in the growing revolt. Though not all of the Ferengi men were willing to countenance it, still stuck in their ways of thinking in a number of parts, most of the rebels grudgingly allowed participation from the small group of clothed females who now held weapons as the men did, gathered at one end of the pouring Marketplace. More radical Ferengi activists sided whole-heartedly with them, and glowingly talked about a "new Ferenginar"; Quark could hear them ranting as he and Rom slipped by, trying to go unnoticed in the tumult.
They got all the way to the side entrance of the Tower of Commerce before their luck ran out. There were at least seven Ferengi, all of them armed, and one Orion girl in a tattered halter top and stolen male trousers, a coat over her shoulders; she looked especially murderous with the blaster rifle in her hands. "Who are you?" one of them demanded.
Quark felt panic come to his stomach, and he forced a laugh. "Oh, uh, we were just coming to see the Tower on the inside, see how it looks and all, my brother and I have been offworld for a while..."
His bluff failed miserably.
That much became clear, at least, when the Ferengi bunched up a bit more and the Orion woman leveled her rifle straight at Quark's head. "For someone who hasn't seen the inside of the Tower before, you seem to know a lot about its private entrances," one of the militants said. "Forgot a pouch of GPL strips in there, did you? Maybe thought you could pull a fast one over us poor, dumb workers? Well, you can tell us where your stash is and maybe we'll..."

And them Rom stepped forward, looking rather sure of himself, and Quark put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back for fear Rom would get them both killed. "You're right. We're not here to sight-see! We're here to get our Mother!"
"Your mother?! What kind of bald-faced lie is that?!" the Orion woman shouted in surprisingly fluent Ferengese.
"It's not a lie," Rom replied defiantly. "Our Mother is in there with the Grand Nagus."
Quark's stomach twisted painfully. As far as he was certain, Rom had just gotten them both killed.

"She must be rather lonely," one of the Ferengi guffawed. "The Grand Nagus is dead," he said, lifting his weapon to point it at the two brothers as he spoke, "and now so are you."
Quark let out a squeal of terror as he saw the weapon center on him.

"Stop!"
Another pair of Ferengi stormed up, soaked raincoats splattering water everywhere. One of them, a commanding Ferengi of some height, grabbed the militant's gun and lifted it. "Don't you know who that is?!"
"What?" the militant said, looking bewildered at his compatriot.
"It's him!" the newcomer replied, a hand stretched out toward Rom. "It's Rom, son of Keldar! Founder of the Deep Space Nine Guild of Restaurant and Casino Employees!"
"Him?!" One of the militants looked to Rom and back to the newcomer. "Are you sure, Krol?"
"I'm positive! I saw his image in the FCA files!" "Krol" stepped forward and took Rom's hand. "It's an honor to meet you!" Briefly turning back, he shouted to the others, "Put your guns down, put them down! This man is the first Ferengi labor organizer in history!"

"Wait." The Orion woman kept her weapon up for a moment, focusing her gaze on Rom and Quark. "Then your mother must be Ishka, am I correct? The mistress of the Grand Nagus?"
"Moogie and the Grand Nagus are very close!", Rom proclaimed proudly, much to Quark's displeasure, as he was convinced the Orion woman would shoot them dead even if the Ferengi didn't.

But instead she moved forward and almost fell on her knee before Rom, as Quark watched on in complete shock and a little disgust. "Then I'll take you to her," the woman promised. "Ishka, she is the one who saved me. Come."
As they moved through the Tower, the Orion woman and Krol were enough to cause the other militants to stand down. The Tower had fallen just hours before they arrived, the mercenaries who held it for the remaining FCA officials having beamed out when they found out that the FCA's financial reserves were exhausted; the FCA's remaining leadership had not long survived the fall of the Tower, some lucky enough to be shot in the head before their bodies were flung to the Marketplace below. Quark only now learned, to his horror and disgust, that his single-minded attention to the Tower on the way in had caused him to miss what bits and pieces of the slaughtered Liquidators the rain hadn't washed away.

The private offices and quarters of the Grand Nagus were empty, the property within stripped and seized by the militants for themselves. The Grand Nagus' body remained still on his bed, and at the side of it Ishka was still on her knees, in clothes of course. Maihar'du was still faithfully at the fallen Nagus' side, seated beside Ishka.
In all his years Quark had never expected to actually see Zek dead. It was sobering and terrifying all at once, a definitive image of the Ferengi civilization coming undone. To think he would never have to hear that nasally, shrieky voice again...

"Moogie!" Rom rushed forward and embraced his mother, who looked back to him and accepted the embrace. "Moogie, are you okay?"
Quark looked back and saw, thankfully, that the militants were giving them a private moment. He walked up to Rom and Ishka and kneeled over, whispering, "There's a freighter in orbit waiting to beam us up, we have to get out of here."
"I'm not leaving without Zekkie," Ishka replied defiantly.
"Mother, every day you stay here is another day someone might shoot you!" Quark responded.
"We could take him with us, Brother," Rom remarked.
"Ooh, excellent idea Rom. We'll smuggle the Grand Nagus' remains past who knows how many mercenaries and pirates and crazed employees who'd love to have it themselves!"
"Quark, it's our only chance to get Moogie out of here!" Rom shot back.
"Mother, listen to sense!" Quark leaned over beside her. "Do you know how many people have found out about you and Zek? Those crazed gun-carrying workers out there just slaughtered the entire Ferengi Commerce Authority, Mother. The only reason they haven't touched you yet is because the Humanists out there like you. What do you think will happen when those radicals aren't around to protect you anymore? And to make it all worse, the remaining DaiMons - and even worse, the Liquidators - think you're to blame for all this! They won't hesitate to have you killed if they can. Your only hope is to get to DS9, where I can protect you. And we can't slip back to safety if everyone finds out we're carrying Zek's body! Every pirate from here to Rymorta will be looking for us."

"Brother!" Rom looked up. "That gives me an idea!"
"What?"
"We take the Nagus' private shuttle and we launch it, then beam over to the ship after we're done! That way everyone thinks the Nagus' body is on the shuttle while we actually have it on our ship! With all the wreckage and ships in orbit... they'll never realize we made the transport!"
Quark scowled. Hissing, he finally nodded. "Sure, we'll do it that way then." Of all the.... We're going to get killed, I just know it...

[Burak Gazan]

Nice to see Quark is still Quark, whatever the multiverse

And Rom is still an idiot

Nice chapter, more please

[Steve]

Capital City, Quo'noS
Klingon Star Empire
15 March 2166 AST
7 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The Capital City of the Klingon Empire was perhaps the least-liked of any capital in all the Alpha Quadrant. As hot as the Cardassian Capital, as hostile as Ra'tleihfi on ch'Rihan (or for certain ambassadors, as San Francisco on Earth ST-3), and as odorous and impoverished as any assorted number of chaotic minor worlds along the fringes of the empires that, through their sovereignty, warranted at least a consul.
For the Klingons, however, the capital city represented the glories of the Empire and the martial accomplishments of their race. Alien laborers from worlds conquered into the Empire worked for a pittance on the streets, living in usually squalid quarters of the city and treated to a rigid system of apartheid that forbade them a number of interactions with Klingons, the harshest such policies being enacted by Gowron upon his rise to power.

Gowron's power base was heavily composed of traditionalists. Traditionalists who had little love for the Federation but even less for the Romulans and Cardassians, who viewed the Klingons as haivng an imperial destiny and a right to assume a leading role in the Quadrant, all generally favorable to expansionism. They had caused the collapse of the Khitomer Accords and pushed for the invasion of Cardassia, as well as the later war with the Federation over Arkanis. Because so many of the more liberal elements of the Empire had sided with the Duras, either out of alliances between Houses he most extreme of these also rejected outside influences on Klingon culture or even Klingon military doctrine. Religiously devoted to the warrior codes set down by Kah'ess, who's clone now sat upon the ceremonial throne, they refused outsider weapons and technologies, insisted on Klingon officers being "classically educated", and various other things; their critics usually complained that they were more concerned with making Klingon officers good students of Klingon opera than intelligent leaders in combat.
It was not that Gowron himself was a believer in these things. Gowron was a man who loved power and he possessed a cunning cynicism that let him use the power base of the traditionalists to his own benefit, while simulatenously acting against them subtley or otherwise if he desired it or felt it necessary. He had done so when backing the Alliance move into the Triangle, or when he had disappointed them by restoring the Khitomer Accords upon the eve of the Dominion War.

The situation in the Federation had opened many opportunities for the Klingon Empire. The long-unsettled question of Arkanis could be decided in Klingon favor, and alternatively the Klingons could win further economic and territorial concessions from the Federation in exchange for not aiding the Colonies in any way and cracking down on any Colonial sympathizers and agents within the Empire. The main restraint for the moment was an uncertainty; how would the Alliance react?
The Klingons had a special love-hate feeling for the Alliance. They utterly hated the lack of a "true warrior" pathos among the Alliance's military, the cowardly nature of long-range weapons and other devices that the Alliance used to such great effect.... but if they hated that, they nevertheless feared those same weapons (though they'd never admit it), and had a deep abidiing respect for the martial prowess and strength of the Alliance. The Klingon Empire and the Alliance therefore never found themselves with truly divergent interests, and Gowron had played his cards carefully to reduce any chance of friction, and to allow the Alliance to feel free to deal with more traditional enemies of the Klingon Empire.

Such considerations had stopped any plan to take advantage of the Federation Civil War. Even the thought of acting while Dale was on Talora Prime, presenting his government with a fait accompli, had been dismissed by Gowron, and to deal with the inevitable grumbling he had already decided on a replacement for the expansionist passions of the Klingon people.
The Ferengi Alliance was collapsing. The Grand Nagus was dead, the FCA divided - individual members isolated - and their rank and file gutted by desertion or the gratuitous slaughter of the radicals. The military power of the Ferengi, always dubious, had effectively ceased to exist thanks to the workers seizing so many Marauders and other craft and then losing them in bloody combat with the remaining fleet of the DaiMons. Most of the living DaiMons, the surviving cartels, were already transferring their liquid assets and headquarters out of Ferengi territory. The entire region was now a big vacuum, power-wise, destined to draw in other powers.

"Our sources have made clear that the Romulan buildup is already underway," Kusaq remarked from his chair at the Chancellor's table. "They will be ready to enter the region in a matter of days."
"Do we have time to build up ourselves?" Gowron asked.
"To the extent necessary? No, Chancellor, not if we are to pre-empt or meet the Romulan advance," was General Martok's reply. Martok, who had been the most capable Klingon commander, had become Gowron's personal military advisor, which was also Gowron's way of keeping his eye on the popular general lest he become too ambitious.
"The Empire cannot allow the Romulan dogs to get any kind of foothold in Ferengi territory unchallenged," Kusaq raged. "We must strike first!"
"If we strike first, we give the Romulans an advantage," Martok retorted. "Diplomatically and militarily....."
Before he could continue, the traditionalists on the Chancellor's cabinent roared with derision. "Martok, you sound like a coward!" one roared. "It does not matter what the Romulans do, but I stand with Kusaq, we cannot let those to'pah to strike first! If any Empire is to claim the Ferengi, it will be the Klingon Empire!"

A roar of approval came over the table. Martok, however, was not one to back down when he thought he was right. "Tell me, Rotarg son of Kurpeg, has your love of bloodwine so dimmed your wits? We are not merely talking about who will conquer the Ferengi! We have been rebuilding for over three years and yet we have not yet recovered from the Dominion War. We chose to honor our commitment to the Alliance and were the only power of the Alpha or Beta Quadrants to aid them in the Gamma Quadrant, and now we must face that price; the need to tend to our wounds even if opportunity seems to beckon. Ask yourselves.... how many of your Houses, or those of your friends or allies, are emptier than they have been in decades, centuries? How many of your sons, grandsons, honored nephews, went to the Gamma Quadrant and never returned? The Klingon Empire's honor was upheld at the cost of our strength, which will take years to restore; the prize we earned was the respect and admiration of the most powerful government in all the Alpha Quadrant, who would never permit another to fall upon us in our weakened state. But that does not mean it will aid us if we are the first to strike. Let the Romulans stir the rage of the Alliance, then we can move in, and be assured that they will stand with us in the war." Martok swept them all into his gaze. "Otherwise, if you send the fleet to Ferengi territory unprepared, and the Romulans overwhelm it, the Klingon Empire will be left with little defense against the second most powerful state in the quadrant, a state which stayed out of the war and has not suffered the losses we endured."
Martok's sobering wisdom contrasted strongly with Kusaq and Rotarg's impassioned plea. It seemed to sway some of the others. But in the end, there was only one voice Martok needed to sway, and that was Gowron's.
Gowron looked to Kusaq, then Rotarg, and finally Martok. His eyes, kept wide as always, drilled into Martok. Martok saw the jealousy in them and knew he had lost. If Gowron's decision to attack was not to appease the families and leaders that Kusaq and Rotarg represented, it would be to purposely spit in Martok's eye.
"We cannot allow the Romulans to gain a foothold. We must strike first!" Gowron looked to Rotarg. "Send the orders!"
This was another calculated slight, as Rotarg was only in charge of the military bureaucracy while Martok commanded the Klingon military in day-to-day operations, and Rotarg gleefully agreed, eager as always to demean and insult Martok. Martok bristled at this, but his duty was to the Empire, not his ego. If the decision was made to attack.... he would support it as best as he could.


Ra'tleihfi, ch'Rihan (Romulus)
Romulan Star Empire
17 March 2166 AST
9 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The city of Ra'tleihfi bustled as always, the population going about their business under the watchful eye of the Tal'Shiar, while the Senate debated the issue of the Ferengi collapse. The new discovery by the Tal'Shiar of the Klingons moving ships in was being digested at the moment in an informal meeting of the Praetor and his top advisors, known in Federation and thus Alliance circles as the Proconsuls.
Once there had been no such thing as a Proconsul. The Tricameron had been led by the Praetors, who numbered twelve, all of theoretically equal standing though three had usually ended up dominant. But then had come the short Civil War of the past century, when popular uprisings around the person of Ael t'Rllallieu, a famous Warbird commander who had been one of the few to ever fight the legendary James Kirk of that era to a draw, had overthrown the tyrannical Three of that era and their allies in the intelligence and military. Such has begun the Rule of the Empress, with Ael taking the new throne. The Tricameron had been reorganized afterward, the number of Praetors reduced to three and then one, with Ael's reforms introducing instead the Proconsul (or rather what the Humans, ever eager to pursue Rihannsu-Roman allegory, had called it).
To this day, even as most Romulans lived under a regime more severe than the one Ael rose against, a regime Ael would have fought and died to prevent, they venerated her. Even when the Tal'Shiar sowed distrust among them, tore the bonds of family and friendship asunder to ensure docility and distrust, they revered her for restoring their honor, their sense of that passionate, emotional, and eminently unquantifiable "mnhei'sahe", which was once again trampled afoot by the power of the Romulan State. Only out on the frontiers, where those closest to Ael's rule - the Ship-Clans, the ch'Havrannsu - had long moved to, was the Tal'Shiar weak enough to allow for some semblance of the old ways (and recognition for the perversity of the standing government in honoring her and spitting on her at the same time), and of course those worlds were always teetering on the edge of revolt in one way or another, always under the guns of the local Warbird squadrons, keeping them in line and assuring that never again would the Ship-Clans amass a fortune (and a fleet) under the noses of ch'Rihan.

But here in the halls of power, the successors of those Ael had overthrown looked to the here and now. Praetor tr'Neural was at one seat, Proconsuls t'Gurllieh and t'Sahal in the others. Neural smiled quaintly at the two women as one of them finished the report she had just gotten from the Tal'Shiar. "So the Klingons are seeking to strike before us?"
"Yes." T'Gurllieh smiled. "Gowron is, as always, amazingly predictable. He does not see the trap we have laid for him."
"Control of the Ferengi Alliance.... and a chance to re-arrange the border into something more to our liking. And, in the process, shatter the relationship between the Alliance and the Klingon Empire, weakening the Klingons further and leaving the Alliance position in the Beta Quadrant far more vulnerable." Neural put his hands together in his chair. "And while we do so, the Federation rips itself apart, as we inevitably knew it would. What news do we have from that front, t'Gurllieh?"
"The Colonial Fleet consolidated the region of Bolarus as of yesterday. Janeway seems content to gather her ships at Starbase 39 and await the arrival of Sisko's main fleet."
"Sisko is no fool. Undoubtedly Janeway and her superiors expect him to doggedly assault that position," Neural replied. "I highly doubt he will oblige in a fashion they desire. And how go our operations?"
"We have, as requested, funneled another large cash payment to the Colonies through the usual irregular channels, allowing them to buy the materials to repair the Starfleet vessels they've captured so far," t'Sahal answered. "A number of the smaller colonies closest to us are already becoming incredibly reliant on our agents' donations, and as they do not seem to be the wiser, I suspect they presume their pool of private financial resources is far greater than imagined.." Unspoken, of course, was the fact that such reliance meant that when the Romulan Empire was ready, they could yank the funding, causing a terrible shortage of cash for the Colonies, an act that at the right moment could either cause them to lose the war, or simply prevent them from winning it. After all, it was not in the Romulan Star Empire's interest that the Federation Civil War end too early.
"They will be rather rudely abused of that when the time comes," Neural remarked. "But for now, I think I will savor these developments. Unlike the Dominion or the Cardassians, we shall not fall prey to misjudgement or arrogance in our dealings with the Alliance. We will simply sit back and reap the benefits of the chaos they have helped to unleash."

[Steve]

Co-written with Ed Korrina aka Sunhawk (the Hecate scenes primarily).

Camp Bullard, Nouveaux Gascony, France
Alliance of Democratic Nations
Universe Designate AR-12
27 March 2166 AST
19 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The morning bugle music for reveille awakened Klavon as it did everyone, and within minutes their daily routine began anew. Get dressed, be present on time and in place for morning reveille, breakfast, then flight school and flight training interspersed only with physical training and meals. Then off to bed that night and another six hours of sleep, as the trainers scrambled to cram as much training as they could into the short time span available before something happened, whether it be the Colonials suffering a devastating defeat or the Council's anti-interventionists finally smashing through the De Silva Resolution.
But today was to be a big day for Klavon and his flight mates: Ésmée, Michel, and Megan. Thenault Squadron had been the first to be permitted to fly the new craft being given to the Flying Corps, and they would for the first time be making orbital flight, though in-space maneuver training was still three days away.

If the recruits thought that they were getting little sleep, the trainers were getting far less, six hours a night would seem like a vacation by now. As always, as her four trainee's lined up outside for morning reveille with the rest of the squadron, Hecate was already waiting for them, immaculately uniformed, looking like she had slept like a baby and had had all the time in the world to prepare herself for the new day.

"Atten-HUT!" she barked out as soon as the last of the Thenault Squadron was in line, eyes sweeping over them as they stiffened to attention. She waited a few moments.

"Today you will be PRIVILEGED to begin the next phase of your training. Today is the day that all the chickenshit will begin to pay off for you." she began, words crisp and incisive in the predawn darkness. "Following breakfast you shall be introduced and begin getting to know the Zohan-Bofors ASF-X Sleipnr Aerospace StrikeFighter. You will be assigned your craft, undergo familiarization, and once you have done so will be permitted to make your first flight. The aerospace craft you are assigned here today shall be the one that you will pilot in combat, so get to know her and all of her quirks, for that knowledge will save your life someday."

She paused, hard eyes sweeping the small formation. "FORMATION! Right FACE!"

The line of trainees snapped to the right like a precision instrument, the harsh drill hammered into them by their instructor, herself a Marine, showing.

"Forward... MARCH" she barked, as she took the formation to the messhall for breakfast.




Breakfast was the usual fare. Toast, eggs, a piece of beef or pork meat, and if anyone wanted them, pancakes instead of toast. Klavon saw with the others, remaining mostly quiet for the morning as he wondered what the Zohan craft would be like. Ésmée did little to try and talk him up, and both tended to watch Michel and Megan chat amiably, talking about their lives and their families, and generally showing an interest in each other that Klavon thought might be going a bit past the "brother-sister" thing that the Corps was encouraging.
"So, anyone looking forward to today?" Klavon finally asked. "We're getting to fly real craft now, not those old trainers.
"I think I liked the trainers, actually," Michel answered. "They remind me of the planes my grandfather taught me to fly in."
Megan made a face. "You'd think with all the money they're spending they'd get us state-of-the-art craft that the Marines and Navy use, not cheaper planes like the Zohan build."
"Are you kidding, Megan?" Klavon chuckled. "Didn't you read that Popular Mechanics article on the Zohan? They're engineering wizards. I bet you the Sleipnr is just as good as anything the Aerospace Force is flying."

"Then why don't we just let them design everything? My dad's with the Department of Defense. He says the Zohan never test as good as their reputations claim," Megan replied sardonically. "They overengineer stuff and don't build to good specs like our builders do."

The argument might have continued, but at that time the announcement was made that breakfast was over. Klavon, thankfully, had finished all but a bite of his pork piece, which he quickly wolfed down as they went to work arranging their used silverware on their plates and taking it all to the counter before dispersing from the mess.

By now the sun was rising, as the cadet squadron formed back into ranks facing the trainers, who had rotated through the messhall so smoothly that the cadets had barely noticed. Minutes later they were marched to the airfield itself.

The early morning sun glinted off of the twenty five pristine fighters parked precisely on the tarmac, each spotlessly clean, while formed up in front of each of them was the small maintenance crews which had been training intensively, the maintenance trainers a mix of Zohan and Bofors representatives. Twenty of the aerospace fighters were parked together, with five more off to one side. The only markings currently on each was the Escadrille badge on the twin tailfins and a buzz number on the forward fuselage below the cockpit.

The fighters were, in many ways, ominous to look at, sleek and streamlined. There were no umbilicals attached, each was apparantly in alert status, ready, seemingly eager, to fly. The external pylons beneath the wings were empty at the moment, and small caps covered the business ends of the direct-fire armament, a sextet of Bofors coilguns and a quartet of what the trainee's recognized from their instruction as light PPACs.

After several minutes of simply letting the trainee's look at the fighters, Hecate swiveled around to face them, the movement causing the formation to almost immediately stiffen back up from the mild case of gawking that had been going on.

"At rest." she barked, eyes sweeping over them as they went to a parade ground perfect Parade Rest. "Twenty ASF-X Sleipnr Aerospace StrikeFighters. Together they total one hundred and twenty 30 millimeter coilguns. Eighty 30 millimeter Variable Pulse Phased Particle Acceleration Cannons. And they're capable of carrying three-hundred and twenty Scorpion Anti-Fighter Missiles or one hundred and sixty Harpoon IVAP anti-ship missiles." she smiled slightly as she looked over the formation. "These fighters are better armed than any current Aerospace Fighters in the ADN inventory, while matching any of them in manueverability, speed, acceleration, endurance, range and protection. You have only experienced the Sleipnr in the sims, and your instructors have told all of you, over and over, that no sim, no matter how detailed, can prepare you for the reality. Ladies and gentlemen, behind me is the reality. Behind me are the Aerospace Fighters which you will pilot in the cause of freedom and liberty."

She paused, then smiled. "You have all been aware that you have been tested constantly so far during your training. There are many reasons, of course, but one of the minor ones is for what is going to happen now. Based upon your total performance you have been rated and scored. All of you have passed every evaluation, or else you would not be here today. No specific fighter has yet been assigned to any of you, ladies and gentlemen. That will change shortly." she swiveled on her heal to face another of the trainers. "Lieutenant Atkinson, preoare to call the roll!"

She then turned back to the cadets. "When your name is called, you will step forward and indicate your preference in your assigned fighter. At which time you will meet your ground crew and they shall appropriately stencil your name on your fighter." a slight smile, eyes twinkling just slightly. "Nose art has been authorized, and your crew chief will be prepared to discuss your options. Lieutenant? Call the roll."

The roll was so called: Beta Flight won the first four craft, having the best average scores. Klavon was happy to hear his name called next, though he wondered if Ésmée deserved it more, seeming the most natural pilot.
He was brought to his ASF-X, where a waiting crew was standing in LFC uniform, save for the Zohan and Bofors representatives that were finishing the training of the crew team. Dark-skinned Sergeant Ray Cullins spoke with a drawl that reminded Klavon of recordings he'd heard of the legendary musician Ray Charles, his team consisting of one woman, a Frenchwoman named Anna, and two more Americans, Josh and Calvin. The Bofors man was a trained technician who helped in the nuts-and-bolts level of the design, Gustav Haakonssen, and the Zohan female was a three and a half foot tall bundle of energy named Adi'tal.

As he watched they painted his name via stencil onto the craft, Cullins putting on the final, proud touch. For nose art it came down to a shark mouth or eagle head, and he chose the eagle. As the crew began applying it under Cullins' skilled, watchful eye, Lt. Atkinson's voice called everyone back to formation.

They marched off to the classrooms, peeling off by sections as the days groundschool work began, intense training on procedures and operational details. Time seemed to drag, but finally Hecate marched them back to the flightline. Each of the Sleipnr's now sported it's new noseart, along with the stencilled names of the pilots. The flight peeled off into the ready room, changing into freshly issued flight suits, each with their name and the squadron emblem neatly embroidered on the breast. Then back outside to the fighters.

The Sleipnr's had been moved somewhat, now they were clustered in groups of five, the four trainee's and the trainer's own bird. Hecate's sported her kill markers underneath her stencilled name, and had a garishly painted tiger's mouth snarling around the nose. Tiny licks of flame curled around the muzzles of each of the coilguns. Otherwise, her fighter was painted a pitch black. Hers had by far the most detailed paintjob on the flightline, but then again she was not only the seniormost pilot present, she was also the highest rated ace of them all. Unlike the mixed flight crews of the other squadrons fighters, hers, like the other trainers, had full Bofors/Zohan crews and no trainee's at all.

"Gather up, people" she said waving for the four trainee's to gather around her. "Remember how I told you about callsigns? Well, it's time for you to pick 'em, usually I would bestow it on you, but I'm going to let you do it, in a normal training cycle I'd have a couple months to come up with something suitable, and you kids are going straight into the fire out of training." her voice was serious as she caught each of the four trainee's eyes for a moment. "I told you to think hard on it, you know my callsign is Hellcat, so none of you can have that one" a brief smile, eyes dancing for a moment.

Most of them chuckled, and a couple had not yet made full decisions. Klavon, however, had, and was the first to speak. "Hunter".
"Esprit," Ésmée said. "Spirit."
"Bronco," Megan said with a wide grin. She looked to Michel, who still seemed uncertain. "Well, pick something farmboy. Something to do with the ground, I'd say." Giving him a playful elbow to the ribs, she added, "Given how you're built, I'd say 'Rock', but I'm not sure that'd fit with however your French mind thinks."
At that, Michel merely shrugged, and looking at Hecate said, "I'll take Rock, then."

"Very well." Hecate replied, smiling. "Remember, once you put your hand on the bird, you are known by your callsign." she straightened up, smile fading. "This will just be a basic familiarization flight, up, around the circuit, and back down. This afternoon we will go exo-atmospheric for the first time, and begin manuever training."

She turned and headed towards her fighter, the trainee's heading towards theirs as well. "Hunter, Esprit, Bronco, Rock... fair winds" she called out as they reached the ladders leading to the cockpits.

Several minutes later, following the preflight, the Sleipnr's taxied out to the active runway behind Bravo Flight, and minutes later were in the air.

[Burak Gazan]

Why do I get the feeling that the Battle of Starbase 39 will be a strategic disaster for the feds?

And will the House of Quark manage to blunder into saving Gowron's bacon? That would be worth paying real money to see


Great stuff

[Steve]

Space Station Deep Space Nine, Near the Bajoran Wormhole
Bajoran Home System, Republic of Bajor
Universe Designate ST-3
30 March 2166 AST
22 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The sight of the majestic space station shining the light of Bajor's moon off of it's light gray and white armor exterior was a welcome sight to Quark as their privately-chartered freighter pulled up toward the station. Built by Alliance companies as the Bajor Orbital Station after the Winter War, the Orbital Station had been redesignated Deep Space Nine by the Federation following their assignment to command the station under the terms of the Oakland Treaty a year after the war, and it was here, on the frontlines of the future war with the Dominion, that Starfleet officer Benjamin Sisko had made his name.
Even after twelve years Quark often found himself compared Deep Space Nine to the Cardassian Terok Nor. Terok Nor had been dark and ugly, with razor-sharp edges in the design, and of course, the outer docking ring including those six massive pylons for large ships, three pointing "up" and three pointing "down", the pylons dwarfing in height the inner hull of the station and the Habitat Ring. Deep Space Nine resembled this superficially: there was an inner hull that possessed the station's power reactors and other equipment, lockers for station equipment, the hydroponics chamber, and the newer, larger, four level Promenade, with an observation deck further up for the station's military command and a CIC deeper in the core for military commands (Quark had seen this "CIC" before, being such an esteemed civilian of the station, and he remembered how different it seemed from the Cardassian Ops). There was also the habitat ring, but this one was larger, "thicker", than Terok Nor's, with larger suites and recreational facilities such as tennis and basketball courts.
But there the similarities ended. Deep Space Nine didn't have a docking ring with pylons, but rather four "docking arms" extending out from the habitat ring along which ships could either dock directly or with extendable airlock tubes Landing pads that retracted into internal bays were available along the top of the arms for smaller vessels, such as the Federation runabouts that used to be assigned to the station. At the end of the arms, each of which extending out a kilometer from the station core, were docking pylons that extended upward for large vessels to dock in; either multiple smaller ones or, in some situations, a superdreadnought-sized ship occupying a single pylon.

Quark watched a pair of sleek Bajoran starfighters zip by on peacetime patrol, coming from the "underside" of the central core, as the freighter approached Docking Bay 1-34 on Docking Arm 1. A thump through the ship confirmed that the modular airlock on the station had fitted itself to the freighter's bow airlock and had latched tightly on. At that moment, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Over two weeks of tension, of zig-zagging across the Ferengi Alliance and non-aligned space, had brought them here. Five close calls, each seemingly closer than the earlier ones, had nearly brought their doom. Rom's distraction plan had bought them the hours they needed; they had in fact been tracking no less than eight Ferengi Marauders or other clearly piratical vessels pursuing them hotly as they crossed into Cardassian space; only four of those dared to enter afterward, and challenges from the patrolling ships of the fledgling Cardassian Republican Navy and the Alliance Stellar Navy had sent the others scurrying.

"It's nice to be home," Quark muttered as he left the freighter bridge and headed to the cargo bay, where Rom, Ishka, and Maihar'du waited with him to arrange the transfer of the Grand Nagus' body to the station. As he went, Quark allowed himself a small smile. Hoo-mans were always suckers for good adventure stories, and he wondered how long it'd be until he could sell this one to some intrepid Human holovid producer to adapt into a movie or some other of merchandisable media.... media that granted royalties.
The smile grew. Perhaps some profit would come from this adventure after all....


Another old denizen of DS9 who had just made his return was standing at the Promenade's fourth level, looking out a window at the milling traffic around the station and heading toward the wormhole. The wormhole flashed to life in front of his eyes and swallowed a Taloran freighter whole, the ship on its way to the other side of the galaxy.
"It's beautiful," Cordelia Muller said in awe, a hint of German in otherwise flawless English. "Even more than you said it'd be."
The reply from Jake Sisko was to squeeze her hand a bit tighter. "I thought you'd say that."
"This place, Jake, to think you grew up here...! It's just, so much different from Tharkad. So much energy, so many aliens and different kinds of people!" Cordelia looked back to the Promenade, and the four levels of residents and guests bustling about on their daily routines. "I wish I could have been here with you."

"You are now," he answered. Cordelia saw that he was acting a little nervous, though she didn't know why. And she certainly didn't see his knees start to wobble. "I... I had thought a lot about this, but after everything that happened on Earth and the war and everything, I... wanted to bring you here."
"Why?" She looked at him quizzically. A smile crossed her face.
And as she expected, Jake went to one knee and presented a ring.

The resulting question was mostly unnoticed by the passers-by, and Jake barely managed to get them out, but Cordelia happily proclaimed, "Yes!" and embraced him tightly. She took the ring and slipped it on her hand before kissing him.
It was about that time that they heard the clapping behind them. The sight of the uniformed red-headed Bajoran woman and, beside her, a man with a strange appearance to his face - his nose and mouth non-descript and his eyes in hollows on his head - made Cordelia look bewildered for a moment, until Jake got back up and said, "Um, Colonel Kira, Constable Odo, it's... um... hello."
"We didn't want to interrupt the moment," Kira said with a pleased grin on her face. She extended a hand and added, "Congratulations, Jake. Who's the lucky girl?"
"This is Cordelia, Cordelia Muller," Jake added. "Her father works with the Lyran government's press relations office, I met her on Tharkad while I was a correspondent there. Cordelia, this is..."
"Colonel Kira Nerys and Constable Odo," Cordelia answered. "Jake's told me about all of the people here on DS9."
"I'm sure he has," Kira remarked. "It's nice to meet you, Cordelia. I hope I can make it to the wedding."
"We still have to plan that, obviously, but if New Orleans isn't available, I hope to be hosting you at my uncle's estate on Tharkad. It is beautiful...."



The conversation lasted long enough, but duty finally called Kira and Odo away, though they took to sharing a turbolift ride to the station's observation deck. "I think Sisko will like her, don't you Odo?" Kira finally asked.
"Oh, I suppose," he replied. "Human marriage proposal traditions just don't make much sense to me. They do them on the Promenade, in Quark's or their favorite restaurant, in some secluded corner of the habitat rang.... even in the holosuites. There's no regularity to them, no defined order. I prefer the Bajoran tradition.... even if the Cardassian way of courting is probably the most honest."
Kira chuckled at that.

They arrived on the observation deck. Bajoran crewmen and women and an officer sat at various places and conducted the station's traffic. Kira walked off to the side and her office as Station Commander, which was furnished spartanly; Odo approved of that, of course. It wasn't entirely empty, of course, and her desk had a couple pictures and images of her and Shakaar, and one of Sisko when she went with him to attend what for Sisko had been a happy, momentous day: the day he'd been asked to throw the ceremonial first pitch of the very first season game of the Bajoran Baseball League. It was here, while Kira settled into her seat, that Odo finally asked the question, "Have you heard from Sisko lately?"
Kira shook her head. "My channels to him aren't saying anything. He can't be reached by standard commlines at all, and technically even talking to him might not sit well with the government. They're still on the fence about the whole thing."
"It've noticed that a lot of governments find dealing with revolts distasteful, no matter what they think of who's being revolted from," Odo answered. "Though I think you'd be safe on the matter. Most Bajorans, including those in the government, have made their leanings pretty clear."
"I know, which is why I wasn't afraid of talking to him about the time he got to Trill. But now? I don't even think Jake can reach him."
"And what this means should be obvious."
"Yes, it is," Kira said. Taking in a breath and leaning forward in her chair, Kira added a confession. "And there are times, Odo, that I wish I was out there with him."
At that, Odo nodded in understanding. Every long-time member of the Deep Space Nine crew had that loyalty for Sisko, even if he hadn't set foot on the station in four years. "If it makes you feel any better, Nerys, I sometimes feel the same way."
"I suppose all we can do is pray, then..." Kira let the sentence trail off, and swiveled her chair to look out at the stars, wondering which one, if visible, would be the one that Sisko fought the coming battle at.

[Steve]

South of town down the Emmitsburg Road
The First Corps are starting to show
For Buford's men, they're here just in time
The desperate need to strengthen the line

Bodies dropping, the Blue and the Gray
Muskets fire and the cannon blaze
The Union fights defending the town
But they're outnumbered and losing ground

From the north and the west more Rebels arrive
Thousands more and the fight multiplies
McPherson's Ridge and the Black Hats strike
A Rebel sharpshooter takes Reynold's life!

"The Devil to Pay; Gettysburg Day 1" by Iced Earth



Chapter 4 - The Field of Titans



U.C.S. Indefatigable, En Route to Gamma Skelis
Colonial Space
1 April 2166 AST
24 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


Over the course of his time on the Indefatigable, Sisko had gotten used to the environment of the ship. The halls were narrower than on Starfleet ships, the equipment better organized, the bunkings at times making even the Defiant seem luxurious.
And, of course, the fact that the bridge was hardly the nerve center of the ship, but rather simply a navigation aid; the real nerve center on the Indefatigable was the CIC buried in her armored inner keel, where the ship's commander and his immediate subordinates guided the operation of the ship. Even then the operation of the ship was far more diverse, with independent stations not just for engineers but for the gunnery crew as well, who aided in the control and use of the mammoth 310mm particle cannons that served as the primary armament of the ship.
As it was, Sisko typically commanded from a second chamber within the command keel, a special wardroom made capable of supporting fleet command. Communication stations independent of the ship proper allowed real-time automated and non-automated communication with the entire fleet while a large holotank and subsidary displays permitted constant updating on fleet positions, orientations, and status. Replicators provided coffee or tea in abundance for Sisko and his officers and assistants, as well as the occasional light snack.

"I'm not liking this position," Sisko said. He used his control to focus the main holotank on Sector 89 and the 4th Colonial Fleet, under Admiral Bethany Poul. The mixed force of sixty Alliance-built ships and four hundred twenty "indigenious" vessels (Starfleet vessels or original Colonial designs of the past couple of years, which tended to mix Starfleet and non-Starfleet paradigms) was faced by the Federation 19th Fleet; qualitively the two forces were equal, but Sisko's information showed that the 19th was commanded by Vice Admiral T'Rela, and he was quite aware of the Vulcan admiral's tactical capability. "The 19th Fleet is not as bad as it looks on paper and their commander is one of the best to not defect to our side. I want Admiral Poul to re-station her fleet at Stru'par, so that the 5th Fleet can support her from Antares if T'Rela acts."
"Sir, that would effectively surrender Sector 89," one of his subordinates, Commander Rachel Smythe of the Royal Anglian Navy, complained. "The Anglian Fleet would be put at risk."
"T'Rela's not the aggressive type," Sisko replied. "She knows that the main hammer blow is going to come down on Janeway and that if she sends her fleet forward and Janeway loses her fleet bases and supply routes will be in jeopardy. She's going to conserve and await either instructions from Starfleet Command or for our attack to fail. Nevertheless, have Admiral Poul maintain as well as patrol pattern in Sector 89 as she can from Stru'par. If T'Rela acts, those pickets could warn her in time to call the Anglian fleet and 5th Fleet to her aid."
The orders went out, though it would be hours before they were confirmed as being enacted and thus reflected on the holotank. Though Sisko had briefly looked away from his immediate environs for the task of making sure the strategic plan he had crafted with Ross was kept, he now turned his attention to the subject at hand.

Gamma Skelis was the forward base from which Sisko and his Battle Fleet would launch itself at the Federation 4th Fleet at Starbase 39. From this position Sisko could threaten both Starbase 39 and 62, forcing Janeway to stay alert and position herself to face either threat.
But the true key to the battle was nowhere near Gamma Skelis. Sisko would attack, and would land hard at Starbase 39.... but only after Ross had sent the other fleets into action. The main holotank showed their current positions. 1st Fleet, comprised of the Alpha Quadrant side's best available ships beyond Sisko's own elite Battle Fleet, was set to make a sudden movement from the current fleet base at Starbase 51 toward Starbase 46, threatening all of Sector 82, which at the moment was only guaranted by a portion of Milne's shattered 15th Fleet, now under Admiral Mainz according to their intelligence; beyond then, the shattered remnants of 8th Fleet and the partially assembled 6th Fleet were confronted by 3rd Fleet under Admiral Dularis, a citizen of the richest Centauran charter colony government and a Christopher Pike Medal of Honor recepient from the Dominion War. Sisko did not envy the Federation forces in Sector 85.
On the other side of the quadrant lay the 7th Fleet. The best ships from New Hollandia, Pacifica, Thu'tasskia, and Gol'rutor were assembled to strike toward the heart of the Federation itself, starting with Starbase 19 and the 10th Fleet that had already been bested once by the Beta-side Colonial forces. They served the linchpin to Sisko's plan; if they fell on Starbase 19 just as Sisko launched his attack, he was banking that the implied threat to the Core Worlds, and perhaps Earth itself, would provoke Milano and the others to hold 1st and 3rd Fleet in reserve and not release them to aid Janeway. By the time the Federation realized that the Beta side attack was a true diversion, Sisko would be triumphant, a quarter of Loyalist territory would be severed from the rest of the Federation, and the Colonials on the Alpha side would have time to consolidate their gains and improve their defensive positions before overstretch kicked in. At that point, it would become a waiting game, with the Colonials firmly gripping the Federation's throat.
Or so was the plan, but as the saying went, plans never survived contact with the enemy. And Sisko and his subordinates (and superiors) would inevitably have to change things. He just hoped that even if the details changed, the result would be the same; the Colonials in the dominant position while the Federation choked to death without the resources to fuel the domestic system. Inevitably, the Idealogues would make peace and allow the worlds independence even if it meant the long-term destruction of their system, as they were typically only concerned with the short-term.
Staring at the holotank, Sisko affixed his eyes to the marker for Starbase 39, and wondered what Kathryn Janeway would be planning for their coming battle.



U.S.S. Inaieu, Near Starbase 39, New Myrtle System
Federation Space


"Admiral on deck!" the youthful voice called out from the sensor station, and all the spines on the bridge of the mammoth Defender-class became straight and erect when the newly-minted Vice Admiral Kathryn Janeway made her way onto the bridge. Her brown hair, colored with a tinge of red, was done up in a bun so as to remain regulation length. Her movements were stiff and disciplined; Janeway's reputation as a by-the-book commander had preceded her, and all of the female officers present had ensured their hair was also cut or bunned to regulation.
The Iniaeu's arrival had reassured Admiral Keller on Starbase 39 and the other officers and crew of 4th Fleet. The behemoth looked powerful even when her appearance was still like that of a ship from Kirk's era - and indeed, it was that which helped her seem so powerful. Quantum torpedo launchers and phaser cannons bristled upon her hull, and she looked for all intents and purposes just as mighty as any of the Alliance's superdreadnoughts, even if her mass was barely that of a small battleship for other universes.
Now Janeway, after finishing deliberations with Admiral Keller and arranging for her staff to move off of the Magellan-class Challenger to the new flagship, had herself come over. Behind her was Captain Julia Treila, a woman of Betazoid and Human heritage, who would serve as the ship's CO. "At ease," Janeway said upon reaching the rear of the bridge. Every officer and hand on deck turned to her, seeing it was her intent to speak.

"I'm going to make this short, since we have a lot of work ahead of us. Some of you are fresh out of the Academy. Some of you are transfers from other ships. You've never worked together before. But now you're going to have to. Especially against this enemy."
Janeway kept her eyes on all of them before continued. "We're not fighting the Romulans or the Dominion or any other great threat that the Federation has dealt with in these past years. We're fighting ourselves. Some of you may even have old comrades on the other side, comrades you still consider friends or acquaintances, maybe even as close as brothers or sisters. Those of you who are veterans of the service may even feel you owe your life to someone over there." There was an edge to her voice as she said these things. "I am in that same boat. And I know the feelings you're having. 'Is this right?' 'Can I help kill my friends?' I know all too well."
"We all swore our oathes to Starfleet, to the Federation. Your friends have either left Starfleet or have abandoned it, betrayed it, without regard for the oath they made to it and to you. I'm sure they think they're doing the right thing, even if they're not. But in doing so they've made themselves the enemy. You are not to blame for what's coming; they are. All of this blood is on their hands, not your's. You need to remember that as you go about doing your duty and fulfilling the oath you've made."
"I'm not asking you to hate them. Hate is, after all, beneath a Starfleet officer. I'm not asking you to be angry with them or to think negatively of them in any way. They are the enemy, it is as simple as that. And you have your duties to perform even if it means their death. Do those duties, and it is more likely you'll be the ones going home to your families, not dying in space or being sent off to a penal facility."
"We are all loyal sons and daughters of the Federation. We believe in the promise it holds and have not lost faith in that. And very soon, we will be required to defend the Federation from the enemy, and the Federation only asks of you that your faith be kept. After all, if we don't have our faith in the ideals of the Federation.... what have we become but just another society, another government, kept together by force of arms or anachronistic nationalism? Centuries of progress are at risk here, and it is up to you to take up that fight, even though it means going up against old comrades and friends. Honor them by keeping the faith that they lost, and hoping for the day when they will see the error of their ways and re-embrace the Federation."
"That is all. You may now return to your duties."

The bridge crew returned to their work immediately, as if she had never come. Janeway observed this and left silently. She had needed to say this not just for their benefit but for her's, to hear once again the sweet voice of reason that tore at her. After all, was Voyager still not her ship? Her crew, which she had guided back on that long journey from the other side of the galaxy? Their defection had wounded her, and over the months since she had literally gone through the stages of grief until she came to acceptance of that fact; they had made their decision, and they bore that responsibility. It hurt to think that the people she'd lived and worked beside in so many crises could die at her command, but that was simply a possibility that had to be lived with.
Whatever came, Janeway knew she could never turn on the Federation. And she never would.

[lord Martiya]

I'm thinking that Janeway could be ruthless enough to destroy an entire planet without order if this would destroy the Voyager...

[fgalkin]

I'm thinking that Janeway could be ruthless enough to destroy an entire planet without order if this would destroy the Voyager...

What? She's not trying to destroy the Voyager. And besides, how the fuck will she "destroy a planet" anyway?

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

[lord Martiya]

I said that she could be ruthless enough, not that she can.

[Steve]

U.S.S. Tyrhennian, In Deep Space, Sector 78
Federation Space
5 April 2166 AST
28 October 2380 ST-3 Calendar


The Tyrhennian trudged along at Warp 8, the maximum speed that the Freedom-class cruisers could sustain. On the bridge, Captain Johnathan Samuels stared blanky at the viewscreen. "Any word from the Tallis VI station, Lieutenant?"
The Benzite male at operations - a Lieutenant Kornel - shook his head. "None sir."
"I don't like this," Samuels muttered to his Vulcan XO, Lt. Commander Supek, who looked non-plussed as ever. "We're far enough from the front that the patrols should've picked up anyone coming over in more than enough time to warn Tallis VI."
"Perhaps the attacker is cloaked," Supek suggested calmly.
"The Tallis VI facility was subterrenean and shielded, they'd have gotten a message out before any attacker could penetrate the protective field and surface."
At that Supek went silent, and Samuels remained figidity and concerned for the duration of the trip.

The Tyrhennian emerged from warp almost into orbit of the rocky, desolate planet; under the volcanic surface was a Starfleet sector communications facility build during the Dominion War when, for a brief time, the Dominion advance threatened the area. "Sir, the cavern complex is showing only some life signs and no power output," the Tellarite at sensors - Lieutenant Rutork - replied. "The facility has effectively been destroyed."
"Any sign of the attackers?"
"No.... wait a minute... I'm detecting some form of interference coming up through the planet's atmosphere, on a direct intercept course."
"On screen."

The viewscreen of the Tyrhennian's bridge switched to a close view of orbit, and streaks of red coming up from the atmosphere. At Samuels' command the view was magnified, and everyone stared.
They weren't aerospace fighters, runabouts, or shuttles; the contacts were actually humanoid in appearance, large and clearly metallic flight suits of some form with rounded shapes and yellow dotted single eyes, save for three contacts; two were definitely sleaker, with a pair of green eyes instead, and one was a red figure with a single green eye on its metallic head.
"Those can't be MWB-32 model BattleMechs adapted for aerospace flight, can they?" Samuels asked.
"Highly implausible," Supek replied. "Base technology in MWB-32 is too primitive to accomplish such a feat, and most non-indigenious technological upgrades to their BattleMechs have been in the form of weaponry and protection. Their aerospace fighters render such devices as these moot... as they would anyway, because I am unconvinced of the feasibility of such craft."
"Well, they look mighty feasible to me right now, Supek," Samuels replied sarcastically, watching the humanoid forms finish leaving Tallis VI's atmosphere. "Mr. kornel, check the registry, there's got to be something.... and Mister Fisher, lock weapons."
There was an affirmation. A few moments later Lieutenant Fisher, the young man at tactical, reported, "Sir, I'm having trouble locking on. There's some form of interference with the conventional tactical sensors..."
"Switch to other sensors," Samuels ordered.
"Aye sir..... subspace sensors are penetrating the interference. Locking phasers and preparing photon torpedoes..."
"Sir, the registry has come up with a match..." Kornel looked at it closely, and hs huffed in a way that blew a puff of smoke-like air from his breathing apparatus. "I've never heard of Universe GA-18."

"Lieutenant?"
"Contacts are in the registry as devices from Universe GA-18, but we only have basic statistics on them. Something called a 'Mobile Suit', with various model numbers and designations...."
"Sir, they're firing!"
The ten targets on their screen split up and came at the [i}Tyrhennian[/i] at different angles. Each brought up a large weapon - literally a gun equivalent for their humanoid forms - and opened fire. Energy blasts from different angles struck the Tyrhennian's shields, feedback making the ship rumble. "Shields holding, 96%," Fisher reported.
"Evasive Pattern Gamma 5, Mr. Selek," Samuels ordered, and the young Vulcan man at the helm began the evasive maneuver pattern immediately.

Tyrhennian pulled away from orbit partially, twisted, and changed it's orientation relative to Tallis VI. The foes facing it kept maneuvering around, avoiding the phaser blasts lashing out at them and twisting around the photon torpedoes. "Mr. Fisher, problems?"
"I don't know, sir," Fisher replied, sweat on his brow as he kept up his firing. "I'm... I'm getting hard locks, but they're maneuvering too sharply.... sometimes after I fire on the lock. It's almost like they know where I'm shooting..."
"Keep firing, Mister Fisher..." Suddenly the ship shook hard. "Report!"
"Shields down to 60%! One of those things has some form of missile pack carrying anti-matter missiles," Fisher reported, his nervousness now clearly getting the better of him. His fingers flew over his console rapidly as he frantically tried to shoot down the attacking enemies. A couple of times hits succeeded, but energy shielding on the strange humanoid craft protected them.

As Samuels made the order to escape at warp, a violent rocking nearly tossed him out of his chair. "What the....?"
A look at a status display showed a particular streak of red on the ship's hull integrity reading, but Samuels didn't have time to mentally digest this before Kornel confirmed it. "Shield failure in port aft quadrant! One of the enemy contacts slipped into the shield gap and has used some form of weapon on our nacelle py...." A second, even more vicious rocking sent sparks flying from consoles due to feedback and actually threw bridge crew out of their chairs. "Hit on the port nacelle! The warp coils are out, plasma leekage.... we have no warp!"

Samuels forced himself back into his seat. "Impulse?!"
"We have taken damage to the impulse drives, Captain, we don't have enough power to escape Tallis VI's gravitational field," was Selek's answer. The ship shook again, but not as violently this time. "I will endeavor to put us into orbit, but unless impulse power is restored within four hours our orbit will begin to decay."
By then Samuels noticed the shaking had stopped, and Fisher gave the report, "Enemy withdrawing.... I think I've managed to hit one of them!"
Fisher brought it up on screen. One of the less-sleek looking suits, with a curved, bulbous head and a single yellow "eye", was indeed missing a leg and an arm and looked badly damaged, and two of the others had latched onto it and were retreating with it. Samuels could probably have had all three destroyed, but the speed and strength of the onslaught had rattled him thoroughly, and he imagined that killing those three would just bring the other seven back for blood and lead to his ship being completely destroyed. And his crew was not worth that meager success. "Let them go," he muttered. "Mister Kornel, send out a distress signal and get me engineering...."
"Sir, subspace is being jammed," Kornel replied.
Yes, and it probably will be until they get out of range Samuels thought in irritated reply. "See if you can find the source, maybe we can at least find out if they have a mother ship and what kind of vessel it is."


One Night Stand, Tallis System


The One Night Stand spent the battle hiding on the other side of Tallis VI under cloak, and was now in the midst of recovering the ten mobile suits that had been sent from their complement of thirty. The ship was an older Earth-built cargo carrier from Universe EM-5 with a black market Klingon cloaking device slapped on for stealth and, even better, its own hyperspace jump engine, added to it by the Proxima 3 underground that had used the ship to smuggle goods to Babylon-5 back in the days of the Earth Civil War. Its name was as new as its current purpose, the product of the forty-something year old man standing on a catwalk over the large cargo bay converted into the mobile suit hanger, his wiry figure silhouetted in shadow behind him. Adam Pournelle, the commander and owner of the vessel (and the one who named it, obviously) brushed a lock of wild, unkept dark blond hair out of his blue eyes. He was in jeans and a dirty blue shirt with a brown jacket over it bearing an Earthforce patch, reminiscent of his old Earthforce days from just after the Earth Civil War until he left following the curing of the Drakh plague and, after that, the opening of the Multiverse.
"It went well, I see," a slightly accented voice said from behind him. Adam turned his head in time to see Ventri, a young Centauri who compensated for his middling birth with a defiantly-high crest of hair. Ventri looked down at them. "You know, how you act toward them reminds me a bit of how you once acted around me. They're not telepaths, Adam."
"I know, Vent, I know. It's just that.... don't you ever get the feeling that they're reading your mind? That they know what you're going to do before you do?"
"Well, sometimes," Vent replied. "They have that aura to them, I can't place it. They're not telepaths, but I don't think they're baseline either.... and I can use the word 'mundane' if it'll make you feel better," he added with a chuckle.
"Cute." Adam looked back down. Vent followed his gaze to a red-suited pilot who'd just jumped down from one of the unique "mobile suits", the one painted all-red. The pilot was wearing shades that hid his eyes, but his locks of blonde hair were more easily visible. He walked up to some of the other pilots, a few looking almost adolescent in age, and began speaking to them. "That one especially creeps me out. I tell ya, Vent, there are times I wish I hadn't accepted the contract."

Vent smirked. "I told you anyone willing to pay you in untracable and easily-laundered Centauri ducats was offering a nasty job, but you wouldn't listen to me."
"Eh, at the time I was just thinking of getting my own ship," Adam confessed. "And when this mess is over and I haul these people back home to GA-18, we've got an entire multiverse to ourselves." He heard a beep from the wall and walked over to the intercom.
A female voice from the bridge said, "Captain Adam, we've recovered all the mobile suits. We've locked onto the interphasic beacon system and are ready to return to hyperspace."
"Then let's get back to base and the hell out of here," Adam answered. He felt the old ship turn with her maneuvering engines and a thrum fill the deckplates and catwalk. The jump engine came alive, and ahead of them a swirling blue vortex opened in the fabric of space. The Centauri helmsman, one of Vent's old friends, fired the main engines and accelerated the One Night Stand back into hyperspace, on a beacon course back to Colonial territory and, probably soon afterward, their next attack.

[Alan Bolte]

That was...weird. It's a big multiverse, I guess. I'd gotten used to the idea that it's mostly just Star Trek, B5, MechWarrior, the Talorans, and a few others.

[lord Martiya]

I suppose there's also Gundam. Was Char Aznable the pilot of the red MS?

[Steve]

That was...weird. It's a big multiverse, I guess. I'd gotten used to the idea that it's mostly just Star Trek, B5, MechWarrior, the Talorans, and a few others.

As I just stated on SB, when we were discussing the composition of the Multiverse it was decided to add some fictional universes so that not every universe was either a generic advanced sci-fi verse or an alternate history of Earth. UC Gundam was one of them.

[lord Martiya]

And a Char-manned mobile suit is appeared in this chapter, isn't it?

[PainRack]

Steve, bless you for introducing our next crack fix.

Wonderful story as always, now if I can only find the thread where you posted the backstory about the Federation so I can refresh myself on the details........