The Latest Harken Story: Welcome to the Jungle

You want action? Humour? Sex? Politics? Romance? Klingons? Felinoids? Let's see what we can do...

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5 - Conclusion

Welcome to the Jungle - Part 5

“Auto Destruct in three seconds… two seconds… one second...”

Shadoweye raised his muzzle and howled to the Gods, the rest of his crew on the Bridge joining in. The Clan of the Coiled Southern River Pride was about to join the Great Hunt!

Seconds passed.

Then more.

Shadoweye glanced down, his tail twitching. The Auto Destruct had reached Zero. But nothing had happened. They still lived! Why?

One of his Technicians rushed up to a console, paws moving furiously over the controls. “No...”

Shadoweye looked to him. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

Second Technician looked up at him, already wincing at the reaction he would get from his Captain when he reported what he had learned. “The- The Starfleeters- they had left the Auto Destruct sequence seemingly intact, active, accessible… but had disabled the detonators themselves. They made us think we could destroy ourselves, but- but-”

“But we never could,” Shadoweye finished blankly, turning back to the viewscreen. “They had tricked us… tricked me.” He glanced down at the displays.

They had reached the point of no escape.

*

“Now, Captain,” Haluk confirmed.

Mistry nodded, already feeling the increasing pressure of the gravimetric forces outside. “Lt Ross! Veer off, head back towards our sister ships, full impulse! Now!”

*

“Now!” Wixtar ordered.

Nola opened the rear entrance doors.

She stood up on the right side, with Granch and T’Shak covering the left, all three of them firing at the huge figures, even as the Kzinti roared, some of them charging in the opposite direction, to fall under a volley of phaser beams from Wixtar’s Security team, to judge from the sounds Nola heard.

Closer still, one last Kzin charged, faster than she had ever seen anything move, burst past her and the others and into the Radio Shack.

She fired at him again, even to the point of singeing his fur. But he kept going, until he dropped to his paws and knees, looking up at S’Li, baring his teeth, his voice like dirt shovelled into a grave. “T-Traitor- Pet Cat to the Monkeys- I’ll- I’ll kill-”

S’Li raised his blade. But didn’t bring it down on him.

He didn’t have to. The last Kzin finally fell, and was still.

*

On the Reykjavik, Trujillo watched as the last of the Raiders erupted, and breathed a sigh of relief… even as she accepted that with them, went any clues as to how they arrived and what they were using to gain such a tactical advantage over a ship as tough as nails as the Reykjavik. One job at a time, Nandi. You kick their asses, let others work out where their asses came from… “Hail the Tico, send Captain Demlin my compliments. Security status, Mr Glal?”

“All Kzinti onboard accounted for and secured… one way, or the other.”

“And what’s the status of the Harken?”

“On its way to join us, Ma’am… and recommending we all get at least two light years away, in case their calculations are wrong.”

She nodded. “Well, let’s get going.”

*

On the Ticonderoga, Demlin leaned back, using proven meditative exercises to let his heart calm down. It helped that the battle was over, they had won, and now they could get out of this system, and, hopefully, survive whatever the pulsars do to those damned warheads.

His XO Commander Gabriel Saez drew up to him, his dark Mediterranean good looks making Demlin feel more than a little envious at times. “Captain, Damage Control is completing their work, and we are currently heading out of the system.”

Demlin nodded. “Excellent, Commander.” He waited for the younger man to return to his station.

But he didn’t. He stepped closer and lowered his voice now. “So… perhaps you can take the time to have a walking tour of the ship?”

Demlin frowned. “Walking tour?”

Saez nodded. “Perhaps you can start in Sickbay? See how Doctor sh’Nasa is doing?”

Demlin stared back, amused and annoyed by his XO’s less-than-subtle approach. “I’m fine, Commander. Really. There’s no need.”

His First Officer never budged.

“You’ve told her already,” Demlin prompted. “Haven’t you?”

Saez blushed.

Demlin rose. “I’m going to get you for this, Commander. Mark my words.”

*

A minute from the Slim Belly’s destruction, its sensors failed, leaving the screen in blackness. But they weren’t needed; the hull was making a constant mewl of protests at the unrelenting gravimetric pressures against it.

Everyone had taken their posts, to die at them, Shadoweye no different from the rest. But then his ears picked up a distant sound, above the rest, and he rose from his seat, looking to the door that led to his quarters. “Let her out.”

Third Technician, sitting closest to the door, obeyed, and the door slid open to release Shadoweye’s Female, who scurried out, frightened, confused, angry, all in equal measures that eclipsed each other. She hissed and yowled at the surrounding males.

Shadoweye made a noise, attracting her attention, and she rushed to him, clinging tightly for comfort, having no idea what was happening.

He knelt at the foot of his chair and wrapped his arms around her. He would take them all to the Gates, and ensure they all pass through to join the Great Hunt.

But he would stay behind, in the Endless Night… his punishment for leading the Coiled Southern River Pride, his Pride, to their destruction in this life. He would be lost. But it would be worth it. It would be worth it. It would be wo-

*

Between the binary pulsars, intense gravimetric torque ripped the Slim Belly apart, the pressures triggering a detonation of isolytic elements that ripped through the fabric of space, and into the subspace layers.

The rips spiralled out in the directions of the pulsars, fighting with the gravity wells of the stars for dominance, threatening to draw the two stars together in a collision unlike anything seen in this part of the Galaxy for aeons. In fact, the subspace tear did begin having an effect on them, pulling them together several kilometres, and slightly altering the frequency of the smaller of the pair.

In an astronomical survey conducted in the coming weeks, it would be confirmed that the rotation and the orbit of the smaller of the Xibalba pulsars had altered, and that it would eventually crash into the larger of the pulsars… in approximately nine thousand years.

*

In the Nipoc, Colonel Gentaq listened to the whine of the freighter’s engines as it continued to exceed their safety capacity, in an effort to escape the pursuing Starfleet vessels, who had somehow defeated the force of nine Kzinti raiders, who had appeared from nowhere. He listened less to the protests from the petaQ crew. Miserable scum-

“Colonel!” one of the scum barked, “We are receiving a transmission!”

“I have no interest in speaking with Starfleet.”

“It is not Starfleet! They claim to be… Moonfleet.”

Gentaq started. He had heard of them, in his bureaucratic capacity, but had assumed them to be more myth than man. He leaned back in the chair. “Put them through.”

Seconds later, the viewscreen changed from the aft image of the Starfleet vessels rapidly closing in on them, to a still image of a crescent moon, and a mechanical voice speaking. “Colonel Gentaq, I believe the transaction in the Xibalba system did not conclude fortuitously.”

The elderly Klingon made a harsh laugh. “That depends on your point of view, Whoever You Are. For the Kzinti, not so well. I, on the other hand-”

“You, on the other hand, are two minutes away from being intercepted by Starfleet, arrested, and having your hundred thousand bars of gold-pressed latinum confiscated. Unless, of course, you wish to make a deal with us.”

Gentaq grunted. “I don’t make deals with shadows and lore.”

“Colonel, we are all too real. You witnessed a demonstration of our capabilities today, in sending the Kzinti raiders across ten whole sectors to assist Captain Shadoweye.”

Now the Klingon laughed. “For all the good it did him! He’s dead, your ships destroyed-”

“And we would like to recover something from this day’s business, by offering you a chance to escape, using the same means that sent our ships to your part of the Galaxy. You will remain free.”

Gentaq stared hard at the screen. “I see. And what would be the price of your services?”

“All of your latinum.”

The Klingon rose to his feet. “You would take it all? Hab SoSlI’ Quch! I would sooner bend over and take it like a targ from Starfleet than accept such terms!”

There was a pause, before the Voice finally responded. “We anticipated such an attitude from you, Colonel… and have taken the latinum anyway.”

“WHAT?”

“We thought it would be a waste of valuable currency, given that your vessel’s antimatter containment field is about to collapse under the strain of extended travel at maximum warp.”

Gentaq’s jaw dropped. “You lie! YOU LI-”

*

“USS Harken, Captain’s Log, Stardate 2320.51, Captain Audea Mistry, Recording: We have departed the Xibalba system, and as my civilian specialist Mr Colossale had predicted, the controlled detonation of the isolytic warheads within the gravity vice of the binary pulsars contained the subspace tear.

The Klingon freighter that had delivered the warheads, the Nipoc, blew up while attempting to escape, and the Kzinti raiders that had appeared to engage us in battle were also destroyed. We have Kzinti prisoners from those ships, but none seem willing to speak about where they came from or where they obtained the advanced technology they displayed…. Except for one mention of an organisation I have heard about before: the ‘Moonfleet’.

My compliments to Captains Trujillo and Demlin for their invaluable support and expertise in making this mission successful.

But our victory has not been without cost. There have been numerous wounds suffered by our respective crews as a result of the Kzinti incursions… in the case of the Harken, a serious injury to Crewman Charles Sebastiere, who will be transported to Starbase 25 by the Ticonderoga to undergo extensive reconstructive surgery and therapy to deal with his physical and psychological trauma. And he won’t be the only one.

As for myself, I have never almost lost a crewman. My academic side wants to compartmentalise it all, wrap it in logic and store it away, neat as you please. That’s what my father would expect me to do… while also reminding me that I would never have had to face such burdens had I listened to him and taken that Chair at Oxford.

But at least there are people… new friends… I can talk to in confidence about it.”

*

Trujillo was pouring another shot of whiskey for them all. “You don’t ever really get over it, you know.” She nudged the shotglasses towards her fellow Captains around the table. “It’s always there, like a scar you never have removed.”

Demlin reached for his glass, cradling it in his fingertips without drinking. “Or want to. That’s the punishment you give yourself: the guilt. No matter the circumstances, whether or not you could have done anything differently to prevent it, when one of your crew is hurt… or killed… a part of you is, too.”

Mistry leaned back in her chair, leaving her glass untouched for now. “Still, I should have anticipated-”

“Anticipated what?” Trujillo countered. “That raiders would appear out of nowhere, using technology beyond anything we have to counter our shields, to beam through them and attack?”

“And remember,” Demlin pointed out. “Despite that, we succeeded. And without any of our side dying.”

Mistry considered the other Captains’ words. “I suppose that’s something.”

“It’s everything,” Trujillo amended. “Writing one of those letters to the next of kin is the harshest duty a Captain will have. Your crewman has suffered life-changing injuries…. but he’s still alive.”

Mistry finally nodded at that. “The so-called ‘Moonfleet’… this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered them, at least peripherally. They’re responsible for this, and for other events I’ve been involved in. I’m going after them.”

Trujillo smiled. “You think Starfleet Command will let you go a-hunting? They tend to frown on personal vendettas.”

Mistry smiled back, though hers took on a grimmer aspect. “I have some influence with the upper echelons.”

Demlin grinned. “You know where the bodies are buried, huh?”

“With my sensors, how could I not- oh, yes, that reminds me...” She lifted up her wrist communicator to her face. “Mistry to Dr Dzenabe: are you free?”

A gruff female voice responded, “What do you want?”

Mistry caught the look the other two Captains exchanged at the response, before she continued. “I want you and Dr Thizheris to study the current sensor and astrogation specifications of the Ticonderoga and the Reykjavik. See what software and hardware improvements the two of you can offer their Chief Engineers before they depart.”

The Wakandan woman grunted. “I doubt if their minions will fully appreciate our work, but… we will comply. Dzenabe out.”

Mistry lowered her arm. “Sorry about that.”

Trujillo smirked. “Is she a Tellarite, or just an ass?”

“She’s Wakandan royalty. But I suspect she would be an ass even if she wasn’t.”

“At any rate,” Demlin added, “Thanks for that, on behalf of myself and my minion.”

“And if you ever need any muscle to back you up again,” Trujillo added, “You have my number, as they used to say.”

“And mine,” Demlin confirmed, finally grasping his glass and raising it up. “Here’s to our crews: we’re nothing without them.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Trujillo confirmed, reaching for hers.

“So will I,” Mistry concluded.

*

Sebastiere blinked weakly as he looked up from the biobed, offering a slight smile; the colour had returned to his features, though the harsh lighting in Sickbay, and his semi-sedated state, lessened the improvement since Dr Morgan stabilised and cleaned up the wound.

Around him, Nola, T’Shak and Granch stood, maintaining calm composures as they spoke, Nola leading most of the conversation. “And Dr Morgan was saying that cybernetic limbs have come a long way since the early days of bionics, you can’t tell them from the real thing without a tricorder! Even you’ll forget!”

Sebastiere kept looking straight up at the ceiling. “Bet I don’t.”

The cold blankness of his response struck her, and Nola looked across at the others, prompting T’Shak to follow up with, “And I have promised to make your bunkmate feel like you are still present, by entering your quarters, randomly borrowing his personal items without asking, and making ribald comments about the physical attributes of certain female crewmembers.”

Granch, standing beside her, harrumphed. “She will obviously not have your natural Human flair for vexation, Charlie, but she’ll have to do.”

Sebastiere didn’t respond.

Nola glanced at the other two once more, before continuing with a tentative, “Listen, we’ll come see you again before they transfer you over to the Tico, okay?”

He remained silent.

At least, until they turned to leave. “You didn’t fire.”

She and the others stopped, turning back, Nola asking, “What?”

Now Sebastiere turned to look at her, his voice low, angry, his gaze unwavering. “You had your phaser out. But you didn’t fire. You let that... thing do this to me...”

He raised his right shoulder, and the empty sleeve in the medical tunic, in her direction.

Nola’s heart leapt into her throat, and her pulse trebled. She knew she had been startled, and then pulled away by S’Li before she could fire at first. But that didn’t mean she let them harm him! Did it? “N-No- I-”

“Charlie,” Granch said, in a gentle tone that belied his usual Tellarite bluster. “You can’t blame Nola- it wasn’t her fault-”

“You weren’t there,” he accused sharply.

“You are correct, Charles,” T’Shak admitted, sounding patient and sympathetic, but also resolute. “We were engaged with the Kzinti ourselves elsewhere. We experienced the speed and ferocity of their attacks. More experienced Security crewmen have already confirmed to us that we were all fortunate to have survived.”

Sebastiere let out a harsh sound, raising his voice. “Yeah, ‘fortunate’. I feel real fortunate right now, T’Shak! SO GODDAMN FORTUNATE!”

Then Dr Morgan approached, glancing with concern between his patient and his patient’s visitors, before suggesting to the latter, “Let’s give the man some rest, okay? He’s been through a lot.”

Nola stared at her friend on the biobed, wanting to stay, wanting to run away. She chose the second, hurrying down the corridor until her friends caught up with her, T’Shak stopping her in her tracks. “Nola… you cannot accept what he said as truthful. It is born of shock and fear and anger.”

“T’Shak’s right,” Granch agreed, resting a hoof on Nola’s shoulder. “He needs to lash out at someone. It could have been any of us.”

“But it was me,” Nola pointed out. “And he was right. I- I hesitated. It was only for a second… but it was enough for one of the Kzinti to- to do that to him.” Tears welled in her eyes, as did the events of the past day. “I-If I- I hadn’t-”

“There would have been no difference,” finished a new arrival.

The three crewmen straightened up as Captain Mistry approached, Nola wiping her face quickly and stammering, “C-Captain, I’m- I’m sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t mean to-”

“No difference, Crewman,” Mistry repeated evenly, folding her hands behind her but standing informally. “The standard phaser settings would not have stopped the Kzin… as you yourself discovered, when you found you had to shoot one more than once to have any appreciable effect.”

Nola stared up in disbelief at her superior officer. Was she right? She didn’t want to be excused so easily, and shook her head. “N-No, sorry, but you weren’t there, Ma’am-”

“No, but others were there, and provided accounts: your fellow crewmen behind you, Professor S’Li, Dr Leavitt-”

“N-No, they’re- they’re just trying to be nice-”

Mistry raised an eyebrow. “Dr Dzenabe’s account also corroborates the others’… and I don’t believe that at any point in her life she has ever been accused of being ‘nice’. And in fact it was noted how you took charge, making the recommendation to assist Security further in eliminating the remaining Kzinti threat, in order to get Mr Sebastiere medical aid.”

Nola swallowed, feeling her face burn, wiping her face again. Her voice cracked as she spoke again. “I- I was scared, Captain… I’m sorry, I was so scared-”

“A feeling we all shared,” T’Shak admitted softly behind her. “Even those of us in ostensible control of our emotions.”

“And a completely sensible feeling,” added a new arrival: S’Li, hobbling on his cane. “Under the circumstances, Young Cubs.”

“I don’t want fearless crew under me,” Mistry informed her softly. “Fearless people are idiots. They’re reckless. They make mistakes. They don’t care about the consequences, for themselves or others. Nor do I expect any of you to react instinctively, without training, to threats you never faced before, or expected to face.” Her expression sobered. “I wish none of you had to endure what you did. I wish I could promise to keep all of you safe. But I can’t. The uniform won’t allow that.”

“Life won’t allow it, Dear Captain.” S’Li drew up, leaning on his cane with both paws as he faced Nola. “I owe you an apology, Crewman Brice. You were perfectly right to admonish me as you did. You are not my grandcub, none of you are, and my actions and attitude undoubtedly exacerbated matters. I would like to make it up to you, by offering you some of my food synthesizer credits, to indulge yourselves as only cubs can.”

“Not just cubs, Professor,” Mistry noted dryly. “I’ve seen how much you consume.” The Captain straightened up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr Sebastiere, to discuss his imminent transfer to the Ticonderoga and relay to Starbase 25… and if he has anything else he wishes to talk about.” She started to depart.

Until Nola caught her. “Captain… if- when he recovers… will he be able to stay in Starfleet? Return to the Harken?”

Mistry looked to her. “Starfleet will not dismiss him because of his disability; I promise you that. And assuming he chooses to remain in Starfleet after this, Crewman, there will always be a place for him onboard our ship. And if he wants to go anywhere else, he’ll have my more-than-considerable influence behind him.” She nodded to the others. “If you’ll excuse me...”

As she departed for Sickbay, S’Li looked to the remaining crewmen. “Well, shall we repair to the Mess Hall? While healing the injuries inflicted upon me by my Kzin opponent, I was reliably informed by the esteemed Doctor Morgan that I need to lose weight, so I must live vicariously through all of you.”

T’Shak nodded. “Mr Granch and I must decline at this time, Professor; we are about to commence our duty shift in Engineering. Nola is free, however, but as a personal request from her bunkmate, who must share the same space with her, I ask that you try not to indulge her insatiable demand for burritos.”

As the Vulcan departed, Granch cackling and making raspberry sounds as he followed, S’Li looked to Nola. “Well, Crewman Brice? Shall we?”

She looked at him, her expression grave, and replied, “No.”

He blinked, looking stunned now. “No?”

She shook her head now. “No. Not unless you start addressing me properly. None of this ‘Crewman Brice’ crap.”

Then she hugged him tightly.

He hugged back, patting her on the shoulder, his repaired tail swishing happily behind him. “Thank you, Dear Cub. Thank you...”

THE ADVENTURES OF THE HARKEN WILL CONTINUE...

Welcome to the Jungle - Part 4

The second Kzin leapt in Nola’s direction.

This was it. She was going to die.

Until she wasn’t, as S’Li flung her to one side like a rag doll, the elderly Caitian baring claws and roaring as he torpedoed into the Kzin, both of them tumbling further out into the corridor. From the corner of her eye, she saw Leavitt and Dzenabe drag Sebastiere back into the Radio Shack, even as the first Kzin – still holding onto the young human’s severed, bloodied arm – turned to her now. “MEAT!”

Immediately she fired point blank. He was thrust backwards, hitting the wall… but remaining conscious, and enraged. And up for more.

She fired again, and again. The third shot set his fur on fire as he finally collapsed.

She turned to S’Li and the second Kzin, still grappling, as shards of fur and flesh and clothing scattered around them. She aimed again, but didn’t dare fire for fear of hitting S’Li. Instead she shouted, in the best commanding voice she could manage, “Get-Get off him! You’re under arrest!”

S’Li had her back to him, crouched over the Kzin.

There was a sharp snap. It made Nola jump.

The Caitian froze, breathing heavily, raggedly, before helping himself up. The Kzin he had fought lay still on the bulkhead.

“Professor?”

He kept his back to her, shaking his head, his tail hanging limply, broken, behind him, his clothes in tatters.

Before she could speak again, phaser fire from around the corridor drew her attention, and she raised her own weapon- until she saw and heard T’Shak and Granch racing in their direction, T’Shak shouting ahead, “INSIDE!”

Immediately Nola reached for S’Li, helping him up and back, the other crewmen fast behind, stopping inside and turning and firing behind them. Nola reached for the door controls, sliding them shut as she saw more Kzinti racing up, seemingly impervious to the phaser fire directed at them. They roared as the doors shut and locked, and their pounding could be heard through the metal.

Nola turned to her friends. “Are you two okay?”

The normally implacable Vulcan was shaken, and trickles of olive-green blood dribbled from claw marks on her cheek and throat; it was obvious that only the armour they all wore had saved her from more serious, even fatal wounds. “That… That is debatable.”

Granch wiped blood from his furry chin and grunted, “We’re alive. Better than the alternative.” Then he looked past Nola. “What the- Charlie?”

She turned, following their gaze to see Sebastiere on the floor of the Radio Shack, Thizheris, Dzenabe and Colossale surrounding him, with several kits opened at their sides. The small Fesarian passed a tricorder over the young human. “Massive trauma-he’s gone into deep shock-”

Thizheris and Dzenabe were modifying what looked like modular tractor clamp parts as used by Engineering crew to secure objects in cargo bays, the Andorian noting, “For the best, all things considered.” He fitted the clamp onto where Sebastiere’s right arm used to be. “This should stem further blood loss until we get him to Sickbay. But the actual medical equipment in here is very limited.”

“His arm,” Colossale said, looking through the kit beside him. “Did anyone manage to save it?”

“It was left outside,” Dzenabe responded curtly. “Along with the one who took it-”

“Nola?”

Glad to be able to look away, she turned at the sound of her name, back to her fellow crewmen, as T’Shak suggested, “We need to report to the Bridge.”

She nodded distantly, recognising the beginning of shock overtaking her, and knew she had to keep active. But then she saw S’Li on his own, and replied, “Do it. I have to see to the Professor. Granch, you’ve spent the most time of us working in Sickbay… see what you can do to help Charles.”

The Vulcan and Tellarite nodded and proceeded, as Nola drew up to S’Li, watching him wipe his muzzle with a white handkerchief… leaving it stained with dark burgundy. “Professor-”

He kept his back to her, leaning against the wall, breathing hard. “Please, Dear Cub- leave me alone-”

“No.” She came closer, placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

She felt him shuddering, and his voice was as fragile as eggshell. “I’m sorry… I didn’t… I didn’t want you to see me like that… the Animal in me...”

Nola tightened her hold. “You saved my life. You don’t have anything to be sorry about. Now come on, you need to sit down and get seen to.” Without waiting for a reply, she wrapped an arm around him and tugged him gently away from the wall. “Come on, haven’t you learned you can’t deny me anything?”

He looked to her, making a sound of acquiescence. “Apparently not, Dear Cub...”

*

On the Bridge, Lt al-Rad reported, “Kzin reported on Deck 5, Engineering Main Access, now contained, minor injuries reported; Deck 4, Cargo Bay 2, Security confirms two Kzin dead, but we have four serious injuries, being taken to Sickbay. Six Kzin are on Deck 3, holding off Security at the Shuttlebay, the Fabricator Workshops- Captain! Crewman T’Shak reports from the Radio Shack that Crewman Sebastiere has been critically injured, they’re requesting immediate medical attention!”

Mistry’s pulse raced, at the thought of one of her people being injured… and at her helplessness to do anything about it now. “Access to that area remains blocked- what about intraship beaming?”

“Not recommended even at the best of times, Captain,” Commander Gallop replied. “And definitely not in the middle of battle while we race into a gravimetric nightmare.”

“Crush Point in fourteen minutes, Captain,” Haluk annexed from his station.

“Is there a reason we don’t just leave the Slim Belly and fly away now?” Gallop asked.

“Yes,” the Vulcan replied calmly. “We must maintain control at close range to the point where they cannot escape, or have time to re-establish control and escape. I recommend departing in precisely nine minutes.”

Mistry took it in, her eyes still fixed on the death awaiting them ahead. “Divert all available hands to Deck 3! Get that area cleared and that crewman seen to!”

*

On the Bridge of the Klingon freighter Nipoc, Colonel Gentaq stood near the elevated Captain’s chair, allowing Uhek, the younger, low-born Klingon in command of the vessel to sit there, barking orders to the others, angry at seemingly allowing the Starfleet vessels that had arrived to disable their weapons.

Gentaq kept silent. Fool. The hold now had a hundred thousand bars of gold-pressed latinum, enough to buy a small fleet of freighters, even with just their agreed-upon share of today’s transaction.

“Repair the Primary Weapons Coil!” Uhek snapped at them. “Drag the Aft Coil up and use that, if you have to! We will regain our honour!”

“Honour is Dross,” Gentaq declared.

Uhek looked to him, and Gentaq could see from him what he saw from many his age: Disdain. Contempt. They looked on Gentaq and saw an old man, a grey-haired warrior who never had the chance to die in battle, a member of the generation responsible for the destruction of Praxis from overmining, the ecological damage it caused the Homeworld, and worst of all, the economic chaos that prompted the Khitomer Accords and the ceasefire with the accursed Federation. And even though Uhek and his crew were willing to take their share of this venture, still, they looked on Gentaq as targ crap on their boots. Uhek sneered. “What did you say, Colonel?”

Gentaq faced him, unblinking. “I said Honour is Dross. All of the stories of honour that you and the rest of these striplings have suckled upon like they were milk from your mothers’ breasts… are dross.”

Uhek rose from his chair. “You speak like a- a Romulan!”

Gentaq stood his ground. “Romulans. Humans. Klingons. Orions. Kzinti, Nausicaans. Races do not matter. Governments do not matter. Honour and courage and revenge do not matter. Nothing matters... but wealth. If you have wealth, you can have anything. Be anything. It is the Universal Constant. This is what I have learned, in over sixty years’ tireless, thankless service to an ungrateful Empire of hypocrites.

Take us out of this place, Captain Uhek. Let the Kzinti and Starfleet kill each other, we can get to Farius Prime in a week’s time… and I will double your share of the transaction.”

Uhek’s eyes widened in horrid disbelief as he drew closer. “You… wretched cur! We may be mere shipmen, smugglers, but at least we are men and women of honour! Sto-Vo-Kor still awaits us when we die! But not you! You disgrace the rank you hold, the uniform you wear, our glorious Emp-”

The Captain never finished his tirade. Just as he never saw Gentaq’s daqtagh blade sink into his gut, drawn out and sunk in, again and again.

Uhek gurgled in outrage, in bewilderment… and then in death.

Gentaq withdrew his blade and shook the excess blood from it before sheathing it once more. Then he looked to Uhek’s crew. His crew now. “Helm: plot a course for Farius Prime.”

They stared at him. No one moved.

“Do it, and you can split your former Captain’s fee amongst yourselves.”

Uhek’s men and women of honour complied.

Gentaq took the Captain’s seat. He had never commanded a vessel, had never gone into battle, had never shed or spilt blood for the glory of the Empire. He had been a bureaucrat, a nobody, all his life. Now, he would retire to a comfortable life, and die in his sleep in a huge plush bed, surrounded by many beautiful, well-paid women.

That was his Sto-Vo-Kor.

*

On the Reykjavik, Captain Nandi Trujillo scowled at the tactical situation before her, as if her anger, confusion and frustration could be an additional weapon of battle. This was proving far more difficult than it should have been. These raiders were faster, more manoeuvrable, yes, the plasma weapons they utilised were potent, and the method by which they had arrived in this region of space was certainly advanced. But even against four raiders, her ship should have taken out at least two of them by now.

Except that they hadn’t. The Kzinti were holding their own, and wearing down the Reykjavik.

“Shields at forty percent!” her XO Commander Glal called to her.

She nodded, thinking. Shields operated within a range of frequencies to allow certain specific types of energy and matter to pass through, or to increase the effectiveness of blocking them from without. The frequencies of shields at any one time was not usually discernible from outside the ship, meaning it should have been difficult for an enemy to tune weapons to the exact frequency of an opponent's shields to bypass them.

Except that for the Kzinti, it wasn’t difficult. Which meant they either had spies onboard her ship... or they were employing some sort of scanning device. It would have to be something far in advance of anything known to Federation Engineering… but then so would that null space tunnel that had dropped these bastards here.

“Shields at thirty-five percent!” Glal updated, “Forward phaser banks are overloading- they need time to recycle-”

“Fine, drop a line to the Cats and see if they’ll give us a breather.” She regarded the surrounding areas of the battle: the Harken was still guiding the Slim Belly towards the pulsars, the now-defanged Klingon freighter was trying to sneak away – you’re not exactly built for a fast getaway, petaQs – and the Ticonderoga was facing identical problems with their own raiders.

It reminded her of her times in the boxing ring at the Academy, when an opponent would try to get her into the ropes, wear her down, catch her off-guard-

Opponents… “Mr Glal, target torpedoes on one of the Tico’s raiders!”

He turned and fixed beady black eyes in her direction. “What, don’t like the ones we’ve got under our own snouts, Captain?”

“Each set of four raiders is using some sort of sophisticated adaptive tactical program, studying their targets and attuning their weapons and shields! We have to change opponents and strike before they have a chance to adapt again! Now target and fire!”

Glal didn’t bother responding, except to send two torpedoes soaring from the Reykjavik’s aft tubes towards the Ticonderoga’s field of battle, for a moment looking like they were headed straight for the Starfleet vessel, before banking hard to port and hitting a raider full on.

It blossomed into a miniature nova.

“It worked!” Glal exclaimed.

“Try not to sound too surprised that one of my ideas was actually successful, Number One,” Trujillo quipped – hiding her own astonishment – before adding, “Inform the Tico, invite them to come closer and do a little tag team work-”

“Captain!” Lt Arwen DeSilva cried from the Ops station. “One of our own raiders is sweeping in- beaming through our shields! I have Kzin appearing on Decks 3,5,6-”

“Intruder Alert!” Trujillo called out, her hand moving to the phaser she kept concealed in the arm of her chair, setting the power levels. If she were the enemy, she would also be beaming onto-

“Deck 1!” DeSilva added with a shout.

Trujillo rose and turned, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise at the static charge she always felt near a transporter beam. As if on cue, blue-purple energy on the deck near the turbolift doors quickly coalesced into two huge furred, tailed felinoids with orange-blonde fur, one of them facing her, leaping over the Bridge rail and roaring, “MEA-”

He never finished, either his roar or his leap, as Trujillo stood her ground, raised her phaser and fired without hesitation, turning the Kzin into quantum mist that vanished like an errant thought.

Despite her knowledge of the effects of objects struck by a phaser beam on Disintegrate, she thought she could feel the remnants of the Kzin wash over her like rain. Shit shit shit SHIT-

Immediately she turned to the second Kzin, who had tackled DeSilva out of her chair and raised a huge clawed paw to strike- until he was himself struck by a phaser beam from Glal, sending him backwards off of the Ops officer, but he quickly recovered, snarling. Trujillo raised her phaser to send the Kzin to join his fellow in Oblivion, but another shot from Glal sent the invader into unconsciousness instead.

The Tellarite moved to DeSilva, helping the young officer back up. “You okay, Pup?”

Trujillo joined them. “Well, Lieutenant?”

The younger officer looked between them, before nodding and confirming with a shake, “I’m- I’m okay, Sirs-”

Glal grunted, before looking to Trujillo. “How about you, Captain? Are you okay?”

Okay? No, I’m not okay, I just almost had some massive two-metre tall monster pounce on me and kill me before I sent it to Hell first... She slipped on her best mask and replied, “Lieutenant, relay that message to the Tico, I’m bored with fighting these mangy cats! Commander, I want every Kzin on my ship either in the Brig or the Morgue before I have to ask again!” She indicated the unconscious Kzin near them. “Including this one!”

*

On the Ticonderoga Bridge, Captain Demlin frowned as he saw a raider erupt into a ball of energy from torpedoes… but not their own torpedoes. “What the- how can the Reykjavik do better from a distance than we’ve been doing up close?”

To his right, Lt Cmdr Emagti, his Saurian communications officer, spoke up. “I’m getting a message from the Reykjavik, Sir! They recommend switching opponents!”

Demlin frowned… but then shrugged. Why not? They weren’t exactly doing a bang up job as it was. “You heard them, Mr Saez, let’s get closer and do a little partner swapping!”

As his crew moved into action, Demlin gripped the arms of his chair, fighting to keep the lingering pain his chest from showing on his face or in his voice. Damn it, this was not the time for his heart to remind him of how hard he had been pushing it lately! When his Andorian CMO found out, she would probably operate on him without anaesthesia…

*

On the Bridge of the Slim Belly, Captain Shadoweye bared his teeth at his Second. “That is not the answer I wanted from you!”

His Second, a young but fierce and proud cousin in his Pride, showed enough deference as protocol demanded, but still countered, “I know that, Captain, and the words stick in my throat like bones. But that does not change the reality of it. We cannot regain control of our ship, and we cannot access our immediate areas! And we are still heading towards that!” He waved a paw in the direction of their viewscreen.

Shadoweye didn’t have to look. He had seen more than enough of the blinking twin stars, their blinding light eclipsed only by the unseen gravimetric vice they offered between them, the vice that would inevitably crush them.

This should have been simple. This should have been easy. Especially with the assistance provided by the Moonfleet, the advanced raiders crewed by the legendary Thousand Scars Pride! And it had been such a joy to see them in action against the Starfleet vessels, easing the twist in his guts at having to hand over half of the isolytic warheads when it was over.

But now the tide of battle had turned, and Starfleet was gaining the upper hand, taking out the raiders, one by one. Even the Raider that had deposited Kzinti onto the Harken appeared not to have done much.

And soon, they would be crushed, obliterated. As if they had never existed-

“We should surrender,” his Second suggested. “There is no shame in-”

Shadoweye’s huge paw swung out, sending the other male sprawling.

Then the Captain straightened up. “No shame, in surrendering to a female? And probably a plant-eater, too? You should have been eaten by your father upon your birth, and given another more worthy the chance to die with honour!” He turned to his command console and keyed in the appropriate authorisation. You may have taken control of most of my ship, you leaf-eating monkeys, but you didn’t think to take this from me... “Computer: this is Captain Shadoweye of the Coiled Southern River Pride. Initiate Auto Destruct Sequence.”

The male voice responded. “Auto Destruct Sequence initiated. Auto Destruct in sixty seconds… Fifty-Nine… Fifty-Eight… Fifty-Seven...”

As the computer continued the countdown, he turned to face his crew… including his Second, still on the bulkhead, his muzzle raked and bleeding. He stepped down and helped him back to his feet. “There is no honourable escape for us, escape to set off the warheads now, before Starfleet has a chance to flee, and take them with us. Can you act like a Kzin for the next fifty seconds, Cousin?”

His Second straightened up, grateful for the unspoken forgiveness his Captain had given him, and roared, “FOR THE HIGHEST!”

The others on the Bridge joined in on the traditional battle cry.

As he nodded in satisfaction at the response from his Pride and crew, Shadoweye turned back to the viewscreen, baring his teeth at the thought of stealing the victory from the Starfleeters… especially that bitch Mistry…

*

In the Harken’s Radio Shack, T’Shak returned to the others. “Security is attempting to clear the corridor of Kzinti to allow us to get Mr Sebastiere to Sickbay… but the enemy is proving tenacious, as we ourselves experienced.”

On the floor beside their fallen comrade, Colossale glanced up. “We can’t do anything further with him. He needs attention, very soon.”

Nola looked to her fellow crewmen. “We can make a difference, take on the Kzinti from behind.”

Sitting nearby, S’Li looked up in alarm. “No! You can’t go back out there!”

She ignored him. “Coordinating an attack with Security at the other end of the corridor, we can bring them down, and get Charlie to Sickbay.” She looked to T’Shak and Granch. “Well?”

T’Shak nodded. Granch looked as fearful as Nola felt, but nodded.

S’Li rose to his feet, shaking off Leavitt’s restraining arm as he shook his cane at the crewmen. “You barely escaped with your lives the last time! It’s too risky!”

Nola looked to him. “We’re Starfleet, Professor. Risk is our business.”

“Don’t spout jingoistic aphorisms to me, Young Cub! I forbid you from going out there!”

Nola swallowed, feeling her face flush from being scolded like that, but ensuring her voice was resolute. “Professor… I’m not your granddaughter, and you have no authority here. Dr Leavitt, Professor S’Li is injured; please ensure he gets medical treatment when we clear the way to Sickbay, is that understood?”

The older human regarded her with genuine respect. “I’ll see to it, Crewman Brice.”

From the three crewmen’s wrist communicators, Chief of Security Lt Wixtar spoke up. “Crewmen, what’s your status?”

Nola looked to the others, as they silently acquiesced to her responding. “Crewman Brice here, Sir, we stand ready to assist. We have access to the Portside Corridor from here, we can cover the rear in any assault you wish to lead from your end.”

“Are you certain, Crewman?”

“Yes, Sir. Crewman Sebastiere needs urgent medical attention, as does Professor S’Li.”

There was a pause, and then the Bolian continued. “Alright then. There’s six Kzinti still active in the central junction. Get to the door, send the civilians to the other side of the Shack away from it, use the doorway as cover. On my signal, open the door and fire simultaneously, Level 6 settings. You’ll either bring them down, or drive them to our side. Acknowledged?”

She looked to her friends. “Acknowledged, Sir.”

“Get ready. Wixtar out.”

Nola looked over, seeing the scientists had constructed a makeshift antigrav gurney out of spare parts lying around – give them time and they’d probably make him a cybernetic arm, too – as she ordered, “Everyone move closer to the main entrance.”

The others complied, carefully lifting up Sebastiere and transporting him to the far side of the room. S’Li however, stood there, cane in hand.

“You too, Professor,” Nola told him.

“A second line of defence is always prudent, Young Cub,” he instructed, pulling at the silver head of his cane, withdrawing from it a thin black blade.

And Dzenabe drew up beside him, wielding a long metal bracing staff with an exposed power unit fastened to the end. “And better managed with someone younger and fitter at your side.”

The Caitian harrumphed. “I will be insulted later, Wakandan. For now, though, I will be grateful.”

Nola nodded and joined T’Shak and Granch at the other entrance, taking their positions, checking their phasers, collecting their breaths… as Nola called, “Crewman Brice reporting. Ready, Lieutenant.”

“Stand by. Three… two… one-”



TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART FIVE