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Trelaka System, Alpha Quadrant
In orbit of Trelaka XVII


Reykjavík dove towards the planet, using the gas giant’s gravity for added acceleration as the starship disgorged a dozen photon torpedoes from her three forward launch tubes. These raced away, three crimson anti-matter warheads arcing towards each of the ascending threat vessels.

“Delta-Seven approach pattern complete,” Naifeh advised from the helm.

“Hard starboard, then come back to 181-mark-350. One quarter roll to port, slow to one-sixth impulse as we pull behind the raider,” Trujillo instructed. “Weaps, transfer twenty-percent ventral shield power to dorsal grid as we show them our back.”

Her orders were carried out and from Tactical Jarrod noted, “One target destroyed, one damaged. The other two managed to outmaneuver our ‘torps, sir.”

“That was some inspired flying on their part, sir,” DeSilva observed with genuine admiration.

Reykjavík’s phasers cycled again, intercepting another wave of enemy missiles and two inbound photon torpedoes.

As the ship slid behind the wounded Alshain skiff, Trujillo commanded, “Weaps, cripple them. I want some prisoners to interrogate.”

Pinpoint phaser strikes disabled the smaller craft’s warp and impulse engines, then tore into their weapons arrays, leaving the skiff tumbling end over end.

“The last two are coming around for another run at us,” DeSilva advised.

Trujillo spared a glance back at Glal. “They should be running. Pirates don’t stand their ground, and they sure as hell don’t chase down Federation starships.”

Glal looked up from his sensor scope to meet her gaze. “And those evasive maneuvers, sir. Those were textbook Kor’s Hook and Needle.”

“Shit,” Trujillo breathed just loud enough for Glal’s ears. The captain’s expression hardened and she called to the Science station. “Mister Garrett, give me another sweep of that damaged skiff. Are there survivors?”

“Standby, sir… scanning.”

The first volley of enemy fire to reach Reykjavík’s shields sent a shudder through the ship.

Jarrod said, “Impacts, port and port-aft. Shields holding, no hull damage.”

Garrett eyed her sensor return skeptically. “Captain? Now I’m reading… seven Klingon lifesigns.” She checked her results again. “Exclusively. No sign of the other species we detected earlier.”

A low growl sounded from deep in Glal’s throat. “They spoofed us. Clever.”

Trujillo issued a string of orders to the helm, bringing Reykjavík around to drive straight between the oncoming raiders.

“Head on?” Glal asked quietly from behind her.

“Time is an issue,” she replied in an equally conspiratorial tone. Then, louder, “Weaps, drop six of our stealth mines aft and target phasers on the enemies sensor nodes as we pass.”

“Blind and Grind, aye,” Jarrod confirmed.

Torpedo volleys slashed back and forth, followed by flurries of phaser and disruptor fire as the ships closed with each other. As Reykjavík flashed between her antagonists, collimated beams of energy lanced out towards the sensor nodes of both raiders, impacting their shields in a brief maelstrom of energies that left them momentarily sightless.

Thrusters on Reykjavík’s gravitic mines kicked on, driving them into the path of the enemy craft where they detonated brightly, their destructive charges overwhelming the already taxed shields of both raiders.

Consoles flickered on Reykjavíks bridge along with the lighting, victims of the enemy’s closing barrage. Red tell-tails flashed across the Engineering board’s displays as power and data systems suffered overloads and automated cutovers sought to compensate.

The ensign at the Engineering station held his tongue, knowing from experience that Trujillo would ask for ship’s status updates only after the enemy had been neutralized.

“Both threat vessels destroyed, sir,” Jarrod exclaimed, a hint of pride bleeding through his reserved façade.

“Kahless,” Trujillo muttered under her breath, “count your children now.”

“I hope there are vacancies in Gre'thor!” Glal spat, pounding a fist on the bridge’s safety railing.

“Damage report,” she ordered.

“Moderate systems outages throughout the ship, Captain. Three of our shield generators have experienced non-catastrophic overloads and will have to be repaired.”

“Acknowledged. Helm, come about and close on the wounded raider. Ops, inform the transporter room that I want the ship’s crew beamed straight to the brig, sans clothing. Make sure they locate and disable every weapon they can find in transit. Make it quick, I want to catch them before they have a chance to self-destruct.”

A chorus of affirmatives followed, and Trujillo deactivated her chair’s restraint system and stood to approach the Science station. “Mister Garrett, status of the other three ships in orbit of the colony?”

Garrett ran a concentrated sensor sweep of the seventh planet’s orbit, informing Trujillo of what was already apparent on the display. “They’re withdrawing, sir.”

“Very well,” Trujillo assessed. “Track them. I want to know where they’re headed from here.”

She approached Glal, concern registering on her features. “This changes things.”

“Yes, sir,” he agreed.

Trujillo favored him with a small smile. “I need you to talk to your friends in Intel, the ones whose opinions don’t necessarily make it into the sanitized fleet-wide updates.”

He nodded fractionally. “What do you want me to ask?”

“Klingon piracy is commonplace nowadays with the empire’s military cutbacks, but I’ve never seen Klingon pirates or even separatists disguise themselves or exclusively use someone else’s ships. Hell, they want people to know they’re facing Klingons, most times their victims surrender without a fight.”

“They certainly don’t pick fights with a Shangri-La-class attack cruiser.”

“No,” she confirmed emphatically. “They don’t. None of this adds up.”

“Anything else, sir?” he asked.

“I want to know if any Klingon bands in this region are known to operate with these tactics. Interrogate our prisoners first and use anything you get to corroborate Intel’s analysis.”

“Aye, sir,” Glal replied, spinning on his heel and heading for the turbolift.

DeSilva turned in her seat to face Trujillo. “Sickbay reports six casualties, sir. Five minor injuries and one serious from a coolant line rupture in Engineering.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Trujillo said as she returned to her seat.

Jarrod advised, “Transporter room confirms seven Klingon survivors have been materialized in the brig. My people are telling me two of them require medical attention, sir.”

“Fine. Have Dr. Bennett and his team attend to the Klingons in the brig with security escort.”

Trujillo brought her swing arm console up to open a comms channel on an encrypted Starfleet channel. “This is the starship Reykjavík hailing USS Zelenskyy. If you are hiding within Trelaka XVII’s atmosphere from the raiders, I am pleased to inform you that they have been neutralized. I am transmitting priority authentication codes now. We stand ready to render engineering and medical assistance.”

As the message transmitted, Trujillo turned back to Jarrod. “Lieutenant, take a forensic analysis team aboard that raider and get me anything you can find on who these Klingons are, and where they came from.”

Jarrod affirmed his orders and as he transferred Tactical control to his deputy at another console in preparation to depart, a scratchy comms signal was broadcast through the overheads. “This is Captain Withropp of Zelenskyy. Is it ever good to hear your voice, Reykjavík. Your assistance is gratefully accepted.”

“Sensor contact, Captain,” DeSilva reported. “Miranda-class vessel rising out of the gas-giant’s upper stratosphere.”

“On screen.”

And there, battered, battle-scarred but intact, was the ship they’d come to rescue.

This, Trujillo mused, despite the unwelcome discovery of the attackers’ true identities, had turned out to be a rather good day.

* * *  

DeSilva came to attention in front of Trujillo’s ready room desk.

“At ease, Lieutenant. What do you have for me?”

The senior Operations officer proffered a data-slate which Trujillo took from her. “Information from the Boslic colony, sir. They report minimal damage and it appears the Klingon raiders were probing the colony’s defenses, likely in preparation for a larger assault.”

“How many ships in total?” Trujillo asked.

“Nine, sir. Zelenskyy destroyed two before being forced to fall back to the gas giant. The three left in orbit of the colony when we arrived were getting pummeled by Boslic orbital defenses and had to pull back out of weapons range of the planet.”

Trujillo nodded distractedly as she scanned the contents of the data-slate. “Good old Miranda’s. Enough firepower to get themselves into trouble, but rarely enough to get themselves out of it.”

DeSilva feigned insult. “Begging the captain’s pardon, sir, but my first posting was to a Miranda-class. I may take umbrage.”

Trujillo offered a grin in response. “Mine too, as it happens. The Akaar. My assessment stands, nonetheless,” she said, returning the tablet to DeSilva.

“So noted, sir.”

The door chime sounded and both women looked to the hatchway as Trujillo called, “Enter.”

Glal stepped through, followed by a Human male of average height in his mid-to-late 30’s. He had wavy brown hair just beginning to grey at the temples, and a sharply defined face with an angular nose and well-defined chin. His left arm was supported in a sling and he had multiple bandages on his face and neck. His disheveled uniform tunic still bore numerous scorch marks and a dark patch of dried blood below his left shoulder.

By way of introduction, Glal announced, “Captain Nandi Trujillo, this is Lieutenant Commander Eldred Withropp of the Zelenskyy.”

Trujillo stood and shook hands with the younger man across the desktop while nodding to Glal and DeSilva. “Thank you. XO, Lieutenant, you’re dismissed.”

As the two departed, Trujillo gestured for Withropp to sit. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Captain.”

Withropp seated himself gingerly, wincing as his slung arm inadvertently bumped the corner of the desk.

“Are you quite alright, Captain? I can summon a medic if you’re in need of further treatment.”

Withropp raised his good hand in a gesture of abeyance. “No, thank you, sir. I’m patched up for the moment, but I’ll wait on further care until all of my people have been tended to.”

Trujillo nodded at that, her measure of the man rising several notches. “A drink, perhaps?”

“Now that I will accept, Captain. Thank you.”

She moved to a concealed cabinet set into the bulkhead, the hatch sliding up to reveal a fully stocked bar. “Name your poison.”

“Vodka, if you have it, please.”

Trujillo riffled through her stash, bottles tinkling. “Stolichnaya or Kástra Elión?”

“The Stoli, please. I’m a bit of a traditionalist.”

She produced the bottle and two glasses, pouring measures for the both of them. “Russian vodka. That’s a bit ironic, given the name of your ship.”

“A fact my crew delights in reminding me of constantly,” he said with a smirk as he accepted the drink.

They clinked glasses in a toast, with Trujillo offering, “Salud.”

Withropp replied with, “Qapla Batlh Je.”

Trujillo sipped at her drink. “Speaking of Klingons, when did you become aware that’s who you were facing?”

The younger officer downed half his vodka in a single swallow, closing his eyes for a moment. “I had my suspicions something strange was going on when they didn’t turn tail as soon as we arrived in orbit. Then we discovered they were packing more firepower than they had any right to.” Glass in hand, he gestured to his left shoulder. “My suspicions were confirmed when we lost shields just shy of the gas giant’s gravity well and they beamed a strike team aboard. I took one of their giant knives right here for my trouble.”

“Your crew?” she asked, watching his reaction closely.

Withropp’s eyes took on a distant cast, the proverbial thousand-meter stare. “They fought like… like heroes. The whole bridge was a giant brawl… knives, phasers, disruptors. My first officer incinerated three of them before being sliced practically in half with a… oh, hell—what do you call them?”

“Bat'leth,” she provided.

“Yeah, one of those.” He shook his head. “They’d sent another team to our Engineering deck. They got the jump on the security team I’d stationed there. By the time we’d dug them out, we’d…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “We lost a lot of good people.”

“I’m sorry for your losses, Captain,” Trujillo offered. “Your people are receiving the best care we can give them.”

He nodded fractionally, eyes still boring a hole in the bulkhead.

“How long between that fight on your bridge and when you descended into the gas giant’s atmosphere?”

Withropp blinked, seeming to force back the images he was replaying in his mind. “Perhaps ten minutes. Why?”

“We stumbled blindly into the same situation you did. Fortunately for us, this ship was built specifically for combat. Were you aware of which Starfleet vessels were closest, which would be responding to your distress call first?”

He shook his head fractionally. “No, Captain.”

Trujillo took a sip of her drink, her eyes still carefully inspecting Withropp over the lip of her glass. “It would have been enormously helpful if you had dispatched message buoys alerting relief forces that the raiders were actually Klingons. Had the next ship on scene been a patrol vessel or a scout, more lives may have been lost.”

Withropp blanched, his expression growing slack as the import of her words settled onto him. “I—I didn’t even think about it, Captain. I was so fixated on my ship and crew.”

She nodded understandingly. “Of course. Would I be correct in surmising this was your fist taste of combat as a CO?”

“Yes, it was.” Withropp’s drink sat on his thigh, nearly forgotten, the fingers of the hand holding it drumming an almost silent cadence against the glass.

“Then I will impart this wisdom to you, as it was imparted to me by a more senior commander after similar circumstances. It is your duty to think not only of your own crew, but also those who will be coming to your aid. Someday it will be you riding to the rescue, and you will want to be armed with the most complete information possible.”

He nodded wordlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. The distant stare had returned.

“Captain,” Trujillo said gently. “Give me your eyes.”

Withropp seemed to force his gaze back to meet Trujillo’s. “Sir?”

“You’ve done good work here today. You came to the aid of a colony under attack. You defeated two ships crewed by Klingon warriors and bested those sent aboard to seize your ship. You have taken casualties, yes, and you’ve been wounded yourself. In spite of those losses, you and your crew have performed in the finest tradition of Starfleet. My report to Command will emphasize that.”

He sat a little straighter in his chair, mustering an unconvincing smile. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Remember that you will have time for grief and recriminations later, but right now your crew needs their captain to be a pillar of strength. Regardless of what you’re feeling, you must project that.”

Another nod. “I understand, Captain.”

“Good. Now finish your drink, that stuff was damnably expensive,” Trujillo said with a wry grin.

* * *

Trujillo stepped into the brig, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting scheme. Large Klingons dressed in form-fitting jumpsuits sat, stood, or paced in their detention cells as security personnel kept close watch over them.

Glal was conferring with Jarrod at the central data terminal and paused his conversation to step over to Trujillo. “I have an update for you, Captain.” He gestured to the corridor beyond.

They stepped out into the passageway, moving just beyond the doors.

“They won’t talk, no surprise there. They’re obviously mortified to have been taken prisoner. One of them’s already attempted suicide, and I anticipate he won’t be the last.”

Trujillo appeared to ponder that. “Anything from the forensic analysis of the ship or their equipment?”

“That’s where we’ve made the most progress, sir,” Glal acknowledged. “Their gear is all recent issue, top of the line, none of it bearing the typical manufacturing stamps. The ship’s weapons systems have been enhanced by some talented technicians, as has their power plant. It may have been an old Alshain castoff at some point, but when we crippled her that ship was as powerful as someone could make it. The ship’s computer operating systems are all Klingon, and the interface architecture has been extensively modified for ease of use.”

“Well,” Trujillo snorted derisively, “that’s not suspicious at all.”

Glal continued, “No pirate crew desperate enough to attack a well-defended colony would have access to the kinds of resources necessary to modify a vessel so extensively.” He held up a torn tunic of rough-hewn material. “The crew was dressed in a mix of military uniforms and civilian clothing, but none of them were wearing any rank insignia or house sigils. That’s nearly unheard of, even from Klingons not actively serving in the military. Your clothing is a testament to battles won and family honors accrued. A Klingon warrior without such adornment might as well be a shopkeeper or a sanitation worker.”

“What I hear you saying, Commander, is that someone really wanted them to look like unaffiliated pirates.”

The Tellarite bobbed his head. “Affirmative, sir. This whole mess stinks of covert Klingon military action.”

Trujillo frowned. “So, you think we’re looking at the Klingons probing colony defenses secretly? Advance intelligence gathering in preparation for an actual attack by imperial forces?”

“My friends at Intel believe so, sir. There’s been a slight but noticeable increase in pirate raids in this and adjoining sectors, almost exclusively against non-aligned systems. Coincidently, the colonies that have been spared attacks from such pirates are those whose governments do extensive business with the empire.”

“Okay,” Trujillo said with a irritated grunt. “I’m going to go have a chat with Command and see what, if anything, they want to do about this. In the meantime, you keep at the members of the Plausible Deniability Club in there. I’ll take a hard confession over conjecture any given day.”

Glal gave her an inscrutable look. “I don’t have a lot to work with here, sir. If we’re playing by the rules, the Seldonis Convention would seem to apply.”

Trujillo offered him a smirk laden with menace. “The convention only applies to prisoners of war from an identified signatory government. These are non-aligned pirates, as someone has gone to great lengths to establish. If we can’t get them to talk, perhaps the Boslic down on the colony might want a crack at them, eh?”

Glal’s answering smile was as genuine as it was feral. “I will do that straight-away, sir.”

* * *

 



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