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Fan Fic Classic: "TGP Forager" by Heath

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FPF-Wanderer:
Unfortunately, it would seem that the Fan Fic forum, for whatever reason, whether technical or a simple oversight, was not ported over from Taldren.  Hopefully, this will be rectified in the near future.  In the meantime...

With no disrespect intended to the other authors who's stories that I have had the pleasure to read over the years, I wanted to repost the following story which I consider one of the best that was ever posted in Fan Fiction.  Enjoy.


TGP Forager

by Heath
PART 1

TGP Forager War Journal
Lyran Imperial Fleet
Far Stars Duchy

The Forager has been tasked by our clan elders to deliver Umbro, nephew of Count Kazan al Mimdaha of Night Roar county, and a cargo pallet loaded with gifts to the wedding of Umbro's sister, Tamla. She will marry a young baron in the Red Claw duchy. Though war rages with the Hated Enemy and their allies, life continues. Young people wed, kits are born, and people die. We venture among the stars to preserve this way of life.

Umbro's cousin, Baron Tivo is accompanying him. Both have brought their PFs and crews. And I am grateful for the added firepower.

Our course takes us near the stars dimmed by the darkness of our Hated Enemy. To avoid detection, we have skirted the edge of a large asteroid field for the last day. Science reports a sporadic sensor ghost that may be a warship or warships among the asteroids. Turning for open space and running risks drawing too much attention from other warships that might be in the area. The cargo pallet has reduced our maneuvering sufficiently that high-speed flight through the asteroids is also not an option.

We remain on course and on time.

Cmdr Halifax
Dark Storm Clan

*****

"Melena, has there been any sign of the ship following us?" Halifax's voice was a low, thick rumble.

"Commander, the ghost has been gone for several hours now."

"All channels have been silent as well." added Rala, the communication officer.

Halifax acknowledged both with a nod without taking his green eyes from the view screen. Thick black claws extended and retracted from his right hand as he thought and the heavy muscles in his arms and neck stood out under his short, thick, tawny fur.

The captain was a pensive Lyran, a phenomena almost unique to the Far Stars duchy. Known as a patient officer, he preferred to advise rather than rebuke, to neutralize rather than destroy. Perhaps it was an artifact of his time spent on Vulcan. The rumor around the lower decks was that Halifax was a Lyrbrun - a member of a pacifist sect of mystics, and that was why (though an excellent captain) he was assigned to a Puma transport tug instead of a fighting ship of the line by the clan elders.

Whatever his philosophical pursuits, the bridge crew could see that their captain did not accept the sensor readings at face value. His left ear twitched; a sure sign that he was irritated.
"Hm. Let us see if we can give this spirit form," Halifax said in a brighter voice. "Tactical, go to yellow alert. Helm, take us in a sweeping arc to port towards that heavier belt of asteroids."

"With that heavy pallet of wedding gifts, a sweeping arc is about all that I can manage sir," replied Yatu, the helm officer.

Halifax laughed a resonant rumble.

"Captain!" shouted Melena, louder than she wanted to. "Two Federation ships in the belt. An NCL and...and a frigate, possibly improved class. Ninety clicks out, arming phasers and closing fast."

Halifax acknowledged with another nod and added, "Sensitive whiskers, Melena. Well done." Turning in his chair his eyes brightened with a feral fire. "Com, open a channel to the cruiser so that we may see what the urgent matter is."

The image on the main view screen made the crew wince.

Humans.

Why did it have to be humans? Though terminally boring, at least Vulcans made sense. Andorans were even fairly reasonable. But humans were incomprehensible. Never truly passionate, never truly in control of their passions. They seemed a tortured race.

"Lyran vessel, this is Captain McDowell of the USS Stalwart. Stand down and prepare to be boarded. You will not be harmed once you surrender."

Captain McDowell was a young woman for the command of a cruiser, even a light cruiser. Physically fit, comely and focused, Halifax thought. And also a little arrogant.

"Captain McDowell, this is Commander Halifax of the Far Stars Tug Forager. We thank the Federation's Star Fleet for their kind offer of unconditional surrender, but pressing business compels us to politely decline."

The statement was delivered with the inscrutable impassiveness of a feline that many simian races find unnerving. Lyran humor was often subtle but McDowell recovered her composure quickly.

"Commander, this is not a joking matter. We both know that you've been caught. And we both know how this is going to end. Why not reach that end without risking your ship and crew?" McDowell knew from her academy days that the Lyrans were a warrior race, like the Klingons. But they were also an extremely polite race, strictly observing protocols and customs that date back to antiquity. She hoped that this captain wasn't bound by some dusty warrior code to fight to the death over, from what their scans indicated was, a pallet full of civilian goods.

"While we are certain that the endless 'educational' sessions on free markets and trade that will follow in your 'rehabilitation' compounds would be fascinating, we are quite happy with our unenlightened, barbaric culture. We wouldn't want to keep TWO of Star Fleets warships from their vital defense of the Mirak filth." Halifax tried to be as casual as possible in his tone to cover up for the rage he was feeling inside. He even used the forbidden name of their Hated Enemy. But even he had limits. 'Prepare to be boarded?' Was this woman damaged in some way?

"Commander," said McDowell in a voice thick with condescension, "be reasonable. You are out gunned by more than two to one and you cannot run. What do you honestly expect a tug to accomplish against a Star Fleet cruiser and frigate? Surrender, while you are still able."

Halifax, his own patients at and end, dug the claws of his right hand into his command console. "Captain, you will find that this is no common freighter. We too take pride in our fleet." Turning, Halifax formally addressed the officer to his right. "Tactical, let Forager roar her defiance. Red Alert!" The image of Stalwart replaced that of her captain. Throughout Forager and over the subspace channels as well, thundered a primal, bestial roar, the ancient Lyran call to battle.

"Damage control teams to stations. Marine teams one through four to transporters. Teams five and six to generators one and two." The orders from Tactical were crisp and practiced and Forager?s crew responded with ordered precision.

"Disruptor crews, stand by, cannons off line." said Halifax pensively.

"Disruptors offline, Commander."

Puma-class tugs only carried two cannons. They could not cause enough damage to a cruiser's shields to justify the energy allocation. They would be held in reserve in the event of close-in fighting.

"Science, countermeasures to four, reinforce shield two by twelve. Helm bring us in on shield two. No evasive maneuvers. Let's see if she is a gambler with those torpedoes.

"Bridge to boat locks. ESG recognition code Graypaw 4."

"We have you locked in, designate Forager as tender. Graypaw 4" Umbro's voice was professional, but still eager. He was an experienced PF commander even at his young age. Lavishly painted, PFs had become the latest status symbol among the young nobles of Lyra. Talented crews were much sought after and many Lyrans of the lower classes found opportunity for advancement serving alongside future barons and marshals.

"Dockmaster, launch the boats."

As the mechanical couplings disengaged, the two Bobcat-Ps lit their engines and banked away from Forager in unison. Umbro and Tivo piloted their crafts with the coordination of two who had flown together since childhood.

"Boats one and two, harass the frigate. Cut her off from the cruiser if possible." ordered Halifax. "There is a blind alley of asteroids about thirty clicks off of port. Try to steer her in there."

"Forager, Bobcats 1 and 2 closing on frigate"

Halifax turned his attention back to the main viewer. By the red glow in their launch tubes Halifax could see that Stalwart and her escort, Pleadies, had begun arming their photon torpedoes. Photon torpedoes made even Federation frigates dangerous. But they required a great deal of power to arm and already Pleadies had dropped back, unable to arm weapons and keep pace with the cruiser. To avoid the cruiser's phaser arcs, Umbro and Tivo had been forced to take a circuitous route through the asteroids to Pleadies. Hitting the frigate before she could bring those torpedoes to bear would be a close thing.

The cruiser was a different matter. It had the energy to close fast and arm all four of its torpedoes. Seeing that Forager had not powered her disruptors, Stalwart threw all of her sensors into cutting through Forager's jamming and fired two torpedoes; not a big gamble, but a gamble none the less at this range. One found its mark, jarring the tug, but failing to cut through the shield reinforcement.

"I don't understand, Commander," said Melena. "That was not a high-percentage shot. Why did she not wait for closer range?"

Unlike Star Fleet, Lyran crews were trained in space on rear-deployed ships. Transport tugs often carried recruit crews and experienced officers. Questions, even during combat, were not discouraged.

"She is trying to land as many torpedoes as possible." Replied Halifax. "Had both weapons scored we would have had a weakened shield. As it is, the two she fired will be rearmed soon after we close."

Stalwart launched a scatterpack to follow her in. The drone shuttle deployed its deadly cargo of drones as soon as it was clear of the cruiser?s warp field.

"Forager, Bobcat1. We are engaging Pleadies."

The PFs had flown a tight formation into the frigate's number two shield. They had planned to streak by at close range and come up on their target from behind, but had been forced out of their asteroid cover by an undetected dust cloud. At high speeds a dust cloud could quickly grind a PF to junk.

At point-blank range Pleadies scored with both torpedoes. Bobcat1 took a normal load in its bow shield, which still held. Bobcat2 's shield was crushed by an overloaded torpedo. Its port bow warp engine was cleanly sheared off and the command capsule was breached. Phaser fire followed, but struck the number two shields of both boats as they turned to protect their wounded bows.

Counter-attacking, the two PFs opened Pleadies?s number three shield with phaser-2 fire. A breach in the frigate's starboard warp nacelle leaked plasma and hits to the saucer section disabled the starboard torpedo tube and the right-side phaser hardpoint.

Banking hard, the PFs sped away from the frigate, keeping to its starboard side and away from the unfired portside phasers. Once behind a medium-sized asteroid they could regroup and rearm.

Meanwhile, Stalwart had closed on Forager, which was surrounded on three side by tumbling masses of iron ore, granite and ice. The tug had slowed and reinforced its number two shield in preparation for the alpha strike that Stalwart was bringing to bear.

"Disruptor crews, energize to standard." Halifax's voice was steady, almost clinical. "Generator crews one and two, radius one; ignite the spheres!"

The Lyran tug thrummed with a sustained bass note as energy poured into space. Interstellar matter was annihilated and the golden ship was surrounded in a sphere of coruscating yellow and white fire.

"Commander, we are too far away. The Federation vessel is powering its tractor beams to hold us at bay!" The young ensign at ops was a little frantic.

"Gently, Ops. To hold us, Stalwart must discard the energy that she had allocated to overload her two armed torpedoes. We will survive her barrage." Halifax spoke in a calm measured way, as if lecturing in a classroom, instead of commanding in mortal combat. "Energize the tractor. Level four."

Stalwart hammered at Forager's shields with two standard torpedoes followed by phaser fire. Phaser fire penetrated the shields, damaging the starboard hull and peppering the cargo pallet. The cruiser had cut its engines back to slow to allow its tractor to come online before hitting the expanding sphere generator or ?ESG? field. This had the double benefit of allowing its drone wave to catch up.

"Helm, increase speed to twenty, hard to starboard. We'll give her a fresh shield to target." The ponderous tug leapt forward with surprising speed as it rotated to bring its own bow to bear.

Forager shuddered as Stalwart's tractor beam engaged, slowing her abruptly. "Commander, Federation tractor, level three." The face of captain McDowell filled the viewscreen. "The Tholians have a saying, commander. Gotcha!" And Stalwart once again dominated the viewscreen.

"Non-violent protocol in effect." said Halifax in his same calm way. Many on the bridge turned to stare at their captain, but quickly returned their attention to their duties.

"Disruptors one and two, fire." Green bolts of destabilizing energy erupted from Forager's bow, splashing across Stalwart's front shield.

"Direct hit, sir. Minimal damage." Melena?s voice betrayed some of her uneasiness. Though she revered her commander, the implacable menace of the approaching cruiser knawed at her nerves.

"Yes, but it looked credible. And desperate" answered Halifax slyly.

"Drone wave approaching. ETA...they will hit the active sphere!"

Finally, a small victory. The six incoming drones were slow, but with the ship held in a tractor beam the drones would hit, and even two warheads would seriously damage the bow shield. The crew breathed a small sigh of relief as the drones were vaporized by the two blazing spheres which then collapsed; their energy spent.

"Commander, the Federation vessel has dropped its tractor and is diverting energy to its torpedo batteries. Sensore show them sixty one percent armed. Where shall we divert our tractor energy?"

"Nowhere Ops. Engage positive tractor. Helm, full speed. We will drive Stalwart into that asteroid. Approach at an oblique angle and prepare an overrun path." For a fraction of a second Ops hesitated as the full impact of what the commander had planned from the beginning fell upon him. 'Of course,' he thought. The commander knew that a transport tug had little chance against a war cruiser in a salvo exchange. And there was no way of knowing if the PFs would return in time to help, or return at all. But a tug had the engines to tow battleships. And there wasn't a race in the galaxy that could match the raw destructive power of an asteroid collision.

Aboard Stalwart, captain McDowell quickly realized the thrust of Forager's strategy and quietly cursed the kittens for their cleverness. She ordered full speed to counter Forager and repulsor power to break the tractor hold. But it was too late. Stalwart couldn't generate negative tractor energy quickly enough to break a level four hold. And Forager's larger engines inexorably drove the frantic cruiser closer to the silent masses of stone. A final phaser salvo by Stalwart, more a gesture of defiance than a sound tactical attack, splashed off of a fresh shield, doing no damage.
Federation NCL Stalwart collided with an asteroid that roughly resembled a three kilometer long terran potato made of iron and silicon. The impact crushed the aft section of the port warp nacelle and bent much of the stardrive section, preventing saucer separation.

"Secure the tractor. Cut speed to four." ordered Halifax. The cruiser stopped
dead in space and the tug swung around to its downed aft shield. Halifax slammed his command console in exultation. "Marines one through four, take her!" Four transporters energized and aboard Stalwart Lyran and Federation marines battled for control of the wounded ship. Two more marine teams followed as soon as the transporters had cycled. Battered and outnumbered, the Federation crew succumbed to the stun phasers and grenades of the 36th Lyran Imperial Marines lancers.

"Forager to Bobcat1. What is your situation? Do you need assistance?"

The com channel crackled and Umbro?s voice was difficult to hear through the static. "Bobcat1. We are inbound with two damaged boats. Pleadies gave us the slip in the asteroids and disengaged into open space. I apologize for that, sir."

"No need, Umbro. You bought us some vital time. And ran off a frigate. Good work." Halifax turned his attention to his command console. The cargo had suffered only minimal damage. That was good. It wouldn't do to show up to a wedding empty handed. Well, almost empty handed. He keyed the com channel to Bobcat1 again. "Oh yes. Be advised of a large navigational hazard of Federation make aft of us during your docking approach."

FPF-Wanderer:
Part 2

Aboard the USS Stalwart, in the main dining area Karim Nel removed his battle helmet and quickly tasted the air. As commander of the 36th Imperial Lancers he had lead the successful assault to capture the Federation NCL. And through the acrid smell of phaser burns and the sweet/sour of wounds he detected very little fear among the captured humans gathered here in the mess hall. The perspiration of exhaustion and the bile of frustrated rage were the overwhelming scents. Karim knew this to be an honest scent. Humans possessed almost no sense of smell by Lyran standards and thus, had never developed the ability to control what emotions they transmitted through the myriad of chemicals produced by carbon-based life.
To their credit, the humans were battered, but not defeated. Their collision with the asteroid had cost them many casualties. But despite this, Karim?s lancers met determined resistance on every deck.

"Major," It was lieutenant Mur Alir, Karim?s second in command. "All decks report secure. Team three reports disabling a self-destruct sequence in progress, and team two reports two casualties from a plasma leak." Karim?s ears flattened and his gaze became very penetrating. Alir continued her report. "It seems that the chimps rigged a concussion mine into a plasma conduit near the emergency bridge. Sergeant Rashan and Corporal Mulad took the full brunt of the blast. Both are in stable condition and have been evaced back to Forager."

"Thank you, Mur. Sweep the shuttles for suicide loads. Then get a tech team over here. Engineering didn?t look too bad. Maybe we can get this ship under her own power again."

Karim was worried about his soldiers and wanted to beam back to make sure personally that the medics were doing everything possible for his crew. But he had duties here. And he knew that the medics wouldn?t let him down. "Oh yes. Rotate team two back to Forager. I don?t want anyone avenging a friend here."

"Understood, major."

Re-donning her helmet, Mur strode out of the mess hall with two lancers in tow. Karim turned his attention to the Federation prisoners gathered there. He safed his disruptor and stowed it back in its clip on his thigh. As the magnetic locks engaged it made the reassuringly solid-sounding 'click' of one piece of heavy assault equipment on another.

The officers were gathered in front of their crew. Captain McDowell sat upright on the floor while one of her medics treated an ugly gash in her abdomen. She winced as the medic rearranged her floating ribs, but made no other sound. Karim was impressed. This was a soldier, like himself, who knew the value of maintaining a strong presence in front of the crew. Maybe this would go reasonably well.

Karim removed his right gauntlet as he approached the officers of Stalwart and extended his hand in the Terran ritual of greeting. The medic stopped his work and moved out from between his captain and the big Lyran in full power armor. "Captain McDowell," Karim said in formal greeting, "I am Major Nel of the Imperial Lancers." McDowell did not take the proffered hand. Karim dropped it and continued. "Your vessel and crew have been rendered incapable of offensive action. Do you surrender to the forces of the Dark Storm clan and the Lyran Star Empire?"

Janice McDowell gazed intently at this major Nel. He stood two meters tall and was almost as broad as two normal men in his yellow and black power armor. The hand/paw that she had refused was bare, but the other was still sheathed in its armored gauntlet, holding the armor?s helmet. She knew that the sonic claws on that gauntlet could tear through a duranium bulkhead like it was paper. Angry and frustrated as she was, the ?sharp fangs? of the Lyran empire, as the imperial marines were known, brought her current situation into sharp focus. Anger, denial, and grief all went out of her mind. A routine commerce raid had gone horribly wrong; partly due to her carelessness, partly due to the Lyran commander?s cool action, partly due to bad luck. Her crew?s survival was now her single mission. With the help of her XO, Jack Virenko, McDowell stood and turned to her crew. "Stalwart. Attention!" she barked. "As commanding officer of USS Stalwart," she paused, then continued in a stronger voice, "I surrender this vessel."

Karim lifted his head to address the gathered crowd. "As of this moment, this vessel is under the jurisdiction, and protection of the Dark Storm Clan." he said, his voice echoing off of the far bulkheads. Turning back to McDowell and with a more conversational voice, "Stalwart is still space worthy. Your crew will be safe here until we make planetfall. Our captain has asked that you and your officers join him aboard Forager. My men will bring a grav-sled for you." Karim keyed his armor?s com unit. "Alir, this is Nel. I?m taking the officers back to Forager. You?re in command here."

Sitting at the main engineering master control station, Forager?s chief engineer, Hron Khazim, surveyed the diagnostics of Stalwart?s warp engines. He had studied Dilithium-antimatter energy theory and therefore knew basically how this ship should work. Despite all of the blinking red icons on the display, Hron felt optimistic. Most of the red lights were a result of the missing starboard warp nacelle that had been torn off during the asteroid collision.

Once the plasma leak had been locked down and the anti-matter manifold balance recalibrated, most of the power systems had returned to normal. "Thanks be for Federation engineering." Hron whispered. "These chimps can build an engine."

"Hron. What?s the status of the warp engines?" It was the voice of commander Halifax over the comlink to Forager.

"It could be better. You bounced her pretty hard off of that rock, you know. If you can give me a couple of shifts I can have this wreck moving at sublight. With only one engine we have no way steer her in warp. She might worm-hole on us."

"That frigate will be coming back. We need to leave before that happens."

The commander was always understated. But Hron got the picture. "Let?s see." Hron remembered something he?d read in a journal about warp field matching. "We could try taking her in tow and synchronizing both our warp pulses and those of the Fed ship with the tractor beam emitter. That should keep both warp fields in phase and take some of the strain off of our engines."

"Sounds good, chief. Tell us when to engage."

"Give me another half shift. Khazim out."

With Stalwart in tow, Forager left the asteroid belt and made for their destination, the planet Maxender, at high warp. Halifax lied in his bed and vigorously rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. He wanted to take a quick nap, but knew he should clear his desk of reports while things were still fresh in his mind. Reluctantly, he rose and crossed his stateroom to sit at his desk.

"Forager," he said to the ship?s AI, "room light four, please. And a cup of java." The lights came up slowly and the server tray in the wall of his cabin extended with a warm, fragrant brew in a stoneware cup.

Halifax closed his eyes and slurped the drink, allowing the olfactory centers in the back of his throat to be bathed in the rich, earthy flavor. Java was a simple pleasure. Based upon a terran bean, it had been cross-bred and refined for a smoother flavor and a better adaptability to Lyran soil. Another slurp and Halifax put down the cup and keyed his log screen. He had asked his bridge crew to collectively submit a tactical commentary on the previous battle. Scrolling down, he found it and began to read, curious to see what their analysis was.

?TGP Forager ... blah blah
... intercepted by two Federation warships, FF Pleadies and NCL Stalwart... blah blah ... cruiser closing fast ... reckless ...?

He paused. ?Reckless?? Hm, that must have been Rala?s input. She could very often be somewhat judgmental.

Halifax gazed out of his view port. It faced aft, giving him a commanding view of Stalwart tethered by a pulsing blue beam to the stern of his own warship. The Federation ship?s bow was untouched. But the ragged mass of torn bulkheads and power couplings ending where the starboard warp engine should have been left no doubt that this ship was crippled.

Despite the view, McDowell had acted appropriately in his estimation. It would have been more prudent for her to keep her ships together and concentrate firepower upon the Bobcats. But Forager would certainly have escaped into open space. Such prudence won battles, but lost wars.

Similarly, the Frigate captain, (what was his name?) could have concentrated his fire upon a single PF, but both the frigate and the PFs were close enough that if one or both of the PFs had exploded, the frigate would have been gravely injured. In retrospect, that Federation captain should have tractored one or both PFs. The boats would have had to disengage at high warp to break the tractor lock and in the close quarters of the asteroid field that would have at least disrupted their attack formation.

McDowell?s only serious mistake was approaching too close to Forager. That was a point that Halifax felt needed to be driven home to his crew. Had Stalwart remained just within overload range and volleyed torpedoes at Forager, the tug would have been hard pressed to escape alive.

His thoughts were sharply cut-off by the roar of a red alert. Grabbing his command jacket, Halifax snarled and bolted through the door of his stateroom and charged down the corridor outside. Crew leapt out of the way of their commander. Dismissing the lift as too slow, he half-climbed, half-jumped up the access ladder to the bridge one deck above.

"Commander on the bridge!"

"As you were." Halifax waved them down. Red alert lights flashed and the bridge smelled strongly of aggression and tension. It was time, Halifax thought, to get these kits back to base. Their encounter with the Federation ships had wound them up and now they were eager to try their claws for blood. The main view screen was filled with an image of the object of their lust. A Romulan warship, old series.

"Romulan warship, sir. King Eagle class. She decloaked off of our number six shield." reported Melena at science. "From her warp signature she looks to be RIS Nemesis."
The Romulan ship hung in space, unmoving. It wasn?t a very large ship by Lyran standards. And though the hull was covered with the painting of a large raptor, the image of the ship was dominated by the maw of an enormous tube in the underside of the bow. This was a plasma launch tube, type R. It was one of the most destructive weapons known. The plasma torpedo that it emitted was almost as large as a police ship and that tumbling mass of star-stuff could shatter the forward shield of a heavy cruiser at even medium range. A ship, even a dreadnought was literally built around such a launcher. The Eagle series of ships were the smallest ships capable of carrying these monsters. Most of the empire?s merely threatening War Eagles had been converted to the very capable King Eagles. The addition of two lighter F-plasmas were part of the conversion. In the right hands, these ships could cripple any other cruiser in space.

"Alert status?"

"She?s at yellow, sir. Shields, but no weapons are armed."

"Malena, go to yellow. Rala, open a channel."

The drawback to plasma torpedoes was that they took a long time to arm. A disruptor could fire three times and an ESG could cycle twice in the time it took to charge and launch one plasma. A Romulan ship with ill intent would never uncloak with empty tubes. Halifax?s voice was calm and measured, but his ears were flat and he looked only at the viewscreen. The bridge crew wasn?t quite sure why, but their commander was furious.

"Forager, this is Nemesis." The Romulan commander who appeared on the viewscreen was very attractive and she had a glint in her eye that made the crew of Forager uneasy. Seeing her, however Halifax slowly let out his breath. Thanks be given. It was Synalin rhu?Havrel.

She and Halifax were old friends. Synalin and he had met on Vulcan during his exchange internship there. Intelligent and cunning, she could maneuver herself with people as well as she maneuvered her starship. A pretty face and a biting wit were her weapons. But her honor and sense of duty were what sealed the many friendships that she had. "We are not here to take that lovely prize away from you. But I can see how such a treasure could make a person a little paranoid." Her demeanor was a portrait of innocence and sincerity. It made Halifax laugh the purring rumble of a Lyran deep in his chest.

"Go to green Melena." he said to his first officer and turned to the view screen. "Nemesis, this is Forager. We thank you for appearing suddenly off the bow of an armed training vessel." he said levelly. "Our Romulan allies have given us a rare and valuable experience." His bridge crew was beginning to get over their shock, but they would never forget it.

Synalin smiled a quiet smile that was very becoming, and then her face turned serious. "We intercepted a communication from the frigate that got away from you. A couple Mirak destroyers might be responding." Halifax?s lip curled back from an inch-long fang at the mention of his hated enemies. "For prudence sake, and the sake of the Rigellian crystal in your cargo pallet," she added, looking down at her command console, "would you mind an escort into Maxender?"

"The Pleadies?" Halifax asked. "What was she doing this far in Lyran space?"

"Exploding." Synalin replied flatly. "I?m guessing that the captain was in pursuit of you to delay you long enough for the Mirak to show up. He found us instead and something possessed him to attack."

"Well, you cannot fault the humans for bravery." Halifax said, shaking his head perplexed. "Why don?t we get out of here before more trouble shows up?"

"You have point, we?ll flank. Nemesis out."

Halifax surveyed his bridge crew. Hearts racing, breathing quick, these eager young kittens did not belong out in space, he thought. As he turned to go to his wardroom he motioned to his science officer and second in command. "Melena," he said quietly, "would you join me in the wardroom for a moment?"

Melena followed Halifax into the private office adjacent to the bridge. In the center of the room stood a conference table surrounded by six chairs. Beyond that was an intricately carved wooden desk with plush, overstuffed chairs in front and behind. Halifax took his seat behind his desk and motioned Melena to sit as well.

"I didn?t want to mention this in front of the crew," he began, "but your handling of the appearance of the Romulan ship ... did not meet my expectations of you." The young lieutenant stared into the top of Halifax?s desk. The commander spoke calmly and with a gentle kindness, which made the critique all the more poignant. "You raised shields and locked loaded disruptors on to an allied vessel." He continued. "Had that been most other Romulan commanders, this would have quickly escalated into a diplomatic incident. Had it been a Klingon, we?d be fighting for our lives right now and quite possibly losing." Melena sat motionless with her eyes closed. Only her claws moved rhythmically in and out of their sheaths. "It has been an exciting cruise. And only your third?" Melena nodded sharply, trying to control herself. "I know how it is on the bridge. The sight of a possible enemy makes you want to attack, to let run the wild hunt in your breast." Halifax?s eyes began to burn and his lips curled showing his fangs. For a moment he closed his eyes and savored the bloodlust that coursed through his veins. "We are only Lyran. It is the voices of our ancient ancestors that howl in the vaults of our minds." He let his ears come forward and allowed the fur on his nape to settle. "But the challenge of command is to restrain your own beast, while inflaming those of your crew. They are the fangs and claws that devour. You must be the cunning mind of the hunter."

Melena looked up at her commander with tears in her eyes. "Ancient spirits, sir. It burns! How shall I stand it?" Her breathing was labored and the black tufts on her ears pulsed with every beat of her heart.

"You will, Melena T?al Salantet. For now, channel all that passion that you are feeling deep within yourself," he looked directly into her eyes, "and then take it out on your mate when next you meet."

They both laughed and Melena dried her eyes. After a deep breath she composed herself and sat up straighter. "I am ready to return to my station, if I may, sir."
Halifax studied her for a moment and then nodded. "Dismissed." he replied. With a wry smile he added, "Try to get us to Maxender without aiming at anything else."

FPF-Wanderer:
Part 3

Maxender.

Translated literally it meant 'Place of delight.' This blue and green sphere with its two small moons was the jewel in the crown of the Red Claw clan. Orbiting the planet was the starbase of the duchy. Tethered to slipways extending out from the base were hundreds of starships.

Sleek transports and luxury yachts competed with huge freighters for docking space. Surrounding these were dozens of warships. The mammoth Lion dreadnoughts of two dukes dominated the scene. Imperial battlecruisers and war destroyers signified the presence of several marshals and barons representing the throne. Manx-class police ships, large shuttles, and fast patrol boats darted in and out of the gathered mass.

As Forager and Nemesis came out of warp, base-traffic approach control hailed them.

"Forager, Maxender approach. We have you at ninety clicks out. Pick up docking vector nine. Maintain impulse twenty. Expect coupling on gate seventeen."

"Nine into seventeen." replied Yatu. Despite the instruction from approach control, the young Lyran helmsman slowed to fifteen. He wanted everyone gathered there to get a good look at the Federation light cruiser that they had in tow.

The massive hangar doors opened as Forager and Stalwart glided into the internal hangar of the base. Tiger cruisers looked like toys hanging on a child's wall inside the base's immense repair bays. A badly damaged Alleycat-class destroyer drew the attention of the bridge crew.

"That DD is the Sandstorm." said Rala. "Communications report that she bumped into a Federation frigate up in the Jeslo nebula." The port hull was breached at the bow and the center command section was all but missing. "Photons took down her minimum shields pretty quickly. I guess phasers took out the bridge." Rala's voice was hollow. "Her engineer got her turned around and out of there while the frigate reloaded." They watched the repair crews cutting away masses of mangled hull, remembering their own mortality for the first time in days.

The Romulan Imperial cruiser Nemesis had been directed to an external docking slip that gave her crew a panoramic view of Maxender. Synalin sipped a glass of fruit juice and gazed out of her cabin's viewport onto the azure Sea of Khemal below. She had finished her light breakfast and the chrono on her desk showed that she wouldn't be needed on the bridge for another quarter shift. Putting her juice down, she leaned almost horizontally back in her chair, undid the fasten on her single braid and ran her fingers through her luxurious mass of midnight hair.

The always protocol-minded Lyrans had given their Romulan allies a position of honor. But the honor was not totally for the allies themselves, but also for their ship. Though extensively refitted, RIS Nemesis was the same ship that had fought the Gorn as a War Eagle in the days before S-type plasma torpedoes had been developed. She had fought off the Klingons before the Tholian Holdfast had buffered the two empires. And this was the same Nemesis, then a Warbird, that had engaged the Federation in the epic pre-warp battles of two generations ago.

Synalin mused that in any other navy this ship would have been mothballed or put on display as a museum piece. And in so many ways Nemesis was a museum piece, thought her commander. The challenge of integrating two-hundred years of technology into a hull that had been originally designed to mount LASERS had made several comfort and aesthetics compromises necessary.

Tiny by modern cruiser standards, Nemesis was referred to as a cruiser more because of her firepower than any role she might fill. She possessed only one transporter, and that had had to be crammed into a space that had previously been used to store bulk foodstuffs. Her twin shuttle bays held only two shuttles each, and they had to be parked one in front of the other. Synalin's cabin viewport was one of very few on the ship. The cabin itself had a protrusion in the ceiling where a primary circuit trunk ran from the bridge to main engineering. The bridge was almost claustrophobic, (though the War Eagle upgrade had provided the bridge crew with chairs, thank the Elements). She turned like a Federation scow. The engineering crew 'hot bunked' and used communal cleaning facilities. And, with the increasing use of Klingon ships by the empire, spare parts were becoming increasingly difficult to find.

"And we wouldn't change a thing." she said lovingly, as her bare foot caressed the sill of her viewport. With the tip of her toe she followed the smooth lines that seamlessly blended into the arch of the ceiling. Rihannsu architecture at its finest, this elegant marriage of forms followed directly from function: sleek, flowing hulls required less energy to cloak.

Synalin thought again of the Klingon ships that the admiralty had been purchasing. She mourned the death of the Rihannsu art of battle brought by these ugly, crude, brutish things, these insect-like ships that would never be anything but Klingon. Tactical cloak was all but impossible in a ship that required fully half of its total power output to mask its ungainly hull. And the killing blow of a type R torpedo had been replaced by the 'flexibility' and 'survivability' of twin type S launchers.

Had honor sunk that far? Would cold results justify the passing of a tradition of battle centuries old? A rueful smile slowly played across Synalin's lips as she quietly said to herself, "Which one of us is the museum piece?" Laying almost on her back with her knees bent above her, she used the spring in her chair to pitch forward and lightly land on her feet. "Let them have their transport interdiction and their boarding engagements." she said, standing on her toes and stretching her arms in a wide arc towards the ceiling. "We will drive the enemies of the empire before us. We will crush their warships and batter their starbases. And when we are through," she added more quietly as she brought her hands down, leaning forward to peer out her viewport at the naked stars, "we will find a way to heal the ancient wounds between our Vulcan cousins and ourselves." Synalin's face brightened with overdone eagerness. "Well, if I'm to save the empire, I'd better get cleaned up. We wouldn't want an unkept hero." She laughed at herself again as she readied her sonic fresher and slipped out of her robe.

She never spent too long in the fresher aboard ship. The waves of sound, while effective at cleansing, always left her skin feeling a little numbed. Stepping back into her bedroom she opened her wardrobe to find her dress blacks, precisely arranged, waiting for her. "Ah, Elion. You will make a wonderful protocol officer some day." she said, smiling appreciatively at the uniform that her purser had left for her.

Today she was to be the ad hoc Rihannsu ambassador to the court of the Duke of Enemy's Blood. As she slipped into her uniform and adjusted the lay of the fabric, she rehearsed in her head the greetings that she had memorized in ecclesiastical Lyran. She reviewed forms of address and rank insignias as she carefully rewound her hair. Protocol and ceremony were necessary to the function of any culture, and she understood that. However, she was a starship captain, not a diplomat. "Oh, where is T'Lan when you need him?" she muttered to herself as she stepped out of her cabin and climbed the gangway to the bridge above.

"Commander on the bridge!" declared a young Antecenturion at the head of the gangway, who snapped to attention so quickly that Synalin winced.

"As you were. Liov, what's our status?"

"The ministry of events on Maxender has asked that we coordinate our arrival with sunset, third meridian local. They report twilight terminator in eighteen minutes, Commander." Liov was Synalin's second in command. A tall, rangy young man with hazel eyes and greenish brown hair, Liov was very serious and always almost formal in everything that he did.

"Maxender approach reports clear skies and calm winds aloft. Spaceport control is standing by."

"Very good." Synalin replied and keyed her command communication unit. "Attention Nemesis, this is the commander. We have been cleared for atmospheric approach to Maxender. We will be executing a maneuver rarely seen anymore. Let's stay sharp and give the cats a show. Synalin out."

The bridge crew smiled as an electric anticipation gripped them all. On the main viewing screen, Maxender slowly rotated under them half in shadow, half in light. Synalin took her seat at the command chair.

"T'van, seal the torpedo tubes and rig for atmospheric flight."

"Atmospheric flight aye, Commander."

T'van, seated at the helm, keyed in the special command sequence and his panel's display changed from schematic displays of navigational headings and bearings, to rows of indicators and meters. A small control stick folded out of the console's side and he slipped his feet into two pedals on the floor. The bridge was filled with the sound of heavy rolling machinery as outside the ship, large doors, sculpted to match the lines of the ship, closed over the plasma torpedo launch tubes.

"Launch tube doors report down and locked. Gust tail deployed."

Shields slid down over the viewports all over the ship and the warp nacelle pylons retracted to bring the tubular engines in tight to the main hull.

"Atmospheric board shows green, green, green."

"Ok helm, bring us into the planet at a glancing angle. Yaw plus twenty, roll port nine. Impulse one."

"Impulse one aye."

T'van's voice was a little shaky as he slowly inched the impulse engines forward and used the control stick to bank the cruiser to port.

Synalin watched the sensor readouts on her command console. "Careful, T'van. Don't let her take too big of a bite of the atmosphere. If she stubs her toe, she'll summersault on you."

The helmsman eased back on the stick and let the cruiser's nose come up just as they hit the outer fringes of the atmosphere. His brows furrowed and his breathing came more rapidly as he fought back his nervousness. A faint buffeting began to rise as the ship accelerated and it's angle of decent increased.

"Ionosphere engaged. External skin temperature nine hundred eighty degrees." reported Liov.

"Keep her nose up, T'van. And give me a nine second burn on the main retros."

The ship shuddered as super heated gas jetted out from its bow, braking its descent. Synalin continued to look from her command console readouts to the main viewscreen.

"Let her drop like a brick until we get into the lower ionosphere. Then you'll have some control authority"

"External skin temperature two thousand degrees." reported Liov. Nemesis plummeted through the thin upper atmosphere of Maxender, slowly rotating to a nose-down dive.

"Watch for your control surfaces to come alive soon now."

"Aye, Commander. I'm starting to feel some control authority already." T'van's control stick began to feel more sluggish and through it he could feel the buffeting of the thin atmosphere on hull of his ship.

"External skin temperature now four thousand two hundred degrees."

"Give her another eight second burn on the main retros." The ship lurched again as her downward fall was momentarily checked by the braking thrusters. "Oh, and may I remind you of our kill on this patrol?" Synalin added with a rueful smile. The bridge turned hopefully towards her, but no one dared ask the question that they all shared.

Finally, Liov spoke up in his normal, gravely serious way. "Commander, may we allow Nemesis to spread her wings in triumph?"

Again the crew held their breath in anticipation as Synalin pretended to consider the request. "Centurion T'van," said Synalin, her eyes merry, "commence phoenix effect. Thirty second burn."

At T'van's command, RIS Nemesis executed the centuries-old Rihannsu rite of victory. Jets of glowing plasma shot out from her impulse ports, surrounding her in crimson fire. Far below on the ground, the gathered spectators watched as the streaking white ship became engulfed in a bright red glow, thousands of meters across, that blossomed into the shape of the wings of a massive bird of prey seemingly gliding on the solar wind. Two hundred thousand Lyrans roared their delight at the arial spectacle. And all one hundred and forty aboard Nemesis shouted in celebration as well.

Nemesis shrugged off her fading cloak of fire as she encountered the lower atmosphere.

"Phoenix effect complete. Control surfaces coming alive, Commander. Skin temperature three thousand degrees."

"Maintain easterly course, helm. She's a flying wing now. Let her soar."

And he did, exhaulting in the sensation of gliding on the wind.
"Give her a ten degree up angle on the bow to dump some more speed. We'll pick up the glide slope soon and I want us under two hundred knots when we get within twenty clicks of the port."

"Ten degree up on the bow, aye. External skin temperature fading below one thousand." T'van could hardly believe how responsive tens of thousands of tons of warship could be in soaring flight. Nemesis had a slight nose-down tendency that T'van couldn't quite trim out. But she rolled like an acrobat and, as he put her through a series of speed-dumping S turns, the gust tail perfectly coordinated the rhythmic slalom.

"Nemesis, this is Gel Mor Tar spaceport approach. We have you at twelve clicks altitude, one hundred nine clicks out. Descend to five hundred meters pattern altitude and make left traffic into three four."

"Nemesis left traffic into three four, port control. We will vertical descend from one hundred."

T'van's hand was slippery on the control stick from sweat, but his voice was stronger and more confident now. He executed several swooping maneuvers to dump more speed, criss crossing the port area. At three thousand meters he pulled back on the stick and took Nemesis into a perfectly balanced hammer-head stall. As the cruiser's vertical speed bled away T'van let her roll off to starboard and banked her into a gentle spiral. At one thousand meters he picked up the spaceport visually. It rimmed the shore of Simbal Bay for miles in either direction. Large black landing pads, hundreds of meters across vied for space with old-style runways from the days of aircraft.

Dipping her port side, the heavy cruiser slipped sideways to a gentle stop on a cushion of super heated air. It hung motionless in the air above the landing pad as thick landing pylons extended from underneath and floodlights and warning beacons lit up the ground below. Nemesis settled and the roar of the vertical thrusters faded and was replaced by the roar of the gathered crowd.

"Congratulations T'van," said Synalin, "as they used to say in the old days: I think that we can walk away from this one." The bridge broke out in laughter and even Liov smiled. She keyed the ship's intercom then. "All hands, this is the Commander. Welcome to Maxender. Security protocol two is in effect. Liberty call. Liberty call. All hands liberty call."

FPF-Wanderer:
Part 4


The Officers of Stalwart had been given quarters on deck three. Captain McDowell had been released from sickbay and had convened a meeting of her senior staff in her quarters. She got right down to business.

"Hans, why don?t you start?"

A tall, lanky man shifted in his chair to turn towards the majority of the group. "Twenty eight dead in the collision with the asteroid. The main plasma conduit ruptured back into lower engineering. Another in the boarding action; tried to vent a squad of their marines into space in the shuttle bay. Other than that, various broken bones and cuts. Nothing life threatening."

"Anna?"

A slim woman with a dusky complexion and raven-black hair rose and began her report. "Stalwart is a wreck. Her starboard warp nacelle is gone, making warp travel difficult if not impossible. Further, the stardrive yoke is bent, pinching the saucer section and precluding any attempt at saucer separation." She spoke with the finality of an engineer reporting facts, not opinions. Her voice brightened. "On the other hand, the port nacelle is in perfect shape and is currently online. All four torpedo tubes were still in good shape, as were three phaser banks when we were taken off by the Lyrans. If we could get a team over there..."

"I don?t think the kittens are going to allow us to blow up their starbase from the inside." said McDowell. "Now, unless you plan to shimmy down the tractor beam onto Stalwart, we need other options.  Steve, how is security?"

Steve Joergen stood almost two meters tall. A middle-aged man, he had blocky features and a weathered complexion. "Tight." he said in answer to McDowell?s question. "Aside from our ship being unreachable and being surrounded by the biggest kitten navy I?ve ever seen, even if I did have a phaser most of the guards are wearing assault armor and they always work in pairs. I?m sorry captain," he said, shaking his head, "but there just aren?t any opportunities for escape here."

"I think you?re right. For now." McDowell turned to Jack, her second in command. "Well Jack, you?re our resident expert on the Lyrans. Can you give us a briefing on what we can expect next?"

Jack Virenko had just been promoted to commander. And Stalwart was a new ship for him. In fact the reason that he had been assigned to Stalwart was that the cruiser had been transferred from the Klingon front and they needed someone onboard with some background with the Lyrans. He was still the ?new guy? and hadn?t quite found his place with his new crew.
Standing, he said, "First off, do not, under any circumstances, use the word ?Mirak? at any time when dealing with the Lyrans. While their system of ettiquete is highly refined, they are a tremendously passionate people. And one slip up in translation could get you killed.

Second, it will be important to remember that we are not prisoners of the Lyran Empire. We are the prisoners of the Far Stars Clan. Had we been captured by an Imperial warship, we would be taken to one of the planets in the Imperial liberty in the center of Lyran space. However, owing to the complex feudal structure of the Lyrans, we are now the property/responsibility of the Duke of the Far Stars counties, through the Countess of Dark Storm.

We have little information on the Far Stars, as their territory is the furthest into uncharted space. What we do know of them comes from Hydran sources. Like all Lyrans their society is based upon a clan structure. Smaller sub-clans or tribes further muddy the waters of Lyran politics.

Dark Storm sees itself as the explorers of their race. They operate several excellent galactic survey cruisers on the outer frontiers. And due to their remoteness from most of the heavy fighting frontiers, most Lyrans receive at least their initial training with the Far Stars."

"Which explains the crew of Forager" interjected McDowell.

"Correct." Virenko nodded his assent. "This tug is normally a rear deployed vessel. Pirates are their usual adversary."

"Fine." McDowell said, acidly. "I was beaten by a bunch of green kids who have only had to deal with disease ridden scum. What were they doing so close to Mirak space?"

"Not just a bunch of green kids, sir." It was Steve Joergen. "I remembered where I had heard the name ?Halifax? before. I don?t know how common of a name that is, but if it?s the same one as mentioned in several security briefs, he?s one of the more experienced commanders in the Lyran navy. He?s captured several Hydran and Mirak warships."

Several gathered there looked skeptical. Anna leaned forward to ask, "And he?s a tug captain? What was he carrying?"

"And not ?just? a tug captain." answered Jack. "He holds the same position of an Academy senior examiner in Star Fleet. An entire generation of Lyrans has been trained by this guy. My guess is that this is a senior recruit crew. Our scans showed that their cargo pallet was carrying a heavy load of luxury items; rare foodstuffs, metalware, crystal. We are currently in transit to the planet Maxender in the Pelt Hunter county. On our way to a wedding."

"Well," said McDowell, unfolding an intricately decorated but archaic looking note written on paper, "this was delivered to me this morning by a page who spoke Federation standard fairly well." She passed the note to Virenko, who read it with some difficulty.

"Ecclesiastical Lyran. Give me a second." It took several passes, but Jack?s brow eventually relaxed and he looked up to his captain. "Yep, it?s a wedding invitation, addressed to ?Mistress of the Hunt Janice, Daughter of Clan McDowell, defenders of the green seas of Mars..."

Anna interjected, "I didn?t know that you were from Mars."

"I?d like to know how they knew." replied McDowell evenly.

"...and your retinue of mercenaries..."

"Mercenaries?" It was Hans?s turn to be surprised.

"We are not of the same clan nor county. And we have no emperor. So in their eyes we must be mercenaries." Jack continued reading the note. "...are invited to grace the union of the Pelt Hunter clan and the Dark Storm clan with your presence and the spirits of the fallen whom you have gathered...etc, etc." He looked up expectantly at McDowell, who looked incredulous.

"You mean to say that, after my ship was crippled and my crewmen killed and captured, I?m supposed to take my remaining crew down to some primitive joining ceremony to be paraded around like a bunch of war trophies? Tell them to go to hell!"

Hans and Anna voiced their indignant agreement. Jack waited for them to vent and then addressed his captain directly. "Sir, that would not be very wise." McDowell began to protest, but Jack waived her down. "Please. This is not meant as an insult. It carries the ducal seal." he said, indicating a jewel encrusted mark on the back of the note paper. "It is considered a highly noble trait to show generosity to ones foes. It is a way to demonstrate admiration for the courage of the fallen. For you to refuse would be to suggest that you do not recognize the duke?s nobility. And that would be a grave insult to him and his people."

Janice McDowell thought for several minutes about what her XO had said. She surely did not like the idea of socializing with enemies of the Federation. But until an opportunity for escape materialized, she needed to keep her crew safe. And another thought occurred to her, which she shared with those gathered. "When I was commissioned in Star Fleet, I pledged to seek out new civilizations." She paused as the thought continued to form in her head. "We have been given the opportunity to study Lyran culture as no others of our people have. This would be the first direct observation of Lyran society by a Federation team in history. As Steve has indicated, we aren?t going anywhere on our own in the foreseeable future. I don?t like our present situation one bit, but I?m also not going to go back to Star Fleet, and we ARE going back, empty handed." She took a deep breath. "Gentlemen, it?s time to ?boldly go.? Get ready for a ride."

FPF-Wanderer:
Part 5

An ancient Lyran legend tells of the Winter Witch of Horrok (the mid-winter month on the Lyran calendar) who steals the spirits of lone travelers to serve her in her frozen mansion beneath the sea. On a mountain glacier on the frozen mining world of Goramele IV, a lone figure relentlessly broke his way through the ever-deepening snows, believing every word of the legend was true. A thick overcoat protected him to his knees and a high collar and hood shielded his head. But high above the tree line gale force winds tore his breath out of his lungs and drove the biting cold through the thick fur on his face.

Rannh was a Vanquisher. Often the only civilizing influence in the frontier regions, Vanquishers acted as policemen, judges, firemarshals, midwives, apothecaries and anything else remote communities might need. They were resourceful and self reliant, usually working alone on the wild frontiers. A group of two Vanquishers meant trouble was near. A group of three or more was to be avoided at all costs. Today he was a manhunter. And he had tracked his quarry to a remote cave high in these mountains. And not just a cave, but an Orion pirate base. Only by approaching on foot in a bitter blizzard could he avoid the many sensors searching for intruders to the domain of desperate men.

Deafened by the howling wind and numbed by the snow and cold, he was at least able to see well enough in the lowering twilight to notice the cave entrance before he himself stumbled into the open of the broad valley that descended down from the cave. The mouth of the cave lay in the valley's ridgeline and was partially hidden by a large overhanging finger of rock. Motion sensors, optical pickups and heat seeker heads mounted atop the rock overhang scanned the valley. But these would all be useless in this storm. "Idiots." muttered Rannh.

Hugging the shadows of the ridge, Rannh slowly swam his way through shoulder deep snow to approach the cave mouth from the right side. With his body pressed against the side of the cave opening he could feel the thrum of machinery through the rock wall. He removed his mittens and put on his polymer battle paws. Puncture and crush resistant, battle paws possessed retractable ceramic claws that deployed with the wearer's natural claw. The ceramic claw was almost mono-molecularly sharp, harder than a diamond, and two centimeters long.

With the quickness of a feline in peak physical condition, Rannh spun around the corner of the cave?s mouth and shredded the recognizer sensor at the sealed entrance. Several minutes later an Orion pirate, who had opened the cave's blast door to see what was wrong with the door sensor, lay with his head several meters from his body in the snow. "Careless" Rannh muttered, shaking his head.

Rannh shut the outer door behind him and his eyes adjusted quickly to the dim cave's light. It was warm inside, almost too warm, and damp. He stood at the end of a wide hallway about twenty meters long. Despite the natural look of the cave mouth, it had obviously been hewn with disruptors from solid rock.

The smell of unwashed bodies was strong: humanoid, possibly Orion and Klingon, Lyran, and ... Romulan! "Spirits be thanked, he's here." Rannh whispered to himself. And then he detected another scent. Gorn. No wonder it was warm. He would have to be very careful in these confined spaces. Even an untrained Gorn was dangerous in close quarters. A Gorn trained to fight was deadly.

He made his way silently down the hall and froze when the door auto opened much sooner than he had expected. But no one was in the room beyond. Passing through this he emerged into a long hallway with doors on either side. From the nearest door on the left he heard two humanoids arguing over politics.

"Mortoz, you must be drunk!" one voice, probably a Lyran, was saying, "The LDR is even more idealistic than the Lyran Empire ever was. They'll never cut a deal with pirates."

"Well the Hydrans aren't dealing," replied Mortoz, probably an Orion, "and the Romulans can't be trusted. That leaves only the Fed, the Gorn, the Mirak and the Klingons to keep this war going."

"So? They're enough. Klingons and Gorn love war and the Mirak hate the Lyrans and thus love war with them. And the Feds are such bureaucratic whores that we can always find a few corrupt officials to grease."

"Nurghal, I hope you're right because if the big powers ever decide to stop fighting, they're going to start coming after us with those big battle cruisers and divisions of marines."

Nurghal took a drink of something and laughed. "Don't worry, my friend. We'll surrender to the Feds and get 'rehabilitated.'"

Rannh stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "No," he said to the two shocked pirates, "you will surrender to the Dark Storm clan."

"Vanquisher!" Mortoz shouted and leapt backwards to retrieve his phaser from his holster hanging on the far wall.

Knives flashed into both of Nurghal's hands as he charged Rannh. Launching himself into the air, the Lyran pirate held his right hand low and slashed high with the left. He was skilled and agile, but Rannh had seen skilled opponents before. Crouching low himself, Rannh drove his body up under Nurghal's guard and drove his left claws into the pirate's unprotected abdomen. Nurghal died with a hoarse belch. Casting the fresh corpse aside, Rannh turned to face the Orion who was just bringing his phaser to bear. With mechanical precision Rannh pulled a knife out of Nurghal's limp grasp and sent it speeding to Mortoz's throat, pinning him to the wall.

Mortoz's alarm had reached the occupants of the room at the far end of the hall. From that doorway spilled an Orion, a human and two Klingons wielding betleHs. Rannh threw Nurghal's second knife at the Orion, catching him full in the chest and dropping him from the fight. The human wielded a Klingon pain stick, and wielded it well hitting Rannh hard on the left thigh. Rannh's world exploded in white agony and then again as the human brought the stick around to his head. Rannh could feel his grip on consciousness slip but was still alert enough to see that the human had used a two-handed swipe that had left his flank exposed. Fighting to focus, Rannh lashed out, burying his booted foot in the human's ribs. As the human doubled over, Rannh crushed his wind pipe with a balled fist.

A boot caught him in the jaw and sent him spinning to the floor. Before he could rise the same boot slammed into his chest, pinning him. Over him stood a Klingon woman with her betleH poised over his throat.

"Vanquisher. I applaud your infiltration of our hideout. You must have suffered greatly in the cold to reach here without our sensors noticing you. However, it was all for nothing as you will now die." By Klingon standards she was beautiful. But her voice held a contempt and her expression the sneer of a poor winner. She held her right hand back and said to the young Klingon behind her, "Kidnapper, fetch me that pain stick and let me show you how a true warrior uses it."

She stood over Rannh like a statue to the god of confidence until the point of another betleH erupted from her chest. Looking down in disbelief she tried to protest, indignant at this affront to her wishes, but blood choked her throat and poured from her mouth. As she slid off of the point of the blade the young Klingon stared at Rannh, and then extended his hand to help the dazed Vanquisher to his feet.

Once Rannh was standing the young Klingon wound up and connected a round-house punch squarely on Rannh's jaw sending him sprawling to the ground again. Rannh looked up in bewilderment.

"Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to establish myself as Kormon the Kidnapper in this cartel?" The young Klingon raged. As he yelled he began removing parts of his face.

"I'm sure that others will remember you." Rannh said reasonably.

"You killed everyone who knows Kormon." The Klingon pulled off his hair, which turned out to be a wig. Below were revealed pointed ears.

"I'm sorry, T'Lan, but Halifax needs you urgently." Rannh said calmly as he regained his feet again. He felt his jaw and everything seemed to be in it's proper place.

"Halifax? Why would the Tal Shi'ar be interested in a cargo pod full of wedding gifts?" T'Lan removed more pieces of his face and his Romulan nature began to emerge.

"I don't think anyone truly understands the motives of the Tal Shi'ar," Rannh said dryly and was rewarded with a level look from T'Lan, "but he thought that you might be interested in the Federation NCL and crew that they towed into Maxender Base yesterday."

T'Lan's jaw actually dropped open as he stared at Rannh. "You're joking. No wait, you don't joke." T'Lan's expression became very intense. "A Federation NCL captured with a Cougar tug?"

"A Puma actually." said Rannh modestly.

"A Puma? Hah! No wonder the other clans pee their pants when Halifax walks into a tactics conference." T'Lan laughed again. "Crew intact?"

"Almost." Rannh injected. "There were quite a few casualties when one of the warp nacelles was pushed into an asteroid."

"Still, a non violent capture..." T'Lan looked at Rannh for confirmation. Rannh gave him a withering look. "Of course. Dumb question. This is really what we've been waiting for." He motioned for Rannh to follow him back down the hallway to the entrance. "If we can just..."

"Yes." Rannh said, cutting him off.

"And if they..."

"Yes."

"Then..."

"Yes."

T'Lan thought for a few second more and then, apparently having come to a decision, said brightly, "Hmm. Well our work here is done." Taking a small grenade from his jacket, he casually opened a door and threw it in.

"I meant to commend you on your disguise." Rannh said, eyeing the doorway that T'Lan had just thrown the grenade into. "Very convincing. You even smelled much like a Klingon. I could barely taste the Romulan."

"Thank you. Let's pick up the pace a little." T'Lan said as he broke into a jog down the hall, away from the now-loaded doorway.

Rannh followed, matching T'Lan's pace. "Speaking of which; I sensed a Gorn when I arrived..."

But the rest of his sentence was cut off by the explosion of the grenade. The blast rocked the cavern and threw both men from their feet.

"That was him." replied T'Lan off-handedly. "He's been sleeping off a bender for the last couple of days. That's why the heat and humidity are up so high in here. Gorns have an incredibly slow metabolism. Lucky thing too. He's pretty good with a phaser."

Both men got to their feet and T'Lan finished removing his Klingon disguise. "Bodyguard?" asked Rannh.

"Forger. You should have seen him at work on a data set. He was a twisted sadist and I wanted to kill him several times for what he did to the slaves that this bunch trafficked, but he was a real artist with cryptos. Who would have thought that those massive hands could do such subtle things to a logic cube?" T'Lan looked ahead at nothing, remembering the Gorn's craftsmanship, then shook his head to clear it. "So, do you have a runabout, or do we walk."

"Ship actually." Rannh keyed his communicator. "Patrol Cutter Argent Five, this is Rannh. Two to beam up."

"Constable Rannh, this is Basrala. Acknowledged."

"Good." said T'Lan. "It looked cold out there."

"I am sorry about ruining your cover personality." Rannh said as the first electric tingles of the transporter effect began to run along his fur. "But can't you just start a new one?"
"I can," replied T'Lan, his voice taking on an odd tone as he began to dissolve, "but it is better to do so from within the Klingon Empire and right now it's illegal to be *me* there." Rannh's quickly fading expression looked confused. "It's a long story." And then they dissolved completely in a shower of tiny drops of light.

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