I also wrote an addition to how the Romulans actually joined the UFP and Klingons in their war against the Dominion in the AU.
This is supposed to be slotted in just before Dark Frontier Ending (but obviously in S4 - after AI forge was sent and analysed) - but since I would have to redo all the posts from that point on, I figured it would be best to just post it here:
[Alpha Quadrant – Weeks after the Prometheus Incident – Federation Space, Secure Diplomatic Channel 77-Rho]
What began as a single encrypted communiqué between Starfleet Command and the Romulan Senate Liaison evolved into something altogether more deliberate.
At first, the exchanges were fleeting - coded fragments, couriered through neutral listening posts near the border, little more than data pings disguised as stellar cartography updates.
But over time, the cadence changed. Short bursts became longer transmissions. Romulan scout ships adjusted patrol vectors to mirror Starfleet observation grids. Intelligence flowed both ways - not enough to form an alliance, but enough to sharpen each other’s survival odds.
Starfleet learned to read between the Romulans’ silences.
The Romulans learned to trust that the Federation’s restraint was its own form of strength.
Together, they began to see the Dominion’s movements a little earlier, predict the pattern a little faster.
And across the front, the death toll began - quietly, almost imperceptibly - to fall.
[Cardassia Prime – Dominion Command Centre, several weeks later]
The room was a cathedral of order - cold, efficient, alien.
Massive displays cast pale light across ranks of Vorta aides as they pored over casualty matrices and fleet projections. Weyoun stood at the centre of it all, the polished calm of his smile betraying irritation beneath.
A Jem’Hadar First loomed at his side, motionless.
“These numbers are incorrect,” Weyoun said softly, gesturing toward the shimmering casualty graphs. “Federation losses should be higher. Klingon attrition double this. Yet the rate of destruction has… plateaued.”
One of the aides shifted nervously. “Our algorithms are based on prior engagements, Administrator. It’s possible the Federation’s logistical improvements - ”
“Please,” Weyoun interrupted, still smiling. “The Federation is many things, but efficient is rarely one of them.”
He approached the primary display - a three-dimensional map of the Alpha Quadrant, alive with pulsing Dominion frontlines. “When numbers lie, it’s because someone is feeding them the truth they shouldn’t know.”
He paused. “Someone is warning them.”
The Founder - emerging from the pool behind him in a ripple of amber - spoke in that perfectly level voice that froze the room.
“The Romulans.”
Weyoun inclined his head slightly, as though the idea had merely occurred to him. “Their ships linger too close to our borders. Their intelligence division remains active despite our non-aggression treaty. And there was… an intercepted transmission weeks ago. Federation diplomatic coding, heavily distorted. Origin point traced to within two parsecs of Romulan space.”
The Founder’s gaze hardened. “Speculation is not proof.”
“Speculation,” Weyoun said gently, “is what the Founders have always turned into policy.”
A long silence. Then the Founder drifted closer, rippling in thought.
“The Romulans play both sides. They believe neutrality protects them. Let us correct that illusion.”
Weyoun’s smile returned, glass-thin. “I could extend an invitation - an offer to discuss a formal alliance. We arrive bearing gifts and peace… and eliminate their shipyards the moment they accept.”
The Founder considered this with the detachment of a scientist studying a specimen.
“Yes. Strike under the flag of diplomacy. Let them learn that peace with the Dominion is an illusion.”
Weyoun bowed his head. “As you wish, Founder.”
The Jem’Hadar First raised his chin slightly. “And if the Federation interferes?”
The Founder’s form rippled once. “Then they reveal themselves. And we destroy them both.”
[Alpha Quadrant – Deep Space Nine – Secure Briefing Chamber]
The lights were low, the air faintly metallic from the station’s recycled atmosphere.
Garak stood near the console, posture immaculate, though the faintest tremor in his hand betrayed something like unease.
Across the table, Admiral Ross watched him closely, while Sisko leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded.
“You’re certain of this source?” Ross asked.
“As certain as one can be,” Garak replied smoothly. “Let’s call it a whisper from Cardassia Prime.
A whisper that mentioned Jem’Hadar troop movements through the Kora sector, and a Vorta envoy travelling under diplomatic clearance. A peace convoy, apparently bound for Romulus.”
Sisko frowned. “The Dominion offering peace?”
Garak smiled faintly. “They’re quite good at it - right until the torpedoes start falling.”
Ross leaned forward, voice sharp. “Do we know their real target?”
“The convoy’s flight path places it within three light-years of the R’venna shipyards,” Garak said. “If I were a betting man, I’d say the Romulans are about to be punished for something they haven’t even admitted doing.”
Sisko’s eyes narrowed. “And you can’t reach your source again?”
Garak spread his hands. “Cardassian communications have… grown selective. And my friends in the Romulan Information Bureau have suddenly forgotten my existence. It seems everyone’s pretending not to know me.”
Ross turned to Sisko. “We can’t ignore this. If the Dominion hits the Romulans, they’ll either fold or retaliate. Either way, the entire quadrant shifts.”
Sisko nodded grimly. “You’ll never get a response through their border. They’ll see any Federation transmission as a ploy.”
“I don’t intend to transmit,” Ross said quietly. “I intend to go.”
[USS Bellerephon - En Route to the Romulan Neutral Zone]
Stars stretched into long white lines across the forward viewport as the ship cut through warp nine.
Admiral William Ross stood on the bridge, PADD in hand, the weight of command etched into the lines around his eyes.
“Transmit coded hail sequence Theta-Nine to the Romulan liaison channel,” he ordered.
The comm officer hesitated. “Sir, that frequency was last used several months ago - during the Prometheus debrief.”
“Exactly,” Hayes said. “If anyone’s still listening, they’ll recognise it.”
The officer nodded and keyed the transmission.
Seconds passed. Then the console beeped - no response.
Hayes exhaled slowly. “Re-route through the Beta Pegasi relay, try again.”
Another pause. Silence. Then the signal abruptly cut off.
“Transmission blocked at source,” the officer said. “Something on the Romulan side is jamming.”
Hayes stared at the dark screen for a long moment.
“Then we’re already too late.”
He turned to his XO. “Signal Admiral Ross. Tell him we’ve lost contact. And inform the fleet to prepare a small escort wing - three ships. We’re going to make contact the hard way.”
[Alpha Quadrant - Starfleet Command - Strategic Operations]
Hayes read the report in silence, jaw tightening.
“Crossing the Neutral Zone is a treaty violation,” he said finally.
Ross’ voice came through the secure channel, steady but resolute. “Understood, sir. But if the Dominion wipes out those shipyards, we’ll lose the Romulans. We need them, and this is our chance to show them who their allies are.
Hayes considered that for a long beat. Then, quietly: “You’ll have no reinforcements. If this turns into a fight, you’re on your own.”
Ross allowed himself a thin smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
[Romulan Border - Hours Later]
Three Starfleet ships slid from warp, sensors sweeping the void.
Moments later, two vast green silhouettes decloaked ahead - D'deridex-class warbirds, weapons primed.
The standoff began.
The next move would decide whether the Alpha Quadrant collapsed into chaos - or united against it.
[Romulan Border - Near the Neutral Zone]
The void between the stars shimmered faintly as two Romulan warbirds decloaked off the Bellerophon bow, their green hulls glinting in the pale light of a distant sun.
Alarms rippled across the bridge, crimson reflections cutting through the dim command deck.
“Tactical, report,” Ross said, voice calm.
“Two D'deridex-class vessels, bearing zero-one-eight mark five,” the tactical officer replied. “Weapons armed, target lock established. They’re hailing.”
“On screen.”
The main display flickered to life, revealing the sharp, patrician features of a Romulan commander. His uniform was immaculate; his expression anything but welcoming.
“This is Commander Valok of the Warbird K’varan. You have crossed into restricted space. State your purpose before I end your transmission permanently.”
Ross straightened. “Commander Valok, I am Admiral William Ross of Starfleet Command. We come with urgent intelligence concerning a Dominion strike force en route to Romulan territory.”
Valok’s tone was acid. “How convenient. Federation ships trespass into the Neutral Zone and claim altruism.”
“I can prove it,” Ross replied evenly. “But we need a secure channel.”
Valok’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll find no such channel here.”
William hesitated, then inclined his head slightly. “Very well. Recognition code: Delta–Primus–Four.
Initiated under Directive Seventy-Four, encoded following the Prometheus incident. Cross-reference with liaison protocol from Senator Teron’s office.”
The silence that followed was almost physical. Valok said nothing for several seconds, eyes scanning a readout just out of view.
Finally, he spoke. “You shouldn’t know that code.”
“I do,” Ross said. “Because your government and mine agreed – quietly - that if either of us detected a Dominion operation threatening stability, we’d notify the other. Consider this that notification.”
Valok’s expression remained unreadable. “And you expect me to take you at your word?”
“I expect you to check your own channels,” Hayes said. “Try contacting Command. If you get through, I’ll turn around right now.”
Valok’s gaze sharpened. “You believe I cannot?”
“I believe you’ll find your subspace bands are jammed,” Ross said quietly. “Which means the Dominion is already moving.”
For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crossed the Romulan’s face. Off-screen, another voice murmured something - likely an aide reporting the jamming interference.
Valok glanced aside, then back. His tone, when he spoke, was cooler, more measured.
“You will hold position. I will confirm your claim.”
“Understood,” Ross said. He nodded to helm. “Full stop.”
The channel closed. The viewscreen returned to the image of the two warbirds - still locked on, but not firing.
The minutes dragged. The bridge was silent save for the hum of the engines and the distant pulse of the alert klaxon.
Then – suddenly - the tactical officer spoke.
“Warbirds are dropping weapons lock.”
Ross looked up. “On screen.”
Valok reappeared, posture still rigid but no longer predatory. “Your claim appears… credible. Long-range sensors confirm multiple warp signatures approaching the R’venna sector - configuration consistent with Dominion vessels.”
Ross nodded once. “Then you know why we’re here.”
Valok studied him for a long moment, then said, “You will accompany us to R’venna. Any deviation from formation, and you will be destroyed.”
Ross allowed himself a small, grim smile. “Understood, Commander. Lead the way.”
The channel cut. The warbirds swung into formation, flanking the Intrepid as the three ships turned toward the stars.
Warp fields flared like emerald fire.
They leapt together into the void.
[En Route to the R’venna System - USS Bellerophon, Warp 9.6]
The stars stretched across the forward viewport in ribbons of pale light.
Within the Intrepid-class starship’s bridge, every console burned softly in red alert readiness. Two Romulan warbirds held formation off the port and starboard flanks, vast shadows gliding through the distortion of warp space.
Admiral Ross stood near the conn, arms folded, gaze fixed ahead. He’d commanded fleets larger than this - dozens of starships across the front - but something about escorting Romulans into their own territory with a Dominion task force waiting beyond sensor range made this feel heavier than any formal battle order.
“Status of the escorts?” he asked.
“Warbirds maintaining warp nine-point-six,” the operations officer replied. “Shield harmonics aligned to our field envelope. No sign of weapons power-ups.”
Ross nodded. “Keep a close eye on them anyway.”
A soft chirp from the comm panel. “Incoming transmission from Commander Valok, sir. Encrypted channel.”
“Route it to my ready room.”
He entered the room and the screen blinked to life, revealing Valok’s angular face, lit in the green glow of his own bridge.
“Admiral Ross,” the Romulan began, tone precise, clipped. “Your presence here places my crew in a difficult position. Cooperation with Starfleet, however temporary, is not viewed kindly by my superiors.”
Ross inclined his head slightly. “You’d prefer the Dominion eradicate your shipyards first?”
Valok’s eyes flickered. “I prefer to act before necessity dictates my loyalties.”
“Then we agree,” Ross said evenly. “We didn’t cross your border to grandstand. We came because the alternative was silence - and silence is what the Dominion counts on.”
Valok leaned forward slightly. “You speak as if you know them.”
“We’ve been fighting them long enough to understand the pattern,” Ross said. “They always move under the veil of diplomacy. A smile first, then an attack when you hesitate.”
Valok regarded him for a long moment, then said, almost grudgingly, “Perhaps you know us better than I assumed. We are… not accustomed to such transparency.”
Ross gave a faint smile. “Then consider this practice.”
For the first time, Valok’s tone softened. “Our long-range sensors confirm multiple warp signatures ahead - Dominion configuration. They are holding formation near R’venna, maintaining diplomatic transponder codes.”
“Peace delegation,” Ross said quietly. “As predicted.”
Valok nodded once. “If they cross into orbit, they will be within striking distance of every major fabrication facility in the sector.”
“Then we meet them there,” Ross said. “Together.”
The Romulan commander studied him, eyes narrowing, then gave a curt nod. “Very well, Admiral. We’ll arrive in ten minutes. Prepare your crew.”
The transmission cut.
Ross stared at the blank screen for a moment, then turned toward the viewport, watching the faint emerald shimmer of the warbirds racing beside the Bellerophon.
He exhaled, voice low, almost to himself.
“Let’s make sure this isn’t remembered as the day peace killed an empire.”
[R’venna System – Outer Approach, Minutes Later]
Warp lines collapsed into stars. The Bellerophon dropped out of Warp with a flash of blue-white light, flanked by the two warbirds.
Ahead, a cluster of shipyards orbited the orange-hued world of R’venna III, scaffolds glittering with the ghostly light of construction fields.
And between them and safety - an incoming Dominion formation: six attack ships, two battle cruisers, and a command carrier, all broadcasting diplomatic clearance codes.
Too perfect. Too rehearsed.
“Multiple warp signatures detected,” the tactical officer reported. “They’re matching diplomatic ID protocols from the Dominion embassy on Cardassia Prime.”
Ross moved closer to the viewscreen, eyes narrowing. “The Dominion doesn’t send a task force to deliver handshakes.”
On the Romulan channel, Valok’s voice came through, taut with fury.
“They’ve requested approach vectors for ‘formal negotiations.’ Ideal to engage?”
Ross’s reply was immediate. “Not yet. Let them fire first.”
Valok gave a dark, humourless laugh. “Oh, Admiral, they will.”
Moments later, the Dominion carrier broke formation. Energy spikes flared across its hull. The illusion shattered - transponder codes switching from diplomatic to tactical in a single pulse.
“Here we go,” Ross muttered. “All ships - evasive pattern Sigma-Two. Target that carrier.”
The battle for R’venna had begun.
[R’venna Orbit – Seconds Before Contact]
Space contracted into a theatre of small, lethal rehearsals. The Dominion formation shimmered like a false promise - diplomatic transponder codes still registered on long range, but every hull geometry and flight-path telegraphed an ambush. Romulan platforms bristled. Shipyards rotated slow and stately, utterly exposed.
“Transponders flipping from diplomatic to tactical,” the tactical officer said, voice flat. “They’ve set their signatures to strike configuration.”
Ross’s eyes didn’t leave the forward viewscreen. “They want a clean surprise. Let them demonstrate their intent.”
Valok’s voice came over the secure relay, low and hard. “They will close to weapons range under the pretense of parlay. If we engage too early we lose the moral high ground - and perhaps the Senate. If we stand idle, we lose our shipyards.”
Ross regarded him for a breath. “We buy time. You cover our flanks; we draw their fire.”
[Opening Exchange - Tactical Interplay]
The Dominion carrier blinked once and the sky lit. Cannon fire flared in organised bursts, each salvo meant to shred pylons and cripple dock clamps. Jem’Hadar fighters spilled from vents like hornets; attack craft streaked across sensor sweeps.
“Evasive Sigma-Two,” Ross ordered. “Disperse hard vectors - avoid mesh funnels. Target the carrier’s quantum relay nodes on my mark.”
The Bellerephon answered with a controlled ballet: hull plates screamed as torpedoes grazed shields, point defence chewed at incoming fighters, and the modified targeting array spat out corrected firing solutions.
Those modifications were small, surgical: a handful of scripts and harmonic profiles the EMH and a crude, localised AI had replayed into Bellerephon’s fire control - nothing game-breaking, only a nudge. Adaptive shield phase-sync that slightly reduced cross-section during micro-maneuvers; a predictive torpedo spread algorithm that compensated for Jem’Hadar swarm vectors; a minor aft thruster bias script that let the ship roll into damage with less structural stress. Enough to shave seconds off reaction time, enough to let one torpedo find a carrier feedline.
“Bellerephon to weapons,” Ross said. “Spread Alpha. Now.”
A seam of orange and white lanced into the Dominion carrier. The ship shuddered; secondary explosions rippled along a maintenance deck. For a moment the Dominion formation hesitated - small, fatal hesitation.
Valok took advantage. Two warbirds braided forward, heavy disruptors finding gaps the Bellerephon’s salvo had opened.
“Target their carrier node,” Valok snapped. “Concentrated fire - cut their command loop.”
“Done,” Ross replied. “Once we break their node, their Jem’Hadar will scatter without central guidance.”
For a few clean seconds, the choreography worked. Dominion fighters peeled off to protect the carrier. Railguns chewed through escort hulls. The shipyards’ automated countermeasures hummed to life, launching emergency drones.
[Cardassia Prime - Dominion Monitoring Centre]
Long-range scans painted the clash in sterile numbers. Weyoun watched, serene as ever, while aides fed him vectors and raw telemetry.
“Who is present in orbit?” he asked, voice sugar-smooth.
“Multiple hostiles detected,” the officer answered. “One Federation signature, three Romulan signatures, supporting platforms. Federation ship entering combat range - USS Bellerephon.”
Weyoun’s smile tightened just a fraction, the predatory smoothness beneath it sharpening. “A Federation admiral present at Romulan docks in the midst of a so-called peace convoy. Curious.”
He leaned forward, studs of data reflecting in his eyes. “They are not simply observers.”
“Confirmed - the Bellerephon deployed offensive ordnance against the carrier. Repeat: Federation vessels are engaging.”
Weyoun’s hands folded together, composed. “Excellent. Run the causal analysis. Cross-reference the intercepted distortion of the diplomatic transmission. If the Federation assisted the Romulans covertly, then this will be... instructive.”
An aide hesitated. “Are we to proceed with the operation, Administrator? The presence of Federation forces could escalate into a larger engagement.”
Weyoun’s smile returned, sterile and sure. “Then let it escalate. The proof of collusion only strengthens the Founders’ justification. Continue the strike and remove their shipyards. If the Federation intervenes, destroy them as well. There will be no ambiguity when we are finished.”
He tapped a control. On Cardassia Prime the projection brightened - an image of the Bellerephon taking point. The plan sharpened in his mind like a blade.
“Execute.”
[R’venna Orbit - Battle Escalates]
Weyoun’s words, relayed by Dominion doctrine channels, had the effect intended: the carrier’s escorts hardened their assault. Jem’Hadar tactics grew ruthless - precision nodes targeted hangar bays and dry dock pylons with the express intent of crippling Romulan rebuild capacity.
Ross felt the shift. “They’re committing to annihilation, not negotiation,” he said quietly. “Priority target: carrier command node and the relay grid. We can’t let them decapitate the yard control.”
Valok’s voice was tight. “We must hold them at any cost.”
Around them, the war turned jagged. Explosions carved chunks out of steel scaffolds. Firestorms blossomed in microgravity, and the shipyards bled light and heat. The Bellerephon’s minor mods bought them time - targeting corrections that punched holes, shield harmonics that absorbed otherwise lethal glancing blows - but the cost was immediate and visible.
“Damage report,” Ross barked.
“Drydock three sustaining heavy structural failure,” came the reply. “One fabrication field offline. Civilian casualties confirmed.”
Ross closed his eyes for a fraction. He had bought access, credibility, and a temporary mirror of trust - but now those choices demanded payment.
“Keep the pressure on their command node,” he said. “We hold the line. And try to evacuate the civilians if you can.”
The engagement spiralled outward - an ugly proof written in fire. Weyoun watched the feed from Cardassia Prime and, somewhere in the cold calculus of his mind, the Dominion’s final verdict formed: this was not a skirmish to be mediated. It was a pretext to extinguish a rival.
[R’venna Orbit – Mid-Engagement]
The Bellerephon rolled hard to starboard as a Dominion salvo tore through the void, passing so close the hull plating shivered. Red-orange plasma licked across the starboard shields, flickering under strain.
“Shields at forty-three percent!”
“Compensate - divert power from secondary sensors,” Ross ordered. “We’ll fight blind before we fight dead.”
Across the field, a Romulan warbird caught a pair of torpedoes to its ventral hull. The explosion bloomed emerald and white. Debris rained into orbit, some pieces tumbling into the upper atmosphere like brief, glowing meteors.
Ross’s jaw tightened. “Helm, bring us about - twenty degrees port. Target their carrier. Prepare for close-range strafing run.”
His XO hesitated. “Sir, we’ll be inside their firing cone.”
“That’s the idea,” Ross said. “Their guns can’t track what’s under them.”
The Bellerephon surged forward. Thrusters flared blue-white as the ship slipped beneath the Dominion carrier’s belly, cutting across its firing arc. The torpedo bay opened with a heavy clank.
“Fire - full spread!”
A blossom of quantum fire erupted along the carrier’s ventral power grid. The blast staggered the Dominion formation; two attack ships peeled off, their formation briefly in disarray.
Valok’s voice cut in sharply: “Admiral, your strike created an opening. We are moving in.”
The remaining warbird banked hard, heavy plasma lances converging on the carrier’s dorsal array. A molten wound spread across the Dominion ship’s hull; the carrier began to list, power signatures spasming.
Ross seized the moment. “All ships - focus fire on the carrier’s command relay! Bring it down!”
Torpedoes crossed paths like stars in collision. The carrier’s reactor imploded in silence, light expanding outward like a sun being born, devouring the nearest attack ships in the blast.
For a heartbeat, the field fell quiet - just wreckage, drifting fire, and the echo of dying systems.
Then the remaining Jem’Hadar ships, driven by rage and doctrine, dove in a suicidal charge.
“Multiple hostiles on intercept!”
“Reinforce the shields using a deflector pulse. Brace for impact!”
The Bellerephon’s hull screamed as the first ramming attempt glanced off shields, shearing the dorsal sensor array.
“Reroute power!” Ross shouted. “Keep the yard between us and the cruisers!”
