UT: The Four Years War: Year Zero: Forged in Fire

Author's Note: Unlike some of my most recent work, this is a work in progress, so some things might be subject to change once the final version is put on the United Trek website. I want to thank Dave Falkayn, CeJay, and the other UT writers because I have drawn on UT various series for this story. I hope you enjoy reading.


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FORGED IN FIRE




Archanis sector

2228



“White pawn to section 5, grid 7, and pawn takes Rook.” Lt. Isaac Mtolo grinned in triumph. “That’s checkmate.” Across the stars, Abbott’s smile was askew.

“I’ll be damned,” he shook his head. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Mtolo nodded his head, still savoring the win, as the spherical chess board hung on the screen. He pressed his eyeglasses back on his face. The pesky eyewear had a habit of sliding to the end of his nose. “Damn right it is.”

“Now I regret giving you a ring,” Abbott joked. It had been Frank’s idea to finally finish the game they had been playing in person four months ago when both of their ships had been docked at Starbase 5. Then, both had been playing with Abbott’s physical chess set, but the man had sent him a version via subspace, with a spherical board.

The principals were basically the same, and Isaac had finally outthought his friend to seize the win. “It was a good game though,” Abbott conceded. “You’re better at strategizing than you give yourself credit for, Isaac.”

“Yeah, well,” Mtolo said, not liking where the conversation was heading. Franklin could sense that, but his old friend pushed ahead anyway.

“You’re spinning your wheels man,” Abbott said. “You should be on the command track.”

“I like being a science officer,” Mtolo said defensively.

“You’re the Geological Technician,” Abbott shot back. “Not even running the science department.”

“Listen, not everyone is as driven as you are,” Mtolo said, but without his usual fire. They had had variations of this conversation since their Academy days. Franklin was a go-getter. He had scaled quickly up the ranks, and was now was third officer aboard the Fortune.

And while Franklin was on the fast track, he had been languishing as the exogeologist on the Albemarle. Mtolo had done well at the Academy, his instructors encouraging him to do just as Frank suggested.

But Isaac didn’t think he was ready for anything of that magnitude, to be responsible for the lives of so many people.

Plus, he had developed a deep interest in the geology of Andoria and had been considering taking an extended leave or leaving the Fleet all together to work on a book of Andorian-human history that he had wanted to write for years.

He had been honing his research skills aboard Albemarle in the hopes of using those abilities to complete his book, and Mtolo had really enjoyed conducting planetary surveys of the planets Albemarle had encountered, including the search for resources within the Archanis sector.

Though the sector divided Federation and Klingon space, the feeling of dread about being so close to the Klingons had dissipated with each discovery Albemarle encountered.

Isaac had been resting up from his last Zero G trip outside Albemarle to study the rocky remnants in orbit around the planet they were currently orbiting. Mtolo had just started to work on the geological lab report of his latest findings when Frank had called. Fortune was bringing more supplies to the growing Federation colony at Archanis IV, which allowed for real-time subspace communication with the Albemarle.

“I know you’re good at what you do Isaac,” Frank said. “But I think you’re wasting your talents all the same.”

“Thanks,” Isaac riposted.

“No, seriously,” Frank held up his hands. “I’m done preaching now, but I had to just get that in.”

“You wouldn’t be the same old space barnacle if you didn’t,” Isaac chuckled. Abbott smiled. “So, since you’re so interested in my career, what about yours?”

“Things are going well,” Abbott said. “I wanted to finish up our game before I was going to tell you, I’ve been offered a second officer’s position aboard the Bradbury.”

“Congratulations!” Mtolo said.

“Thanks,” Frank’s smile dimmed. “But I don’t know if I’m going to take it.”

“Why not?” Isaac was taken aback. “I thought that’s what you wanted, the captain’s chair?”

“I do, but now, I’m starting to get where you’re coming from,” Frank admitted.

“Oh?” Isaac replied. It seemed like Frank was full of more surprises.

“Yeah, I’ve enjoyed my time aboard Fortune quite a bit. We’ve developed quite the team,” Frank added.

“Oh really? Who is she?” Mtolo asked.

Abbott chuckled. “I can’t pull a fast one over on you can I?”

“Nope,” Mtolo replied. “So, who’s the girl?”

“She’s ah, she’s an astrophysicist,” Frank confessed.

“I can tell from your tone, that you’re really serious about this one,” Mtolo said.

“I am,” Abbott nodded.

“That’s great,” Mtolo said.

“It’s just got me thinking, about the rat race, the fast climb up the ladder,” Frank added. “Perhaps I’ve moved too fast, skipped a lot of life, and I don’t want that to be the case with her.”

“Then don’t allow that to happen,” Isaac replied. “You’ve got years to get to that seat, and you’ll get there. Don’t miss out on this Frank.”

“Thanks,” Abbott nodded again. “And I guess, I guess I keep pestering you about reconsidering the center chair because I’ve been rethinking it. And maybe, on some level, I guess, I was trying to convince myself to get back on the command track.”

“I see,” Isaac replied, “Well, whatever the motivation, you’re not wrong. I got some rethinking to do myself, about what I really want. I’m not even sure Starfleet is the best place for me, right now at least.”

“Maybe,” Frank nodded.

Mtolo looked at him sideways. “That wasn’t the reply I was expecting from you.”

“As much as it seems I’ve wanted to, I don’t want to direct your life,” Abbott smiled. “That’s for you to do.”

“Take that advice for yourself old friend,” Isaac said.

“I’m trying,” Abbott replied.

The intercom broke up the conversation. “I’ve got to get this,” Mtolo said. He got up from his desk and went to the companel. It opened the line. “Mtolo here.”

“Lt. Mtolo,” the science officer said. “Report to the shuttle bay. Bring your excursion jacket, sidearm, communicator, flash unit, and tricorder.”

“Acknowledged,” Mtolo replied. He went back to the desk. Abbott’s expression was questioning.

“You heard that right?” Isaac asked.

“Yeah,” Frank answered. “Everything alright out there?”

“I’m about to find out,” Mtolo said. “Till next time?”

“Absolutely,” Abbott’s smile was reassuring. “Be safe out there.”

“You too.”

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USS Albemarle

Shuttle Bay


Lt. Mtolo was still adjusting his gray excursion jacket when he entered the shuttle bay. The shuttle Croatan was thrumming. Lt. Ninon Auguste was standing in the Croatan’s airlock. “I’m so glad you could join us Isaac.”

Isaac smiled as he sped up the gangplank. Mtolo pushed up his glasses and straightened his dark gray uniform hat as he bent down and entered the shuttle. “So they brought you out of mothballs too,” he said to the Haitian Archaeology and Anthropology officer. “This must be big.”

“It is Lieutenant,” Captain Killian turned around in the co-pilot’s chair in the cockpit. Mtolo immediately froze.

“I’m, I’m sorry, sir,” Isaac was eventually able to get the words past the lump in his throat. Killian, a man with a doleful blue-eyed gaze, very lined face, and silvering tips, regarding the junior officer for few moments.

“Take a seat and strap in,” the captain ordered, before reclaiming his seat. Ninon patted the empty seat beside her. Mtolo took it and placed the heavy harness over his chest. Across from them sat Science Officer Ballesteros and Security Chief Rexona. The quartet was nearly knee to knee in the cramped shuttle. Further taking up space was two security guards-one a beefy dark-hued man and the other a slender Kamorian woman-in two aft seats. Both held laser rifles between their legs.

In the cockpit Lt. Rouass, Albemarle’s helm officer, was at the shuttle’s controls, and the captain sat beside him. “We’re ready to go Lieutenant,” the captain said. “Take us out.”

Isaac leaned forward as the shuttle lifted and Rouass guided it toward the opening doors. Mtolo was always amazed each time he flew out into the cosmos. Granted he did it all the time aboard Albemarle, but being aboard a shuttle made him that much closer to the great beyond.

There was an asteroid field surrounding the planet. “Polarize the hull,” Killian ordered. Seconds later the shuttle began to rattle as they entered the field and the shuttle scraped against the chunks of rocks.

“Careful Lt. Rouass,” Killian admonished. “There are a lot of precious minerals in this moon.”

“Aye sir,” Rouass said, her voice strained, as she sought to navigate the shuttle through the field.

“Moon?” Auguste whispered to Isaac.

Before he answered, Lt. Rexona leaned forward. She was the only one not wearing a uniform hat, which was something the captain required for landing parties. Her pyramidal shaped head made wearing the standard caps an impossibility.

“Mr. Mtolo’s first geological lab report revealed that this asteroid field was once a moon orbiting the planet and had experienced some unknown catastrophe which broke it apart. But I surmise that it had been destroyed, by something of immense power.” The bronze-skinned Fenarian’s tone was ominous.

“Maybe what caused it is down on that planet,” Lt. Commander Ballesteros chimed in. “The readings we’re getting are certainly not what we were expecting,” the man said, not hiding his excitement.

“And that’s what concerns me,” Rexona replied. The lump returned to Mtolo’s throat.

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Planetside


Rouass lowered the shuttle with remarkable grace on a rocky crag overlooking a valley. The ride through the planet’s atmosphere had been rough. Isaac had thought more than once he was going to cough up his lunch, and besides the stench he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Ninon.

But Ninon wasn’t looking much better. The woman’s fingers were clutching her harness and Isaac was certain her cinnamon cheeks had a seasick green blush.

The woman caught him looking at her and smiled weakly. Mtolo nodded in sympathy.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Captain Killian was already out of his seat. He was looking at his suffering crew. “Like being rocked to sleep in a cradle.”

“Correct sir,” Lt. Commander Ballesteros spoke up, “A cradle on a storming sea.”

“Let’s not talk about storms,” Killian scowled. “We don’t know how much of a window we have here before the next one occurs.”

“Understood sir,” Ballesteros said before lifting his harness and standing up. Mtolo and the others followed suit. Mtolo’s legs were rubbery, but he maintained his balance.

“Everyone get their gear and let’s get ready to go out there,” Killian ordered. The man pulled his pistol from the holster, checked it and then shoved it back in.

“Uh, captain,” Mtolo ventured, raising his hand like he was back in grade school. A chuckle from one of the guards made the geologist aware of his gesture. Isaac quickly put his hand down.

“Yes Lieutenant?” Killian snapped. Despite all the stories about Killian’s temper, many of which were true, Isaac still thought the man was a good captain and a tough warrior. He had gotten Albemarle through several rough scrapes with everyone from Mirak raiders, Nausicaan pirates, Valakian extremists, to Orion slavers.

“What are we doing here, on the planet’s surface?” Mtolo asked. Killian sighed.

He looked to the first officer. Ballesteros spoke up. “Lieutenant Mtolo, our apologies, but we didn’t have time to explain.” Killian grumbled at that but he didn’t interject. The executive officer continued, “The electromagnetic storms ravaging the planet have made sensor readings nigh impossible since we’ve been in orbit, but with the unusual break we detected a Klingon distress call.”

“Klingon?” Mtolo’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Well, this sector of space borders theirs,” Lt. Rexona said.

“Rexona is correct,” Ballesteros replied. “It’s possible that the Klingons crashed here. There have been several ship disappearances near this planet over the years.”

“Or the Klingons are up to something nefarious,” Killian weighed in. “In any event, you’re here to confirm that the readings are real and not the result of the planet’s geology.” As if reading both Isaac’s and Ninon’s mind, “And you’re here Lt. Auguste because the distress call isn’t all the sensors detected on the planet’s surface.”

“What else was discovered here sir?” Auguste asked.

Killian looked at Ballesteros. “Number One, tell her.”

Ballesteros pointed out the shuttle’s window. “In the valley below us, there’s the remnant of a city,” he explained. Ninon didn’t hide her excitement at the find. “And that’s where the distress call was coming from, but it went silent before we disembarked from Albemarle.”

“I didn’t want us to fly up on them because I’m not sure what we’re dealing with,” Killian said. “Well climb down into the valley and make our way circuitously to the ruins, using the darkness as our cover. I want everyone with their pistols either in hand or damn near close.” He turned away from the group and looked through the forward port. “I don’t know what’s out, but it’s something, and I want to be ready for it when it greets us.”

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Planetside


A cool wind sighed through the dead city. The tang of the last storm was still in the air. The planet was wracked by fierce electromagnetic storms that erupted without warning and raged for indeterminate lengths of time.

But Mtolo was too enthralled to worry about the chill or another maelstrom. The exogeologist wasn’t even winded from the short descent into the valley. He waved his tricorder around like a vacuum, sucking up all the data that he could and running it through the device and up to the Albemarle’s computer. In his other hand he held a flashlight to punch through the darkness, fog, and dust.

The buildings, in various states of decay, were mostly made of marble, or something similar, and the architectural style reminded Mtolo of Greco-Roman buildings from Old Earth history.

Ballesteros walked past him, the man’s face pressed up against his tricorder, even more obsessed with finding the origin of the Klingon distress call. Ahead of them the captain and Rouass were leading the way. When they made it to a square, the group paused, amazed at the tall statue of two humanoid figures, both lifting up a globe, presumably this planet, with clawed hands. Long stone feathers ran from the backs of their heads like hair.

Auguste walked up to him. She took a picture of the statues with her flash unit. She leaned close to him and whispered, “I think I know where we are, what this is.”

“Care to share with everyone?” Lt. Rexona asked, suddenly beside them. The woman’s silvery eyes scoured the landscape, her finger on the trigger of her laser pistol. The two security guards were spread out beyond her, their rifles pointing into the darkness.

“Yeah,” Rouass added.

“Please continue,” Science Officer Ballesteros joined the conversation.

Auguste looked nervous. The woman gathered her thoughts before speaking. “Well, sir,” she said, directing her comments now at Commander Ballesteros. “I think these are Hyterian ruins.”

Mtolo asked, “Seriously?” He looked around again. “We’ve found Hyteria?” He asked, attempting to mask his excitement. The Hyterians were a long gone super civilization that had existed some 500,000 years ago, rising sometime after the demise of the Tkon Empire, another great civilization.

Many had tried to find the home planet of the near fabled Hyterians, but none had succeeded. If they were walking on Hyteria it would be the discovery of a lifetime, of the century even.

“This is not Hyteria,” Ballesteros declared, bursting the balloon Isaac wanted to grasp.

“It’s not sir?” Auguste was disbelieving.

“It’s not,” the science officer repeated. “However, you’re pretty close Lieutenant.”

“I don’t understand,” Auguste admitted.

“Neither do I Rafael,” Rexona replied. The security officer was cordial enough with Ballesteros to call him by his given name, despite the fact that the man also served as Albemarle’s first officer.

“The technology mixed in with the marble postdates the end of the Hyterian civilization,” he stated, waving his tricorder.

“Oh,” Auguste said, frowning. Mtolo was also disappointed. “Well, who built this city?”

“Not the Hyterians, but the Hyterian Imperial State,” Ballesteros answered.

“Thanks for making that clear,” Captain Killian groused.

As usual, the captain hadn’t hidden his sarcasm, and Ballesteros smiled, unfazed by the older man’s gruffness. “Well, there’s the original Hyterian civilization, the one that everyone thinks of whenever the Hyterians are discussed. However the chaotic years after the end of the original Hyterian civilization, when they left the galactic scene for reasons still unknown, are rarely mentioned in our history courses or dramatic recreations. Those years of strife were marked by various factions vying for dominance in the wake of the Hyterians’ absence.

Eventually a new order emerged, seizing the mantle of the original Hyterian civilization. Professor John Gill came up with the term ‘Neo-Hyterians’ to describe them. The real name of the species is lost to time, purposely erased by said species to further the illusion that they were the original Hyterians.”

“How can you tell the difference between the originals and the new guys?” Killian asked.

“I was with Professor Gill’s excavation team near Virtili space when we recovered the remains of several Neo-Hyterians. The original Hyterians, as you can see from the statue in the city square, were humanoids with avian features. I would postulate that the Aurelians, Skorr, and even the Virtili might have had common ancestors in the original Hyterians.” Ballesteros paused, took a breath, and then looked at them all before continuing, “The Neo-Hyterians were not avian.”

“What?” Auguste asked, voicing everyone else’s shock.

“Run that by us again Commander,” Killian said.

Ballesteros nodded. “Yes, the Neo-Hyterians were known for their elaborate ceremonial clothing and masks, and from the scant records we have of them, they ruled from a distance, and used traditional depictions of the original Hyterians to cloak themselves. But at the Virtili excavation we uncovered what we believed to be real Neo-Hyterian remains.”

“And?” Killian prodded the man.

Ballesteros’s expression turned grave. “They were human sir.”

“What?!” Now it was Killian who embodied the collective surprise. “How-how is that possible?”

“We don’t know,” Ballesteros said, a rare streak of anger in his voice, “And we didn’t get to find out. Before we got far in our research, the Department of Special Affairs and Investigations swooped in and shut us down.”

“Damn,” Killian smacked a fist into his palm. “That’s not going to happen this time, I assure you of that Rafael. We’ll get to the bottom of whatever the Neo-Hyterians left behind here.”

“Human,” Auguste leaned close to Mtolo, whispering in his ear. “Can you believe it?”

“No,” Isaac answered, still trying to wrap his head around it. How could human beings have led a galactic civilization hundreds of thousands of years ago? Earth had only achieved warp flight a little over 160 years ago. There was no way humans could’ve ruled a galactic civilization that far back in the past.

“That’s not all,” Ballesteros said. “Professor Gill discovered that Neo-Hyterian technology had residual chroniton readings that were out of sync with our space-time continuum.”

“So, what are you saying?” Killian asked, clearly not happy. “That the Neo-Hyterians were time travelers?”

“Precisely,” Ballesteros said.

The captain took off his hat and smacked his forehead. “I hate time travel.”

“Captain,” Lt. Rexona called out. “Here’s something else you’re going to hate,” she said, motioning the group over to where she was kneeling beside desiccated remains. “We aren’t the only ones who have discovered this planet.”

“I know that Lieutenant,” Killian was frosty. “The Klingons, hello? The ones we need to get back to looking for.”

“Not just them sir,” Rexona replied. She gingerly touched the dust colored uniform the skeleton was in, “Looks Promellian to me,” she said.

“The Promellians were wiped out, along with the Menthars in the 14th century,” Auguste said before moving over to the security officer.

“Watch your step,” Rexona warned. She swung her light down on the ground around the corpse, the light catching the various tips of swords and knives around the Promellian.

“Hey, I’ve found another body,” Rouass said, “Looks…oh boy.” The man leaned down on one knee for a closer inspection.

That was enough to prompt Mtolo to trot over to the helmsman. He lowered his light down at the skeletal remains. The heavy, ripped leather the being had worn in life or death meant nothing, but the skull was intricately knobbed.

“Damn,” the captain said, suddenly at Mtolo’s side.

“So our sensor readings were correct,” Ballesteros was at Isaac’s other side.

Rouass lifted a large, rusted, wickedly curved blade that had been beside the dead body. The blade caught in the lights from the Albemarle landing party. The blade looked vaguely familiar, something Isaac had seen in a book or an Academy lesson.

Sensing his confusion, Killian took the weapon from Rouass. He grasped the corroded blade with both hands. “They call this a bat’leth.”

“Bat’leth,” Abbot repeated the word. It did sound familiar as well, and that memory was not from a good place. “What people made this blade?”

“Klingons,” Killian said darkly.

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Planetside


“These weapons look pretty old,” Rexona replied as she held a short three-bladed weapon up. She turned it around and held it up by largest blade, which was still sharp.

“Yeah,” Isaac held up a pistol. “This shoots actually projectiles, like Old Earth bullets.”

“Could the source of the distress call come from an ancient Klingon device?” The dark-skinned security guard asked.

“I don’t know Mr. Dryer,” Rexona answered, still admiring the blade. “So far our searching this impromptu graveyard has not yielded any answers.”

“Until we know for certain where that distress call came from, we need to assume we are not alone here,” Killian advised.

The landing party had moved even deeper into the city and Isaac had squelched his apprehension as they traveled deeper into the necropolis. It felt like they were descending into an underworld with each new skeleton they encountered. So far they had not discovered a Neo-Hyterian, but various unknown and likely extinct species that had been likely subjects of the Imperial State.

They had encountered more Klingon bodies, some from last century. That had actually both heartened and saddened Captain Killian. The presence of the newer corpses meant that a crashed vessel was nearby and was likely the source of the distress call. However, Isaac suspected that the hardened man had wanted to see some action.

Mtolo didn’t share the captain’s desire. The landing party had broken up, with Ballesteros leading Auguste, Rouass, and security guard Lochana into another part of the city.

As much as Isaac was intrigued by the city and the unique merger of marble and stone with a highly sophisticated, but apparently dead, technology, his stomach was twisting and he wanted to break free of the planet and return to his quarters.

Perhaps he would feel better in the morning, with the city washed in the light of day, but now, in the darkness, the shadows felt alive, moving along with them, watching them, as if ready to claim them.

Despite his fears, Mtolo pressed on. “Could the Hyterian technology be interfering with our scans?” Killian asked.

“Sir, that is a possibility, but not likely,” Isaac replied. “I’m getting no readings from any of the buildings.”

“It’s like the whole damn city was shut off,” Killian shook his head in exasperation.

“Or perhaps wound down like a battery,” Dryer added.

“Which makes me wonder where is the power source?” Rexona asked.

“I see what you’re saying Lieutenant,” Mtolo hopped on the woman’s comments, eliciting a disapproving growl from her. But Isaac had been too taken with the idea to not put it out for the group to consider. “If we can find the source, perhaps reactivate it.”

“Hold on,” Killian threw up a hand. “Scientific exploration is a secondary concern right now, until we find the source of that distress call.”

As if on cue, Killian’s communicator chirped. He pulled it from his belt, flipping it open. “Killian here.”

“Sir, we’ve found something,” Ballesteros said.

“The Klingons,” Killian’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, yes, and no,” the first officer replied. Killian snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sir, you’ll want to see this for yourself,” was all Ballesteros said in response.

“I’ll be damned,” Killian groused. “We’ll be right over.”

“We’ll be waiting sir,” Ballesteros said. The captain snapped the communicator shut and attached it back to his belt. “Seems like we’re one step closer to getting off this accursed rock people.” Mtolo sighed inwardly with relief.

The geologist didn’t always see eye to eye with the cantankerous captain but this time they were of the same accord. Both felt in their bones that something was very wrong about this planet.

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USS Albemarle

Main Bridge


“An ancient Klingon space ship, dating from the 16th century?” Chief Engineer Peio was incredulous. The Denobulan shifted in the command chair. It had never been a comfortable fit. He preferred Jeffries tubes and his engine room. The captain’s craggy visage filled the main viewer. “So that’s what Rafael picked up on our sensors?”

“Yes,” Captain Killian said. “It appears so. I had thought something else nefarious was going on, maybe a Klingon trap, but so far all we’ve found is this crashed derelict. But the only trap seemed to be for the Klingon warriors and the other unfortunates who had fallen here.”

The landing party was still down on the surface. In fact, the captain had ordered for more of Albemarle’s crew to join them. Peio’s assistant was among them.

“Klingon hulls still use some of the same alloys even to this day, and with our sensors primed to detect Klingon signatures, it worked.” The captain concluded.

“An ancient Klingon space ship,” Peio still shook his head. “This isn’t good is it?”

“I don’t know,” Killian admitted. “The city is littered with skeletons, many Klingon, others not, and from what we’ve been able to ascertain thus far, from various time periods. The Klingon corpses are mostly from the 16th century, though a decade or so apart, and some from last century.”

“It makes no sense,” the engineer scratched his ridged chin.

“Little does when it concerns Klingons,” Killian surmised. “Rafael and the other brains theorize that the Klingons fought a large battle here, against other Klingons in the 16th century. In the preceding decade, the ship crashed on the planet’s surface. After that, there were others, warriors, pirates, scavengers, who can tell. But this planet entombed them all.”

“Make sure you don’t suffer the same fate down there captain,” Peio offered.

“I don’t intend to,” Killian said. “Whatever the mystery is that brought so many men and women here to die we will not be ensnared by it.”

Peio nodded. Even though he was far above the planet, safe aboard on the Albemarle he felt a chill and some dark thoughts unfurled in the far corners of his mind, like a distant siren song.

“Perhaps you should just come back up and let Starfleet Command figure this out,” the Denobulan suggested.

“Believe me, I have no desire to stay on this dead world any second longer than necessary, but if there is something of value here, a weapon, or something that could be used as such, its incumbent we recover it. Something destroyed this planet’s moon.”

Peio’s cheeks began to puff up, an instinctual reaction when Denobulans felt threatened. The engineer concentrated, calming himself down. He didn’t want his face to expand. It was bad enough that some among the crew had given him the nickname “Puffer Fish.”

“Sir, we stand ready to provide whatever assistance you might need, and I have the transporter chief and crew nearby shuttles for an emergency evacuation from that planet if necessary. And I’m sure Command will be sending backup”

Killian nodded curtly. “It is always better to be prepared. But for the moment, I want to hold off on alerting Starfleet Command about this.”

Peio sat up even straighter in the captain’s chair. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Killian’s expression soured, as if he were girding himself for a fight. “There’s something going on down here, something I want to take a first crack at divining before the brass gets involved.”

“I see,” the Denobulan offered, though he didn’t. Not informing Command wasn’t a violation of protocol per se, but was out of the normal for Killian when it came to discoveries like what the landing party had uncovered on the planet.

“When things are more crystal clear here, then we’ll notify Command,” Killian offered, and the man was quite stingy with his sops, so Peio took it.

“Aye sir,” the Denobulan nodded though his unease continued to grow. “Let’s hope you get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later.”

“Agreed,” Killian nodded curtly before signing off. The screen filled with the planet below and the starscape behind it. Peio preferred looking at the stars.



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Planetside


Captain Padraig Killian folded his arm and tapped his foot. He was losing his patience. It wasn’t the fault of his crew, who were working hard within the wrecked Klingon ship, but he wanted answers.

Despite Ballesteros’s confidence, Killian didn’t think the source of the distress call came from the ancient ship, but he had to be sure. Assistant Engineer Zhou was doing her best to restart the ship’s sub-light engine.

Communications Officer Nerine and one of the ship’s computer technicians were working to restore the ship’s computer systems, or what passed for them.

Killian was so on edge he couldn’t appreciate the find. He couldn’t have imagined this morning that he would be standing on the bridge of a centuries’ old Klingon ship. Padraig patted the dust-covered center chair, the rough, cracked leather drawing a sentimental smile.

As a child he had sunk off during a school field trip to the Fleet Museum on Earth and snuck onto one of the old Intrepid-class relics gathering dust. The ship had seen action the Earth-Romulan War.

He had been mesmerized walking the corridors and when he had made it to the bridge; he remembered the tattered captain’s chair, as ripped up as the more ancient chair he was touching now.

“Captain Killian,” Nerine said quietly. Killian grunted. Clearly the Thalassian had been waiting for a few moments. Padraig didn’t know which he liked less: her not addressing him immediately or her being able to sneak up on me. I’m getting old, the thought dashed through his mind.

“What is it?” He demanded.

Nerine dipped her head respectfully, the gesture giving Killian a good look at the long, swaying, translucent fin that ran the length of her otherwise slick pale blue head, stopping right before her back neckline. Even though they were nowhere a body of water, the fin still swayed as if Nerine was 20,000 leagues under the sea.

The woman held up a charred, large leather bound book between her webbed hands. “There were no data files on the ship’s computer. It was extremely rudimentary, and only regulated the propulsion and life support system, as it were. The pilot of his vessel wrote his thoughts in this journal.”

Killian eyed the book suspiciously before he took it. He gently opened it, wincing as he felt the pages crack. He squinted at the alien script. “I can’t read it. Can you use the universal translator?”

“No need,” Nerine said with pride. “My Klingon is sufficient. This is Old Klingon, but still I was able to piece some of it together, and with time, I shall have it all.”

Killian nodded with appreciation. “Good,” he said. “So what have you learned thus far?”

Nerine pondered the question longer than Killian thought she should. Her large, dark eyes blinked several times. “The last pilot of this vessel was a great Klingon warrior named…Mukul.”

****************************************************************************

The Dark Time…



There had been better days, of the clash of arms, of blood and song, of nights of firewine and seloh and the fierce embrace of his mate.

Mukul didn’t know who to blame. History would blame K’Trelan. He knew that the pretenders of the new Third Dynasty and their false descendants would brand K’Trelan as a villain as despicable and as without honor as the tyrant Molor, and while his old friend, his general, did bear some blame, it was not his fault.

As far as Mukul was concerned the real Emperor Reclaw, whose callowness had inspired Lord Drav’s rebellion. K’Trelan and Mukul had remained loyal to the Imperial Family and had pursued the traitorous Drav and his army to the Archanis sector.

The taQ’ be’nI’ of Boreth had warned that Drav sought some ancient power in the ruins of the birdmen, a power that would allow him to claim the throne. Anyone who possessed it would one day be emperor, those weird sisters had declared.

Mukul hadn’t believed in such foolishness, but K’Trelan had been concerned that Drav either was looking for something lethal in the far away Archanis sector or building a terrible weapon. K’Trelan had raised a taskforce and they had poured across space like a pherza swarm.

The battle had been glorious, the skies ripping apart as the ships engaged. On the surface of the storm-wracked world, K’Trelan and Mukul had led the charge.

When it was over, the traitors had all been slaughtered, their souls skulking to Gre’thor. Drav had been one of the last to fall. The thought admiral had died clutching the silvered shard in one hand, the accursed object that would come to be known as the Fang of Fek’lhr.

K’Trelan had died gripping the fang, and now it rested on Mukul’s lap. He had to get it away from the empire, his last great duty to his people.

Mukul was determined to drop it back onto the hellish world they found it on. But he had to ignore its song, even now worming its way into his mind, coiling around his heart. It sung to him of great fleets of ships sweeping across the stars, raining death and destruction, of many enemies falling before Klingon blades…

It was a glorious dream and he stood in the midst of it all, to his knees in an ocean of blood….

“No, no,” Mukul shook his head. He wouldn’t listen. He knew the fang had shown K’Trelan and Drav similar visions and had led them to ignoble ends.

“You will not have me,” he declared, “Nor will you possess anyone else.”

The wounds he had incurred upon escaping from Tolar’tu and then from Qo’noS had reopened as he lost his pursuers in the Haktuth Nebula.

The ship wasn’t equipped to mend his injuries, and Mukul was at peace with it. And he knew that the fang sensed that as well, and so it sought to force itself on him, to imprints its warped desires over his mind.

Mukul would not let it. He saw the storm world in the distance. He was almost there. It would be his resting place. He turned the yoke, shifting the solar sails toward the planet, to add extra speed to the engine.

He powered the engine and drove toward the planet. Mukul knew that the only way to end the threat of the fang was to wipe it from existence. He would smash his ship into planet’s surface in the hopes that the conflagration would consume it.

Driving the vessel toward the planet, Mukul looked instead toward the heavens. He imagined Sto’Vo’Kor and K’Trelan waiting for him with a flagon of firewine. “Today is a good day to die,” he whispered before the winds howled and the fires roared.

**********************************************************************

Planetside


“So things didn’t go quite as this General Mukul intended,” Killian surmised after Nerine had finished her retelling.

“It did not, though we have not found the general’s corpse, or this fang he referred to,” the Thalassian answered.

“Keep looking,” Killian ordered. He stepped outside the wreckage to contact Commander Ballesteros. The guard who was supposed to be standing watch was at the crash. The captain looked around for Ensign Harken, frowning at the man’s absence.

If something important had gotten the young man’s attention, he would’ve told them or he should’ve. He planned to have a talk with the man and Lt. Rexona when the red Orion returned.

Snorting in frustration, Killian flipped open his communicator and contacted his first officer. He recapped the story Nerine had told him.

“None of that rings a bell,” Ballesteros admitted. “Albeit, our information about Klingon history is scant, but as far as I know there was no massive civil war during that time period, or one that removed the Emperor Reclaw. The line of succession was unbroken according to our data, but let me repeat, our historical records are incomplete.”

“I see,” Killian groused. “What do you make of this fang object? Or why this general was so determined to see it destroyed?”

“It’s possible that what the Klingon called the fang was some piece of Neo-Hyterian technology,” Ballesteros answered.

“Why did you have to say that?” The captain grumbled.

“Just voicing all the possibilities,” Ballesteros said.

“Have you found any trace of another Klingon vessel?” Killian asked. “Zhou and the rest are doing their best, but so far they haven’t been able to restart the engine. I don’t think the distress call came from this vessel.”

“Understood sir,” Ballesteros replied.

“Keep your eyes open out there,” the captain said. “My gut tells me we’re not alone.”

“You might be right sir,” Ballesteros said. “We’ll stay on guard.”

“Good,” Killian nodded. “Inform the other teams.”

“Acknowledged,” the first officer said. Killian put his communicator away. He turned back to the gaping hole serving as an entrance into the ship. He girded himself for going back into the guts of the ship, its singed solar sails spread around it like broken wings.

Behind him, the crunching of the rocky ground signaled that Harken had returned. Killian worked his lips, preparing to read into the red Orion. The captain turned around right in time for the blade to punch into his chest. Killian exhaled, his eyes glancing down at the blade sticking from his chest. The assailant ripped out the knife and quickly plunged it into his midsection. An intense fire and then coldness started spreading from the wound, but not as quickly as the blood pouring from his chest.

There was another terrible sucking sound. Killian grabbed his stomach as his legs crumbled. He looked up, into the demonic visage of his murderer.

The captain gasped, and not just from the pain. His attacker was young, not much younger than his boys Seamus and Rory.

The boy was deathly pale, his face contorted not only in rage, his features lumpen and askew from birth. The thin knotty ridge line running from the top his nose and over his head tagged him as a Klingon.

But the albino boy was unlike any Klingon he had ever seen. His attacker stood over him, his chest heaving, his pinkish eyes wild with bloodlust. Killian was fading, but he thought he would make the most of the time he had left.

He reached for his laser pistol. He fumbled the pistol, it falling from his grasp. The murderer grinned at him. Killian fell forward and grasped the man’s leg.

Before the Klingon could kick him off, the captain reached down and with his remaining strength bit into the man’s leg. Thick, hot blood poured into Killian’s mouth, nearly gagging him, but he held on and bit down harder. The attacker howled, eventually kicking him off. As the final knife blow came down at him, the captain smiled. He had alerted his crew so his death wouldn’t be completely meaningless.

**********************************************************************

 

**********************************************************************

Planetside



The shuttle Bogue swept around the planet. Commander Ballesteros, sitting in the co-pilot’s chair, strained to look out the forward port. This planet seemed cursed; not only with the storms, but with the scars of various wars that he surmised had gone back millennia.

The ground below them was churned up and pockmarked with craters; some he knew were not natural.

“I see a ship,” Lt. Rouass pointed at a tapered nacelle jutting up from one of the craters littering the planet. Ballesteros pressed his face against the port.

“I’ll be damned,” he noted the familiar design. “That has to be the source of the distress call. Bring us down at the lip of it.” Ballesteros would’ve preferred landing beside the downed ship in the crater. However he didn’t think the crater was wide enough to accommodate both ships and he also didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm any Klingon survivors.

This had turned into a rescue mission and he didn’t see the need to add it to the long list of skirmishes the two powers had engaged in for decades. Ballesteros alerted the chief medical officer to their findings. He would contact Captain Killian once he had more answers.

Once Bogue touched down, Ballesteros looked at Rouass and then Lochana. He nodded at both women and the Andorian security guard accompanying them. They all nodded back. The trio produced their laser pistols. Rafael decided to keep his holstered.

Instead he grabbed the shuttle’s emergency medical kit. “Let’s go,” he said.

***********************************************************************

Planetside


Commander Ballesteros had informed them that craters littered the planet’s surface, but there was more to it than that.

Lt. Mtolo had discovered an extensive network of caverns under the planet. Isaac was glad that Ninon was with him. Joining them were security guards Dryer and Adede.

Both guards had flash lights attached to their laser rifles. Dryer was out front and the Xindi-insectoid was bringing up the rear. Isaac and Lt. Auguste also held flashlights. As they moved along, Mtolo waved his in front of his face, looking for any signs of Neo-Hyterian art along the smooth rock walls. He ran his hands along the cold, wet rock, disappointed that there were no pictographs or any signs of life, or rather past lives underground.

But there had to be something down here. The walls were too smooth to be natural. Isaac’s curiosity was overriding his caution as they went deeper into the planet. The shuttle Currituck sat on the surface, near the subterranean opening. Dryer, the most senior of the guard duo, had assured Adede that the Xindi would be of more use with the expedition than waiting around in the shuttle for them to reemerge.

The insectoid had been eager to explore as well so Zuberi hadn’t had to make a hard sell. Dryer stopped abruptly and held up his hand. Auguste, not paying attention, walked right into Isaac who had just stopped. The two shared an awkward smile before Adede interrupted the moment.

“What’s going on up there Lieutenant?” The Xindi asked the junior grade officer, the translator clipped to its chest turning the genderless guard’s rapid clicks into mechanical-sounding words.

He turned around, the shadows and light contorting his frowning visage. “There’s an artificial light around the corner. Someone’s down here with us.”

********************************************************************

Planetside



“Couldn’t wait for the call huh Lieutenant?” Lt. Dijar leaned over and muttered to Rexona. The shuttle Roanoke lifted off, and shot out at full impulse.

The woman gave the particolored Draylaxian security guard an acknowledging smile. But she didn’t voice her agreement. Dijar was correct of course. Rexona wasn’t an explorer, she wasn’t as intrigued by the discovery on the planet, outside of the weapons they had found.

She had joined Starfleet for the adventure, not the scientific exploration. But she did enjoy when the larger Starfleet mission merged with her own interests. And there had been a wealth of weapons, from various times and species, on the planet.

The deeper investigation of the ruins yielded just as many species. Chief Medic Iren had been conducting autopsies on the various corpses they had been found. Rexona could tell that the Halkan was relieved to get the call as well.

Many of the corpses had died violently, and Iren, like her fellow Halkans was pacifists, and the violent ends of so many of the deceased had unsettled her. Normally auburn-haired doctor was one of the most ebullient members of the crew, a nice counterbalance to Captain Killian, but today the woman was reserved. Her face was etched with worry lines, the green family tattoo on her forehead was wrinkled, a sign of her being on edge.

Instead Rexona asked the pilot, “How much longer until we reach Commander Ballesteros?”

Navigation Officer Chadda looked back to say quickly, “Ten minutes Lieutenant.” Rexona nodded with approval.

“I wonder what the commander found?” Dijar asked his superior.

Rexona frowned, her silver eyes clouding as she considered the possibilities. “Perhaps someone was injured and needed some medical attention, but not something so critical that the commander sought an emergency beam out to the Albemarle.”

“Perhaps,” Dijar nodded. “Though beaming up to the Albemarle is problematic, due to the heavy electromagnetic charge in the atmosphere.”

“Another storm is brewing,” Chadda added. The Indian man pointed out the port window, and in the distance the landing party could see dark clouds growing.

“Best we get there then,” Rexona said.

**********************************************************************

Planetside


Ship’s historian Rezart was beside himself. “I think we’ve found a mausoleum!” The Tiburonian couldn’t help but still tug both tips of his elongated ears in excitement.

The shuttle Pamlico had gone out to another continent on the planet, away from where Croatan, Currituck, Roanoke, and Bogue were. That trio of shuttles was still near where the first Neo-Hyterian city and the crashed Klingon ship had been found.

The captain had ordered that the shuttles Pamlico and Core survey the rest of the planet. And Core had been charged in particular with keeping an eye on the powerful electromagnetic storm building on this side of the planet.

Core had come back and Lt. Boak, the ship’s meteorologist, was standing in front of him, tapping his boot impatiently, totally impressed with Rezart’s discovery. The hirsute Tellarite had both plump hands planted against his hips, which was better than on a laser pistol Rezart supposed.

Instead the historian turned back to his team’s find. The other three members of his crew were walking around the structure, seeking entry. Boak’s team was waiting inside the Core, its engines still thrumming.

The cylindrical building sat atop the rectangle structure, and on top of the cylindrical building was a square building with a fantastic stone beast sitting atop that. Rezart assumed that the beast symbolized a guardian watching over the remains interred beneath.

From his studies of Greco-Roman architecture the building resembled similar mausoleums from Old Earth. The historian was eager to enter the structure to see if his hypothesis was correct. Who knew what historical treasures were inside? Perhaps even a real Neo-Hyterian corpse!

But Boak could care less. “You see those storm clouds out there?” He jabbed at the sky. “They are approaching and fast. This is going to be a very destructive storm. We need to round up the other shuttles and vacate the planet. I’ve tried contacting Captain Killian and the others, but already the storm has interfered with our communications.”

“But we’re so close,” Rezart said. The man put his tricorder in the crusty Tellarite’s face. The readings were intermittent but intriguing. “There’s something in that structure, our readings are impaired by the building materials perhaps, but there’s something here!”

“You can come back,” Boak replied. “Tomorrow,” he added pointedly. Rezart planted his feet and stared at the shorter man. Boak was pleased for the challenge.

“I do outrank you Mr. Boak,” Rezart reminded him.

“But I am the ship’s meteorologist!” Boak poked his broad chest out. “And when it comes to determining the safety of weather conditions, it would be…unwise…to discount my expertise.”

Rezart looked up at the sky. The clouds were moving fast and they did look threatening. He slumped his shoulders. “Fine,” he relented. “I’ll round up the others and we’ll meet you at the captain’s location.”

“I’ll help you,” Boak said, striding past him, not waiting for a response. Rezart pushed down his anger. He knew that the Tellarite’s gruffness was a cultural affectation, and even though he wanted to argue with the man, Rezart also knew that Boak wasn’t just throwing his figurative weight around. He was concerned about beating that storm.

If they were caught in it, it could wreak major damage to both shuttles’ systems, imperiling lives. The Tiburonian rushed to catch up with Boak. The hefty man had already corralled one member of the landing party.

Rezart went after the other two. He would rather bring them down from the structure himself than have Boak rudely order them to stop their exploration or physically try to impede them. He knew that Ensign Emor in particular would be hostile to Boak.

And Rezart was afraid that the young Nausicaan might react in a way that would jeopardize his career if Boak came at him too aggressively.

Rezart was almost at the structure. Emor or Cadet Ferrer was not in sight. Both had moved to the back of the mausoleum.

Rezart’s heart jolted when he heard Ferrer scream and then a sickening thud. He glanced at a scowling Boak only for a second, before he awkwardly ripped out his laser pistol and ran in the direction of the shrieking.

The Tiburonian didn’t get far. He only heard the engine thrum before he was blown back against the structure, with enough force that that it broke something deep inside him. His limbs would no longer listen to his brain. His head lopped to his side, but his damnable eyes stayed open. Strong gusts of wind, generated by the small vessel’s engines, buffeted him.

The suborbital ship was dark green and shaped like an Old Earth horseshoe, but the ship’s plating gave it an avian appearance and Rezart had a sick feeling.

The ship hung in space above him. Its gun ports glowing like suns. Even if he wanted to close his eyes, he couldn’t. Rezart waited for the ship to atomize him.

Laser blasts rapped across the ship’s hull. Rezart couldn’t turn his head, but he heard Boak’s cursing and also the Tellarite clomping toward him.

In response the vessel turned. Rezart wanted to yell at his colleague, to warn him, but his voice had been taken.

The horseshoe ship rattled off several shots. Boak went silent and then there were two explosions, the heat of the flames and the sharpness of the debris singeing and cutting into Rezart’s flesh. The historian tried not to think about Boak and the other crewmen lost.

He wanted it all to be over, for the ship to finish him, but the vessel didn’t. Instead it lowered, more wind hitting him, but none easing the heat on his skin.

Two figures emerged from the vessel, both indistinct. But as they moved closer, Rezart was able to see the bulkier figure dragging the smaller figure.

No, he thought, as the man threw Cadet Ferrer down beside him. The young, dark-haired woman’s face was a mass of welts; her silver tunic was ripped and bloodstained. Not all the blood was from her, Rezart realized, his thoughts going back to the doomed Emor.

And Rezart’s heart filled with regret. He had picked Dany because of her enthusiasm, because of her desire to make her academic assignment aboard Albemarle during her final year of study at the Academy.

The Tiburonian had been more than happy to accommodate her. He had been so certain the young woman would have a bright future ahead of her. But now…

The short, powerfully built man standing over them wore a hood, his face hidden in shadow. He pushed the hood back, displaying a bald head and three long forehead ridges shaped like an inverted pyramid. The man’s ice blue eyes stood in stark contrast to his deep brown face.

He pulled a blade from within the folds of his cloak. He pointed it at Rezart.

“Perhaps you can give me more information than this one,” the man said, before his nostrils twitched. “Death is coming for you. There isn’t much time. How many of you are on this planet?!”

Rezart couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to, and he didn’t. “Answer me!” The man bent down, grabbed the Tiburonian’s chin, and jerked his head up to gaze into his fierce, ice blue eyes. “How many?”

Rezart couldn’t even blink. “I will finish what I started with the human,” the Klingon promised. “If you do not answer my questions.”

“Leave him alone,” Ferrer declared. With admirable courage the battered woman lunged at the Klingon. She bounced against him, the Klingon moving fast to catch her before she fell. Holding her arm within one of his paws, he drove his knife into her chest. “I’ve had enough of you!” He said, tossing the woman away like trash.

Rezart so wished to move, to fight back, to simply mourn the passing of the cadet. But he could do nothing but gaze at the death that was in front of him while feeling the galloping of the death behind him.

*****************************************************************************

 

*****************************************************************************

Planetside



The quartet, led by Lt. Dryer swept into the larger chamber. The larger man’s sigh was audible, piquing both Isaac’s curiosity and fear. His heart thudded at the sound of it. Dryer’s voice had also lit a spark under Ninon. The woman brushed past him, beating him into the room.

Together, both young officers stood side by side, their mouths agape. They had stepped from the chilly caverns into a menagerie of horror.

Despite the room’s artificial chill the smell of death was nearly overpowering. Isaac took as step back and Auguste placed her hands on her knees, dropping her equipment as she began to heave.

“Blessed Guardians,” Adede muttered behind them. They had entered some kind of makeshift laboratory/surgical chamber. Several beings were strapped to biobeds in the room. Or what was left of them.

Mtolo couldn’t tell when the surgery ended and the butchery begun. Their bodies were hacked apart, and all of their brains missing.

Dryer, holding his pistol with one hand, walked among the corpses. He said quietly, as if to himself, “Vulcan, Aenar, Kazarite, Deltan, Hipon…”

The rest of the team spread out, slowly going through the charnel house. Isaac did his best to catalogue what remained of the victims. He knew that it would not give them peace but perhaps some sense of closure for their families could be arrived at, or at least the landing party could ascertain who did this and bring them to justice.

In addition to know species, there were several the geologist had never seen before, or even read about. The largest was a dark cephalopod, it limbs all cut off along with the back of its head. One of the corpses that were the most battered was an alabaster-hued humanoid, with bat-like ears and hooded eyes. Though deceased the baleful yellow eyes still smoldered. Isaac could tell that this man had put up a fight.

“Oh my,” Auguste gasped, drawing his attention. When Isaac reached her, Ninon had stepped back from her discovery, a hand over her mouth. “There’s a human here, a woman.”

Mtolo rushed to her. The top of the woman’s head had been cleaved off, and her face was a rictus of horror. Her eyes were unusually obsidian. Something about them struck him as more than human. He ran a tricorder of the corpse.

“She’s humanoid, but not human,” he said after a few moments. “A species we’ve never encountered before.”

Auguste turned to Adede. “Is this a species the Xindi are familiar with?”

“All primates look similar to me,” the insectoid clicked. Isaac showed it the readings. Adede read them and then shook its head. “No, I am not familiar with those bio-readings.”

“What is this place?” Auguste looked around, a sick expression washing over her features, “Some kind of abattoir?”

Dryer stepped forward, a stony expression on his face. “Now, this wasn’t a slaughterhouse. Most of these deaths were done by vivisection, and not for torture, or at least torture alone. These victims were being tested,” the security guard surmised.

“Tested?” Ninon asked, clearly confused. “For what?”

“Every species represented here is telepathic or possesses an elevated extrasensory perception,” Dryer said. Isaac’s eyes widened. He checked his tricorder.

“Zuberi is right,” Isaac said after a moment. He just didn’t feel like using a formal title right now, not here. He needed to be reminded of his humanity, of the common bonds they all shared. “I didn’t even see it before. But all my readings show traces of psionic energy.”

“What does any of this mean?” Auguste said.

“I think these people were being harvested,” Dryer said, his expression growing more somber. “For their psionic abilities.”

“We’ve got to inform the captain,” Adede beat everyone to it. The Xindi pulled out her communicator and attempted to activate it. The device answered with static. “We are too far underground. Our communications are impeded.”

“Adede, please escort Lieutenants Auguste and Mtolo back to the shuttle. I’m going to continue investigating the lab,” Dryer said.

“No,” Auguste replied. “We’re not going to leave you down here.” Zuberi set his broad shoulders, ready to argue about it.

“Ninon is right,” Mtolo said before the other two could start arguing. “We can’t leave you alone. So I propose two of us go back to the Currituck and two continue exploring the lab.”

Zuberi frowned, but then shrugged his shoulders. “Sounds reasonable enough,” he admitted. “I’ve already called that I’m staying.”

“And it makes sense that I return to Currituck in case we encounter whoever committed these atrocities,” Adede said.

Mtolo looked at Auguste. The woman was already gazing at him. “Draw straws?” Mtolo asked. The woman looked confused. “It’s an Old Earth expression,” he began, pushing up his glasses as he prepared to explain in detail.

“We don’t have time for this Isaac,” Dryer pointed out.

“Oh, ah, yes,” Mtolo said. “Well then, I’ll stay with Zuberi.”

“The hell you will,” Ninon said. “I’ll stay. My knowledge of archeology and anthropology might be more useful down here.”

“I insist,” Isaac wouldn’t back down.

“I’m not going to allow your macho pride to stand in the way of a sound course of action,” Auguste replied. Dryer grinned.

“Woman’s got a point Isaac,” the security said, prompting a frown from Mtolo. “Besides, your knowledge of geology might help us get a message out to the captain before you even reach the shuttle, and Captain Killian needs to know what we found out here sooner rather than later.”

Ninon smiled in triumph, reminding Isaac of the conclusion of his game with Frank Abbott. Mtolo knew that both of his colleagues made sense, but he huffed anyway.

He turned to Adede, “Well, I guess it’s you and me, Adede,” Isaac gestured toward the exit. “Lead the way.”

Even though the insectoid didn’t respond, he could tell the Xindi was happy to be leaving the place in how quickly it made an about face.

Mtolo was at the exit when he heard the shriek. He turned quickly, sharing an equally curious and concerned look with the A&A officer. “Is that what I think it is?” He asked Ninon.

Another cry came in response. From behind a heavy door carved into the wall of the lab.

“It’s a baby,” Dryer answered. “Someone left a baby down here.”

*************************************************************************

 

*************************************************************************

Planetside


“Where is Dr. Iren?” Ballesteros muttered. He did his best to compress the injuries, but there were too many, and each wound he tried to cover, it seemed like blood began leaking elsewhere.

The sharp eared Rouass stepped back into the wreckage. “It can’t be much longer now sir.”

“There’s nothing more I can do for him,” the first officer said, looking up at the helmswoman. Ballesteros had done his best to patch up the man. It was the Klingon’s resilience more so than his ministrations that was keeping the man on the mortal coil.

“His injuries were extensive,” Rouass stated.

“Your talent for understatement remains intact,” Ballesteros smiled but there was no mirth behind it.

“Have Lochana or Shyam found who the assailant was?” As soon as they found the injured man inside the crashed ship, Rafael had ordered the security guards to find the culprit. Rouass shook her head, frowning. “Damn,” Ballesteros said, turning back to the man.

The man’s forehead ridges weren’t as pronounced as from other Klingons he had seen. He wasn’t even as hairy as other Klingons he had encountered. The man only possessed a thin mustache, its blood encrusted tips hanging past the corners of his bruised mouth. And his clothing was equally nondescript. He wore an unadorned black jumper that had been ripped and scorched, and Rafael couldn’t determine how much was from the crash and how much was from an attacker.

Trying to keep the man alive, he hadn’t had much time to scour the ship’s memory banks to determine who the man might be or what had brought him to the planet.

All Rafael knew that the man possessed unimaginable endurance. He had been stabbed multiple times and had laser and radiation burn marks.

Yet he was still breathing, even if it was shallow. Ballesteros turned back to the still watching Rouass. “Karima, have you been able to raise Captain Killian?”

“No sir,” the woman said, her frown etching into her features. “Nor the others.”

“That’s not good,” Ballesteros said, recalling his last conversation with the captain. Killian had warned him to be on guard; that they might not be the only living souls down on the planet. Rouass had been attempting to get in contact with Killian and the other landing parties to inform them of the Bogue team’s discovery. “What about Albemarle?”

The woman shook her head either. “There’s a storm coming sir,” she answered. “It’s affecting our communications.”

“So we’re effectively cut off then?” Ballesteros stood up. “The last call we got out to Roanoke and now we can’t even contact them again.”

“Correct sir,” Rouass replied.

“Damn,” Ballesteros repeated.

“Who?” At first the executive officer thought he was imagining the word, as if it were a trick of the wind. As if hammering home Karima’s storm prediction, the wind had picked up and it was sighing through the battered ship. But he saw the woman’s widened eyes. She took a step backward and pointed down at his foot.

The man’s curdled fingers were at Rafael’s right boot, weakly attempting to grab it. Ballesteros looked down at the man. The man’s darkened eyes widened and then narrowed, as recognition dawned. “Humans.”

The man’s head fell back and he laughed before his body seized with pain. Rafael put aside his long conditioned distrust of Klingons. Ballesteros felt a momentary spot of shame that he had regretted leaving his laser pistol beside the medical kit and not in immediate reach. The first officer kneeled down and grabbed the man’s hand, in a vain attempt to provide support, reassurance.

“I’m Commander Rafael Ballesteros of the Starship Albemarle,” he announced. “And we’re going to rescue you.”

The man’s eyes glazed over, before he squinted, willing himself to focus. Rafael couldn’t fathom how much agony the man might be enduring. “Human…Ball…Ballest….,” he struggled to say the man’s name. “Human,” he said, giving up. “You will die here…with me.”

“We’re not here to attack you,” Rafael said, “This is a rescue mission.”

“Foolish human,” the man shook his head, before grimacing. “I-I will not kill you,” the man’s body tensed up again, and he began coughing, expelling thick streams of blood. Ballesteros held his hand through it all, recoiling as each drop of dark blood pelted him.

The Klingon tried to wipe his bloody mouth but he didn’t have the strength to wipe his mouth. “I…am Ja’gur…of So’taj….”

Rafael looked up at Rouass, mouthing the word “So’taj.” The younger woman shook her head in confusion.

“So’taj,” Ballesteros repeated. “I-we don’t understand.”

Ja’gur shook his head. “Imperial…Intelligence,” he explained. Rafael frowned. What was Ja’gur, an Imperial Intelligence operative doing on this planet? And who had attacked him? The first officer asked the dying man just those questions.

“Sent…by the High Command,” Ja’gur was forcing each word out. Ballesteros could see how much pain speaking was causing the man. He looked again at the medical kit. There was a hypo inside that would incapacitate the man. There wasn’t much Rafael could do to save his life now, those skills were beyond his meager training, and perhaps even Dr. Iren’s. There was little Federation medicine knew about Klingon physiology.

Ballesteros also knew his hesitation was driven by less noble intentions. He wanted to know what the man was telling them, if for no other reason to prevent his crew from suffering the same fate. “Go on,” he gently coaxed the gasping man. Ja’gur’s eyes had shut and his head began to bob, as he struggled to stave off unconsciousness. Behind him, Rouass grunted with displeasure, but the first officer ignored her. “Ja’gur,” he said sternly. “Continue.”

“Sir,” Rouass interjected, “This man needs medical attention.”

Rafael looked up at her, “There’s not much more we can do for him. And we need to know what or who attacked him, and why he was here in the first place. That information could be vital to the Federation.”

“But sir,” the helmswoman planted her feet, and Ballesteros had served long enough with Karima to know that was always a bad sign.

“There’s no but here,” he said quickly, but she got wound up. “The safety of our crew is the paramount concern,” Rafael said, adding authority to his voice. “And if that is a problem for you, I suggest you wait outside.”

The woman glared down at him, but she remained silent. She folded her arms and continued sending daggers his way. Ballesteros turned back to the Klingon. Ja’gur was looking up at him, a small smile on his lips. “Spoken…like…a Klingon.”

Ballesteros knew the man was complimenting him but it didn’t feel like it. “You were saying, Ja’gur…of the So’Taj.”

The man shook his head as if to clear it, and then he grimaced at the effort before continuing. “Sent to find renegades, from the Science Institute…discovered…cultists……the last taQ’ be’nI’…the weird sisters…”

The man continued spewing a long string of words, and it all sounded like babble to Rafael. None of it made sense. “Ja’gur, slow down, I don’t understand.”

The man stopped abruptly, and squinted at him, as if he was just realizing he was talking out loud. “Human,” he said, as if seeing Rafael for the first time. The man attempted to pull his hand away from Ballesteros, but couldn’t. He tried to sit up, but his muscles were no longer responding. “Human you should not have come here.”

“What do you mean? Why did you say that?” Rafael forced himself not to press the man, but the Klingon’s words had quickened his pulse.

In response to his insistence, Ja’gur shook his head with a remorseful expression. “You have doomed yourself human.”

“Who attacked you?” Ballesteros now did press.

“NIyma’,” Ja’gur muttered. “Phantom.”

“Phantom?” Ballesteros asked.

“NIyma’!” The Klingon snarled, before grimacing. His eyes clouded as if lost in memories. The man’s face contorted in horror. “Phantom…Phantoms.”

Ja’gur wilted, his head falling back, but he rallied before it smacked against the ground. With an admirable will, the man fought to stay conscious, to cling to life.

Ballesteros resisted the urge to shake the man, to force the information out of him. Instead the first officer gently asked, “Phantoms? What do you mean by that?”

Ja’gur looked at Ballesteros as if he was daft. “ChIS’puqpu’,” he answered, repeating it with surprising intensity, “ChIS’puqpu’!” He gripped Rafael’s hand hard enough that it hurt.

“I don’t understand,” Ballesteros said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The white children,” Ja’gur answered. “The white ones,” he added, his voice cracking. “Beware the white ones,” he said before he shuddered once more, and then no more.

*******************************************************************

 

*******************************************************************

Planetside



“Stay back,” Lt. Dryer moved to block Lt. Auguste from going further. Ninon’s nostrils flared and her lips began moving, ready to verbally rebuff the large man.

“He’s right,” Isaac said quietly, placing a restraining hand gently on her shoulder.

“There are children in there, infants,” Auguste pointed at the dozen translucent cylindrical containers filled with an amber colored liquid in the center of the dimly light room. Inside each of them were sickly looking, pallid infants. Each child was suspended in the fluid.

“Just what the hell is going on here?” Dryer asked, gazing around the room. His pistol was up and ready to fire.

“This is some kind of…birthing tank,” Auguste said, after she placed her hand against one. She bent down and pressed her face close to it.

Isaac was exploring the other tanks. He realized quickly that all of the infants were deathly pale in skin tone and some of them were misshapen or deformed.

“This is some kind of nursey,” Isaac offered in response to Dryer’s question.

“It’s more,” Adede clicked. “It’s more than that Lieutenant Mtolo.” The Xindi looked around, its large compound eyes glinting in the dim light. “I was born in a place similar to this. This is a hatchery.”

“A hatchery?” Auguste asked, looking up from the birthing tank. “For what purpose?”

Adede didn’t have an answer. “We can worry about that later,” Dryer spoke up. “There is a conscious infant down here, and it’s not one of the children in those tanks.”

“So, we got to go deeper into the bowels of this planet,” Isaac shook his head.

Zuberi looked at him and smirked. “I thought you lived for this stuff, rock guy.”

“Key word is live,” Isaac said morosely, his gooseflesh bumping up.

**********************************************************************

Planetside


Lt. Anil Chadda was tense, his stomach in knots. He was anticipating another inquiry from either Lt. Rexona or Dr. Iren. Despite his best efforts, there was only so much he could do to course more speed from the Roanoke’s engines.

He knew his anxiety had no basis in reason, but he was suffering from it nonetheless. Anil was surprised he had gotten this far up the ladder in the Fleet with his deep fear of criticism. Most days he used that trepidation to his benefit, pushing himself to excel beyond his peers, and it had even propelled him to graduate two years ahead of the rest of his class.

But it had also hurt him all the same. A prized offer had been made for him to join Captain Barnett’s command, but his fear of flailing as part of the illustrious crew had made him chose a lesser profile posting.

The Albemarle was a good posting, and Captain Killian was a respected Fleet veteran though the scuttlebutt was that his career had stalled due to his cantankerous attitude.

And Killian was a bit much to take, but thankfully Anil had mostly avoided his wrath by exceeding the man’s demanding expectations as much as possible. Chadda had often been one of the few officers aboard rewarded with terse head nods of approval.

And he wanted to keep the streak going. “Our current ETA is ten minutes,” he said, anticipating the question.

Anil heard a sharp intake of air. “Good,” Rexona said behind him. The Navigation Officer allowed himself a smile. He had successfully anticipated and answered the security chief’s question.

“Contact Commander Ballesteros,” the Fenarian ordered, “And let them know we’ll be there momentarily.”

Chadda opened the channel and static greeted him. He frowned. He looked back at the security chief. Rexona’s silver eyes glittered in the darkened cabin. “I heard it Mr. Chadda.”

“It’s the storm,” Dr. Iren spoke up. “It has to be.”

Anil looked at the woman, and then out of the main port, at the darkening clouds racing to meet them. “Dr. Iren is right.”

“It’s a race then,” Rexona said. The woman smiled, revealing a sharp row of teeth. “My money’s on you Anil.”

Chadda’s grin was nervous. He craved approval but didn’t know how to deal with compliments. He nodded and awkwardly turned back to the piloting console.

In the distance the massive clouds rolled, throbbing, pulsing, writhing, as if alive, the dark puffs illuminated within every few seconds by intense lightning.

It truly was a race, and the life of Commander Ballesteros and the rest of the Bogue landing party were at stake. Anil swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He really couldn’t fail this time.

A rumble of thunder reached them, bouncing against the shuttle’s walls. He looked back out at the storm, against his better judgment. The mass was closer and churning, the lightning brighter than suns.

He blinked. There had been something in last flash of lightning. Anil blinked again before turning to Iren who was sitting across from him. He asked the Halkan, “Did you see that?”

The woman’s expression was inquiring. “Saw what?”

“There,” he pointed out at the storm clouds. “There was something…in the clouds.”

Rexona was behind him instantly. “What was it?” The woman said, harsher than she likely intended.

“I-I don’t,” the navigator began, before there was another flash and this time he saw it more clearly. “Impossible,” he shook his head, attempting to shake the image from his mind. “No.”

“Mr. Chadda, what’s wrong?” Rexona asked, her hand now on his shoulder. He wished he could draw the woman’s strength into himself. The woman was looking past him, out into the storm. “What’s out there?”

“Rashmi,” Anil said, his throat going dry. He closed his eyes, trying to push back the memories, hold back his guilt.

“Rashmi?” Rexona asked, but the woman’s voice felt far away. Anil was being pulled into the past, a past he had tried so desperately to forget.

He hadn’t always been this way, so hesitant, so wracked with fear or guilt, before it had been…different….

…Before he had been fearless, a hero, at least to Rashmi…

“It’s my fault,” he said, pulling the truth from his rationalizations, his lies… “It was me…”

“I don’t understand,” Rexona’s voice was on the edge of his consciousness.

“My thoughtlessness, my carelessness, my arrogance”….

He felt stronger fingers gripping his shoulder, shaking him, but the memories had a stronger hold on him. And Rashmi’s face in the storm, her arms reaching out from the maelstrom.

“I’m the reason…the reason she’s dead!”

“Mr. Chadda…Anil…get ahold of yourself!” Dr. Iren was shouting, but it felt so far away, far above him, like Anil was hearing her from a great distance, as he was falling, descending down to join Rashmi, to be with her again….

“I’m coming,” Anil promised, looking to the storm again and Rashmi’s face among the clouds. She was smiling now, as she used to.

Tendrils of lightning reached out to him like arms, striking the shuttle. There were shouts and screams, but those were in the distance now. All he saw was his sister’s face before him. Her smile was welcoming.

His heart moved his fingers, turning the Roanoke toward the storm. “What are you doing?!” Rexona barked. He felt fingers digging into his flesh, gripping his arms, covering his hands, but Anil would not be moved. He would make right what he had gotten tragically wrong so long.

Anil smiled, from the first time in years, as he took the shuttle into the heart of the storm.

**************************************************************************

 

**************************************************************************

Planetside



Isaac’s insides felt colder than the wind that had picked up and was now whistling through the caverns. As they went deeper into the caverns, he saw signs of civilization, both ancient and recent along the rock walls.

There were several tattered black pennants hung on the walls, each emblazoned with an inverted garish red trefoil. The symbol was also dotted along the rocky walls, in red or purple liquid that Mtolo hoped was paint, but he suspected otherwise.

“Just what are we dealing with here?” Dryer swept his flash light around the corridors, from pennants to cave paintings. “And what the hell does that mean?” He wagged his light over the ominous symbol.

“Well, the trefoil is the symbol of the Klingon Empire,” Mtolo said, trying to tamp down his own unease. “With this emblem turned upside down, perhaps we’ve come across some Klingon dissident group.”

“Great,” Auguste shrugged her slender shoulders, “We’ve stumbled upon a group even more disagreeable than what passes for civil Klingon society.”

“We haven’t encountered them yet,” Dryer pointed out, the interplay of light and shadow making his features look ominous. “And that is a problem. There is a child down here. And wherever that child is, there is doubtless a caregiver.”

“And a butcher,” Auguste shivered. The woman’s words brought back the “surgical” chamber they had discovered.

“One…or several,” Zuberi added portentously.

“And by being here, on this storm wracked planet, it tells me they don’t want visitors,” Adede said.

“Well, they are about to get some,” Dryer said, brandishing his laser rifle. He turned to go deeper into the cavern and then stopped, so suddenly that it made Isaac nearly trip on his own feet. The man turned around slowly, awkwardly, his movements now oddly stiff.

Mtolo was about to ask the man when he saw a flash of alabaster behind him. “Oh,” he muttered as the apparition, more correctly, apparitions took form. They were a group of child, deathly pale children. One cradled a mewling infant. Their foreheads all were ridged.

“Klingons!” Ninon gasped, seeing them too.

“They are…and something more,” Adede added. It was then that Isaac saw the pink-rimmed ridges on their foreheads beginning to throb. And Zuberi turned his rifle on the landing party.

Mtolo recoiled. “Lt. Dryer…Zuberi…what are you doing?”

“I…can’t,” Zuberi was struggling to get out the words, “control…” he closed his eyes, internal struggle contorting his face. Auguste moved toward him, but Isaac held her back.

“Can’t…hold…it…run,” Dryer’s eyelids snapped open. There was emptiness in his eyes.

Isaac pushed Auguste and turned to run from his friend who had somehow become the puppets for the albino children. The rifle’s beams seared through the chill air.

***************************************************************************

Planetside



The urgency in Lochana’s voice drew Ballesteros from the dead man. Rafael had scoured the ship and found a tattered cloak to place over Ja’gur’s corpse. He had muttered a few words in prayer for the man’s soul. He didn’t know enough about Klingon culture to know if Klingons even worshipped gods or even believed in a soul.

He knew his words were as much for him as for Ja’gur, even more for Ballesteros so he could keep his head.

“Commander,” Karima said more quietly than the Kamorian, but just as insistent, “you need to see this.” The woman was halfway out of the downed ship. She jerked her head in the direction outside and then ran out.

That sparked Ballesteros into action. He left Ja’gur behind and followed Rouass out of the ship. He squinted as even the wan sunlight hurt his eyes from being inside the darkened ship for so long. And the wind now tore at his clouds and he could feel the charge in the air. The storm was approaching, and fast.

“Commander!” Lochana called out again, drawing his attention. The Kamorian held the struggling woman by one arm; Shyam held the other arm. The woman was thrashing, but both security guards had firm grips. The woman had dark-tan skin and wild, tangled hair. During her struggles, her hair was pushed back, revealing the thin ridge bisecting her forehead. Her dark eyes flashed with occasional fire.

The Klingon woman’s tunic and pants were ripped, and once Ballesteros got close enough he smelled the blood on the woman. Some of it doubtlessly her on, but the front of her tunic was caked with it.

“You murdered Ja’gur,” Rafael said, no need for an inquiry.

The woman’s anger ebbed as she looked at Ballesteros sideways. “How-how did you come by that name?”

“I spoke with him,” Ballesteros said, “before he died.”

“He survived long enough to speak with you?” The woman was incredulous.

“It’s true,” Rouass added. The woman’s head swiveled to the helmswoman momentarily. Then she turned back to Ballesteros. She lowered her head and spat beneath her, a thick gob of blood. “My aim was not as true as it should’ve been.”

“We found her, attempting to escape among the mountains,” Lochana interjected. “She left a blood trail that was not inconsiderable.”

“Her injuries are likely the only reason we were able to subdue her without significant injuries of our own,” Shyam added. It was then that Rafael noticed that one side of the Andorian’s face was scratched so badly it looked like a latticework.

The woman spat again, with even more disgust. “My father would be ashamed at my capture,” she muttered, “compounded by my failure to slay a member of the So’Taj!”

“Who are you?” Ballesteros added.

The woman glared up at him. “I am Chimeg! I am all that is left of the taQ’ be’nI’!”

Rafael’s eyes widened. He recalled Ja’gur’s ramblings. “Weird sisters.”

The woman’s eyes lit with surprise. “What do you know of our order?!” She demanded, pulling against the security guards. The two guards struggled to restrain her.

“Ja’gur,” Ballesteros answered. “Ja’gur mentioned your order. He also mentioned cultists, a Science Institute,” he paused, remembering the man’s fear, “and the white children.”

“The fools,” Chimeg spat a third time. “So afraid of destiny, so fearful of losing their little fiefdoms…”

“I don’t understand,” Rafael said gingerly, “And I want to.”

The woman’s laughter was cruel. “It is beyond you, human!”

“Sir, I think we should contact the captain,” Rouass offered. Ballesteros held up a hand. He wanted to understand what Chimeg was talking about, and what threat she and these so-called white children posed before informing Killian.

Ballesteros tried again. “Ja’gur also used to term “ChIS’puqpu’. What does that mean, in relation to any of this?”

Chimeg laughed again, but rough coughs overtook her. The guards had to keep her steady. Once the woman found her voice again, she said, “You already know, and if you wish to survive, you will leave this place now!

Our attempts to create the Kuvah’magh; our attempts to usher in a new golden age for our people, was a fool’s errand. Our progeny killed most of us, some by accident, others out of amusement, leaving only me and Borchu to care for them and to continue the experiments.

Thankfully Research Lead Arigh destroyed the ship that brought us here, sacrificing himself for his actions. The phantoms were contained here, trapped here, until Ja’gur, and now you’ve arrived. It’s what they want.”

“‘They?’” Rouass asked, looking from Ballesteros to the Klingon woman.

Rafael ignored his friend. “What or who is the Kuvah’magh?” He asked Chimeg. The woman shook her head.

“You don’t understand,” she said, “You want to sit here and talk, like a typical human, instead of acting. Leave this place, now. And leave me to bear the weight of my sins. My visions misled me and I must pay the price for that. I grant you a mercy that you can’t even recognize.”

“I think we should listen to her sir,” Shyam said.

“The blue one speaks sense,” Chimeg nodded. “His kind knows, they can understand, with the Aenar are among them, mind sharers. We took many your Aenar; we experimented on them, along with others with psionic and clairvoyant abilities. The High Command went along with it, believing we were creating living weapons for the empire. The fools!

We did want the power, but not for the narrow goals of the Imperial Fleet. We wanted it to pierce the veil of reality, to touch the face of eternity…and we have achieved that power, we have created the children of the old gods…Kahless forgive us all.”

*********************************************************************



USS Albemarle

Main Bridge


Chief Engineer Peio shifted in the seat again. He scooted to the edge of the captain’s chair. The Denobulan called out to the communication station, without looking behind him, “Attempt to hail the captain again.” All of the landing parties had missed their scheduled check ins. The engineer wanted to make a second round of attempts, starting with Captain Killian.

“Sorry sir,” Shinobi, the auxiliary communications officer, replied a few moments later. This time Peio did look back and saw that the petite young woman bore a frustrated expression. “I’ve tried contacting the other landing parties and so far no response.”

“It could be the large storm building,” Lt. Cayman said from the science console. The muscular half-Makusian looked over him. Cayman’s dark brown face was creased with worry.

“Sir, I suggest we move to a different orbit,” Helm Officer Tomson suggested. Peio nodded at the wiry blond human to do so.

Peio was on edge. He knew without having to ask Cayman or Shinobi that if the storm was interfering with communications then it would impact their ability to transport the landing parties back to Albemarle.

“Moving to a new standard orbit, over the planet’s north pole,” Navigation Officer M’Nara informed him.

“Good,” Peio nodded at the Caitian. He relaxed a little as he felt the deck plates trembled slightly as he heard his engines come alive.

The purr of the warp engine was always soothing. It was a much welcome sound. He couldn’t wait for this mission to be over so he could get back to the propulsion room. The acting captain knew that Tomson and M’Nara had to work in concert to avoid colliding with the remnants of the shattered planetoid hanging above the planet.

As if reading his mind, the ship trembled and a harsh scratching sound came through the speakers. Tomson looked back and winced before smiling. “Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t completely ruin the paint job Ian,” Peio grinned. The helmsman nodded as he went back to work. The ship cleared the makeshift asteroid field. There was still a ghost of a smile on the engineer’s face when it evaporated completely, along with the blood draining from his face.

Rushing to meet them were two Klingon warships. The Denobulan was able to spot an old-style Bird-of-Prey and a Raptor-class scout seconds before the Bird-of-Prey fired.

**************************************************************************

 

Alright, all caught up.

This sure is a creepy tale so far, the tension and atmosphere throughout are palpable as the Starfleet team explores what can only be called the planet from hell.

And the way things are going I am less and less convinced that anyone will make it out of this alive.

 

Thanks for reading and reviewing CeJay. It's interesting that your reaction to the story is creepy. It wasn't my intention. Though the story wasn't intended to go on as long as it has. It started off as a smaller story that has gotten much bigger.

 

**************************************************************************

Planetside


Isaac had hit the ground that it had knocked off his glasses, adding more ink to the darkness. The geologist placed his hands over his head, in a futile gesture to protect his head. He would have to recover his spectacles later. Above him red laser blasts sizzled.

Adede was returning fire. He winced at the thought of Dryer or the Xindi connecting. Even though Zuberi was seemingly being controlled, he still didn’t want his friend to be injured. Not only had he lost his glasses, he had lost sight of Ninon.

Isaac crawled carefully along the ground, searching for his glasses, hoping to bump into Auguste, and flinching every time the darkness was punctured by laser fire. He couldn’t help fearing that one blast would lance his body or vaporize him. It was a struggle but he kept pushing his fear aside.

The children, Mtolo thought. They were the true culprits. The ghostly children were somehow controlling Dryer. Even though they had sunk psionic pincers into his friend’s mind, Isaac could feel the residual waves of hate roiling from the children.

If his fear wasn’t churning in his stomach and pumping adrenaline through his bloodstream the wall of anger might paralyze him.

But Mtolo couldn’t afford to be immobilized. It was only a matter of time before Zuberi or Adede killed each other, and if Dryer took down the Xindi, the children would direct him to eliminate Auguste and Isaac next.

Still on his stomach, the geologist reached down and pulled his laser pistol from its holster. He held it up to his face and quickly checked the settings, doing the best he could in the darkness and with his poor eyesight. He tried hard to keep his fingers from trembling as he shifted the setting the heavy stun.

Steeling himself, Isaac got to his knees, arced his weapon over the room as he did so, looking for the children, but even their ivory complexions were hard to detect in the dark room.

He winced and shut his eyes as bright beams cut through the darkness. There was a furious series of clicks and then a heavy thud. “Adede!” Auguste shrieked.

Isaac could barely make out the large dark shape that moved toward Ninon. “Don’t do it Dryer!” He called out without even thinking.

The shape grew still and then turned toward him. Mtolo forced himself to aim at his friend. “Don’t make me do this!” He was speaking to Zuberi as much as the mind controlling children.

In the darkness he saw the emitter of the laser rife come alive. Isaac squeezed the trigger. The beam spit from the rifle. Mtolo froze, unable to fire back. The beam bypassed him and struck a wall somewhere in the distance.

Zuberi was engulfed in a crimson halo of light and then the man fell. Before the light faded, he saw Auguste’s silhouette.

“Ninon, are you okay?” Isaac asked, moving in direction. “Is Zuberi alright?”

“There’s no time to check,” she said brusquely. “I-I can already feel them, digging in my mind, searching for purchase.”

“The children,” Mtolo understood because he could feel them too, on the corners of his consciousness, their voices scraping against his mind like blowing leaves.

He knew their pressure would grow the more they wanted in. “We have to stop them Isaac,” Auguste’s voice was ragged. She was struggling to retain control.

“I can’t see them,” he said, a lump forming in his throat.

“Get down!” She shouted, firing mere seconds before he complied. A beam nearly singed his ear. The woman fired controlled bursts around the room. Catching on, Isaac followed her lead. Still on one knee, he raked the room until he was both satisfied and horrified by the shuttered screams and yelps of children and the soft thuds as their bodies hit the ground.

Instantly the pressure on his brain lifted. He stopped firing but Auguste continued pumping out laser beams.

“Ninon,” Mtolo said softly. The woman continued firing. “Lt. Auguste!” He barked in a tone he rarely used aboard the ship and never in Ninon’s presence.

That got the woman’s attention. “Isaac,” she called out, hesitantly, as she was afraid of her own voice, but more afraid for Mtolo.

“I’m here,” he said as he stood up. “Hold on,” he added, “We need to find a light.”

“Yeah,” Auguste said. “And we need to check on the condition of Dryer and Adede.” Even though the heavy stun setting wasn’t fatal, it could cause serious injury.

The two stumbled around in the dark, both grunting and cursing as they bumped into rocks. Isaac was fortunate he didn’t step on any of the unconscious people or his glasses.

“Found it,” Ninon called out seconds before the room filled with light. Isaac winced as the light stabbed at his eyes. He closed his eyes and reopened them slowly, giving them a moment to adjust.

Once they had, it had only improved his vision slightly. He saw blurred shapes. “Auguste…Ninon, I need my glasses.”

“On it,” she said, quickly scouring the room. The woman ran over to a spot, bent over, and then trotted over to him. She handed him the glasses. Isaac sighed in relief.

The frames were a bit crooked and one lens was heavily scratched, but he would manage. Once he slid the glasses back on to his face, details flooded his mind. The geologist turned immediately to Zuberi. The man was lying on his stomach, his back rising and falling. Mtolo was greatly relieved that the man was still alive.

He turned to find Adede, but Auguste had beaten him to the punch. The woman was kneeling down beside the insensate Xindi. The archaeologist sensed his gaze because she looked up at him, sadness marring her attractive face. “Adede…”

Isaac nodded tightly, unable to speak, his grief rising to the fore. He nodded, and held up a hand. He didn’t need to hear the words. He grieved for the security officer he barely knew and his friend Zuberi. He knew that once Zuberi was awake and had learned of Adede’s fate the man would blame himself. And it wasn’t his fault.

It was theirs! Isaac’s anger battled with his grief as he turned to the true murderers of Adede. His anger ebbed as he saw that five children and the infant, which was still clutched fiercely in the arms of one of the children, all dozing, as if taking a nap. Asleep they looked so innocent.

Isaac didn’t know how to gauge Klingon ages, but to him, none of the children looked older than eight Earth years. He imagined how terrified they must have been of the humans. Who knew what propaganda the Klingons had been feeding them, he speculated. So maybe they lashed out as a defense mechanism.

He studiously kept his distance, yet he said to Ninon. “Have you ever seen Klingon telepaths before?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head as he came to stand beside him. Unlike Isaac, Auguste’s pistol was out and pointing at the sleeping children. “I didn’t think their species were capable of telepathy, and not on that level.”

“Yeah,” Isaac nodded, doing his best to ignore the pistol. Ninon had every right to brandish it. The children were dangerous, but still, to Mtolo, they were still kids.

If Adede wasn’t dead, he could chalk up this first encounter to a simple misunderstanding. But the Xindi was dead, and someone had to account for that.

“We got to get to the shuttle and alert the captain,” Auguste said. “Who knows how many more of those children…or something worse…is on this planet?”

“You’re right,” Mtolo nodded, “But I feel bad, just…leaving those kids.”

“Those… ‘kids’ just tried to kill us,” Auguste rejoined, her tone hard. “They should be lucky that we didn’t return the favor.”

“I know,” Isaac said, “I know…but if we leave them, they might be gone when we get back.”

“I think that’s just a chance we’re going to have to take,” Ninon replied. “I would hate for the other landing parties to get the nasty surprise we did.”

“Good point,” Isaac said. He went over to the downed Dryer. He bent down and wrapped one of the man’s muscular arms around his neck. He strained as he lifted him.

“Here, let me help,” Auguste ran over to them, and moments later, the load had lightened as she wrapped Zuberi’s other arm around her shoulder.

The duo carried the man toward the entrance. Isaac couldn’t lie about wishing to be out of the charnel house. It powered his legs forward despite the weight of Zuberi’s body.

The trio had just awkwardly crossed the threshold when the scraping against Isaac’s mind returned. He turned back quickly, dropping Dryer. He ignored Auguste’s grunt as he grabbed for his pistol. The children were awake! His fear hammered at him.

The scraping increased as he lifted his weapon. “Isaac?” Ninon asked, but the geologist ignored her. He scoured the room. The children were still unconscious, including the infant.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered.

“Isaac!” Auguste shrieked.

“What?!” Mtolo turned back around to his friend. Ninon’s face was contorted with fear and pain. The woman had dropped Zuberi. She on her knees, clutching the sides of her head, as if trying to prevent her cranium from exploding. Her shrieking chilled Isaac to the morrow.

He sidestepped Dryer to kneel at her side and gently grabbed her shoulders to in a futile attempt to provide reassurance, but the woman was oblivious, locked in agony. Isaac’s fear and frustration nearly overwhelmed him.

What was causing her such pain, if it wasn’t the kids? As if hearing his thoughts, a hunched figure lurched from into view, from around the corner. It was another albino, yet older than the other children. This Klingon looked to be adolescent.

His ragged clothing was nearly ripped to shreds, exposing various burn marks and cuts, some still leaking blood. The youth favored one leg that was caked with blood. Blood also rimmed his eyes; eyes that were locked with ferocity onto Ninon. A pinkish hue colored the youth man’s forehead ridges. Auguste’s screams had turned to groans.

The boy was killing her. Isaac had to do something. He remembered his sidearm. He aimed it at the teenager. “Stop it! Stop it right now!” He warned. “You’re killing her!”

The young man said nothing. He merely squinted and Auguste sighed again. The boy was hurting himself to murder his friend. He was that determined, that fanatical. But Mtolo hesitated. The boy was still a child…he couldn’t….

The teen fell to the ground. On all fours he sent a psionic tsunami, hitting Isaac and nearly knocking him to the ground. Ninon screamed with enough force that it should’ve shaken the walls. And then she went scarily silent. Isaac couldn’t bear to look at her. He was afraid of what he would find.

Refusing to think any longer, he pulled the trigger.

*************************************************************************

USS Albemarle

Main Bridge


Chief Peio gripped his armrests. Another barrage from the Klingon ships rattled the ship. “Shields down another 15%,” Lt. Cayman said from the science console. The Makusian’s voice was tight, and Peio was certain it wasn’t just from the tension of the moment, but from the engineer’s command decisions.

Peio had sought to get the attacking Klingons away from the planet and the landing parties, though he didn’t want to warp away and leave Captain Killian and the others vulnerable. He had ordered Ensign Tomson to evade the two warships and the young man was doing his best, but Albemarle was still getting hit too often, and Peio realized it was death by a thousand cuts.

Both Klingon ships were making coordinated strafing runs, pounding the ship’s weakening shields. Soon they would break through, and the beams would begin ripping into the hull, or hitting the warp engines, killing them all.

Peio knew he had no choice but to make his stand. He pulled deep from his memory of battle tactics, and rattled off several orders. Tomson nodded quickly, and executed them.

The ship jerked to a stop with such force that it wrenched Peio from his seat. The two unsuspecting Klingon ships screamed by them. The bastards had gotten so used to Albemarle running and those giving chase that they hadn’t adjusted in time.

Peio would make them pay for their arrogance. “Target their engines,” the Denobulan ordered. “Fire!”

M’Nara growled low in her throat as phasers stitched the Klingon ships, punching clean through the shields of the Raptor. The scout vessel exploded, with such force that it knocked the Bird-of-Prey off course.

Peio ignored the dying ball of flame of the Raptor. “Take out that Bird-of-Prey next.”

“Targeting Klingon vessel now,” the Caitian navigator informed them. The Bird-of-Prey, one of the previous century’s models, was venting plasma and listing. The remains of the Raptor had shredded its shields and sliced into its hull. M’Nara’s deft shooting had almost killed two birds with one stone.

“Ah, sir, the Klingon ship is hailing,” Shinobi called out.

“What?” Peio swiveled around to look at the communications officer. “They’re hailing us?”

“I recommend ignoring them sir,” Cayman said. “This is nothing more than a stalling tactic.”

“I concur with Lt. Cayman sir,” Tomson spoke up.

“I do as well Commander,” M’Nara added. “For all we know there could be more Klingon battle ships on the way.”

“You’re opinions are all noted,” Peio nodded. “But if there is a chance to deescalate this and prevent further bloodshed we must give them a chance. This situation, so near the Klingon border, could spiral into a greater conflict if we don’t do all we can to prevent it.”

There were several sighs among the bridge crew, and the engineer nodded in understanding, but he still ordered Shinobi to answer the hail.

“Klingon ship is responding,” the young woman said seconds before the main viewer shifted from the damaged ship to an even more ruined bridge. There was fire and smoke and a bloodied man seemingly holding on to the command chair for dear life.

That ship’s cameras went in and out of focus and shifted to enlarge the Klingon’s countenance. The man’s unkempt white hair hung down his shoulders. He was old, but strength radiated out from him. The man’s gaze was penetrating. Peio sat up in his chair and tried to meet the man’s intense stare, but faltered. He blinked and kicked himself for it.

“Klingon vessel,” the Denobulan spoke up, “I am Commander Peio of the Federation Starship Albemarle…”

The man cocked his head, “Ranger-class,” he muttered, his bloodied, cracked lips splitting into a smile. “I destroyed a Ranger, ages ago…in the Triangle sector…”

Peio didn’t take the bait. “Klingon vessel; stand down, and prepare to be boarded.”

“I was blind then,” the Klingon continued, his gaze now reflective. “Before I saw the light, before I came into the faith. I-I thought our brothers and sisters were lost, but they are here, as are you,” he hissed. “They escaped the Imperial Fleet, and you will not capture them!”

“What is he talking about?” Tomson muttered.

Peio nodded, not sure either what the Klingon was rambling about. The Klingon pressed his face close to the camera. “You. Will. Not. Capture. Them!”

“Sir, the Klingon ship is powering their engines,” M’Nara said quickly.

“Preparing to run?” Tomson asked.

“No,” Cayman said darkly. The Bird-of-Prey turned sharply, its bulbous prow facing them. The older Klingon wanted to face Albemarle eye-to-eye it seemed. “They are preparing to fight.”

“It’s more than that,” Peio said as the ship began to stretch, the warp field taking effect. “He’s going to ram….” The Denobulan’s words were lost to eternity as the Klingon warship collided into the Albemarle, vaporizing both vessels.

**********************************************************************

 

Yeah, really not sure anybody will be left to tell this tale.

Some intense battles here both in space and on the surface. You may not have meant this to be creepy but every time you mix children and mind control, things get scary as all hell.

 

Holy crap! This is intense. Call Starfleet! We're gonna need another ship.