"Honor Bound" by Rob Dalton (rob@daltonator.net) Legal Schtick: Star Trek is owned by Paramount. Star Wars is owned by Lucasfilm. There now, don't you feel better? More Legal Schtick: Not for profit, not for resale, not for distribution. Have a pleasant day. Disclaimer: This story contains references to events which were depicted in "LT.Hit-Man's Journal Honor Bound," located on the Archive under this story. While sharing my universe, LT.Hit-Man has done his best to make it mutually exclusive, but with limited success. If you have any questions regarding unresolved plot points, feel free to email me at rob@daltonator.net. Enjoy! Honor Bound 1 Reawakening War is hell. At least, that's the maxim that has been quoted time and again by every soldier on the front lines. He didn't believe it for a second. For him, war was nothing more than a job. It was his duty to bring swift death upon the enemies of the Empire. To kill with extreme prejudice, by any means necessary. To serve in the name of the Emperor and preserve his New Order. He was honor bound to do it. Honor. Glory. Revenge. The Rebels must pay for what they have done. They destroyed his family...destroyed his life... Destroyed his body. He looked at his various cybernetic implants with one fake eye and one real eye. The anger built up within him; hatred fueling the power of the Dark Side. His anger and his hate made him strong, and it was with this strength that he exacted righteous justice upon those who deserved it. Mainly, the Rebellion. Those same Rebels who destroyed millions of good men when they destroyed the Death Star. The same Rebels who had killed his wife and child... Destroy. Destruction. Death and carnage was in his blood, his soul. His cold, dark, empty soul... But the Rebels would have to wait for their time. Now was the time to take revenge against lost comrades. Lost to the pathetic group of weakling pacifists known as the Federation. They were lucky they only had to face the three Star Destroyers. They were even luckier to have taken down the _Onslaught_ and the _Abominable_. No word yet pertaining to the _Revenger_; it was last seen spinning like a top. Now, they wouldn't be so lucky. He tightened his grip around his lightsaber. It was time for the Federation to suffer the wrath of Lieutenant Hit-Man. He punched his hand with a cybernetic fist, imagining the satisfying crunch of vertebrae being snapped like a twig and the taste of his enemy's blood running over his lips. Vengeance was his. Time for payback. He stood, waiting patiently for the next transport, carrying several bags with him. He had been transferred to the Imperial Star Destroyer _Baron_, which was pulled from escort duty and was on it's way to the nearest fleet rendezvous. A large task force of ships large and small had been assembled there to continue what the original three Star Destroyers sent through the wormhole had started: the takeover of the Milky Way galaxy. Hit-Man smiled. That, in it of itself, was enough to send a grown man running for his life. Usually before Hit- Man gunned him down. -------------------------------- Space. Dark, cold, lonely. They were far away from the stars of the Milky Way, far above the Galactic Disc. They had almost flew straight into a nearby globular star cluster, one of the many dotted around the Galactic Halo and Bulge, before the hyperdrive had quit completely after a full day of travel. Which put them at about nine hundred and thirty parsecs above the disc. Almost three thousand light-years. Which put the Federation about a year away even with their maximum sustainable speed. The Imperial Star Destroyer _Revenger_ had been there for days, licking her wounds, repairing the damage done to the mighty vessel. The impact of smashing into roughly thirty small starships had taken their toll on the hull of the bulky ship. Bits and pieces of the superstructure had been blown off, several turbolasers completely inoperational. They had been beaten, badly, and it was because of the destruction of the _Onslaught_ that they could escape. With that distraction taking up most of the enemy's attention, the techs had had time to repair and engage the hyperdrive. Nobody seemed to notice their departure. Commander Alex Sutton lay in his cabin, tossing and turning. His dreams were full of agony and despair, the pain felt as he watched his comrades die. At least Captain Sheppard wasn't dead. They had detected his shuttle taking off from Bajor shortly after they had left. He wondered about the others...Admiral Zeda, Captain Yates and Grand Admiral Lowe had all been down on the station when the Federation attacked. Dimly, he wondered what had happened to them. He pushed the negative thoughts out of his mind and tried to get some sleep. Slumber was strangely restful for the rest of that night. Sutton felt that something of vast importance had happened, and that the Federation would soon be repaid in full for the loss of two Star Destroyers. * * * Sutton felt better than ever the next morning, and walked to the bridge with a spring in his step. "Sir, eighty percent of the damage has been repaired," reported a lieutenant. "We estimate another two or three hours until we can move on." "Very good. What about weapons?" "We lost seven light turbolasers and four heavy, along with five ion cannons, several torpedo tubes and a tractor beam emitter." "How many fighters?" Sutton asked. "We lost two and a half squadrons, leaving us with forty-two fighters. Of those, twenty-four are bombers, and the rest are Interceptors and regular fighters. All of them have successfully been repaired." "Hull breaches?" "All repaired. We have cut power to the area that was causing the spin, and repairs are being effected as we speak." "Very good, lieutenant. Anything else?" "Yes, sir. Data from the battle indicates that Grand Admiral Lowe's shuttle launched from Deep Space Nine shortly before the destruction of the _Onslaught_." "Thank you, lieutenant. Dismissed." Sutton walked over to the Captain's chair and settled down. "Navigation," he ordered. "Plot a course to the wormhole, and engage the hyperdrive the second that repairs are completed." "Aye, sir." Finding nothing else to be done, Sutton decided that a session in a battle simulator would relieve both the monotony and his anger. -------------------------------- "LR-125 reporting. Perimeter clear." "Acknowledged. Moving forward." "Watch out, they've mined the area!" "We're losing men, fast!" "Enemy fighters detected!" "E-WEB set up. Commencing attack!" "Enemy fighters closing! We need backup!" "TIEs dispatched. Duck and cover!" "Three bogeys destroyed, the rest retreating. TIEs are in pursuit. Proceeding with operation." "Minesweepers active. Seven confirmed, prematurely detonated." "Advancing. Enemy troops--!" "Their transmissions are being jammed. Form up, men! Get the Chariots down there, we'll provide ground cover!" "Chariots mobile. AT-STs mobile. Minimal resistance." "Proceed." "Enemy position flushed. They're on the move!" "Take the leader!" "Speeder bikes intercepting." "They're surrendering! We have them!" "Cuff 'em." "We have some resistance here--" "Thermal detonator!" "Get out of there! Retreat! Retreat!" "We're no longer picking up any life signs." "Any more Rebels?" "Negative. They're all gone as well." Sutton gave up in frustration. He pressed a key, and the simulated battleground disappeared. This wasn't helping at all. Observing stormtrooper combat situations usually calmed him, but watching these green recruits put a strain on his patience. Sutton was not known for his patience. So impatient was he, in fact, that he once killed several technicians who had spent hours attempting to get the hyperdrive up and running again, not seeing the obvious signs of avian infestation. Sutton could have taken care of it personally, but the inexperienced techs thought they knew better. As a result, the _Revenger_ had been late for a major battle with the rebels, one which the Empire had lost. So displeased was the Emperor that Captain Sheppard was almost killed on the spot. Luckily, the Emperor was in a forgiving mood that day, as the Death Star had destroyed Alderaan. Unfortunately for many, that same Death Star was destroyed later that very day. By a single X-Wing. As he mulled, he felt a familiar throb beneath his soles. The intercom pinged. "Repairs complete, sir. Hyperdrive has been engaged. We should be at the wormhole in about a day and a half or so." "Acknowledged," he said, shutting off the intercom and rising to his feet. Another day and a half. He wandered to the mess hall to see what was on the menu. Fried nerf steaks with mashed topatoes. A soldier's meal, but not for him. He ordered some trimpian slices with miasra sauce, one of the favorites in the Sartinaynian star system. His thoughts flashed back to home...well, to his home galaxy anyway. Unfortunately for him, he'd never know where home was. Abandoned at an early age, raised in an orphanage on some planet whose name was long forgotten, he had escaped when he was fifteen. Stowing away on a bulk freighter, he had made his way to Carida where he joined the Academy, clawing his way through the ranks until he had achieved the rank of Commander and was attached to the _Revenger_. He ate alone, silently, the background conversation tuned out as he wondered if he'd ever find his home. -------------------------------- Light...bright light... A long, dark tunnel leading to a bright light. Chuck Sonnenburg awoke with a start. Where was he? What had happened? Dimly, his last memories came floating back to him. Standing on the bridge, saluting, singing an old war song as the Glory drove forth and into warp, plowing into the ship...a bright flash of white light...clean, pure, white light... And then he was here. Wherever 'here' was. Suddenly, the tunnel coalesced into a muddy swamp. He looked around, sniffing the rich odors of the plants and animals. A pair of lizard-like avians winged by, emitting sharp cries of anger or fear at him. He stiffened. Was that the sound of someone walking up behind him? He turned around-- There was an old man, slowly walking up to him, looking seemingly at Sonnenburg yet also through him at the same time. He had a coronal blue sheen around his translucent body, clothed in simple yet effective robes. "Hello, Captain Sonnenburg," he said in deep, rich tones, almost regal, with a vaguely English accent. "Welcome." Sonnenburg was a bit surprised to hear his name stated by someone he never met. "Where am I?" he asked. "You are one with the Force." "The Force?" "Yes. The Force is an energy field. It surrounds us, penetrates us, it binds the galaxy, nay, the universe, together. Wherever there is life, there is the Force. And we have become one with it. Luminous beings are we, not the crude matter of flesh and bone." "I've never heard of it." "Most of those in your galaxy haven't." "Where are the others? The rest of my crew?" "Your crew is also one with the Force. They await you, as do your friends and family whom are long past." Sonnenburg nodded. "Can I go and see them?" "Whenever you do so wish. But they have already completed the journey to what lies beyond. When you go, you may not return to this corporeal existence. I, however, have kept you here to speak with you." "Dark times are soon to befall your galaxy. The Empire is power hungry, and will take over your worlds without the slightest regard to anybody in it." "How do you know this? And what can I do?" "The Force is omnipresent, and as such is all-knowing and all-powerful. Whatever happens, we know. But the future is always in motion. We know not of the fate of your galaxy, and as such have decided to send you to those who may help things turn out for the better. A sort of spiritual advisor, if you will. No more, no less. You are there to offer advice, not solutions." Sonnenburg nodded again. "I see. But...who are you?" "Names no longer have meaning here, but if you must know, I once was known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. Now. I leave you to your tasks, and wish you luck. The Force will provide you with what you need to know. I have another matter to attend to." He disappeared, along with the swamp, and Sonnenburg found himself on Earth, watching as he was posthumously promoted to Admiral by Captain Picard. Honor Bound 2 A New Threat Twelve hours left. Alex Sutton was bored out of his skull. He had done everything he could think of to relieve the monotony of a day and a half stuck in hyperspace. He had run out of ideas. Twelve hours of nothing. Nothing to do. Sutton glanced around his room, idly twiddling his thumbs. Nothing much here to look at; a knick-knack here, a useless bauble there, his personal computer terminal, a clock...and it occurred to him that he had no family pictures around. Because he had no family. None than were known, anyway. Maybe researching his past would provide Sutton with an escape from the oppressive boredom. He walked over to the terminal and sat down, turning it on with a flick of his thumb. It came online almost instantaneously. The best in the Empire...and then a pang of homesickness threatened to overtake him. With an effort, he forced down his anxiety since he'd be 'home' soon anyway. "Computer: Display all records pertaining to Commander Alexander Sutton," he ordered after he typed in his authorization code. Several thousand files appeared on screen. "Computer: remove all files pertaining to military activity. Display biographical information only." Quite a few files were eliminated. By the time the computer finished the sift, there were perhaps forty-two files left. "Computer: remove all files detailing information after age eighteen." Thirty-five flashed off the screen, leaving seven files. He began reading through the subjects. The first one was his entrance examination for the Imperial Academy at Carida. Nothing useful there. His diploma from elementary school. A short file of details relating to his disappearance from the orphanage. A ship's log file from the _Onslaught_. Test results-- He blinked. Why would he be mentioned in the _Onslaught_'s ship log? He opened the file. _Ship's Log, ISD _Onslaught_ _Commander: Grand Admiral Kenneth Lowe_ _Date: 8/16/15 IT_ _0143 hours: Stop-off at Coruscant._ _0200 hours - 1600 hours: Patrol duty._ _1622 hours: Supply pickup from Ukio._ _1700 hours- 2200 hours: Hyperspace transit to Bilbringi shipyards for weapons upgrade._ _2215 hours: Impromptu shuttle departure, authorized by Grand Admiral Lowe. Passengers: Grand Admiral Lowe, Alexander Sutton. Schedule compromised by fifteen minutes._ _End Log_ Impromptu shuttle departure? That was strange. And with Lowe? Stranger. He looked at the next subject, one more down-- A chill went down his spine. The date was 8/17/15, the file name indicating orphanage entry paperwork. He opened the file, found that the papers were for him and had been signed by Grand Admiral Lowe. Grand Admiral Lowe? This was getting insane. Why would Lowe authorize his entrance into an orphanage? Unless... On a hunch, Sutton decided to run a genetic profile match. He called up his own DNA string, along with that of Grand Admiral Lowe's, and watched as the computer analyzed each nucleotide sequence. The computer went through the task with satisfying quickness. It beeped. The result was an 86% match. According to the computer, Lowe was a relative of Sutton. It couldn't determine exactly what relation Lowe was to Sutton because of insufficient data. Namely, his mother's DNA. A relative? Curious. Sutton pondered for a minute, trying to remember any details about Lowe's past. He remembered Lowe had mentioned the spectacular weddings on Coruscant...quips about married life...a few jokes about wives here and there...stories about being by his wife's bedside as she struggled from a rare disease, only to die from its debilitating effects as she was giving birth.... _Giving birth?!_ The realization slammed into him like a runaway hovertrain. Grand Admiral Kenneth Lowe was Commander Alexander Sutton's...father. He sat there for quite a while, staring at the screen, barely moving, barely breathing, forgetting about the seventh file. The file that confirmed his suspicions. His birth certificate. Signed by Grand Admiral Lowe and Lela Sutton. ------------------------ It was a hive of activity on board the _Baron_ as Lt. Hit-Man stepped off of the transport. Stormtroopers drilling, troops unloading supplies, techs making repairs and upgrades. Hit-Man looked around approvingly. This is what the Empire was about; men, working together as a team, for the greater good of the Emperor. Spreading the ideals and beliefs of the New Order to all those who would listen, and enforcing it on those who wouldn't. And now it was time to spread the New Order into the Milky Way Galaxy. Whether they liked it or not. A young ensign timidly walked up to him. "Uh...excuse me...Lt. Hit-Man, sir..." he stammered. Hit-Man slowly turned his head to the ensign. "What?" he growled out. "Grand Admiral Lowe wishes to see you...sir." "Lowe? What the hell is he still doing in command?" "I-I don't know, sir. The Emperor was most displeased with his failure, but--" "Then how come he's still alive?" "I don't know, sir." "Then what use are you?" Hit-Man cuffed the ensign across the mouth with the back of his cybernetic fist, sending the poor ensign flying into the wall. He was unconscious instantly. Checking his datapad, Hit-Man walked to a nearby turbolift and punched in his quarters. He was there a few seconds later to discover that his new room was nothing more than four bare walls, a simple chest of drawers, a hard cot and a small closet. Just the way he liked it; his reputation must have preceded him. Tossing his bags onto the cot, Hit-Man keyed a new combination into the door's electronic lock. As he finished, a beep came from a small comm panel beside the cot. He tapped a key. "Hit-Man here. What do you want?" "Ah, Lt. Hit-Man," came the voice of Grand Admiral Lowe. "A pleasure to have you on board." Hit-Man wasted no time getting to the point. "What do you want?" he repeated. "To speak to you," replied Lowe. "Meet me in my secondary command room in fifteen minutes." "Why?" "Don't ask questions. Just obey." Hit-Man considered throttling Lowe with the Force, decided against it. "Yes, sir," he grumbled instead, cutting the connection and ogreing his way to the mess hall. He'd have just enough time to get some grub before going to see Lowe. ------------------------ It was rather easy moving about in the netherworld. Just a thought of where you wanted to go, and whoosh, you were there. He thought of the center of his galaxy, and whoosh, he was there. He thought of the USS Voyager and was instantaneously taken to where the Intrepid- class starship was making its way across the Delta Quadrant. Sonnenburg floated through the astral plane, zooming here and there, seeing the sights of the universe. He knew he had a job to do, but he had a little time. Besides, he hadn't felt any prodding from the Force as of yet. He would know where to go and when. Suddenly, a thought came to him: go to the wormhole. Why would that form in his mind? _Ah, this must be the Force guiding me_, he thought. He thought of the brilliant vortex of energy-- And he was there. But something was wrong. The wormhole that he thought they had closed forever was open again. A small ship shot out of the wormhole, hung around a bit, and shot back in. Then it opened again... And a fleet of seemingly two hundred plus warships came pouring out of the wormhole, most of them the size of the one he destroyed or bigger. There were also hundreds of smaller support ships, from light cruisers and freighters, to heavily armed shuttles, and to small, insectile fighter craft. They came boiling out of the wormhole like bees from an upset hive. Sonnenburg gaped, remembering the warning that Obi- Wan Kenobi had given him. _Dark times are soon to befall your galaxy. The Empire is power hungry, and will take over your worlds without the slightest regard to anybody on them._ He wasn't kidding. Sonnenburg wondered just who the hell he should advise about this situation. This wasn't exactly a threat they could handle at the moment; thinking quickly, Sonnenburg decided to pay a visit to Earth, Cardassia and Quo'noS. Honor Bound 3 Preparations The mighty Star Destroyer glided through the inky void, the scorches and raggedness of the outer hull belying the true power of the behemoth. It had emerged from Hyperspace barely seconds ago, coming here straight from above the Galactic Plane. It moved silently towards a special set of coordinates, and with a burst of released energy, an anomaly opened up where before was nothingness. The anomaly swallowed up the vessel and closed again. It was greeted on the other side by several other Star Destroyers, all of which were currently on patrol duty, keeping this end of the wormhole safe from anyone who dared come near it. A staccato burst of communications, and it turned around, heading back into the wormhole to the other galaxy to join up with the fleet already there. To join up with the fleet, and to finally have its captain back, so that they could wreak righteous havoc in revenge for the other two ships lost to the sacrifices of the Federation. It emerged from the other side again, oriented itself on a new vector, and shot off into the swirling pandemonium of Hyperspace. Commander Alex Sutton smiled tightly at the carnage that was sure to come with Captain Sheppard back on the bridge. Sheppard was a legend. Ruthless, calculating and highly unstable, he once put his Star Destroyer, the _Revenger_, up against three enemy Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, destroying two and crippling one with only minor damage and a few casualties. It was, as he described it, a grand battle, and the most fun he had had in years. Sheppard himself personally took pleasure at taking potshots at the crippled ship's bridge with one of the _Revenger_'s heavy turbolasers. It was rumored that Sheppard gained the Emperor's favor just from this one incident alone. The evidence seemed to point this way due to the fact that he was still alive after the _Revenger_ failed to show at that crucial battle. He hadn't gotten off scot-free, though, and Sheppard's artificial left hand was proof positive of that. It was both a curse and a blessing, though, since although Sheppard was reminded every day of the pain he went through as the Emperor snapped each tendon and ligament individually, then severing each neuron and blood vessel, then finally the bone. Sheppard had watched in horror as his disembodied hand rose up and smacked him across the face, right before he fainted from both pain and blood loss. He had awakened hours later to the intense pain of a med droid attaching a new hand without the benefits of anesthesia. When it was finally over, it seemed like nothing at all had happened, but Sheppard had learned a painful object lesson that day. The proximity warning beeped, signaling thirty seconds until hyperspace breakout. Twenty...fifteen...ten...five...and suddenly the _Revenger_ was there. Along with one of the hugest fleets of Imperial ships that Sutton had ever seen. He gaped at the sight of at least seventy-five Imperial Star Destroyers, about a hundred _Victory_-class Star Destroyers, twenty Interdictor cruisers, several Nebulon-B Frigates, around fifty generic Corellian Corvettes, and hundreds of smaller support ships, including _Carrack_-class cruisers, supply freighters and assault gunboats along with thousands upon thousands of TIE Fighters. And stuck directly in the middle of it all was a lone Star Destroyer surrounded by some of the most powerful support ships in the fleet. "Sir, we are being hailed by the _Baron_," reported a young lieutenant. "Holonet protocols." "Put it through to the aft holo pod," Sutton ordered as he walked to the rear of the bridge. Waiting for him there was a small one-eighth size shimmering replica of Grand Admiral Lowe. "Grand Admiral Lowe," he breathed, flabbergasted and nervous at the same time. "It is an honor to serve with you again." "Ah, Commander Sutton," he responded in turn. "I didn't think you made it out." "Well, we sort of snuck out while nobody was looking." Lowe made a face. "Hardly standard operating procedure. That sounds like a tactic only Rebel scum would pull." He smiled. "But under the circumstances, I understand. Oh, before I forget, Captain Sheppard is here right now. He's shuttling over as we speak." "Acknowledged, fa--"he began, before he cut himself off. Not now, not yet. The secret must remain until the proper time. "Acknowledged, Admiral." Lowe frowned a bit, then smiled again as he shut off the transmission. "What was that all about, sir?" asked Colonel Seifert. "Uh, nothing," he responded quickly. "Nothing important. I'll tell you later," he promised, turning to a stormtrooper nearby. "Commander, make preparations to receive Captain Sheppard." "Yes, sir," he responded, turning and moving to a nearby turbolift at a brisk trot. Still a bit shaken, Sutton went and sat down at his command post, overlooking the displays. He wondered how long he would be able to hold out. He was still musing when Sheppard strolled onto the bridge. Sutton stood up suddenly, snapping to attention in front of his superior. "Captain Sheppard, sir! It's good to have you back on board." "At ease, Commander," Sheppard said, holding out his hand. "Been keeping things running while I was gone?" Sutton grasped the outstretched hand, disengaging after a few seconds. "Yes, sir," he replied. "You realize, of course, that none of this would have happened if you had simply waited for me," Sheppard said. "As such, it's lucky that the _Revenger_ wasn't lost." "Yes, sir," Sutton replied quietly. "I'm sorry, sir. I was...well..." "Out with it, Commander." "Well, sir, the situation was looking grim, and I decided that if we waited for you, it might have been too late." "But you failed anyway." "Yes, sir." "No matter." His face brightened. "What matters is that you are here and in one piece with my Star Destroyer. The past can't be changed; now it's time to push it back and look ahead to the future. Our revenge is at hand," he said, grinning evilly. Sutton saw an odd glint come into Sheppard's eyes. "Yes, sir," he replied, a bit shakily, looking at Sheppard's half-maniacal face. He did not look at all sane. Sutton began to feel a sort of pity for the Federation. They wouldn't like Sheppard at all. --------------------------------------- Over on the other side of the fleet, Captain Strowbridge was stirred by the sudden trill of the comm. "Sir," someone reported. "We are receiving a holonet transmission from the _Baron_." Grimacing, Strowbridge walked over to the aft hologram pod to the wavering images of the Grand Admiral and the commanders of the Star Destroyers. "We must take the fight back to the Federation," he began. "As well as this entire galaxy. As such, we shall institute the ideals held forth in Tarkin's doctrine of fear. We must get the systems in line if we have any hope of taking this galaxy. As such, I have formulated a battle plan to strike the first blow at these puny pacifists. "Three task forces of ten Imperial Star Destroyers each are to execute a three-prong attack on important locations in the Federation. The leaders of these groups will be the _Revenger_, under the command of Captain Mark Sheppard; the _Malevolence_ under the command of Captain C.S.Strowbridge; and the _Baron_, under the command of Captain Nathan Yates, Admiral Luis Zeda, and myself. "Captain Strowbridge: you are to select nineteen Imperial Star Destroyers, thirty _Victory_-class Star Destroyers, five Interdictor cruisers, and a detail of corvettes, _Carracks_, gunboats and fighters to accompany the _Malevolence_ to the Federation recreational planet of Risa, where your fleet is to execute Base-Delta-Zero operations until such time as the entire world is reduced to slag. Only the _Malevolence_ is to carry out this operation; we'll want to show them the full might of our warships. "Captain Sheppard: you are to select nineteen Imperial Star Destroyers, forty _Victory_-class Star Destroyers, five Interdictor cruisers and two details of corvettes, _Carracks_, gunboats and fighters to accompany the _Revenger_ to the Klingon homeworld of Quo'noS. There, you will secure their shipyards and set up garrison bases on the planet and at least one moon. You are then to establish a viable Imperial industrial base with the material available there and begin construction on new ships. "I will take the nineteen remaining Imperial Star Destroyers as well as the twenty-eight remaining _Victory_- class Star Destroyers and ten Interdictor cruisers along with two details of corvettes, _Carracks_, gunboats, fighters, and all eight of the Nebulon-B Frigates to accompany the _Baron_ to Deep Space Nine, where we will retake control of the station and their wormhole. Lieutenant Hit-Man and Lt. Colonel Tierce are to lead a ground combat force on Bajor to relieve the forces currently garrisoned there, assuming that those very forces are still alive. "After that, half of the forces at Bajor, half at Quo'noS and half at Risa will meet at these coordinates to prepare to initiate an attack on Cardassia, details on which will be forthcoming." He rattled off a set of numbers. "It will be up to each commander to select which ships are to meet at the rendezvous point. "Captain Strowbridge will have first pick of ships, followed by Captain Sheppard and then myself. However, these fifteen Star Destroyers and ten Corvettes are to travel back to the intergalactic wormhole to defend it, along with all of the supply ships." He reeled off a list of fifteen Star Destroyers and ten Corellian Corvettes, and with countless flickers of pseudomotion, they shot back into hyperspace to the wormhole. "Anything else remaining after task force assembly is to report to the wormhole." "And this order goes for all of you: Exterminate with extreme prejudice. The operations shall begin at 0800 hours. Prepare your ships. Good luck, men. Lowe out." The others acknowledged as Lowe faded from the pad. Strowbridge chewed his lip, wondering why in the Empire Lowe was still leading the force in this galaxy after his previous failure. By all rights, he should be dead. But he pushed the thoughts out of his mind. The Emperor's will was not to be questioned, and anyone doing so would find themselves the victim of a rather violent death at the hands of Lord Vader or the Emperor himself. "Commander, pull up a list of all of the Star Destroyers currently here, both Imperator class and Victory class." "Aye, Captain," Commander Kherkof responded, tapping a few keys. "List is ready and on your viewer." Strowbridge looked over the list of selections, wincing at some, marveling at others. There were quite a few impressive choices here, as well as others not quite so impressive. He checked the file on the _Venom_; nothing impressive there. The commanding officer was barely competent enough to run the thing, and did a poor job of it as well. The _Venom_ was notoriously behind schedule in almost all aspects of daily shipboard operations. He pulled up another file, this one on the _Rancor_. It had logged quite a lot of hours, had accomplished some impressive feats, and the commander was a personal friend to boot. He added it to a list on another datapad, where it joined the name of the Malevolent. The next file was the _Malice_... Captain Strowbridge pored over the list for about an hour and a half, marking some for further study, dismissing others, occasionally berating the more idiotic commanders. A while afterwards, he made his final decisions. The best of whoever was left, and there were some of the most famous commanders in the fleet there. He smiled at the list and began to make preparations and contingencies for battle. ------------------------- Limbo was fun. This much was obvious to Chuck Sonnenburg, who hung there floating in the astral plane with not a care in the universe. He could go where he pleased, do what he pleased. He visited the bathroom facilities of some of the more...endowed female officers, giggling like a schoolboy doing something he oughtn't be. As he did so, a ribbon of guilt had washed over him. Here was the entire Milky Way Galaxy, under a threat from powerful enemies, and he was getting his jollies looking at pretty women. Now he was serious. He had delivered his messages to General Martok and whoever was in charge of the Cardassian Empire at the moment, or he at least tried to; he had the distinct feeling that he didn't even get through to any of the people he was addressing. It was frustrating no end. He hoped he'd have more luck with Earth. But something was odd...he hung over Earth, feeling with his mind into it's very essence...there was a dark presence....a dark nexus of Force, like someone had met a cruel, bitter end...and finally he located it. The nexus originated there...no, _there_, in an apartment complex by Starfleet Academy. Specifically, in the former quarters of Lieutenant Paul Jacques. The current occupant, an Ensign Jones, was sleeping, or at least trying to, his body curled in a fetal position with many blankets wrapped around him. Sonnenburg scanned around the room, trying to locate the nexus...there it was. Right in the center of the room. It was the tortured spirit of Paul Jacques. "Jacques," Sonnenburg called. "Can you hear me?" "I hear you," the form replied. "What do you want now? Want to kill me again? Want to blow me up, grind me into little pieces, blast me into oblivion? When will your cruelty end, Sonnenburg? When will your sick urges finally come under control? When will you leave me the hell alone?!" "I'm sorry, Jacques, but you honestly were a detriment to the Federation, though you might have meant well. I did it for the good of Starfleet. If you had survived, there was a possibility of losing even more good people to your blind stubbornness. In fact, I've come to help you on your way to a better existence." "There were other ways, you know. Other ways besides destroying me...other ways besides destroying my life and my body! Plenty of other ways! "Why... have... you... DONE... this... to... me?!" "No method was nearly as effective. By destroying you, millions were saved. Your death brought life. Your blind faith in Starfleet was your downfall. But...I have to admit that some of it was purely for revenge, and I am thoroughly ashamed with myself for that. You were truly irritating." "That is still no reason to have killed me, Captain Sonnenburg. You could have framed me for a crime, forced me out of Starfleet, but no, you had to kill me! Do you know the last thing I saw before I died? You! I saw your face, glaring at me, mocking me! I will have my revenge upon you, spirit or no!" "If you do that, you give yourself over to anger and hatred," he warned. "Such is the Dark Side of the Force, the essence of fear, anger, hatred...selfishness. Let go, Jacques. Let go of this existence, come be one with the Force. You will live forever..." "Do not patronize me with this mystical mumbo-jumbo. I will have my revenge, your Force be damned!" Sonnenburg was shocked by this. He began to reassess what he'd done to Jacques. "You died in anger, Jacques. But your spirit can be saved. You are risking an eternity in darkness and suffering! Let go now, before it's too late!" "I will have my revenge!!" he screamed, jumping up into the air to face Sonnenburg directly. "You will not stop me, nor will your so-called Force!!" With a whoosh of coldness, Jacques disappeared out of the room. Sonnenburg hung there a bit longer, not wanting to believe what was happening, watching as the still form of Ensign Jones settled down and stopped shivering. Because of his anger toward Jacques, he had risked Jacques's spirit, and now possibly something more. Breathing a sigh of regret, he took off after Jacques, hoping to talk him out of his irrational hatred, and to possibly save his soul. The dark spirit that was Jacques darted around Starfleet Headquarters, looking for a suitable way to exact revenge. He thought back to that day when Sonnenburg almost attacked him twice, first by his desk, then in Admiral Ferris's office. Admiral Ferris...rumor had it that he was the one who had devised that despicable 'Kill Lieutenant Jacques' program. He made a beeline for Admiral Ferris's quarters. Fortunately, he had arrived back on Earth a couple of days ago, and was currently fast asleep. Totally oblivious to the vengeance of Jacques. He invaded Ferris's mind. "Oh Admiral? Remember me?" Ferris awoke suddenly, sweating, took a deep breath. "Who's there?" he asked. "Show yourself!" "Oh believe me, you can't see me unless I let you. But I'll give you a hint as to who I am. You've killed me quite a few times." "Jacques?" he asked incredulously. "But...I thought you were..." "I am," Jacques said coldly. "For real. And now it's my turn." Jacques forced himself into Ferris's mind, tearing thoughts and memories, altering thoughts. "Let's see how you like being killed over and over again!" Ferris bit back a scream from the unbelievable pain that was currently running through his chest. Soon, it subsided, only to be replaced by the most intense migraine imaginable, followed by a crushing pinch in his abdomen. "Aighhh!!! Please!!! Stop!! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." "Sorry isn't good enough! You are going to die! You, and all those who mocked me!" "B-but why? Everyone is made fun of at some point! Why must you go to such drastic...AIGHH!!!" "Shut up! I do the talking, I make the rules! And rule number one is: you die!" Ferris writhed in agony as he had the feeling of flames shooting through his bloodstream. He screamed and cried in agony, hitting the comm key to let anyone out there hear his cries. It took only a couple of minutes for a security to rush up and force the door. "Medical Emergency in Admiral Ferris's quarters!" one of the officers shouted as he saw Ferris in extreme agony. A second later, a doctor beamed into the room, along with his assistant and a float gurney. They loaded the wildly gesticulating Ferris onto it, rushing him to the nearest med bay. Jacques laughed as he tore more memories, tapped more pain centers. He was having great fun. Finally, he decided he had had enough, and proceeded to kill him. "Heart rate is dropping!" the assistant shouted as they swung Ferris into the med bay. "He's going critical!" The doctor administered a hypospray to no effect. He tried again with a higher dosage. Jacques laughed at their futile attempts. He had totally stopped Ferris's heart, also destroying his will to live. Ferris died, slowly and painfully. ----------------------------------- _Begin Death of Officer Report Summary_ _Starfleet Medical, Federation HQ_ _Doctor David Garn, UFP Lt. Commander 1st class Starfleet Medical_ _Patient: Brian Ferris_ _Rank: Admiral_ _Position: In charge of Starship Deployment at Starfleet HQ_ _Status: Deceased_ _Cause: Multiple internal injuries by unknown agents_ _Time: 0213 Hours_ _Comments: Death caused by sudden and massive internal hemorrhaging of all internal organs by unknown agent. No viral or bacterial cause found. No external bruises or injury. No trace of poison. Brain cleavage significantly decreased. Cause is unknown._ _Root cause of death: Unknown. Unidentified microbe agent suspected, unconfirmed._ _End Report._ Honor Bound 4 Interim Grand Admiral Kenneth Lowe sat in his secondary command room, musing about the past. Past losses...and present revenge. Revenge for the lost _Onslaught_, one of the most well prepared and rounded out Imperial-II Star Destroyers in the Fleet. Specially modified to his exacting specifications, it included twenty torpedo launchers and a score of extra heavy turbolasers along the top, sides, and back. He even went so far as to attach a turbolaser turret to the back of the 'neck' of the ship, the structure that attached the bridge tower to the main superstructure. This was designed to help alleviate the problem of the so-called 'blind spot' that was thought to have caused the whole fiasco at the Hoth asteroid belt and the death of Captain Needa. The same ship that was lost when a Federation vessel warp-rammed it. Suddenly, his comm pinged, jerking him out of his musings. "Admiral Lowe, Lt. Hit-Man here to see you, sir," came a voice. A decidedly nervous voice. Hit-Man had quite a presence. In fact, it was beginning to become a detriment to his officers. It didn't seem to bother the troops any. But, then again, grunts were grunts, and understood each other through and through. It disturbed Lowe greatly; several officers were already in sick bay from the results of Hit-Man's rather short temper. "Send him in," he replied. The door opened, and an obviously agitated Hit- Man swaggered through. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" he asked courteously, looking up from a data pad he'd been reading. The sight that met him was frightening, indeed. A pile of worn, white armor, dented in places and enhanced in others, on top of a bulkier-than-average frame, the standard E-11 and a not-so- standard short, stocky cylinder attached to a belt encircling the middle of the white armor. It told many tales of war, death and destruction...and also of bitterness and hatred. The very essence of Lieutenant Hit- Man. "Let's cut to the chase, Lowe," he growled. "My troops are green. Greener than the crap under your fingernails." A flash of anger flickered across Lowe's visage. "I need some time to give my troops some training, and soon. I want their puny creampuff asses whipped into shape by the time of the Bajor offensive. These wussies barely qualify for shit duty." Lowe forced himself to smile, an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I do believe you've read my mind, Lieutenant. I was just about to call you up here for a quick mission before the three-prong initiative. There's a small Federation outpost not far away called..." he looked at a display next to him. "Travlieshan 7. We'll bombard their comm stations and power generators from orbit, then I want you and Tierce to go down and capture as many officers and weapons as you can. They'll aid us a great deal during the ground assault on Bajor. We'll leave immediately; the other commanders can take care of themselves. In fact, I don't think Captain Strowbridge has even finished his selections yet." Lowe tapped the comm. "Admiral Zeda?" he called. "Transfer over to the _Revenger_ or the _Malevolence_ until I return. Supervise the fleet selections and advise me if there is anything needing my direct attention." Zeda acknowledged and signed off. "We'll be ready to go in twenty minutes," Lowe said. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Just don't make me wait any longer than I have to, or else I'll be irritated. And you don't want to see me irritated." Hit-Man turned and stomped out the door. Lowe watched him, glaring at his back as Hit-Man left, feeling a slight pressure on his throat as the door closed. _He thinks he's so tough_, Lowe thought. _I'll break him soon enough. At least he's not Darth Vader_. He shuddered as two more words formed in his mind. _I'm worse_. *** "Let's go, let's go! Move it! Get your asses in there, maggots!" Hit-Man yelled as stormtroopers marched into the transports, strapping themselves in with only slight confusion. "Come on! Move it! Last one in gets shit cleaning duty!" The rest of the stormtroopers piled into the transports. There was only one straggler, rushing to get his armor on and on board the transport while juggling his E-11 and helmet. Hit-Man grabbed him, causing him to drop his load. "You! Slow-ass piece of Bantha fodder!" Hit-Man shoved a shovel and fusion disintegrator into the poor troop's hands, hauling him down a corridor and throwing him down the nearest garbage chute. "I want that trash compactor spotless when I get back or it'll be your hide, worm!" All the stormtroopers packed in and buckled down, and with a lurch the transport was off, along with several other transports and several drop pods containing AT-AT and AT-ST walkers. There was a stomach-churning drop, then the familiar rush of wind friction against the vessel's shields. Several smoking remains dotted the landscape below, the residue of the comm stations the _Baron_ had smote from orbit. The rushing lessened and the transport shuddered as it landed on the surface, the hatch opening as stormtroopers threw off their harnesses. Grabbing their E- 11s from charge holsters, they trounced out of the transport, ducking as a phaser blast screamed by. "Take cover! Charlie bunked out over North-North East!" shouted one of the stormtroopers, ducking behind the transport and just as quickly finding a nearby rock as the ship took off again, attracting massive phaser fire. Further away, they saw the walker drop pods land and begin deployment, several phaser beams beginning to trace their way to the pods. "They must've tagged us on the way!" someone shouted as phasers began to eat several troops apart. "Get an E-web out here!" shouted another trooper. "Bastards are sittin' pretty up on that ridge!" "Belay that!" yelled Hit-Man, pulling out a thermal detonator. He activated it, set timer for five seconds, then hurled it with the Force to land exactly in the middle of the Fed bunker. It exploded, rather violently, killing everyone there and sending body parts flying. "Damn, they must've had some serious equipment up there to create a blast like that!" someone commented. "Come on! Get cracking!" ordered Hit-Man as several hoverscouts from the landing pods came up to them. Piling into the scouts, they caught up with the walkers as they began their assault. With a mechanized roar of fury caused by the hiss of released gasses, the monstrous elephantine Imperial Walkers stomped forth, their ranks being led by Lieutenant Colonel Tierce, basically the most well rounded out person in the entire Imperial Army. Aside from normal stormtrooper combat, Tierce also had a penchant for interrogation, and with his promotion now had authority enough to command the monstrous behemoth he was now riding in. The fact that he was partner in charge to Hit-Man, a grunt, didn't bother him; while Hit-Man was footing it through the hills and ducking heavy crossfire, Tierce was crushing enemies beneath his feet and blasting long-range targets. Although he didn't have the necessary training to actually pilot an AT-AT, he still felt sufficiently fulfilled telling the pilots who to kill and what to blow up. He still missed the good old days, though, where'd he be trooping along with the rest of the grunts, hunting out Rebels and performing on-the-spot interrogations and executions. His bloodlust and devotion had earned him a great deal of respect from his troops, however it also alienated him from those same troops. No matter; he got along well with his commanding officers, especially Grand Admiral Lowe, who accorded him special privileges such as the bottle of Corellian brandy currently stashed away in his private, molecularly-coded locker. The walkers advanced, cutting a swath of destruction through the Federation outpost, vaporizing officers with heavy blaster cannons and crushing others into jelly with massive feet. They continued on mercilessly, ignoring the long orange beams of phaser blasts and the shorter pulses of energy from Phaser Rifles. There was occasional bluish pulse of energy, obviously from a disruptor of some sort, which did cause some superficial damage to the walkers before the 'heads' of the behemoths tilted and completely vaporized the sources of the energy pulses. They were coming up on the main grid itself now, several low buildings arranged in a squarish pattern with a few higher towers indicative of lookouts or communication nodes, the latter all but blackened stubs. Relentlessly, the walkers continued on, hoverscouts following close behind and AT-ST "Chicken" walkers following up as rear defense. Onwards they continued, smashing and blowing up everything in sight. Eventually, the walkers stopped. It was time for the grunts to earn their pay. The hoverscouts opened up, letting loose a stream of white-armored troops tightly clutching the heavy, black E- 11s to their armored chests. Each squad selected a separate target, advancing in halves with an ages-old duck-and-cover maneuver that provided cover fire for the advancing troops. With this leapfrog approach, the troops made quick time, blasting down doors and filing into selected locations. Every advantage the Federation had was eliminated beforehand; the comm systems were already destroyed, leaving them helpless to send any distress calls, and the power grid matrix was also targeted and destroyed, preventing any use of their transporters for either offensive or defensive uses and also shutting out the lights. The stormtroopers made quick work of the defenders in the buildings; their tricorders and targeting 'scopes' of their phaser rifles warned of the stormtroopers approach but unfortunately failed to tell the defenders exactly where to fire in the darkness of the buildings. The troopers, with their built-in heat-sensing equipment, saw and quickly trounced any defenders, taking them as prisoners for Lowe's plan. Hit-Man led his squad through the darkened maze of the outpost's administrative complex, occasionally meeting up with a cowering officer or irate defender. Hit-Man didn't care; he blasted any and all opposition he ran into, planning on killing anybody except the Fed who headed up the whole Travlieshan 7 operation. The troops marched onward, their boots clattering on the metallic floors, the occasional faint beam of light glancing off of their armor. Suddenly, an orange burst of energy lit up the darkness in a fiery light, and one of the troops went down, clutching his neck as the weapon's nuclear disruption reaction ate through the material of his bodysuit. Although it hadn't spread to any other materials, the troop was horribly burned. With that short burst of illumination, the defender got a bead on where the troopers were and started to shift aim. He never got there as a full-power blast from Hit- Man's E-11 blew a gaping hole in the man's chest. Leaving the injured troop behind, they continued forth. A signal came from Hit-Man's comlink: they had reached mission objective, retrieving enough weapons and personnel for Lowe's plan. Hit- Man reported in. "Squad A-1 Alpha, reporting in. One casualty, no fatalities. Advancing to head admin office. ETA two minutes until takeover." ----- Lowe looked over the reports, the constant chatter of communications floating throughout the bridge. He engaged his comm, dialed up Tierce. "Colonel," he began. "Have the mission objectives been fulfilled?" "Aye, sir," replied Tierce. "Hit-Man is advancing on the head office." Lowe considered. "Get his men out of there. I've got an idea to give the turbolaser crews some more practice." Particularly Captain Fortio's command. Their timed-fire results were behind benchmark by twenty percent. "Aye, sir," said Tierce. "Relaying your orders now." With that, Tierce signed off. Lowe smiled, dialing up Captain Fortio on the comm panel. It took him nearly five seconds to respond. "Fortio here," he said, huffing a bit, his eyes a little bloodshot and some sort of stain on his tunic. "I know who I dialed," Lowe snapped. "I'm no idiot. Why did it take you so long to answer my call?" "Well, it was Ensign Favrett's birthday--" Fortio began before he was cut off. "Captain, this is not the time for celebration in the mess hall," Lowe growled. "Get your crew together and get to your turbolaser battery for a timed- fire exercise in five minutes. You are to level their command base completely within thirty seconds or you and your entire crew will receive a demerit." Fortio acknowledged and signed off. ----- Hit-Man acknowledged, flicking on the private stormtrooper frequency. "OK men, we're through here. Grand Admiral Lowe's gonna level this shithole from orbit and we've got five minutes to haul ass to the hoverscouts. Drzic, shoulder Hemloch and take him with you." The troop picked up the injured man, and together they trotted out of the complex, piling into the waiting hoverscout, which had advanced to pick them up. They had barely gotten out of blast radius when a bright flash of green lit up the whole place, the intense rumbling noise coming a few seconds later as the sound fought to catch up to the light. Hit- Man's helmet automatically dimmed the thunderous inferno. A few dozen more flashes, and everything in sight was rubble, save a few shelled out bunkers and several freestanding walls. Several transports settled onto the ground by the hoverscouts, and the prisoners were transferred to them along with the injured grunts and a few more troops to stand guard. Hit-Man called over the rest of the squads. "Men," he started. "You did a half-assed job here today. If this were a Rebel base, you would all have been transferred to shit duty on Ukio." The men remained still, but there was an air of fear surrounding them; fear at what Hit- Man would do. Hit-Man relished in it. "Back when I was with the boys of Squad G- 9 Omega, we would have had the job done in half the time it took you maggots. The main reason for your failure was your lack of...proper motivation." The men seemed to stiffen at the mention of the word 'failure'. "I know you're tired, I know you're homesick, but that's no excuse. You were trained to carry out the Emperor's orders, and those orders do not include pandering to your insignificant emotional needs. As such, I have one message for you from Captain Yates." He went into the lined-up regiments, selecting a troop at random. Using the power of both the Force and his cybernetic implants, Hit- Man quickly stripped off the unlucky grunt's armor then began pummeling him mercilessly. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him start coughing up blood. Hit-Man dropped the broken, bleeding troop, continuing with his speech. "The beatings shall continue until morale improves," he stated. The men straightened up, not letting the threat behind those words shake their resolve any. "We will drill for a few hours until Admiral Lowe is done interrogating the captured Feds. Lieutenant Colonel Tierce, sir," he said, addressing the man who had just climbed out of his AT-AT. "Take over the training while I'm gone. I'll be back in a second." "Where are you going?" inquired Tierce. "None of your kriffing business," Hit-Man said. "Snap to it. Sir." Tierce stared at him a bit longer, watching as Hit- Man made his way to a nearby shelled-out bunker, shrugged, then turned to the parade-ground formation of white armor. "We'll begin with ordinary calisthenics..." Tierce drilled the grunts while Hit-Man sat in the bunker, swigging from a canteen and writing on his data pad. He had quite a bit to file in his personal memoirs. ----- Lieutenant Commander Jonathan Boyd strolled down the corridor of the refitted starship, hunting for the ensign whose new orders he carried, absorbed in a padd displaying the latest specs on the newly christened USS _Sonnenburg_. It was authorized for rename in memory of the glorious commander who basically single-handedly repelled the First Imperial Incursion, after the Federation fleet had incurred some fairly severe losses, including Lieutenant Commander Data who was currently MIA and presumed dead. It was believed that the Imperials had captured him for study, but not a lot of people cared that much anyway since he was, to them, just another machine and therefore not to be mourned over. As such, engrossed in random musings, he didn't notice the pair of legs sticking out of a crawl-height access shaft until he tripped over them. Falling flat on his face, he began swearing at the clumsy engineer. Standing up, Boyd ordered the owner of that pair of legs to stand up. There was a resounding _gong_, and the man slid out of the hatch, rubbing his head where he had slammed it into the ceiling. Despite the hand covering the man's face, Boyd recognized him immediately from the single pip on his collar. "Damn it, you're a diplomat, not an engineer!" Boyd shouted. "What the hell are you doing trying to surreptitiously engage in modifications on essential systems?" "Well, sir..." the poor Ensign whuffled. "I was preparing to upgrade energy distribution efficiency when you tripped over me. I was almost finished with my work--" "Who gave you authorization?" Boyd asked menacingly. The man stirred a bit. "Well..." he hesitated. "WHO?" Boyd demanded again. He shrunk back. "Uh...nobody, sir..." he said pitifully. "So what were you doing trying to modify the power grid?" Boyd bellowed. "Well...I had just learned to do it in class..." replied the Ensign in a small, quavering voice. "Taking one engineering class does not make one an engineer," Boyd admonished. "Neither do taking philosophy courses. You should have realized that by now, but you are far too stubborn for that. You continue trying to sneak modifications past the crew, endangering lives on your half-assed ideas, refusing to give up, refusing to concede even when you are plainly wrong, which is sadly almost always. Anything beneficial you have ever done has been totally smothered by these facts. Just give up already." The Ensign surreptitiously shifted his weight, stifling a yawn. When would this officious moron shut up? "With all due respect, sir, I think that what I'm doing is *right*. Period. Anyone who thinks otherwise is overanalyzing the situation, applying ad hoc theories where they do not belong." Boyd smiled. "You may think it's right, but it isn't. That modification would very likely cause the ship to explode." "No offense, sir, but do you have proof of that?" he asked arrogantly. "Yes," Boyd replied calmly. "Your particular modification is taught in higher-level engineering classes as what *not* to do. I can call up the recording, if you wish. I attended the class myself. In fact, I know the professor personally." "No. It still won't convince me otherwise. I am firmly convinced that my modification would have boosted phaser power five hundred and ten percent. I asked the same professor. And your ad hominim attack just proves my point." He simply smiled. "By listening, one will learn truths. By hearing, one will only learn half-truths," Boyd stated, quoting an old proverb. "Didn't your professor also inform you that doing such would make the power control routers very unhappy? And that it could lead to a massive explosion that could very well tear this entire ship to tatters?" Boyd asked, glaring menacingly at the arrogant ensign. "I don't recall, sir," the Ensign admitted, wringing his hands. Boyd rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Well, then. You leave me no choice but to tell you why I came looking for you. For the safety and well-being of the crew, you have been transferred by Admiral McReynolds, on request of Captain Robertson - Picard's permanent replacement - to go join up with the ground forces on Bajor who are currently engaged in a ground battle with the remaining Imperial insurgents." He waited for this revelation to sink in. The result was nearly instant; the Ensign went stark white. "P-please, sir! No! I have no direct combat experience whatsoever!" He began to shiver and make tiny gurgling sounds. "I'll do anything! Anything...you name it. I'll even swab the decks," he pleaded. "Please let me stay here, where it's safe..." "You will hardly be safe on this ship when the fire starts flying. Consider yourself lucky that you were transferred. Without you, we stand more of a chance," Boyd said while handing a padd to the Ensign. "These are your orders. Report to the Runabout _Champlain_ for transport to Bajor at 1600 hours. That's in ten minutes, Jones. You'd better get a move on. Dismissed." Boyd turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Jones to stand there gaping, the padd barely held aloft in his shaking hands. Slowly, he collected his wits, glancing at the orders on the padd. He began trotting for his quarters while reading it, slamming into quite a few officers on the way and causing a rather large, purplish bruise to erupt on his forearm where he had slammed it into a bulkhead. He barely made it to the runabout in time. The hatch was already closing when he dived in, catching the seat of his pants as it shut. He slammed rather ingloriously into the floor, his pants in shreds, torn from the rump down. Several female officers tittered at him, the men laughing uproariously as he got up and turned towards the hatch, struggling to make himself presentable but failing miserably as the runabout launched. The inertia threw him forwards to land flat on his face, his half-open bag spilling its contents and his rear end high in the air for all to see. _At least_, he thought, _it can't get any worse than this_. ----- Chuck Sonnenburg tore after Jacques as he made his way across the wide expanse, having chased him to Montana all the way from San Francisco, darting behind trees and generally having as good a time as any tormenting Sonnenburg. "Can't catch me!" he taunted, whooshing forth towards the monument erected to Sonnenburg and his ship. He melted into it-- Suddenly, the statue began to shake as Jacques let the Dark Side permeate the slab of stone. He connected with each molecule, each atom of the monolith, vibrated them slowly; faster, faster, even faster, and the heat began to rise. Bystanders gaping open-mouthed at the seemingly impossible spectacle watched as the monument seemed to vibrate, then glow, then smoke. Edges and corners began to melt; soon following was the body of the statue. After a few seconds, it was reduced to a smoking pool of slag. "Jacques! It's not too late! You can still turn back!" pleaded Sonnenburg. "Please, don't do this...you have already started along the path of the Dark Side! Only now, if you relent, will you become one!" "Shut up, you infantile mystic!" he retorted, whooshing himself away. "Go sit on a Romulan!" He sped off east, towards the childhood home of Sonnenburg. "No!" Sonnenburg shouted. He took off after him again. Eventually, he caught up with Jacques at the old house in time to see him begin molecularly destabilizing the building, melting nails and setting pieces of wood aflame. Sonnenburg watched in horror. "There is no other way, Jacques...this course of action will be your undoing..." Jacques ignored him. With the flip of a finger, he was off again. Sonnenburg was quickly tiring of this game. Sighing heavily, he began to give chase again as Jacques took a sharp turn north to where he was born and raised. Sonnenburg followed...and stopped. There, in the middle of a small town, was a cottage. In front, Jacques' mother swept quietly, her eyes watering...inside could be heard silence. She was more or less all alone...now that her boy was gone. Sonnenburg somehow felt a pain in his chest, as if he wanted to cry but was holding it in, the hurt and the sorrow threatening to tear him apart. "I...I'm sorry..." he stammered, feeling utterly devastated and embarrassed simultaneously. "Look at this," Jacques said quietly. "Look at what you have done. This is what I wanted you to see. Wanted you to remember...before you finally died. What you have done to me, to my family, to my mother!" His voice began to rise. "My only family left, and it's all your fault!" He fairly screamed the last word, almost losing total control of his emotional facilities, causing the vista to flicker slightly. With only a surge of warning from the Force, Jacques opened up with a cyclone of pure darkness that threatened to suck Sonnenburg in. It was only now that Sonnenburg realized he'd been had...his emotions were toyed with, to distract him long enough for Jacques to set up and spring his trap. He loomed ever closer to the maw of black terror, inching dangerously towards the event- horizon of fear and pain that would spell certain doom for his soul...but stopped. With a tremendous effort, he regained control of his thoughts and feelings. Sonnenburg felt a well of peace building inside of him, and, using all his spiritual strength, he blasted the darkness with a wave of pure light. The windstorm of evil was enveloped by the wave, sputtered to a stop, and dissipated. Jacques floated there, looking at Sonnenburg, loathing in his eyes and fear in his heart. Sonnenburg realized there was nothing more he could do, nothing at all, for Jacques was already lost. He summoned up his spiritual fuel again, and with another blast of white light, he surrounded Jacques in a golden glow of good, permeating him, ripping him through with the power of peace, and at the last moments Jacques tried to relent, tried to escape the darkness, but failed. With a bone-chilling unearthly wail, he was forever banished to the timeless blackness of death and suffering, to spend all of eternity with nothingness, embraced by infinity. Sonnenburg sighed again, recollecting himself after this tremendous outpouring of power. There was still much to do and time was running ever short. Turning around, Sonnenburg headed for San Francisco to see what he could do to alleviate this situation. The enemy would arrive soon, and this time it wouldn't be just a scout force. They would be here to take over the entire Alpha Quadrant, something the United Federation of Planets, the Romulan Star Empire and the Klingon Empire had fought so hard to retake from the Dominion, the Cardassians and the Breen. Another thought crossed his mind; they wouldn't stop at the Alpha Quadrant. They would take over the entire Milky Way galaxy. ----- The _Baron_ was at Travlieshan 7 at the moment, Strowbridge was currently taking his sweet time making selections, and Captain Mark Sheppard paced the bridge of the _Revenger_, wringing his hands impatiently. He was eager to go on the offensive, eager to apply his ship's namesake. Eager to wreak havoc on the pacifist Federation and all of their pathetic allies, especially the Klingons, whom had saved the lone Federation ship that had destroyed the _Onslaught_. Eager to destroy the so-called Romulan Star Empire that had deserted them at their time of need. And all he could do was sit here and stew until they were set loose. He would be a terror to behold on the Klingons when the invasion began in earnest. Commander Alex Sutton noticed his tension. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked. "I'm just a little...anxious to begin this offensive," he replied. "Perhaps a little something to ease the tension?" Sutton offered. "We just got a new load of holo-trainers in--" "No," Sheppard said firmly. "I need something stronger than battle tactics. Something Grand Admiral Lowe brought back with him from Deep Space Nine. Always have wanted to see what it was about. Let's go take a look, shall we?" A few minutes later they found themselves in the holo training room. A few of the commanders had decided to incorporate this Federation holotechnology into the holo training rooms for testing purposes only, although it used an awful amount of power. Sheppard tapped a few keys, loading the converted Federation program. The room suddenly became a fully-functional torture chamber, with devices so barbaric they'd make Grand Moff Tarkin wince. In the middle stood a single Federation officer. Sheppard picked up an old Earth projectile weapon, looked at it's marking. It was designated as an AR-15. Hefting it, he put the stock under his arm, took careful aim and fired straight at the officer's head. The rifle bucked in Sheppard's hands, and a loud sharp craaaack! filled the holodeck. Almost instantaneously, the Starfleet officer's head exploded like an overripe watermelon. As smoke curled from the barrel of the gun, Sheppard turned to Sutton, his expression like that of a boy who'd just gotten a new toy. "I like it!" Grinning evilly, Sheppard resighted the weapon as the body lying on the deck disappeared, to be replaced by a fresh victim. This time, he aimed for the gut. The officer fell to the ground, writhing in agony. His screams sounded exactly like a girl's frightened screech, causing both Sheppard and Sutton to wince. With slow measured footsteps, Sheppard walked up to Jacques, who was writhing in agony, bleeding all over the deck. "Goodbye." And with that, Sheppard bought the AR-15 up to Jacques temple and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain matter splashed all over the room and onto Sheppard from the close-range execution, turning his dark gray uniform into a dark bloodstained mess. Despite all this, Sheppard was grinning. This was the most fun he'd had in years! With a newfound spring in his step, Sheppard jogged over to the tables that contained all the various implements. He frowned. The designer and last user of this program had seemed to prefer primitive torture implements. Suddenly, Sheppard remembered the brief primer he'd received in his message box, telling him the basics of how to operate this new technology. "Computer-" barked Sheppard. "Working" came the sweet feminine response. "I want you to replace this table of torture implements with more of these weapons-" and with that, Sheppard hefted the AR. "Please specify 'these weapons'" came the response. Damn these Federation computer programs! Couldn't they use sensors and AI to figure it out, like even the simplest 'droid could do? "Military weapons...and crew served weapons from the time period that the AR-15 rifle was in widespread use, give or take fifty years." "Working..." replied the computer. Moments later, the table full of thumbscrews, sharp daggers, and cat 'o nine tails shimmered out, to be replaced by gleaming black rifles, carbines, and submachine guns. Putting down the AR, Sheppard picked up one that looked just like it, except that it had a collapsible stock and a peculiar tube right under the barrel. Looking at the markings, he saw that it was called a 'M-16A3'. Also, the safety was different. Rather than two selections, it had three. Sheppard clicked the safety off and to the third selection, marked 'auto'. Bringing the rifle to his shoulder, Sheppard pulled the trigger. A loud ripping noise sounded, and the rifle bucked in his hands as a stream of gleaming brass came pouring out of it's ejection port. Downrange, Jacques screamed as the hail of 5.56mm M193 ball ammo tore him in half, as the recoil of full-auto moved the muzzle of the M-16 across him, effectively cutting him in half. As quickly as it began, it ended. The rifle fell silent, it's last round expended. Jacques lay in a crumpled heap, his blood slowly pooling under him. Moments later, the dead body disappeared, to be replaced with a new victim. It was at this time Sheppard began to take a closer look at the strange tube mounted under his M-16. Looking at the markings, he discerned that it was something called a 'M-203 - 40mm launcher'. Aiming the rifle at Jacques, Sheppard pulled the trigger for the M-203, which had a separate trigger than the M-16. A flat 'whomp' was heard, and the M-16 bucked in Sheppard's hands. Sheppard could *see* the fat, stubby 40mm shell slowly spiraling through the air towards Jacques. It hit him, and a split-second later, he disappeared in a thunderous explosion that scattered body parts and blood everywhere. Grinning, Sheppard turned around to grab another gun. Looking across the table of weapons, his eye was drawn to a green cylinder with white lettering. Grabbing it, Sheppard noted the stenciled letters 'M- 72 LAW' on it. Upon closer inspection of the LAW, he found that the weapon's designers had included visual instructions on the tube on how to fire the weapon. Hmm...He'd have to remember that. That could be useful later on. Shouldering the LAW like shown in the diagrams, Sheppard flipped its sights up and aligned himself with Jacques. Smiling, Sheppard triggered the LAW. A roaring noise sounded, and the tube bucked slightly in his hands as the LAW burst out of it's launcher. For a split- second, it hung in the air, and then it's primary rocket motor engaged, sending it streaking towards Jacques. In an explosion that was much bigger than the one from the M-203, Jacques disappeared in a cloud of pink mist. Turning to Sutton, Sheppard exclaimed; "Goddamn! These earthlings kicked ass. Too bad the Federation fucked 'em up!" As the fine pink mist that had been Jacques slowly settled, Sheppard looked over some of the other weapons from the time period 1930 - 2010 AD. One weapon caught his eye; a pair of black tanks with straps allowing it to be worn on the back. Attached to it by a hose was a wand of some sort. Picking it up, Sheppard donned it, tightening the straps so it would fit snugly. Flicking what seemed to be an activation switch, a blue flame appeared at the end of the wand. Suddenly Sheppard knew what it was. Laughing maniacally, he pointed the wand at Jacques, who had by this time been replaced (again), and pulled the trigger. A low 'fwoooosh' filled the holodeck as a giant tongue of flame leapt from the wand, and easily shot across the holodeck towards Jacques, quickly engulfing him. Jacques suddenly began screaming and running around, his entire body on fire due to the jellied gasoline sticking to him. For about twenty seconds, Sheppard and Sutton watched as Jacques ran around in circles, trying to put out the flames, but instead fanning them. Finally, Jacques collapsed in a burning heap. Smiling, Sheppard removed the flamethrower from his back, ready to try another weapon. So many guns, so little time! This time, Sheppard decided to go for a crew-served weapon. "Sutton! Get over here! I need your help" he shouted as he looked over a promising candidate. Eager to please his captain, Sutton jogged over to where Sheppard was unlimbering a wicked-looking machine gun. "Feed me, Alex!" said Sheppard as he cocked the Browning M2HB .50 Caliber Heavy Machine Gun, chambering a round. Dutifully, Sutton lifted up the heavy ammo belt, and held it so that it would feed properly into the fifty. Suddenly, at that moment, Lieutenant Jacques spoke for the first time. "Who are you? The last thing I remember is..." He never got a chance to finish for at that moment, Sheppard pushed in the triggers on the fifty. Sutton felt like his head was going to explode from the relentless pounding he felt and heard from the fifty. Sheppard thought his arms were going to fall off from the relentless jackhammer-like pounding, but he kept on firing. Hot brass poured out of the ejection port on the side of the fifty. Downrange, Lt. Jacques screamed as the huge 1,000 grain .50 BMG rounds slammed into him. First his arm was blown off from the enormous force of a .50 round slamming into his shoulder, then his guts were spilled all over the holodeck by a round to the chest. Within seconds, Jacques was nothing but a pile of chopped meat lying on the deck. Still, Sheppard continued to fire, further mutilating the corpse. Finally, the ammo ran out, and the fifty fell silent, smoke coursing from it's barrel. The stench of gunpowder filled the room, fighting for dominance with the equally pervasive smell of death. Sheppard and Sutton both took deep breaths. Sheppard then spoke up. "I think it's time we had a change of venue, don't you think?" Sutton just nodded. The gore and blood was beginning to build up. "Computer-" ordered Sheppard. "Working." "Change location to Port Turbolaser battery 112-A. Recoil buffer room. And eliminate all human remains in the room, as well." "Working." Moments later, Jacques' blood and guts shimmered out. Seconds later, the entire holodeck shimmered and took the shape of the recoil buffer room for a turbolaser. "Place the victim five feet east of where I'm standing." "Working." Lt. Jacques shimmered in next to Sheppard, who promptly grabbed him. "HEY! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!" shouted Jacques. An odd thought suddenly struck Sheppard. Holograms weren't supposed to have a significant level of intelligence. Especially *this* one. But here he was, protesting. Sheppard mentally shrugged, and continued to drag Jacques to the Recoil Buffer access. "Alex, would you hold him for a moment?" Dutifully, Sutton ran up and took Jacques, while Sheppard opened the Recoil Buffer access door. With a 'hiss!' the access door swung open. Motioning for Sutton to bring Jacques there, Sheppard grabbed the hapless Lieutenant, and stuffed him into the recoil buffer chamber, closing the door on him, muffling his screams. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? ADMIRAL FERRIS WILL HAVE YOUR ASS FOR THIS YOU DEGENERATE!" screamed Jacques. Sheppard climbed up the ladder that led to the turbolaser control room. Once there, he located the fire button, and pushed it. "JUST YOU WAIT! I'LL BLAST OUT OF HERE WITH MY PHA--- -" Jacques voice cut off suddenly as the turbolaser fired. Sliding down the ladder, Sheppard jogged to the buffer door. Motioning for Sutton to move away, Sheppard slowly opened the door. A viscous red liquid poured out, pooling on the floor below. "Hee hee! I always wanted to know what a few gigatons of recoil did to a person. Now I know!" cracked Sheppard. "Computer. Return to previous location." ordered Sheppard. The Turbolaser chamber shimmered out, along with the viscous pool that had been Jacques, to be replaced by the glowing yellow lines of the holodeck, with the same weapons as before. Picking up a old-fashioned looking projectile weapon, Sheppard looked at it's markings: 'US RIFLE CALIBER .30 M1'. It appeared to be a semiautomatic weapon. Sheppard hefted it experimentally, surprised at it's great weight. Suddenly, he got an idea. Walking to the center of the room, Sheppard spoke. "Place the victim four feet in front of me." With a shimmer, Jacques appeared. His mouth started to open, but he never got a chance to speak, as Sheppard brought the heavy wooden butt of the M1 down onto Jacques skull, fracturing it. Jacques dropped unconscious to the deck, and Sheppard bashed his head in with the M1's butt, splattering blood and brain matter all over the deck. Leaving Jacques lying on the deck, head smashed in, Sheppard walked back to the table. He looked amongst the weapons, his eyes suddenly drawn to a peculiar- looking knife. Looking at the grooves on it's handle, he noticed several similar-looking grooves under the barrel of the M1. Suddenly, it clicked. With a evil gleam in his eye, Sheppard picked up the bayonet/knife from the table and attached it to his M1. Turning around, he saw the shattered body of the Federation officer disappear, to be replaced by a fresh victim. An evil, blood-thirsty grin slowly spread across his face. "WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THI---UUURRRK!" shouted Jacques, his speech cut short as Sheppard emitted a blood- curdling scream and charged up to him, burying the bayonet deep into his gut. Sheppard heard the Federation Weenie moaning and screaming in agony at the pain of having a bayonet jammed into his gut. Smiling, he slowly twisted the bayonet, causing even greater pain. Suddenly, at that moment, the holodeck doors hissed open. In stepped Admiral Zeda. Hurriedly, Sheppard tried to extract the bayonet from Jacques. It was stuck! Grunting, Sheppard put his foot onto Jacques' chest. It STILL wouldn't come out! Finally, in frustration, Sheppard fired, the impact of the .30 cal bullet knocking Jacques off his bayonet, and sending intestines flying all over the room, splattering Sheppard...and Admiral Zeda. Zeda just stared at him for several seconds. "Uh, Captain Sheppard," he said. "Captain Strowbridge has completed his selections; it's your turn." Smiling like a schoolboy on Holiday, Sheppard put down his instrument of death and walked out of the room. Zeda looked at Sutton, who simply shrugged and followed Sheppard out of the room. Zeda looked after him, his brow furrowed in furious concentration. Ending the holodeck program, he turned and went to find a fresh uniform. It was later to be thought an odd fact that they had to change their uniforms at all. ----- The troops were back on board, the Federation prisoners were in holding cells, and their weapons and equipment were in storage, waiting for analysis. With a few more broadsides from the _Baron_, anything that was left on the planet was utterly destroyed, and the mile-long wedge- shaped Star Destroyer slid out of orbit, reaching escape velocity, breaking free from the gravitational field of the planet Travlieshan 7. With a flicker of pseudomotion, it shot off into hyperspace to the rendezvous point, to prepare for battle. For battle...and for victory. Revenge was at hand. *** Honor Bound 5 Trident [Planet Risa] "Get back here, you!" a voice shouted, laughing, as the Starfleet officer ran off towards his nearby hotel room. "Come on, give it back!" The officer ducked into the complex, his pursuer following him into his room. Rounding the corner, she came to a dead stop, wagging her finger. "You naughty boy," she admonished, laughing. "Give it back! Sean!" Lt. Sean Collins tried to hide the object he was keeping away from her behind his back, pleading innocence, but she caught on to the game quickly. He ran away again, towards his room, the woman hot on his tail. She finally caught up to him as he palmed the door release. Laughing, Sean slipped in, and together, they fell on the bed. "Give it to me!" she said, smiling. "Come on, give- -" She was cut off by the baying of alert klaxons. Suddenly, over the planetary intercom came a message. "This is Mann Triiad of the Risan Government!" came a frantic voice. "Risa is under attack! Everyone, please, return to your homes! This is not a drill! Hostile forces have invaded the Risa system and have--" The communication was suddenly cut short by a squeal of static, then the click of a comm override. "You have five seconds to make peace with whatever gods you worship," said a malevolent voice. "Then you will die." The comm fell silent. Man and woman looked at each other in complete shock, before a flash of bright green separated them forever. [ISD _Malevolence_] "Status report?" Captain Strowbridge called over the multiple thuds of heavy turbolaser cannons, each of them pouring massive amounts of destruction into the already-glowing planet below and causing gigatons of recoil to be absorbed by the ship's frame on each shot. A lesser vessel might have torn itself apart. "One fifteenth of the planet's crust has been vaporized, sir," said Commander Kherkof. "We are at eighty- four point two percent power. All other vessels are in designated positions and are reporting ninety-nine point four percent communications jamming with leakage within acceptable tolerances. Turbolaser battery 052-B is reporting a slight overheat in their recoil buffer." "Order them to stand down until the buffer has sufficiently cooled," said Strowbridge. "If our task is not complete by that time, they are to resume firing." Commander Kherkof nodded and relayed the order to the turret commander, whom immediately ceased firing, several other batteries around it taking up the slack. As a result, time estimates for completion of the operation were raised by about point five seconds. Strowbridge sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of his face, and watched as the planet of Risa took on a lovely orange glow. It was about time that they began their revenge in earnest. Silently, he wondered how the others were doing... [ISD _Revenger_, en route to Quo'noS] "Is my ship ready, Commander?" "The _Revenger_ is fully at your command, sir." "Good. Order Colonel Seifert and his detachment to prepare for ground assault. Squadron Commander Nguyen is to accompany them for air support." "Yes, sir." "Execute." With a burst of radiation, the massive detachment of Imperial ships dropped into the Klingon's home system. Immediately, orbiting defense platforms and patrolling ships responded to the threat with a flurry of disruptors and torpedo fire. The attacking Imperials roared back with a fire of their own that seemed to utterly drown out the beams of the Klingon ships, impacting heavily on shields and exposed hulls. With that first volley, there were no significant losses on either side. Again, they engaged in a deadly dance of war, the space around Quo'noS alight with the fire of highly destructive weaponry slicing back and forth through the darkness. Firing a full broadside, the _Revenger_ overwhelmed a formation of three B'rel Birds of Prey that were off the starboard bow, turning each into a bright ball of fiery energy. A pair of massive Negh'var attack cruisers broke off from their planetary orbits and came rushing at one of the _Victories_, pounding it with massive amounts of disruptor fire. The VSD went up in a flash of light and a burst of debris, catching one of the Negh'var's port warp nacelles and crippling it. Three _Carracks_ that had been orphaned by the loss of the VSD promptly smashed the Negh'var into fine dust. "Things would sure be a lot easier if the Death Star hadn't been destroyed," commented Sutton. Sheppard cringed at the memory of that day. Not only had the Death Star gone up in smoke, destroyed by one of the larger Rebel factions, but he had lost his hand to the Emperor when his ship failed to show up at a major battle with one of the other various Rebel sects. Sheppard had been lucky to have been off Coruscant and in Hyperspace when the news came through. He heard the Emperor nearly caused the Imperial Palace to topple from it's foundations. Luckily he decided to restrain his anger for the battle station's main engineer. Sutton was not as lucky; Sheppard had nearly beaten the hell out of him for his role in the delays. He still bore a vicious scar on his cheek from where the back of Sheppard's cybernetic hand had smacked him. "I guess we'll just have to do without, Commander. Prepare for the ground assault." After most of the Klingon ships were mauled, the rest disappeared as they engaged their cloaking device. The fleet of Star Destroyers moved in, and from various underbellies came an outpouring of drop pods and assault shuttles containing all manners of devices of war. The crafts plunged into the atmosphere and began to glow a cherry red as friction from rapidly moving air heated the hull metal to massive temperatures. Several of them sustained damage as defensive weaponry opened up on them. "Status report?" asked Sheppard. "They are reporting target landings within three meters of objective, sir. They are beginning operations now." "Excellent, Commander. Now that the planet is in the good hands of Colonel Seifert, we may focus our attention on securing the shipyards." [ISD _Baron_, en route to Bajor] The room was dark, pitch black save for a single, flickering point of light. Grand Admiral Kenneth von Lowe stared at the candle, blissfully ignorant of everything around him save the thin taper. _Move!_ he commanded the candle. _Move!_ The candle refused to budge. Lowe concentrated as hard as he could, and could have sworn that the candle moved a millimeter before his door chime sounded. He ignored it. It chimed once more before blowing itself inwards, flying in shards towards Lowe. They bounced off a meter away from him. He had prepared for every contingency, especially with this madman on board. "Ah, Lt. Hit-Man, won't you come in please?" The massive entity known and feared by all as Lt.Hit-Man stormed into Lowe's inner sanctums, a vicious sneer on his scarred face. "You wanted to see me, huh?" he growled. "Yes, Lieutenant. Just before we jumped from the wormhole, we received a rather frantic transmission from the remnants of the previous Bajor garrison." He paused for a moment, replaying in his mind the Federation warship _Glory_ smashing headlong at full warp into the _Onslaught_. For a moment, sadness was in his eyes, only to be replaced with seething rage. He continued. "Apparently, they're trying to hold off some major resistance down there, and what I need you to do is go down there and wipe them out...all of them." "No problem, boss, but I get to select my own squad," said Lt.Hit-Man, absently scratching his head. "I want Drzic's team." "I'm afraid-" he stopped as Lt.Hit-Man's face twisted into something resembling a hopped-up Barabel. "Of course, what was I thinking?" Lowe stammered. "You'll get Drzic's squad plus all the weapons you want. Try to take any buildings intact, though. Lt. Colonel Tierce will provide backup with the walkers." "Good. Your willingness to cooperate...pleases me," said Hit-Man menacingly. "It would be...unfortunate if we were to have a misunderstanding." Lowe watched as the half-insane cyborg spun on his heel and stomped out of the smoking ruin of the door. He tapped his console. "This is Lowe. Send a repair crew up to my command center." He received an acknowledgement and signed off, turning back to the candle. Concentrating, he tried to feel the Force flowing through him. [ISD _Malevolence_, About an hour later] "What's our status, Commander?" The intimidating Captain Strowbridge patrolled the bridge like a hawk, snapping at those lax in their duties. "Straighten up that slouch, Ensign!" "The operation is nearly complete, sir," Commander Aron Kerkhof reported. "Another five minutes or so, and we can make it to the rendez-vous in plenty of time." The world formerly known as Risa was now nothing more than a shattered, molten orange hulk, with bright plumes of lava spewing forth from where the thin crust concealed volcanic vents. Clouds of steam still rose from when the oceans were boiled away. The controlled weather system had long since been destroyed, and storms of hot ash fell upon the last piece of solid land left. Amazingly, be it by miracle or be it by fate, that piece of land just so happened to have a runabout on it, and powering up that runabout was the young up-and-coming Lieutenant Ali Tavakoly. Finally, the systems of the runabout were ready, and Tavakoly took off just as a bright green turbolaser bolt annihilated the landing site. The runabout rocked from the escaping steam and flying lava, pulling up and off into space, and going into warp through a storm of plasma. "Sir, target detected escaping planet at vector 027!" said the sensor officer. "What?!" Strowbridge demanded. "Starboard turbolasers, track and target! Take him alive, if possible!" "Target has gone to warp!" "Order the outsystem defense to propogate flak bursts, ten percent power, along that vector. Probability cone fifty percent," Strowbrige ordered. Inside the runabout _Thames_, Lieutenant Tavakoly struggled with the controls as the runabout was rocked by grazing shots from weapons fire from the massive ships. Jinking wildly, he did a barrel roll and dropped due south of the galactic plane, shooting below the range of the turbolasers at faster-than-light speeds. In a graceful, parabolic arc, Tavakoly curved back up behind the outer defenses and high-tailed it out of the system. The Star Destroyers were chaotic with chatter from various gunnery crews as they flooded the probability cone with intense fire, shifting their targeting as necessary to track the fleeing ship. Finally, the turbolasers trailed off as the ship went beyond maximum effective range. "We lost him, sir," reported a young sub-lieutenant. "He dropped out of range long enough to avoid our guns as he came back." The captain slammed his fist on a console. "Send a message to Captain Strowbridge," he ordered. "Captain Strowbridge, outsystem defense reports that the target has escaped the system," reported Commander Kherkof. "Trajectory extrapolation suggests a course towards Romulus." Strowbridge swore. "Kriffing incompetent buffoons... well, no matter. It's only a slight dent in the master plan." "Sir?" Kherkof queried. "Well, the Federation surely knows that Risa has not been sending nor receiving any of the many messages a resort planet usually has," explained Strowbridge. "The would have sent a ship, and the ship would have been captured by us. They would not have received a response, so they would send another ship to investigate what happened to the last ship. Soon enough, they would catch on and divert more ships to check out the situation. By preventing any reports from Risa being received by them, we could have drawn some ships off from their course to Bajor and saved Admiral Lowe some trouble. Now that that ship has escaped, they'll know that it's not worth it to come here anyway, so they'd charge ahead full steam to Bajor and leave us to wallow." "We could surely catch him, though." "A lone Federation runabout in Romulan space is not a healthy thing, Commander. He'll change course along the way, and a ship that small would be overtly difficult to detect with our long-range scanners." "But that doesn't affect our plan?" "Of course not. We'll crush them all the same." At that moment, the sensor officer spoke up. "_Defiant_ class approaching at warp from starboard nadir flank, sir." Strowbridge smiled. "See what I mean, Commander? Starboard ion cannon, disable that ship the second it drops out of warp." The Federation ship slowed to impulse and was immediately washed with a barrage of ion cannon shots from the _Malevolence_. "Our first catch of the day," remarked Kherkof. *** [Runabout _Champlain_, Bajor system] "USS _Champlain_, you are cleared for landing on Bajor. Just follow your nose." "Copy, DS9." The small runabout locked on to the transponder signal and veered off towards the blue and white mottled planet below, weaving between several hulking starships and dropping gracefully through the atmosphere to the forward base of the new Bajoran resistance. It had been a rather tough several months trying to flush out the irate defenders, and the planetary council shouted and cried for no orbital bombardment, fearing global devastation. With a jolt, the _Champlain_ landed on Pad B and it's hatch slowly swung open. In a mildly confused shuffle, Starfleet personnel filed through the opening towards the receiving station located near the barracks. Ensign Jones stumbled and huffed as he tried to manhandle his heavy bag out, tripping on a torn piece of pant leg and falling over in a heap, the other officers stepping around as he tried, unsuccessfully, to pick up his bag, his pants and himself all at the same time. A Lieutenant Commander came out of the receiving station, holding a padd. "Form up for headcount," he ordered as the small group of Starfleet personnel filed into neat, straight lines, leaving a struggling Ensign Jones lagging noticeably behind. He stumbled into an open slot and swung around, nearly hitting a nearby lieutenant with his bag. He received a glower before straightening up as best he could. "Fifteen...sixteen...seventeen...eighteen. All present and accounted for," the Lt. Commander announced. "You are here as part of a regiment of officers called in to clear out the remaining Imperial troops on Bajor," he said. "Please enter the receiving station over there," he gestured, "and pick up your phaser rifles and tricorders before going to you assigned rooms." The officer began calling out room assignments, two to a room. "Lieutenant JG Roberts." The man Jones had almost whacked called out. "You are in room 5C Alpha. Ensign Jones." Jones called out. "You're with him." Jones's face grew long, and Roberts threw a nasty look at him. The Commander read down the rest of the list, and the officers began to file into the station. Jones staggered in, his burdens threatening to trip him again, and stopped by the supply depot to pick up his equipment. "Name," the bored controller said. "Ensign Timothy Jones," he huffed, hefting his bags. "Standard issue phaser rifle, standard tricorder," the controller said, tossing them at Jones. The equipment clattered to the floor, and the rifle went off, gouging a hole in the wall. Several people stared at him as he flashed a sheepish smile, grabbed up his gear again, and trotted off as fast as he could to his room. He turned a corner and hit the door release, promptly slamming into Lt.JG. Roberts. "Not too swift, are you?" he asked, obviously irate. "C'mon, hustle it up." "When do we leave?" Jones asked. "We're grabbing a transport at 0800 hours tomorrow. We're joining up with the new Bajoran resistance at the Po'rah enclave." Jones grimaced, then went over to the replicator for a snack. "You want something?" Jones asked. "Cheeseburger sounds good," Roberts said. Jones's mouth opened in shock. "How could you...eating red meat!" Jones exclaimed, infuriated. "Slaughtering poor, defenseless animals..." "They're replicated, Ensign Duh," Roberts shot back. "No animals are harmed in the replication of a cheeseburger." "But still..." Jones protested. "Fine, I'll get it myself, you whiner," Roberts said, shoving Jones away from the control panel. "You're gonna be real pleasant to be around, you know that?" Jones smiled. "That's what everyone says to me," he said pleasantly. Roberts looked at Jones with pure venom, then ordered a cheeseburger. Jones looked on with disgust as Roberts ate, then declared with a measured air of snottiness, "I lost my appetite." *** [ISD _Revenger_, in orbit of the Klingon homeworld] "Status?" Captain Sheppard asked, glancing at the various frameworks of the shipyards outside the viewport. "Divisions Three, Four, Seven and Nine are reporting complete pacification of objective. Divisions One, Two, Five, Six, Eight and Ten are extrapolating ten minutes until mission complete. Divisions Eleven and Twelve report heavy losses and massive resistance. Lt. Colonel Jarvis is reporting that the shipyard base is secured, casualties within acceptable levels," Commander Sutton replied, reading off of a datapad. "Get Colonel Seifert on the line," ordered Sheppard. "Put him through to the aft holopod." With a flicker of static, the miniature holographic figure of a saluting Colonel Seifert appeared. "Yes, sir?" he asked. "Colonel, please explain to me why Divisions Eleven and Twelve are having so much difficulty with their objectives?" "Resistance is heavier than expected, sir. Eleven and Twelve were assigned to quell the Klingon capital city, but they have run into much difficulty due to the warrior spirit of the species and the importance of the area." Sheppard considered. "Alright, Colonel. Pull your forces out of there. I have something special planned for these rebels." "Aye, sir," Seifert confirmed, saluting as the connection was broken. "So what do you have planned?" Sutton asked. "Well," Sheppard said thoughtfully. "It's a little something Captain Tarkin came up with on some Outer Rim planet that I can't even remember the name of. I'm not going to say any more, but instead let you see it for yourself. But for this, we'll need a _Victory_ class Star Destroyer. Comm?" "Yes, sir!" came the swift reply. "Put me through to Captain O'Shea on the VSD _Rasputin_." [Bajor] BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP! The incessant wailing of alert klaxons jerked a shocked Jones out of a pleasant dream. A _really_ pleasant dream, which put him in yet another embarrassing situation relating to pants. Roberts looked at him, grimacing at the sight as he pulled on his clothes. "What's going on?" Jones asked sleepily. "0800, sunshine. Time to get your ass moving." Roberts worked quickly and silently as Jones struggled to figure out which side of his shirt was the front. By the time Roberts was ready, Jones had almost figured out how to do up his pants, and as Roberts trotted out the door, Jones pulled his boots onto the wrong feet. He leaped up, stumbling, and grabbed his equipment, glad that his burdens were reduced somewhat, and ran clumsily to the landing pad. Again, he got in just as the door was closing, this time catching the hem of the pant leg, tearing it up to the nether regions. Again, he slammed ingloriously into the floor, and again, everyone laughed at him. No matter now, he was used to it. And as the transport made way to the Po'rah enclave, they received some rather disturbing news. The Imperials were back. With a vengeance. Honor Bound 6 Strike [Near Bajor] "HEADS UP!" Everyone ducked instinctively as the massive bulk of an Imperial Star Destroyer whistled overhead, spitting green bolts of destruction at the small _Steamrunner_ class starship _Iridescent_. The agile craft twisted and flipped, shooting off at an angle as a bolt grazed one of the nacelles. The ship rocked violently, throwing several crewers off their feet. As the ship stabilized, it lurched again. "Tractor beam locked on!" shouted the tactical officer. "We're not moving!" The ship jolted as impulse engines came up to full power. The captain considered for a second. "Change our heading! Maybe they'll slip the lock!" With a violent twist, the small ship writhed within the invisible iron grip as four TIE fighters swept under, spitting deadly carnage at two fleeing Peregrine starfighters. The _Iridescent_ swept around for a couple of minutes before settling back onto it's original vector, shuddering as both impulse engines and reverse thrusters flicked alternatively on and off. "Get us outta here!" ordered Captain Michael Rasiej. "It's no use, sir," the helmsman responded tiredly. "The tractor beam is propagating too fast for us to outrun it. It'll grab us every time we try to change speed or course." The gaping maw of the Star Destroyer's main hangar bay loomed ever closer. In the distance, several bright flashes of light marked the end of a Defiant and a Carrack. There was no sound on the bridge for a little while, save for the stressed creaks the tractor beam was exacting upon the vessel. Rasiej spoke up suddenly. "Ideas, people," he asked. An engineer in the back piped up. "It's obvious, sir, that such a small change in our velocity won't throw off the beam, and going from full forward to full back is too eventual to confuse it." They winced as a new star was created briefly among the backdrop of the Bajoran night. "But I have a recommendation." "Let's hear it, Lt. Hyde," said Rasiej. "And quick." "Since going from full forward to full back is too slow a change to throw off the beam...I recommend we shift gears while driving." The captain looked confused. "Explain." "It's similar to what the 20th century Navy of Earth referred to as...a 'crashback.' We burn full forward impulse for a bit to stretch out the beam, then we backfeed all power into the reverse thrusters and hope we don't have a blowout. That'd put us from full impulse to dead stop in a heartbeat." "I'm not sure that'll work, Lieutenant," came the voice of Commander Keith Federico. "Maybe if we gave it something else to lock onto instead..." Federico trailed off as Rasiej held up a hand. Rasiej considered, then spoke. "Helm: on my mark, fire full impulse for ten seconds, then reroute all available power, including life support, into the reverse and forward ventral maneuvering thrusters, then prepare to engage Warp 1 for as long as we can sustain it. Lieutenant, get ready to fire a spread of photon torpedoes; target the likely locations of the tractor beam projectors. Hopefully, it'll lock onto them instead and miss us completely." "Aye, sir." "Targets locked." Rasiej waited a few tense seconds, then gave the command. "Let's flip 'em the bird, boys!" With a piercing shriek, the ship suddenly came to a halt, flipping upwards, lashing out with a salvo of torpedoes as Rasiej gave the command to fire. The tractor beam re-locked again, this time onto the torpedoes, and with a flurry of explosions the _Iridescent_ was suddenly free. Twisting itself parallel to the Galactic Disc, it shot off into warp, shuddering violently. Smoke poured out from several consoles as they exploded in a shower of sparks. The lights flickered a few times before going out, and the bridge was then awash in the dim glow of a red alert. "Yeeeee-haw!" came the whoop from Captain Rasiej. "We showed them fuckers we mean _business!_ Teach them to mess with me. How are we doing?" "Erm...sir," the reply came solemnly. "That maneuver just completely fried about all of our EPS conduits and knocked the warp core's dilithium matrix out of balance. We're dropping out of warp." "Well, at least we showed those bastards we're not a trivial threat!" the captain said, only slightly dejected. "We're gonna kick their asses!" Several cheers were raised from the bridge crew as they worked desperately to contain the rapidly destabilizing warp core. "Can you give me a status on the rest of the battle?" Rasiej asked nobody in particular. "The Imperials have completely overrun us," started Lt. Commander O'Farrell. "Because we weren't expecting another offensive so soon, the Deep Space Nine defense fleet has been redistributed to where it's needed more, especially at the border of out DMZ with the Romulans. Looks like they're getting antsy again after bolting the last time the Imps invaded. All we got left is a couple of Defiants, a Sovereign-II, a Galaxy, and a few B'rel Birds of Prey." Rasiej frowned. "Can't do much with that against a fleet of that size," he commented. "Does Starfleet know?" "We can't assume so, sir; they have some pretty powerful comm jamming equipment," replied O'Farrell. "Are we out of that jamming at the moment?" "Well, sir, the oddest thing about it is...we haven't detected any. Do you want me to send a transmission anyway?" Rasiej looked over a tactical holo detailing the positions of ten of the massive mile-long battleships and fifteen smaller copies of them. "No, I'll do that," said the Captain, getting up and going to his ready room. "I get the feeling that there's more here than meets the eye, and they'll probably want to speak to me anyway." He thought about his last run-in with Federation administration... and decided that a direct confrontation like this was far better to having the Admirals breathing down his neck. Rasiej braced himself for words unbecoming of a Starfleet officer. [Bajor] By the time the transport pulled up to the far side of the enclave, the fighting was already intense. The Imperial reinforcements just arriving insystem had dropped a mess of troops and transports into the thick of the seige, turning the tide of the battle that much faster against the doomed Bajoran Resistance. Even as phaser bursts finally blew a hole in the side of the prefabricated garrison, the massive bulk of an AT-AT walker lumbered in front of it, blocking off any hope at infiltrating the Imperial base. Yellow beams deflected ineffectively off the thick armor of the Imperial behemoth, either absorbed by the thick metal or diffused into random energy. Bright red bolts spat forth from massive twin chin-mounted blaster cannons, obliterating men, guns, transports and anything else in it's path, heedlessly crushing anything and everything under it's huge metal feet. Twisting it's head, it bore down on the newly arrived transport, just now unloading it's cargo of hasty reinforcements. Ensign Timothy Jones leaped out of the transport last, just as two energy beams met the reactor, creating the beginnings of a very explosive relationship; one not lasting very long, he being too quick and she too easy. As he flew, the flames from the now-blackened lump charred off the back of his uniform, and he landed in a heap, ass-up, in front of the walker's path and didn't move. Looking back, a worried Lt.JG. Roberts spied the prone, half-naked form of the inept officer, and, running back to it out of some instinct of humanity or mercy, hauled him away just as the massive foot planted itself firmly in the spot where Jones had just been. They took cover behind a large chunk of charred rock, waiting for the walker to move on to the rearguard. Then, grunting, Roberts carried the unconscious Ensign to the nearest resistance cell, on the leeward side of the Po'rah enclave. There, they stuck it out, waiting for the heaviest of the enemy equipment to pass through before attempting to advance. Roberts requested an update on the situation. "They came in mighty quick, over yonder west of the garrison," a young Bajoran woman said. "Down by a Federation security complex. They drove out or killed the occupants and released the hostages before cleaning house." Roberts waved around. "And what happened here Miss...?" "Olvora. Olvora Tesan. We were steadily pressed back by the onslaught, led by some demented-looking trooper of theirs," she continued. "Must have been someone of importance; he had some sort of energy blade that cut right through walls, doors...you name it." "And you lived to tell about it?" Roberts asked incredulously. "I was working down in the video security monitoring station when all hell broke loose," she said. "I ran out of there as soon as the hammer dropped, that is, when the prisoners were let loose. I barely had time to watch the demented trooper perform a field execution on one of his own before high-tailing it out of there, right after a mortar was fired from here and hit square in the middle of the group. I barely managed to catch the tail-end of a transport, which was destroyed a few seconds after I leaped off near the ridgeline." Her uniform told on her; torn and ripped in places by jagged rocks, the skin underneath was red and bruised, and in some cases bleeding. The light of an exploding Imperial Chariot cast a brief glow across her scarred face as she continued, a curious tone in her voice. "Could have sworn I saw that same trooper running across the gully..." Just then, Ensign Jones jerked awake, looking around with some surprise at the grim scene before him, of Starfleet and Bajoran officers in tattered uniforms, bleeding, all with the same look of grim determination, the will to destroy before they were themselves destroyed. Looking over his body, he spied a beaten-up looking phaser rifle by his side; his own, he realized, seemingly undamaged by the blast. Good old Federation technology, durable to the last. He glanced outside, catching a blur out of the corner of his eye. Jones watched as some demented trooper ran across the gully before he cried out. "Hey, who the fuck is that?" Tesan looked at him, then outside at the figure. "How the hell should I know? Maybe we should lay down our weapons and invite whoever that is up there for some spring wine and hasperat," she said sarcastically, hefting an odd weapon Jones had never seen before. He then hoisted his own weapon and began to fire. "Hey, where the hell did he go?" one of the others yelled, still firing blindly at the spot where the lone stormtrooper had been a few seconds ago. "Don't worry, he's in for a nasty surprise," Olvora said, a chill smile across her face. Jones pondered what that meant for a moment, a sickened look on his face. He winced at a sudden explosion. "Proxy mine," she said. "Let's go see what kind of game we bagged!" Jones was ready to vomit; never in his life had he been exposed to this level of brutality and violence. He sighed, choked down his fears and followed the others out. [Author's Note: Continued in LT.Hit-Man's Journal HB] [VSD _Rasputin_, over Quo'noS] "Captain on the deck!" came the cry of a Major. Captain Sheppard, leader of the Klingon Eradicator Battle Group, strode down the ramp of his personal _Lambda_-class shuttle to the metal deck of the VSD _Rasputin_, commanded by the venerable Captain Michael O'Shea. Behind him came out an honor guard of stormtroopers, their guns clinking on their chest armor as they marched down in formation. At the foot of the ramp the two captains met. "Welcome to my ship, Captain Sheppard," said O'Shea. "To what do I owe this honor?" "To a little something whipped up by that good ol' Grand Moff we all knew and loved," replied Sheppard. "The Klingons will soon know the punishment for defying the will of the Empire!" O'Shea paled slightly, but quickly regained his composure. "Aye, sir. I'll be happy to help in any way I can." "Good," said Sheppard. "Evacuate your crew to your secondary bridge and prepare to enter the atmosphere." O'Shea definitely paled this time, his mouth dropping open slightly. "You don't mean..." "Yes, Captain, I do mean," said Sheppard menacingly, a grim smile playing across his face. "Did you remember to stock up on marshmallows?" [Quo'noS] "Take that, Imperial _p'taks_!" shouted a Klingon warrior as several Imperial walkers turned about-face and began to retreat from the battlefield. He dug the end of his bat'leth into the neck joint of a struggling trooper beneath his feet, then peeled off the chest armor of the now dead man, carving off body glove and the skin of the man's thorax. With a malevolent grin, the warrior plunged into the man's chest with his hand, removing the heart. He took a big bite, holding up the mauled organ for the rest of his comrades to see as he chewed. Around him, several others cheered at the sight as they finished mauling whatever enemies remained, celebrating their victory with fresh barrels of blood wine rolled out of a nearby storage cellar. Klingons love blood wine, and always had some on hand somewhere. The warriors then proceeded to get amazingly drunk and unbelievably wasted, their neurons swimming in the fermented fluid of life. Soon, fights broke out everywhere as the warriors engaged in various struggles for dominance, not heeding how suddenly dark it had become. [VSD _Rasputin_] "Status?" came the shout from Captain Sheppard aboard the Star Destroyer. The hull of the behemoth glowed cherry red at the edges as it forced it's way through the atmosphere of Quo'noS, rocketing towards the square in front of the capital city of the planet. "Hull temperature four thousand degrees and rising, sir," came the reply from one of the helm officers. "Temperature and structural integrity are within tolerance." The ship screamed onwards, plowing through into the lower stratosphere, then settling above the target area just inside the troposphere. _Rasputin_ then hovered down to the surface on it's repulsorlifts, casting a great shadow over crowds of riotous Klingons. A few, bothered by the sudden shadow, looked up, then tugged at the arms of those near them, shouting and pointing up. This created more than a few more fights, and the rest of them remained drunkenly ignorant of the threat hovering literally right above their heads. Captain Sheppard smiled grimly, looking at the holos of the Klingon gathering coming from cameras mounted around the mouth of the hangar bay. "Let's drop the roof on them." Several Klingons looked up as a curious roar issued forth from above them, then died as the Star Destroyer came ponderously down, crushing hundreds of the partying warriors under it's massive tonnage. Very soon, Klingon warriors began beating uselessly on the sides of the vessels. Sheppard whooped loudly, much to the surprise of all else there. "Well, that was fun," he said. "But short." Captain O'Shea's mouth dropped; he was flabbergasted, to say the least, but quickly regained his composure. "You don't mean-" "Engage sublight engines!" Several Klingons looked up as a massive roar emanated from the behemoth, then died as it engaged it's massive realspace engines, the roar shattering windows for miles around, crumbling houses, collapsing buildings and vaporizing Klingons directly behind it. The remaining Klingons had about three seconds to live before the passage of the ship turned them into free-floating atoms, carving a wide gouge of destruction for miles on end. Sonic booms plowed through stone, mortar, glass, Klingons, and anything else in path as the _Rasputin_ rocketed south, crushing buildings upon it's prow. Very soon the reason for evacuating the main bridge became clear as Klingons falling from high pavilions and balconies crashed into and through the windows in front of the assembly, causing untold destruction as Klingon bodies tore up seats and consoles, littering the bridge with blood, bones and flesh. Instantly, emergency force fields were in place around the bridge viewports, and the Star Destroyer lifted up and out of the atmosphere of the planet, blasting out a deep crater as it rose on it's tail, the atmospheric friction cooking off the Klingon remains plastered on the front of the bridge tower. The ship climbed up into the atmosphere and back out into space. The raging inferno was plainly visible even from orbit; a wide swath of gnarled metal and burnt land. "They haven't surrendered," reported a comm officer as the highest- ranking Klingon left alive opened a channel with the _Rasputin_. "Instead, they demand the head of whoever did this." "Gutsy folk, ain't they," muttered Sheppard. "Oh well," he said aloud. "Contact Commander Sutton and the _Revenger_ and tell them to prepare for my arrival. Meanwhile, let's have a look at good old Mister Bridge." And with that, he turned and left, Captain O'Shea coming with him. [Later] The turbolift doors opened, then just as quickly closed. "Holy Kriff!" Captain O'Shea doubled over as his last meal attempted to evacuate his stomach. Sheppard grinned madly as he hit the door release again, revealing a scene of total carnage. The remains of a couple dozen Klingons were spread on the walls like a coat of fresh paint, with a few whole bodies here and there jammed against the backs of seats to add a bit of interest to the otherwise monotonous décor. Most of the chairs were torn off, scattered everywhere next to pieces of other Klingons. Even as Sheppard watched, one of them began to stir again. He elbowed O'Shea, who turned to look. "Thems are some hardy people," he said, watching as the alien tried to struggle to it's feet. O'Shea looked on with interest, his face twisting into repulsion as the alien lifted it's head and looked at them. It growled, then spoke. "FOR THE GLORY OF THE EMPIRE!" The Klingon then pulled out a disruptor. Quickly, the two captains dove back into the turbolift and blindly hit a button, any button. They started to go down when a nice explosion blew a hole straight through the door above them. They heard a thump, then several bangs as the Klingon started hammering away at the top of the car. "Shit! He knocked out the comm," said O'Shea. "We're kind of trapped; what do you recommend we do?" "We go up!" Sheppard said with glee. "Up, up and away!" With that, he hit a button, unfolding a command console from the wall of the car. Typing in several command codes, he disengaged the speed controller and pegged it to the max, then hit the button for the very top floor and the one for the Bridge. The car shot upwards slightly, then stopped short, and the banging ceased for a second as the Klingon was thrown up a few meters before crashing down with a loud thud. He began to hack at the roof of the car again however, and the ceiling began to shudder above the heads of Sheppard and O'Shea, still recovering from the short, jarring ascent. The doors opened and they dived out, the jagged hole caused by the Klingon disruptor still glowing. A second later, in the blink of an eye, the turbolift car shot upwards at near sonic speed, smashing through the roof of the top deck on the conning tower and out into space. Immediately, blast doors closed at several junctions in the turbolift tunnel, containing the small area of vacuum. O'Shea looked at Sheppard with a fearful eye. "Y-y-you don't have anything else planned for my ship, perchance?" he started. "Maybe a new conning tower and a fresh coat of paint?" "Later, later." Sheppard waved off the other nervous Captain. "We still have asses to kick. This is a tough nut to crack; let's hope we smash it before squishy time with the Cardies." A beep came over his comlink: the shuttle was ready for departure. "In the meantime, I must take my leave of your fine ship, Captain O'Shea. Expect a commendation for your exemplary work soon." Sheppard smiled at the other man, then made way towards a secondary turbolift. Grumbling to himself, O'Shea followed. "When did they start pulling Captains from the looney bin?" [ISD _Baron_, above Bajor] "Status?" asked Grand Admiral Lowe, peering over the latest batch transmission from the wormhole defense fleet. "Most of the smaller enemy craft have been destroyed, sir," said Captain Yates. "All they appear to have left is their largest ship; I believe it is known as a _Sovereign_-class, plus that one pain-in-the-ass little corvette thing that raised hell on the _Venom_." "No big loss there," Lowe replied as Admiral Zeda peered at the _Sovereign_ thoughtfully. "It looks like the _Enterprise_," he said quietly. "And that was a pretty powerful ship for one that size. Take heed, Commander; that ship is more than it seems. Also keep an eye out for those little green Klingon things; they have cloaking devices." Not that it would really matter much; they were far from a match with ten Imperial Star Destroyers and fifteen smaller copies of them. Not to mention the rest of the task force lying in wait 3/10ths of a lightyear outsystem. "Indeed," said Lowe. "Pay heed to Admiral Zeda. Especially you, Commander Berger." He nodded to a man not far away, who promptly acknowledged. "Especially since I'm making you Captain of this vessel." They all did a double take at that, Yates' and Berger's mouths opening slightly. "Pardon me, sir?" asked Yates cautiously. "Yes, you heard me correctly, Mister Yates," said Lowe. "It appears that a lapse of intelligence over at the wormhole has caused Captain Nubby to sell a Strike Cruiser to a local alien species. The Ferengi, I believe they were." Yates mulled over this. "So what does it have to do with me?" he asked again, sure in the belief that he had somehow screwed up one way or the other. "Calm down, Nathan!" said Lowe cheerfully. "Remember, idiots sometimes breed opportunities, and this is a good one for you. I'm giving you command of Nubby's ship, the _Cerberus_; not only that, but I'm promoting you to Rear Admiral." Yates' mouth opened a little wider, then closed again. He stood up straight and saluted crisply. "Thank you, sir!" he said. "When shall I leave?" "Now," said Lowe, watching with interest as the _Sovereign_ took a full broadside, blowing up rather spectacularly. "The battle over Bajor is over, for the moment. The battle on the ground, however, still has a ways to go, and I'm expecting a fleet from Earth at any moment now. So, I'm taking this opportunity to send you first class on my private shuttle straight to your new position." He shook Yates' hand, smiling broadly. "Report to shuttle pad six, and good luck." Smiling, Rear Admiral Yates strode off to the turbolift. "Well, that was unexpected," said Admiral Zeda. Lowe shook his head. "Sometimes I have to put up with some of the most cosmically stupid people that the Emperor can throw at us," he said with contempt. "Besides, these are some of the ugliest aliens I have ever seen in my life." Honor Bound 7 Twilight [ISD _Revenger_, above Quo'noS] "Now?" "No, sir." "How about now?" "Still no luck, sir." Captain Sheppard shifted his crosshairs, input a few numbers, and selected another target. He fired again. "Any luck?" "No, sir," said Commander Sutton. "The Klingons are still not surrendering." Sheppard groaned audibly, wiping his face with his hand as he pulled off the turbolaser gunner helmet. "I don't want to BDZ this place, Sutton," he said. "Anything else we could try? Maybe threaten the life of a high-ranking civilian?" "Tried it, they killed him before we got a chance." "Hold a high-ranking officer captive?" "Mutiny is their middle name." "Uh." Sheppard scratched his head. "How about we just blow up a moon or something?" Sutton considered. "Nah," he said, looking at old history logs from captured Federation ships. "They already blew up one of their own moons, albeit accidentally. Praxis, it was called. It's what caused them to move their homeworld to this planet." Sheppard sighed. "Damn stubborn aliens. Do you think they'd go for a strategic alliance?" Sutton considered. "That's debatable, sir, given that you tore up their capital with a Star Destroyer and all." Sheppard grinned at that memory. Captain O'Shea was reportedly still sulking in his quarters. "Well, they're beings of honor, aren't they?" asked Sutton. "How about you challenge them? Winner take all?" "That sounds workable," Sheppard conceded. "A Bat'leth competition, perhaps, but LT.Hit-Man is unfortunately not with our task force. We don't have anyone even near his level of expertise, especially since he's a Sith. Also especially since he's currently a hunk of charred meat floating in a bacta tank." He had heard the results so far from the ground battle on Bajor. LT.Hit- Man was considered lost for a while before his squad deserted their posts and came looking for him. The results weren't pretty. Lt.Col. Tierce, who was ordered to take the ridge LT.Hit-Man was holed up in at all costs, had almost been physically ill at the site of the carnage. The Med-evac were just about to pronounce the career stormtrooper DOA when they found to their amazement a weak heartbeat, pumping just enough blood through his system to keep the poor bastard alive until they could rush him up to the sick bay of the _Baron_. LT.Hit-Man, the single most dangerous man in the galaxy, had almost died that day. Several Captains had planned to throw parties at the confirmation of his demise, only to be forced to pack up the Corellian ale as word spread that LT.Hit-Man had survived. The medics had estimated another week or so in the stickytank after emergency surgery, so there was still time for the party-pooped to cover their asses. Not only that, but the Federation was proving quite resistant. _No doubt the influence of the former Bajoran rebels_, Sheppard thought. _The Federation ground forces are otherwise inept. But their ships could prove troublesome_. Even now he heard reports from Grand Admiral Lowe expecting a major fleet buildup to be arriving at Bajor within a day or two. Given the relatively hard time they had with the other ships, they were expecting some trouble, and rumor had it that the Federation was sending another _Glory_-class battlecruiser, one of the same that had helped take out the _Abominable_ and rammed the _Onslaught_ during the initial invasion. Unsurprisingly, the Romulans, who the Empire had made an alliance with early on after a bit of 'motivation', had skipped out early, pulled their forces from all captured Imperial worlds and DS9, and went back into isolation, so their help was out of the question. The several colonies that the Empire had established or taken over had reported missing items from their inventories as well, and no doubt the Romulans were right now in the middle of researching and developing new methods of mayhem. Of course, integrating all that advanced technology into their society and military would take a while, but Sheppard couldn't see leaving them be with their hands on Imperial technology. He also doubted the logic of attacking the war-torn Cardassian Empire, a mere hour or so away from DS9 via Hyperspace. But Sheppard didn't question the strategy of an Imperial officer; after all, he was sure Lowe had some huge, nasty plan in the works. Taking DS9 in the first place wasn't all that easy, either. Despite the fact that the Imperial forces didn't take many losses in the initial invasion, surely due to the enemy's war-exhausted economies, the space station was adamant in remaining Federation property. The first time they took over, it was simply a matter of the three ISDs engaging in hyperhop bombardment to neutralize the rather impressive weapons systems, then storming the station with assault shuttles loaded with troops. The second time around, apparently, they were wise to the Empire's intentions, being fresh, fully repaired, and restocked with weapons and supplies. The hyperhops didn't work as well with starships in the system, and TIE Bombers had to be dispatched to take out weapons emplacements on the station while the Star Destroyers took care of the relatively small fleet of starships, all that the Federation could afford to spare for defense until some of the other ships that had participated in the war had been repaired, and in some cases upgraded or finished. Sheppard wondered just why the hell Lowe had attempted to take so much with so little. A planetary assault with only three ISD-IIs would have been suicide back home. Even the supposedly backwards nature of this galaxy didn't negate tried-and-true tactics and strategy, and silently Sheppard wondered if Lowe was competent enough to be in command of this current, and much larger, fleet. At least they had support ships this time. And at least Sheppard had the _Revenger_. And with the shipyards here, however primitive they might be according to current Imperial standards, they could start to build more. But the thing that bothered Sheppard was their lack of a base of operations. The wormhole made for a poor headquarters. The insane flurry of ships coming in and out of the portal made things highly confusing, and powerful as an ISD's computers might be, it was mighty difficult to keep track of it all without a solid point of reference. Probably why Lowe was so keen to take that particular Federation system. Bajor was a rich world, rife in agricultural wealth, with a fair-sized space station in orbit above, and with the wormhole nearby, it provided an excellent means of keeping an eye on this Dominion that had proved to be so much trouble for the Federation and its allies. Sheppard got quite lost in his thoughts, slowly coming to the conclusion that Lowe must be nuts, before a slight cough from Sutton jerked him out of his musings. "Anyway, as I was saying, Captain Sanchez is somewhat of a swordsman," Sutton said, bringing up the file of the Captain of the ISD _Immortal_. "He's into ancient weapons and all that kind of arcane stuff." "Sounds good. Get Sanchez on the comm post-haste." "Aye, Captain. Er, a question first, sir. Shouldn't we be worrying about Klingon reinforcements?" "Naah." Sheppard waved the concern away. "I got this system jammed six ways from Sunday and detailed a couple of strike cruisers to move out of jamming range to intercept transmissions and forge replies. Any major surprises will be dealt with swiftly, like, say, that really big green ship over there." He pointed to a tactical holo, grinned at Sutton, did an amazing double take, then hit the comm key a split-second after it pinged. The tight voice of Lieutenant Riij came over the comm. "Captain, we're under attack!" To punctuate his statement, the ship lurched slightly from multiple hits. "Yeah!" Sheppard rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Rockin'!" With that, he bolted out of the turbolaser battery and made way for the bridge. A quite- surprised Sutton followed swiftly after. [???] The ghostly apparition that was once Captain Charles Sonnenburg floated through the ethereal plane. Well, perhaps floating isn't the term one would apply to it; more like being. He just was, silently being, watching several events as they occured, taking it all in. The blockade at the Klingon Homeworld; the slowly cooling shell of Risa; the massive ground offensive at Bajor. Suddenely, he gasped, if such a thing were possible. His focus was drawn to yet another dark nexus of Force...on one of the Imperial ships. The massive wedge shape didn't look any different from the others, but the eyes deceive. With his mere will, he focused his attention on the...presence. An almost overwhelmingly dark, grim presence...yet controlled, focused, channeled...a Force user. One with some serious need of anger management. He was elated; finally, a way to contact the living world. He tried to channel his thoughts...and was slammed back mercilessly by sheer will. Waves of menacing darkness rolled through his being, knocking him back with such force that he had to stop for a spell and gather his wits. It was obvious that this one man did not want his thoughts so casually invaded. A wall of darkness surrounded his mind now, and Sonnenburg gave up and decided to try elsewhere. _There has to be someone in this galaxy that can help,_ he thought. _The Jedi may have been purged, but the Force still flows strong._ He returned to his casual viewing, biding his time, hoping to find someone - anyone - receptive enough to channel him. [Bajor] [Note: More complete details in LT.Hit-Man's Journal Honor Bound] "What news, Captain?" asked Lowe casually as he strode onto the bridge. He forced himself to project an air of calmness, but his recent communique with old Palpy had left him quite shaken. Before Captain Berger got the chance to reply, a comm officer came up and silently offered him a datapad. "Now what?" Lowe demanded. The officer said nothing, and Lowe took the pad. He read over it swiftly, stunned. They were getting ready for an all-out assault on the remains of the resistance. "Get Lt. Colonel Tierce on the line, now, or you'll be chewing vacuum, understood?!" he yelled. The officer quickly fumbled a salute, then went off to his board. Lowe pondered, feeling confused at this whole situation; indeed, confused about everything since he arrived. He went over all he had done in his mind...confused at how he, a Grand Admiral of the Emperor's Navy, planned some of the all-time dumbest moves in the history of strategy. Attacking homeworlds directly? They never bothered taking out any of the frontier worlds and bases, leaving the enemy time and space enough to muster scattered forces. A Base- Delta-Zero during a three-prong attack? That was showing their hand far, far too early. Mustering nearly a full third of his fleet for an attack on a strife-torn world that could be taken by a mere task force? That was just lunacy; he'd have to correct that, reassign the ships. Perhaps he would gather the rest of his ships and meet the Federation fleet he was sure was en route half way, then perhaps he'd take Earth. Even now Captain Strowbridge and half his fleet were waiting at the rendezvous point, their job done at Risa. He thought about that, too...why leave half a fleet at Risa when it was nothing more than an empty husk? The escape of the lone runabout would ensure that the Federation knew about the fate of the former vacation planet. He looked outside the viewport, at the blue-green crescent of Bajor, and, nearby, the insectoid shape of the virtually-untouched Deep Space Nine, which they hadn't bothered with yet, having other matters to attend to. They had already lost it once, and Lowe wanted to consolidate his position first before taking or destroying the so-called space station. He thought back to that day, the day with the Federation captain Picard...time seemed to move so fast back then, such a short - what, six, seven months? - time ago. Thought back to his own ineptness, his own failures...instigating a war with only three ships. Three. He was still kicking himself over that. 66% losses in one battle. He wondered if he was going mad...but immediately silenced that thought, for he knew that the madness was but a side effect of the Dark Power imbuing his body, granting him his own private title of Darth Baron. Nobody else knew, of course; but when he was ready, he would arise out of the ashes of his former self and become a new Emperor, benevolent and wise, ready to bring justice and order to this galaxy...in time. He pushed the negative thoughts out of his mind; he was sure that the guidance of the Force was sound. Indeed the Dark Side was strong with him. Lowe smiled inwardly as the comm officer beckoned to him. Tierce was waiting. [Earth - Starfleet Headquarters] Sheer mayhem. Those were the only words to describe the situation at Starfleet Headquarters. Things were happening far too quickly then they were used to. Captain Rasiej had called in from Bajor with news of the return of the mysterious Imperials that had taken advantage of their strained military just a few short months back. All comm traffic to Risa had gone unresponded to, the ships in orbit failing to make routine check-ins. And something strange was going on with the Klingon homeworld; all visual communications were somehow offline, audio being the only means of staying in contact. The comm center was overflowing with messages of every sort, from fleet reports to concerned citizens demanding word on Risa. The poor bit-pushers working the desks were hard-pressed to keep up with the overflow, addressing only the major issues and pushing away all others with a "Starfleet Headquarters, please hold." Even in the 24th century, bureaucracy had taken a firm foothold, threatening the very sanity of those trying to keep it under control. All the Admirals Starfleet had were running madly around, mustering forces as best as they could to both investigate Risa and help out at Bajor, tearing their hair out at the lack of ships. Since the war with the Dominion had ended, relations with the Romulans had dissolved completely thanks to the Imperial menace, a rather abrupt occurrence which had baffled diplomats, and went back into their self-imposed isolation. The end result was nearly a third of the fleet was simply gone. The Klingons had begun pulling out some of it's own forces as well for defending their border against the now alienated Romulans and the Federation was stretched almost to its limits, even more so than had been before the war, and that stretch showed every sign of suddenly snapping back in their faces. It snapped. The utter madness was cut short when a priority one message was forced through, displaying itself on every screen there. A breathless voice boomed over the speakers. "Risa is gone," it said. On every viewscreen there, there suddenly appeared an image of a bright orange world, or what used to be a world, molten and cracked. Several dagger shapes could be seen silhouetted against the grim backdrop, with periodic flashes of green fire coming from one of them. "Monsters..." someone gasped. "With one ship..." an Admiral whispered, trailing off. Several people weeped, others trembled with rage, and the rest stared with numb horror. "I am the last survivor," he said. "Risa is no more..." And with that, the transmission ended. The only sound was of tears. [Quo'noS, former capital] The Klingon, much like the rest of his brethren, was big, mean and ugly. It twirled its bat'leth with practiced ease, the blade whistling through the air. On the other side of the makeshift court, Captain Pablo Sanchez shuffled nervously, taking his own practice swings with a massive and deadly-looking 'Gundark Carver' before resheathing it. Vibroblades were out of the question in a battle such as this, one which was based in strength, speed and skill. The Klingon smiled, a vicious grin full of sharp, pointy teeth. He spat on the ground, taunting Sanchez. "Cowardly p'tak! Your death will be swift! Targ!" "Uh, sure," Sanchez stammered. "Same to you, uh, pea tack!" The Klingon laughed. "I will carve open your chest and feast on your living heart!" "And I'll, um, use your skull for a candy bowl!" Sanchez replied, a little less than enthusiastically. The Klingon roared with laughter, then suddenly crouched into a predatory position, his curved blade glinting in the dim sun. Sanchez took up his stance and drew his own sword, holding it up defensively. He looked back at Sheppard, doubt haunting his features. Sheppard flashed a smile and gave him a thumb's up. Sutton stood behind him, holding high a large placard that read "Kriff 'im up!" Somewhere, a gong rang out, the deep chime echoing around the battlefield. The wind picked up slightly, blowing dust around the field and ruffled Sanchez' hair. He began a slow circle around his opponent, brandishing his weapon with malice, shaking back his tousled locks. With a roar, the Klingon brought his bat'leth crashing down, and with a loud clang and a shower of sparks the two blades met. The crowd cheered. Sanchez staggered back from the impact, almost losing his balance. The Klingon took the initiative and went in low, trying to cut Pablo's legs out from under him. The Captain leapt, barely clearing the weapon as it sweeped under him, bringing his sword whistling down on the Klingon's head where it was blocked by the sturdy bat'leth. Sanchez stumbled back, out of range, and caught his balance. The Klingon warrior roared. "One would think the blood of Kahless flows through this human!" He grinned. "But I, Stakh, son of T'kul, have more!" With a yell, Stakh charged, his blade poised to run Sanchez through. Instinctively, Pablo turned out of the way of the incoming Klingon, but at the last moment Stakh twirled swiftly, swinging his bat'leth with terrifying strength at Pablo's back. There it met the Gundark Carver strategically placed to cover Pablo's back at the last possible moment. Pablo slid his sword off the Klingon's, preparing to swing it at Stakh, but it whistled over his head as he ducked. Stakh caught Pablo's boot with his bat'leth, and the Captain tumbled to the ground. Stakh brought his blade crashing into the ground where Pablo's head should have been, but the wily Captain rolled well out of the way and scrambled to his feet, again in a defensive position. The blades crashed again and again, sparking with each new impact. Then the Klingon feinted, causing Sanchez to overswing, and Stakh clubbed Sanchez in the stomach with a checked swing. The blunt handle of the bat'leth impacting his stomach caused Pablo to double over in pain, and he fought the urge to vomit as he tried to back away. With an uppercut to the forehead, the Klingon knocked Sanchez sprawling onto the ground. He rolled over and immediately got up again. Stakh smiled at this man's resilience. The cheers of the Imperials and the Klingons combined made a deafening sound, both praises and insults flying through the air with practiced ease in several different languages. Currency began to fly around the lower ranks of Imperial soldiers. Weapons banged against armor in a clamoring din as the two fought. The blades caught each other, and with a grunt of effort, Sanchez used the leverage of his sword to throw Stakh off his feet, swinging his blade around over his head, preparing to bring it slicing down on the Klingon, but Stakh dodged the blade as it screamed through the air. He avoided the deadly blow, but it clipped his left foot and he roared in pain. Sanchez' 'Gundark Carver' was stained with a purplish liquid, and the Klingon limped back a few paces and fell on his end. With an evil gleam in his eye, Pablo licked the blood off his weapon. Stakh smiled in approval. "Perhaps these Imperials are not the p'taks we take them for!" he shouted. "But one of us must have the victory!" Stakh leaped to his feet, brandishing his bat'leth. With a roar, he swung it, and it met the gleaming 'Gundark Carver' in mid-swing. The weapon fell out of the stunned Klingon's hands, and he barely had the presence of mind to dodge Pablo's counterstroke. As he turned, however, the 'Gundark Carver' sliced through the back of his knee. He fell to the ground in pain, trying and failing to get up. Pablo advanced on the fallen warrior and placed the tip of his blade on Stakh's neck. "Go ahead, Imperial," he said. "You have defeated me! My life is yours!" To everyone's surprise, Pablo dropped the blade, instead offering his hand to Stakh, son of T'kul. The Klingon grasped it, and Pablo helped lift him off the ground. Sheppard came forth, smiling and clapping. "We are not altogether unlike," he said. "We too are of warrior stock. Perhaps we may learn from each other instead of participating in endless battle." "But these p'taks have destroyed our cities and killed many of our people!" said one of the Klingons. "And they bring dishonor to those that are now prisoners in their starships!" "Yes," replied another. "But we gave them our word as warriors." "Their weapons are too much of a threat!" came a third voice. "They can destroy us at a whim!" followed immediately afterwards. Sheppard waved down the arguments. "As a token of our goodwill, we will release the prisoners from the ship we captured above your world," he said. "And we will also release the ship back into your custody. In the meantime, we would like to make a proposal." "What proposal is that?" asked Stakh. "What do you have that we could use?" "Well, as you have no doubt seen, we have many powerful starships," said Sheppard. "If you ally yourselves with us, we shall go forward together as brothers! We shall avenge the deaths of those at Kittimir!" The crowd tensed. Sheppard had them eating out of the palm of his hand. "Join us, and together we will conquer the traitorous Romulan Star Empire!" The same Empire that was once an ally, Sheppard noted. The same Empire that had once been so trusted, the same Empire that had not been there when the Empire needed them. Had they been at Deep Space Nine during that final battle... The Romulans had indeed lived up to their reputation. Now it was time to show the treacherous bastards exactly what the Empire thought of that reputation. To show them the true meaning of revenge... "We will help you end the treachery of the Romulan pigs," said Stakh. "We will join you!" The crowd roared, cheering. "I think that's a yes," Sheppard said. Sutton simply nodded. [One Week Later] [ISD _Malevolence_] "Permission to speak freely, sir?" "Granted." "What the hell are we doing here?" Strowbridge looked with distaste at Commander Kerkhof. "We are waiting," he said. "And we will continue to wait until ordered otherwise. Only when he gives the signal will we return to the rendez-vous point." Kerkhof regarded the shattered hulk of the world outside the viewport. "Why?" he asked. "Word has certainly spread by now. That escaped Federation ship certainly had more than enough time already. I don't see why we have to waste any more of our time here. And I certainly don't see why we have to leave behind a whole half of the task force." "I'm sure Grand Admiral Lowe has his reasons," replied Strowbridge. "And I'm sure that the man is insane," muttered Kerkhof. "I'll have none of that on my bridge, thank you. You are dismissed, Commander." Muttering, Kerkhof turned around and stomped off towards the turbolift. Strowbridge glowered at his Commander's back as he left. _Perhaps Aron's is right,_ he thought. _Nothing Lowe has done so far has made any sense at all._ Well, all that would change when Lord Vader arrived. A very chilling piece of news he had just received in the latest communiqués with the _Baron_, along with the even more disturbing news that LT.Hit-Man was up and about and, reportedly, raising hell. Apparently, this was related to the reasons why Rear Admiral Yates and the _Cerberus_ were ordered off the Ferengi front and back to meet with the _Baron_. LT.Hit-Man had a reputation for completely turning things on their head. A reputation that was not undeserved. Rumor had it that he had an apprentice now, an apprentice not unlike Hit- Man, and female, as well. Strowbridge shuddered at the thought of little LT.Hit- Men running around underfoot. The new stormtrooper division he created known as the Hellhounds was a step in that utterly terrifying direction. He waited. [USS _Iridescent_, somewhere near Bajor] Captain Rasiej awoke with a start, straightening himself up in his chair. The past week had taken a toll on the entire crew: stranded right outside the system, with no movement capability to speak of at the moment. He tapped the comm. "Bridge to Engineering," he spoke. "How are we looking?" The exasperated voice of Commander Federico came back, his voice ragged. "Did anybody get the number of that train?" He half-laughed. "We are not going anywhere for at least another fifteen hours, and even then it'll be docking thrusters only. It's a huge mess down here, and we're still cleaning up debris." Rasiej puffed his cheeks, then exhaled slowly. "Well! Better get cracking then! Bridge out." He moved over to a tactical display at the back of the bridge and gave it a quick sweep. "So how's Bajor looking?" he asked, casually using the shoulder of Lt. Cmdr. O'Farrell as an armrest. O'Farrell winced slightly, unused to such informality on the bridge. "I can't get that good of a reading from here," he reported. "From what I can make out, Deep Space Nine is damaged but intact, but Bajor's been totally overrun. The Imps may have underestimated the station's targeting capability, but their ground forces are far superior to anything we've ever had." "Are there any of our ships left?" He shook his head. "Well, no, sir, if you don't count DS9. We're the only ones who managed to make it through. The last Sovereign was destroyed shortly after we cut loose." "What about the _Defiant_?" "At Earth, sir. The fleet isn't ready yet, though." Rasiej frowned. "Why?" "Good question," he replied thoughtfully. "They haven't said." [Earth] "How's it looking?" asked Lt. Commander Boyd. "We're almost done," replied Geordi LaForge, formerly of the _Enterprise_, but, along with the rest of the surviving crew, now attached to the _Sonnenburg_. Captain Picard had long since retired to his family's land in France, sick of war. Most of the crew, including Picard and LaForge, still bore the scars from their time in Imperial detention cells and on the prison camp that was once Deep Space Nine. They had been out of the limelight for a while, but in due time would retake their place as the Federation's finest when the new _Glory_-class _Enterprise-F_ was completed. For now, though, they were led by Captain Will Robertson, one of the most highly decorated participants of the Dominion War, with the blessings of Captain Picard. Working together with a new crew would be uncomfortable for a while, but everyone was sure that they'd become as tight-knit with the others as they were aboard the _Enterprise_. "About twenty more minutes and we should be ready." The new modifications had taken longer than previously thought, but the results, if there were any, were expected to be no less than spectacular. Starfleet R&D had been working on this new idea ever since the initial attack by the Imperials and had come up with a plan for a hybrid device dubbed the 'turbophaser.' Of course, developing any totally new technology such as a hyperdrive would take years of advancement, but the basic physics of the turbolaser were not totally foreign to them. True turbolasers were still far off; they wouldn't able to get any use of them with their current power generation technology. So, they had focused on a compromise, a sort of mix between a pulse phaser and a plasma torpedo. The result was a weapon that combined the devastating energy delivery of the turbolaser with the NDF effect of the phaser. It was, as of yet, untested, but that wouldn't remain so for long, and the advanced power distribution systems on the _Glory_-class made for a perfect testbed. Of course, many of the other weapon systems had to be taken offline or removed totally, but that still left an obscene amount of standard weaponry. "You think it'll work?" asked Boyd. "We have no way of telling yet," replied LaForge. "It could be everything we dreamed of, or it could just blow up in our faces. The only thing we can do is fire it up and hope for the best." Boyd looked over the specs, frowning. "Are you sure that the plasma won't be affected by the NDF effect?" LaForge wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "The weapon has a 'jacket' effect. The phaser pulse is fired in a sleeve of supercharged plasma, but the field that separates the two degrades very rapidly. We won't get a lot of range, but it'll pack one hell of a punch." "What about shields?" asked Boyd. "That's what the plasma is for." Geordi smiled. "The turbolaser component will rip into the shields, and once the field is compromised, the phaser component, if the shield is weak enough to get through, will work its magic on the hull. Of course, this is only one shot; multiple firings could prove devastating." "How much range are we looking at here?" "Probably around a few hundred kilometers, tops. Any farther than that and the containment field fails, allowing the two components to mix. I think it could work like a flak burst, but I can't be sure." Boyd nodded. "Things are looking up," he said softly. "Or maybe it's we who will be looking up," he added to himself. "From the ground." [Meanwhile, aboard the _Baron_] [Again, more of the back story at http://daltonator.net/fanfics/stories/hmj_hb.txt] "Not good," Lowe breathed as he walked briskly down the corridor. "Definitely not good." "What's not good?" Admiral Zeda asked, trying to keep up with the hurrying Grand Admiral. "Things are going bonkers," he replied. "Yes, definitely bonkers...nuts, insane off-the-wall. Need time...need more time." "Admiral Lowe!" Zeda demanded, clasping his superior's shoulder and bringing him to a firm halt. "Sir. What is going on?" Lowe glared at him with strangled patience, trying and failing to crush Zeda's throat with the power of the Dark Side. He passed off his failure at not having enough focus. "Lieutenant Hit-Man," he said simply. "Not good." Zeda was puzzled. "What about him, sir? All the reports indicate that he was saved and is recovering in the med bay!" "You are behind the times, Admiral," replied Lowe. "Everybody's favorite stormtrooper has just made things that much more difficult." "Again?" "Yes, again." Lowe turned sharply and continued walking. Zeda ran to catch up. "Anyway," he continued, "Rear Admiral Yates should be back within the hour." "Yates?" Zeda asked incredulously. "Is he not supposed to be organizing the Ferenginar campaign?" "That he is," Lowe agreed. "Except that LT.Hit-Man wants him back here to pick up a division of stormtroopers." Zeda gaped. "Just a division of...why?" "Check the brig manifest and find out, Admiral." Zeda took out his datapad and input a request for the information. He boggled at what he saw. Which, oddly enough, was nothing, save for the single name of Fortio. "Aren't Drzic and his troops--" Lowe cut him off sharply. "Apparently, Sergeant Drzic is now the leader of LT.Hit-Man's HellHounds," he said. "Who are now attached to Admiral Yates and the _Cerberus_. "Cute," said Zeda. "Under whose authorization, sir?" "Mine," Lowe replied. "He convinced me." "I don't like the sound of that." "Neither do I. I don't suppose you heard what happened to that Federation prisoner we picked up along with LT.Hit-Man?" Zeda had noted that the man, identified as Ensign Jones, was missing from the brig manifest along with the deserters. "Do I want to know, sir?" he asked cautiously. "Do you want to rub salt in an open wound?" Lowe countered. "Just know that he is no longer a prisoner. And don't count on Captain Fortio being a prisoner much longer." "I don't like the sound of that either," Zeda replied. "I'm not surprised," said Lowe. "Just try to stay off his bad side." "I'm trying to stay off his side, period," muttered Zeda. "Come again?" "Ah, I'm just saying we should see how things are planetside, sir," said Zeda. "Ah, I was just about to meet Lt. Colonel Tierce about that. You might want to sit in on this, too." "Yes, sir." [Bajoran System] The block of half-frozen organic matter floated through the void, slowly warming up as it absorbed solar radiation. Every now and again, some of the matter warmed up enough to liquify and form into shape. It had been floating there for months, but soon now - very soon, indeed - it would again be its former self. Again it would be Odo. Honor Bound 8 "Possibilities" [ISD _Baron_] "Report?" asked Lowe. "The spy is acting as accorded, sir," replied Admiral Zeda, proffering a padd. "He reports no suspicion of his absence. Shall I execute his primary protocol?" A slight sound distracted their attention. "Did you hear that?" Lowe asked, his curiosity, and suspicion, piqued. "Yes, sir. It sounded like something splattered against the viewport," said Zeda, looking out at the sea of stars beyond. There was a red tint to the vista. "Looks fluidic. Perhaps some sort of liquid exhaust?" Lowe moved for a closer examination. "I can't tell what it is," he said. "Coolant? Get a crew out there to clean it up. As for your inquiry...no, not yet," He took the device. "I have plans. Give it time." Time. A short time ago... _"How's our friend?" asked Lowe, gazing out at the man strapped to the table on the other side of the one-way mirror. The man was found recently listening in on a quite important conversation, and was immediately taken as a spy. What surprised them was that he claimed to be part of the Federation, yet not of Starfleet; any other information was unforthcoming, save for his name. The only conclusion they could come to was that he was part of some sort of shadow organization within the Federation itself, quite surprising given the perceived softness of Starfleet._ _"The operation is almost complete," reported the surgeon as he turned a few dials. "The suicide device he had implanted in his brain was found and disabled just in time; good thing he was stunned before he was brought in. As for the implants, they're not being accepted, but they're not being rejected either. Just a little more time and we should be ready."_ _"Good," said Lowe. "These pests are starting to get on my nerves." It annoyed Lowe no end that a spy from that inept bunch of pajama-warriors managed to slip past their security screen and infiltrate the flagship of the Milky Way fleet. "Do you have the results of the mind sift?"_ _"Yes, sir, and we found some very interesting tidbits. In particular, something that they call trilithium." He handed Lowe a padd. "This could have staggering implications in the field of stellar manipulation. I suggest we inform the Emperor right away."_ _"Suggestion noted, Major. Carry on."_ _"Yes, sir."_ Lowe turned away from Zeda, pondering the next step. The Federation, who up until recently had appeared to be as soft as they could come, apparently had a hard edge to them, harder than suggested even by the sacrifice of the _Glory_. He began to read the padd as he walked. Creating planets, destroying stars...yes, he had definitely underestimated his adversary. But their time would soon come. Yes...very soon now. And all would perish. All. By the power of the Dark Side, all. He chuckled. [Somewhere on ISD _Baron_, shortly after] It was sheer luck that Odo's path and the alien ship intersected. What was not so lucky was that, out of all the solid, dull gray surface area available on the ship, he smacked straight into a window. From there, it was a cakewalk to the ship's interior. An amoebic sort of movement on a grand scale, his gentle - sliding was the best term - brought him to a wide-open gap, presumably some sort of bay. Once inside, Odo immediately snuck into the nearest duct and into the ventilation system. It was a mixed blessing. His shapeshifting skills were put to the test with all manner of obstacles. Fan blades, purification grids, filters, and all manners of sensors twisted him into new and interesting shapes, and his gradual and rather sinuous passage brought him to staterooms, officer's quarters, lavatories, and, eventually, what appeared to be the ship's main control center. Not one to pass up an opportunity to be a fly on the wall, Odo sat on the ceiling of the bridge, quietly observing. Somewhere behind him a door slid open, and Odo froze completely, having only just enough presence of mind to retain his shape at the sight of a being he once mimiced. Grand Admiral Lowe. [Section 31 Secret Base] It looked innocent enough, a small complex of offices subtly set off from the remainder of the busy Federation colony. All around the grassy front yard plainclothes security officers were stationed, well out of notice and usually out of eyeshot. Inside the building, men and women rushed around busily, usually carrying stacks of padds. Others sat in comfortable chairs, typing furiously at their consoles. All in all, it was the typical administrative headquarters. Or at least it looked like it. Most of the building's staff were blissfully unaware of the quite questionable activities and goings-on underneath their feet, and if they did notice the odd clank or skitter, quite frankly none of them really cared. They were far too busy to worry about what was probably a small nest of local pests, and they went about their daily routine. The rest of the staff, however... Ryan Spickard was quite an amiable man; always on time, always completed his work, always said hello to everyone. There was nothing quite out-of-place about him, save the fact that he tended to disappear for two or three hours at a time, usually around lunch, but nobody took any major notice as he usually brought back trays of coffee, ractageno and tea for the entire staff. Ryan was the perfect co-worker. Or at least looked like it. He looked at the clock. It was almost local noon, though true solar noon had passed at least a half hour ago. He shut off his display and got up. "I'm going to lunch," he announced. "Any special requests today?" Nobody requested anything particularly special, but there were quite a few calls for more sugar. Someone always hoarded more than their fair share, as was usually typical in a large office. Ryan smiled and walked out, nodding to a few people on his way. He glanced out of the tinted third-floor windows at the busy streets outside, giving silent thanks that he wouldn't have to deal with all that traffic. The turbolift to the ground floor was there waiting for him and the hallway completely empty, save for a single man who had his finger on the call button. "Good afternoon, sir," Ryan said quietly. "Spickard," he said. "We have something of major importance to discuss." The man ushered him into the car, and the door closed. "Tartaros," he said. "Authorization Moon-seven-charlie-beta-four-nine." "Voiceprint confirmed," came the computer's reply, and with the slightest of jerks the turbolift headed down, but not to the ground floor as expected. Instead, it continued downwards to a small sub-basement, inaccessible to all but three people on the entire planet. The door opened to a very long dark red hallway, nearly half a kilometer end-to-end. Commander Alex Moon continued as they walked. "Ryan," he said. "The Federation is in grave danger." Spickard looked at him, slightly bewildered. "Wow, I hadn't noticed," he said, his tone dripping sarcasm. "We're only facing a fleet of mile-long starships. I bet we could take them in our sleep." Moon made a face. "I'm being deadly serious here. Our very way of life is being threatened." He stopped for a moment and looked at Ryan intensely. "Never in my life have I felt such a fear of losing my life, my home and my family," he said quietly. "Not with the Dominion, not with the Borg, not with anyone else. They haven't done too much to us so far, but just knowing what they can do is enough." They continued walking. Ryan changed his attitude. "Well, they're not exactly the biggest ships we've seen, despite what Picard thinks. So what can we do?" he asked. Moon sighed. "Picard isn't exactly in the best of mental states, and he didn't see much action during the Dominion war either. Apparently senility is setting in early. Anyway, the only thing we can do at this point is try to take out as many ships we can in one fell swoop. And I can only think of a few ways to do that. And we can only do it at one place in the entire Federation at the moment." Ryan considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Ah! Destroy the wormhole! Cut them off from their home galaxy and destroy them through attrition..." He trailed off. "No." Moon shook his head. "It didn't work last time we tried. This wormhole is different from Bajor's." "Maybe we could use the Genesis device somehow..." He trailed off again, noticing the pained look in Moon's eyes. "Even if we had one," he said, "it needs a substantial amount of matter to work with, such as a dead planet. The Mutara Nebula worked only because of the density of the matter contained within it. And we wouldn't be able to take out that many ships, and I doubt it'd work on the wormhole. No, what I'm thinking of has many implications that reach much further than that. In fact, we're going to destroy another way of life to preserve our own." "But..." "I know," said Alex. "But it's the only thing we can do. The only way to try and stop them from exterminating the Federation. Bajor is where their major stronghold is, and that's where their most important ships will be. " Ryan thought back to the legacy of Soran, about how Picard and Kirk managed to stop the maniacal El Aurian from destroying the Viridian star, about how the _Enterprise-D_ crash-landed and was supposedly lost. "Trilithium torpedo," he whispered. "How..." "It's an amalgamation of data," said Moon. "Some of it comes from the analysis of the data collected by Geordi LaForge and Commander Data, some from the debris left at Viridian III, plus some of the earlier research from the Genesis project. We believe we have a suitable prototype to work with, but unfortunately we have no place to test it. We'll have to send it off and hope for the best." "But why not the wormhole?" Moon considered silently. "I'm not sure it'll let us," he said quietly. Ryan looked up sharply. "What do you mean by that? Captain Sonnenburg seems to have almost succeeded." Alex glanced sidelong at him. "I'll tell you later," he promised. They walked silently for a bit, nearing the end of the corridor, before Ryan spoke again. "So how are we going to get it there?" he asked. "We can't just waltz in and fire off a torpedo under their noses." Moon nodded. "That will be revealed in a few moments," he said. "Everything will be revealed." [???] The apparition was exasperated. Sonnenburg stretched his awareness to its limit, tried to let the Force be his guide, but nothing came of it. He could detect, at the edge of his 'vision,' a dark nexus of force that he thought seemed familiar, but negative proddings told him to stay well away for now. He despaired for a reason to his continued existence. It seemed to be nothing more than a way for the universe to torture him, watching the destruction of his people. All because of that chance encounter with that damned Lowe. He wrinkled his brow in anger. What was that monster up to now? He snapped his fingers. [ISD _Baron_] "Burst transmission from wormhole base, Admiral," a comm officer called as Lowe arrived. "On my viewer." Lowe sat down and called up the message, a smile spreading on his face like a cheerful sunrise. One less threat to his reign over the Dark Side here. He read further down, suddenly grimacing. Stomach acids went hard at work creating an ulcer. "Er...news, sir?" Admiral Zeda asked warily, walking up. "The Force has been unkind. Read." Zeda furtively glanced at his superior, then scanned the message. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "No Vader," he said, visibly relieved. "But I've never heard of this ship before. What kind of name is _Kriff Nuts_ anyway?" "Apparently the Emperor enjoys embarrassing me," Lowe said viciously, his smile twisting. "Our Imperators aren't enough, it seems, so he sends an Executor. But that's not the point. Read further down-" "Admiral, priority message for you on personal encrypt," interrupted the comm officer. A flash of anger crossed Lowe's face, but he motioned the officer to transfer the message. A short transmission, but clear enough: 'Launch at 1000 standard tomorrow. -P' "Paulsen...our little fly on the wall," Lowe murmured. "What time is the _Kriff Nuts_ supposed to arrive?" Zeda asked over his shoulder. "0900 hours, according to the transmission," Lowe replied. He rubbed his chin. "Commanded by Line Captain Velkaria Illushtin." Zeda took a sharp breath. "She's nearly as bad as Vader!" It felt odd saying that pronoun, Zeda thought to himself. The Emperor's sexism was well known. "I know, Admiral," Lowe said grimly. "We'll have to jump that hurdle when we come to it. What news on Admiral Yates?" Zeda consulted a nearby computer. "Troop transfer was completed a little while ago, and they're preparing to jump to hyperspace now. It seems Admiral Yates's mission has not been changed." Lowe nodded. "Good. That should keep LT.Hit-Man out of our hair for now." He smiled at that. "What of the others?" "Well, Captain Strowbridge and the rest of his fleet are still waiting at Risa. Frankly, sir, I don't see why you're letting him just sit out there." "The mindsift of our little puppet turned up the name of that planet a number of times. I don't know what's there, and I want to find out," Lowe said. "But send him the signal; the time approaches rapidly and my plans have changed; Cardassia can wait. It's no threat. Tell him to leave several ships making constant sweeps of the system. We will meet him and the _Revenger_ at the rendez-vous point after we capture the torpedo, then head to Earth." "Yes, sir." Zeda glanced at the computer again. "Speaking of Captain Sheppard, he has sent a report on the status of our alliance with the Klingon Empire and the preparation for attack against the Romulans. He insists he has to be there." Admiral Lowe considered for a moment. "We can do without that nut bar," he decided. "I concur, sir," Zeda replied. "You did, of course, hear about those two hours he spent in his makeshift holodeck, killing a Starfleet officer again and again." "Several times, yes...order Captain Sheppard to remain with a task force at the homeworld... Kronos? Yes. Have Commander Sutton meet us instead with the rest of the fleet." "Commander Sutton, sir? Are you--" Lowe cut him off. "Don't question my orders. Just follow them. Sutton has proved his worth in the past." "Yes, sir," Zeda said. "One last thing. The cleanup crew reported there's nothing to clean." Lowe looked up sharply. "What do you mean, nothing? My briefing room's windows are filthy! Tell them to scour the outside of my ship, every square inch. I want this thing sparkling before Illushtin arrives! You are dismissed!" "Sir," Zeda said sharply. He turned and walked off. The apparition took this all in, focusing on the latter part of the conversation. Fly on the wall...this secret agent Paulsen. A plan involving a torpedo. Sheppard at the Klingon homeworld. Something about the scheme tugged at his mind; he felt the two facts were linked somehow. He smiled grimly and snapped his fingers. [S31 Base] Agent Paulsen had just finished hiding the tiny Imperial communication device when his door chimed. Finally, this Ryan had arrived with Moon. He composed himself and greeted them at the door. He nodded to Moon. "I'm Björn Paulsen, special operations," he said. "This must be Ryan Spickard?" "Indeed," replied Ryan. "I've heard you know quite a bit about the Imperials." "More than you can imagine," Björn said, his voice distant. "Anyway, I'm your copilot. "Copilot? What's this about, Commander?" Moon sighed. "You're flying the torpedo to Bajor in a runabout," he said. "Björn here is your cover in case you run into Imperial trouble. If that happens, you're to be his prisoner and he's transporting you in a stolen shuttle." "I don't like this," Ryan said. "What kind of trouble do you expect?" "Picket ships, routine patrols, that sort of thing," Moon replied. "He can get you past. Once that happens, you're to fire the torpedo and run like hell." "And what's his story?" Ryan asked, indicating Paulsen. "He's an escapee from a Federation prison, captured back during the original invasion," Moon said. "This should be enough to get you into the system. You probably won't run across any big ships; you'll be approaching from the far side of the station. The system primary will be between you and them." Ryan nodded. "And in case we fail?" Björn smiled grimly. "Then the Federation is doomed. We intercepted a transmission from their wormhole base. Rumor has it that they're expecting another fleet, this time led by a command ship." "Command ship? You mean, bigger than the ones we've already seen?" "From all indications, yes." Paulsen had a look of madness in his eye. "All we can tell is that it'll definitely be bigger, meaner and stronger than anything we've ever encountered before." Ryan seemed panicked. "We should destroy the wormhole before it comes through, then," he said. "Cut them off..." he hesitated. "But we can't, you said. Care to tell me why?" "As I said before, I don't think it'll let us," Moon said. Ryan stopped on this thought for a bit. He asked, with some trepidation, "Are you saying...that...it's _alive?_" "Well, yes." Moon took a breath. "Not likely, I must say, but not entirely improbable either. Life finds a way." "But how..." "We're not entirely sure. We've never had a ship go through, but the internal dynamics of the...thing, as well as the location of the exits, seem to indicate..." "What?" Ryan was rubbing his temples. He moved to sit, the other two following. "It seems to be a stellar digestive system." Ryan looked nonplussed. "Eh?" "When you look at it, you realize something. One end is near the stellar core of a galaxy. The other is in a sort of void. We've detected faint nebulosity around our end, which suggests that it excretes gases of some sort. The 'mouth' opens periodically to absorb stellar radiation, processing it and filtering out any matter, excreting it back into that void. A wormhole with the worm still inside." The other shook his head. Paulsen, who'd already been briefed, excused himself. "In one end and out the other," Ryan murmured. "Tell me this, though: why does it work the other way? And why bother connecting across two distant galaxies?" "Our scientists think it can change the functions of either orifice at will. It detects energy coming in the wrong end, and changes that end to "swallow" it. If it suddenly comes across vast excess and eats its fill, both ends become tails and it's no access at that point. That's what might have happened when Admiral Sonnenburg detonated those two warp cores. We haven't figured out your second question yet." Ryan had his head in both hands. "I think my brain is trying to escape." "Don't try to understand," Moon said sympathetically. "I don't get it either." "When do we leave?" "That I can tell you. 1000 hours tomorrow, about an hour after that command ship is due to arrive." Alive? Sonnenburg was amazed. He concentrated, and was at the wormhole's location. Ships surrounded apparently empty space, and Sonnenburg directed his concentration there. Indeed, he could feel the barest sentience there, something older than anything he'd ever encountered before. There was an overwhelming malevolence there too... He was suddenly reminded of Jacques, who had imbued himself inside of a monument, causing its destruction. Odd that he should remember that...his breath caught. He had heard about the death of Admiral Ferris...no known cause. Jacques too? He pondered the possibility of controlling another being, but a stern flash of negativity from the Force turned him away from that path. If only he could harness the dark spirit of Jacques...but he was destroyed, wasn't he? He remembered the giant nexus of darkness he felt before, compared it to the smaller one he defeated on Earth. Its nearness almost overwhelmed him...definitely localized around the wormhole somewhere, and also the source of the darkness surrounding him. Definitely the same, but much more powerful now. He felt a sharp jab in his "brain". It was time to confront Jacques again, it seemed. Confront him, and try and convince him to help. Suddenly, the malevolence seemed to envelop him. He turned around and looked into the face of pure evil. The universe went dark around him. [???] "We meet again, Sonnenburg." The voice came from all directions at once. Sonnenburg felt sudden claustrophobia. "I destroyed you--" Jacques cut him off. "Silence, fool! You destroyed me once, but one of those damned Imperials replicated and killed me again and again..." The darkness seemed to ripple, and his voice boomed, louder than ever, buffeting Sonnenburg. "I know why you're here. The question is whether I should destroy you now or later. I have bigger fish to fry." "I need your help, Paul." Silence. "Please! For the sake of the Federation." "Why should I help you?" Sonnenburg felt stretched, almost to the breaking point. He tried to appeal to Jacques's loyalty to Starfleet. "Jacques, if you don't help...well, they're sending more ships through and a hell of a lot more supplies, including what I think is a ship much larger than what they already have." Jacques seemed genuinely stunned. "What do you have planned?" he asked. "I need you to move that wormhole." "Ambitious. I don't see how you can accomplish it," Jacques said. He gave a little twist, just to remind Sonnenburg who was in control. "You can possess living beings, right?" Sonnenburg grimaced, a mouse the cat decided to play with. "Your point?" "That wormhole is the biggest living being I've ever seen." "You had better not be screwing with me, Sonnenburg," Jacques threatened. "I hate being toyed with. So what do you have to offer in return for my help? That is, if I do agree with this silly plan of yours." Sonnenburg took an astral deep breath. He didn't like having to do something like this, but it was the only path he saw. "I can help you get revenge." [The next day, ESD _Kriff Nuts_, 0700 hours] "Hangar reports that LT.Hit-Man has landed his ship and is secured, sir," called a comm operator. "Very well. Proceed." "Approaching the event horizon, Captain," reported the navigational officer. "Entry in twenty seconds." Line Captain Velkaria Illushtin acknowledged the officer with a nod, smiling faintly. Finally, she had something real to crush, something with a bite, instead of the pithy, insignificant rebellion. Her green eyes flickered. Illushtin was among the most vicious and ruthless Imperial officers to ever serve in the Emperor's New Order. Dubbed less than affectionately as 'The BDZ Bitch' by the Rebels, she killed more planets than any other Imperial. Her special talent for destruction had caught the Emperor's eye early on during the Rebellion. Though having his personal favor, she was still restricted by a glass ceiling. Illushtin was sure she'd be a Grand Admiral by now if she were male. Of course, that was only probably part of the reason; she went against regulation just about as often as LT.Hit-Man. Illushtin never wore a uniform; the only time she put on the stiff, scratchy material was for formal occasions requiring a dress uniform. Most of the time she chose instead to wear black Bantha leather, her loose locks spilling around the shoulders. That was another thing that probably contributed to her slow rise: shoulder-length dark blue hair, completely against Imperial regulations. The cut was one matter, but the color another. Rather than dyeing it constantly, she used her family's wealth to engage in a bit of genetic engineering. Her father, the Chief Executive Officer of Rendili Stardrive, was horrified and refused at first, but she insisted...with a fleet of Star Destroyers pointed at his homeworld. Velkaria was used to that sort of thing. She never believed in fear of force rather than force itself, the infamous Tarkin doctrine that led to the Death Star. There was something wholly satisfying about watching a world boil, the lovely orange glow of a ruined planet. Illushtin had been looking forward to engaging in the first Base Delta Zero operation in this new galaxy, but apparently one of the senior captains had beat her to it. Greedy, she knew, but there were only so many planets to crush. Well, at least she had the authority to countermand Grand Admiral Lowe. Authority granted by His Lordship himself. She bared her teeth. "Crossing event horizon...wormhole is opening, Captain." The _Kriff Nuts_, nearly eighteen kilometers of destruction, was the first to slip past the glowing portal, followed by the rest of the secondary fleet assigned to this conquest. "We are in transit-" "Sir! Reading major timespace fluctuations!" Illushtin frowned. "Explain." "The wormhole is losing stability! We have to get out of here *now!*" "Full sublight! Get us out!" "Approaching destination, Captain. We'll make it, but I don't think the rest of the fleet will..." Illushtin swore viciously as the _Kriff Nuts_ burst out into the other galaxy. The portal of the wormhole seemed to fizzle, then streak as it shot off to parts unknown. [S31 Base, Briefing Room] "This is a normal _Danube_ class runabout," Moon explained, "with several modifications, of course. The most obvious is this hidden compartment on the bottom." Moon pointed to the makeshift launcher built for the trilithium torpedo. "Power output has been increased to compensate for additional mass. Maximum warp cruising factor has been increased, and we've upgraded the phaser array, for whatever good that will do. Any questions?" Ryan and Björn remained silent. They had trained extensively for this mission and were aware of all the little details that could make or break it. "Dismissed. Good luck."