“Hannibal ad portas”

 

Cicero’s – “Philippic No#1” (44 BC)

 

“Gentlemen!’ Enthused Captain N’vok, as Chief Manningly and Lt Hayes materialized aboard the SS Devore in a swirl of golden energy. “Always glad to engage a helping hand in friendship to the good people of the Federation!” The conniving Ferengi trader smiled a smile of jagged teeth, as he ingratiated himself to the Boarding Party.

Myron Hayes glowered down at the diminutive alien, as he towered above him – effectively blocking the narrow corridor of the freighter.

“Seems we got unfinished business, you and me.” Myron rumbled in his thick creole patios.

The crafty Ferengi tilted his lobes and frowned uncertainly.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure before?” N’vok smiled, unsure of where this discourse was headed. “I think I’d remember such a magnificent specimen such as yourself, Lieutenant….?”

“Hayes….” Myron nodded… “Of the USS Savannah……”

“The USS….” N’vok laughed nervously, “Oh my! Well, this is awkward…..maybe we should…. AWK!”

Myron grasped the Ferengi by one of his prodigious lobes (both an insult and excruciating painful for a Ferengi) and as Captain N’vok squirmed and squawked in the Security Chief’s iron – like grip, Myron bent down to amurmer in the said – captive’s – captive ear.

“Oh! Ya’ll can be catchin’-up on the way down tuh’ show me what ya’ll got in that hold o’yours, that you be making for Unnerspace for in such a hurry?”  The hulking Starfleet Officer smiled ominously as he began to bodily propel the protesting Ferengi towards the Turbolift at the end of the corridor.

“AH! LET ME GO! I PROTEST! THIS IS FEDERATION BRUTALITY! I HAVE DONE NOTHING WRONG! HELP! “Captain N’vok implored Chief Manningly.

“Oh! I’m just here as an ‘observer’.” Talbot smiled apologetically and spread his hands wide in a gesture of faux – regret.

Captain N’vok protested both loudly and vehemently all the way down to the Cargo – hold, before Myron let got his throbbing lobe and the irate little Ferengi stumbled and whirled around, rubbing his furious appendage in reproach.

“There! You see! All is in order!” N’vok scowled as Chief Manningly went through the inventory and began checking the consignment of cargo, opening containers and probing within.

“Agricultural equipment and Biomass, is that correct?”

“Plainly, you’re a man that knows his manure!” N’vok jibed sarcastically.

“Know it when ah’ smell it.” Lieutenant Hayes countered as he scanned the hold with his Tricorder.

 All did, indeed, seem to be in order. However, Myron was an experienced Security Officer through and through and the day that he encountered a Ferengi that was free from the tarnish of greed and subterfuge – would be the day that Myron hung up his hand phaser and called it a day.

“This a Conveyer – class freighter, that right?” Myron nodded to N’vok, who blinked.

“Well, yes…. What of it!” The Ferengi scowled back.

“Standard Cargo displacement on a Conveyor is 332,000 Cubic Meters.” Myron frowned as the Tricorder gently beeped away.

“If you say so…” N’vok replied sullenly, “Really Lieutenant, is all of this strictly….” He continued, before Myron held up an oar – sized hand and continued.

“Scan says that this volume is only 319,000 Cubes – care to explain ‘dat?”

“Pah! Shrimp, Lieutenant!” The Ferengi shrugged.

“Shrimp?” Myron looked down his broad nose to N’vok, his face deadpan.

“Bajoran – Shrimp to be precise!” Captain N’vok enthused, “GREAT market for the little – devils, but also devilishly hard to transport, as they tend to go off so very quickly. Had to install extra refrigeration units to keep them fresh enough for market!”

“Nature decays, but Latinum lasts forever.” N’vok nodded piously, “That’s the 102nd Rule of Acquisition you know?”

“H’mmm. ‘dat right? W’ ap kon joj !” the Creole replied.

Myron nodded and pulled his Hand phaser from its holster and pointed above the ridged cranium of Captain N’vok, who squeaked and cowered as Myron fired – the bolt of phasic energy sizzling above the Ferengi’s head and slamming into the bulkhead behind him in a shower of sparks, leaving an unpleasant smell of burnt polymers in its wake.

The bulkhead behind the group shimmered and shifted as the Holographic generator that Myron Hayes had detected (subtly – installed) on his Tricorder, failed and revealed a further cargo space – dominated by a number of large items shrouded in tarpaulins – lashed to the deck.

“A Ferengi without profit is no Ferengi at all.” Myron rumbled as he trained his sidearm on the gawping N’vok. “Dat’s number 18 in your rulebook, right?”

Captain N’vok smiled queasily as Chief Manningly went forward into the revealed space and inspected the illicit cargo secreted there.

“Well, this explains why he was making for the Anomaly with all haste – like his arse was on fire!” Talbot called back to Myron. “Industrial Replicators. Cardassian design, by the look of them!”

“Ya’ll are aware that the transfer of replicator technology to the Delta Quadrant is illegal right” The Security Chief growled.

“It is? Why I had no idea!” Captain N’vok produced a credible performance of looking shocked and dismayed, but Myron had not come down in the last Meteor shower and he produced a set of cuffs from his belt and began to manipulate them, warning.

“Captain N’vok. You have been found guilty of the attempted transfer of proscribed technology to an embargoed Quadrant. You will be taken into custody whilst an investigation is undertaken to ascertain the…..” Lieutenant Hayes began, when the SS Devore’s proximity alert began to wail and Chief Manningly looked to his own Tricorder – reading the data linking from the Runabout “Telfair”, docked alongside.

“Reading an exponential spike in Gravimetric – Shear.” The veteran Senior NCO reported with concern, “Something’s coming through the rift!”

“’Dat – so?” Myron glowered down at Captain N’vok. “Friends o’ yours N’vok?”

Location: Former DMZ / Terminus Station / Situation Room / Deck 12

Stardate: 2401.7.17 / 10:07hrs (Station Time)

Commander Cassius Washington stood, as a pillar of stone, within a formant of noise and urgent activity.

Throughout the crowded Situation Room, bathed in a shroud of urgent red – light, even more urgent voices called out as the Operations staff interrogated the incoming data from the Underspace Rifts situated all along the Federation – side of the Former Demilitarized – Zone, painting a picture of panic and chaos.

“For Christs Sake – One at a TIME!” The irascible Commander of Terminus Station fairly – roared, quietening the panicked hubbub around him. “Remember your training and quantify the data before you report! And someone TURN THAT GODDAMNED RED – ALERT KLAXON THE HELL OFF! We GET the idea!!”

Throughout the control space, multiple consoles and screens strobed with data coming in from the picket of vessels deployed to patrol the Underspace anomalies, static sensor – buoys arrayed through Federation-space and the powerful sensors aboard the aging Watchtower – class Starbase itself.

“Runabout “Chatham.” Reports a massive incursion of hostile contacts – Grid Alpha – 7, Commander. Estimated 500 plus Tangos – they are taking evasive action.” Reported a fearful sounding crewman as she tried to make sense of the incoming traffic.

“The USS K’Ehleyr reports that it is making way to intercept a series of contacts in Grid Epsilon – 5, Sir! Time to Contact 27 minutes!” Cried another Ops Operator.

That the Taskforce 72 Flagship was in the volume, gave Cassius some degree of comfort. With the Spacedock of Terminus – Station crammed to the gunnels with Starfleet vessels awaiting repair for various degrees of damage inflicted by contact with Underspace (and even more resting in the few spacedock cradles in the immediate space around the station), an Excelsior II – Class Cruiser was a welcome force – multiplier.

However, speaking of Force – Multipliers, the Main Systems Display – that currently was generating a hologram of the tactical dispersal of Starfleet assets and the encroaching hostile contacts in the general operating volume around Terminus – Station – was an angry red welt made up on countless hostile contacts. His own forces were scant in opposition.

“STRAT – OPS” Commander Washington bunched his fists and demanded “Can anyone give me an accurate projection of the actual size of the enemy forces?” The Starbase commander asked in desperation.

“Wait one.” The Strategic Operations Officer held a finger to his earpieces as he channeled more incoming data.

“Estimated enemy strength is concentrated into three main groups, Commander. Core of each consisting of 3 to 4 Capital Ships – most likely Assault – carriers judging by the dispersal of fighter screens, supported by an escorting screen of raiders and smaller craft – estimated fleet strength of at least 1,000 vessels in each element sir.”

“GODDAMMIT!” Cassius Washington slammed a fist at the edge of his console and remonstrated bitterly. “How is it that a Goddamned invasion – force can creep up to our very doorstep without any credible early warning from Starfleet Intelligence! Someone’s dropped the GODDAMNED Ball!!!” He raged in futility.

“We’ve lost contact with Runabout “Wilmington”, Commander. Grid Gamma – 4! Before they cut out, they reported contact with Multiple Hostile Tangos – Reported hull markings consistent with the Kazon Collective “Nistrim” forces Sir!”

That brought Commander Washington out of his rage, and he demanded.

“KAZON – forces?! Here? Are you sure, Ensign?” Cassius Washington may have been rightfully infamous for his fiery temper but was clearly no fool.

“Transmission was terminated before we could positively confirm, but playback definitely confirms the identifier “Nistrim.”

“Bring up Grid Gamma – 4.” Cassius demanded as the Holo – skewed wildly as it magnified that particular volume along Terminus – Station’s line of defence. “Who did you say we had out there, again?”

“Runabout “Wilmington”, part of the detachment commandeered from the USS Savannah, Commander.” The Ops officer responded efficiently.

Commander Washington turned to regard Lieutenant Commander Samantha Hyland and her Vulcan XO, who were assembled in at the peripheries of the frantic control – area – summoned along with their fellow Commanders of the damaged Starfleet vessels currently at dock in the Terminus Spacedock.

“Commander Hyland – the OIC of the “Wilmington”, are they at least competent?” Cassius demanded with habitual brusqueness.

Samantha cleared her throat and nodded “My Tactical Officer, Ensign Ithariar Sh’eshikrar, Sir. Andorian. Very competent.”

“Ensign? Oh, dear God, help us all.” Cassius frowned.

Even though the practice of elevating more junior officers to command roles more traditionally inhabited by more seasoned officers, was a common practice now – after the ‘winnowing’ of the ranks following the disaster of Frontier Day, Commander Washington had a low opinion of the capacity of junior officers in general and made his displeasure known.

“If I may, Commander Washington?” Lieutenant T’Vran interjected with habitual Vulcan aplomb.

Cassius Washington glowered at the Vulan and fairly spat with derision.

“Yes? Out with it! You are….?”

“Lieutenant T’Vran, Executive Officer – USS Savannah.” T’Vran identified herself and came forward to regard the situation board as the Holo showed the massed movement of the intruding vessels within the local volume.

“The issue is not so much one of numbers Commander, although it is a crucial factor, rather it is more one of ‘Capability’.” T’Vran commented neutrally. As one of the rising stars of Starfleet Strategic Operations, Samantha herself was keen to hear her XO out on this matter – it remained to be seen if the CO of Terminus – station had the same foresight.

“Care to elaborate Lieutenant T’Vran.” Cassius raised an eyebrow. “You may have noticed, but we’re getting a little ‘busy’ here?” He folded his arms defensively.

“Typically the Kazon lack the technological parity to present a comparable threat to Federation assets sir.” The taciturn Vulcan explained, reaching into the hologram & grabbing – bringing up a schematic view of one of the massive “Predator” – class Carriers.

“These Capital Vessels certainly present a contemporize threat to our fleet assets Commander, but they are isolatable and vulnerable to massed multi-vector assault, if the defensive screen of raiders can be neutralized. She flung the Carrier back into the holo and brought up a Kazon Raider.

“If the tactical data is contemporaneous – then the bulk of the defensive screen could be dealt with effectively and eroded by our forces. I must express some surprise, however, that the intruders are purportedly from the “Nistrim” faction. Current intelligence had indicated that – that faction’s influence had somewhat diminished as of late. Certainly, it is a surprise to see them field a force of this magnitude?”

But Cassius wasn’t having any of that. He waved his hand angrily and the Holo zoomed outwards to encapsulate the thousands of red – contacts that had issued forth from the Underspace Anomalies – all seemed to be on a direct – vector that would bring them to rendezvous with Terminus – Station.

“All very prim Lieutenant.” Commander Washington growled, “But you seem to have overlooked the fact that, THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF THOSE BASTARDS AND THEY’RE ALL HEADING THIS WAY!” He roared with frustration.

T’Vran stood her ground, very much like a rock in the midst of a turbulent sea. She raised an eyebrow and spoke.

“What is salient Commander.” The Vulcan reasoned. “Is that, despite contact with our external picket, none of the intruders have yet engaged our forces in hostile – fire.”

There was a sudden hushed silence in the Situation – room, broken only by the background hubbub of the Ops – controllers marshalling scan and comms.

“So you’re saying, what exactly?” Cassius Washington’s voice was dangerous with disbelief and barely – contained scorn. “That we should just happily sit here on our collective ASSES and wait to see what they FUCKING WANT?!”

Lieutenant T’Vran raised an eyebrow and responded levelly.

“It may be the only logical course of action Commander.”

Location: Grid Gamma – 4 / Former DMZ / Kazon Nistrim Raider “Vor’Char”

Stardate: 2401.7.17 / 10:42hrs (Shipboard Time)

Sabreen el – Hannan nursed a considerable contusion on her brow and cradled her head in her hands.

“It’s no use – they wouldn’t have put us in a cell that you can tear – apart with your bare – hands?” The Councilor tried to reason with the furious Andorian, as Ensign Sh’eshikrar paced the tiny space and tried in vain to find some way to force the hatch through-which the pair had been unceremoniously deposited by their captors.

“We can’t just do nothing!” Ithariar hissed acidly, her prehensile antennae fairly writhing with habitual annoyance.

If Sabreen had thought that being confined in a Runabout with the irascible / confrontational Andorian Tactical Officer, for hours on end, was trying experience – then being imprisoned in a tiny cell by their Kazon captors, with no indication of their immediate fate – was going to be decidedly worse.

“You dislike not being in control.” Sabreen observed neutrally. Maybe if she could engage Ithariar in something more constructive, she could focus the Andorian’s ire into something more productive.

Ithariar Sh’eshikrar rounded on her fellow prisoner and scowled.

“Oh no! I just adore being held prisoner by hostile forces intent on my destruction!” she sneered, “Maybe you can invite them in, and we can form a drum – circle and all sing “Kumbaya” whilst we speak about our childhood trauma’s and agree to just laugh this all off?!”

Sabreen regarded Ithariar professionally and murmured “That’s an interesting choice of words you use to frame the scenario? Have you experienced childhood trauma in your past?”

Ithariar Sh’eshikrar balled up her pale – blue fists and jammed them into her eye sockets and whispered between gritted teeth.

“I swear to the prophets, If I ever get out of here alive, I’m going to skin Bysea alive and mount her on my bloody wall !!”

Sabreen was about to expound upon Ithariar’s choice of imagery and motivation, when the hatch suddenly opened and two grim looking warriors, terracotta of skin and sporting both an impressive bouffant of matted dreadlock – hair and equally impressive firearms, slowly advanced inside to cover the prisoners.

As Ithariar’s antennae twitched dangerously, Sabreen decided to intervene and say something placatory, before the Andorian did something rash and their captors decided to reduce them to piles of glowing ash!

“Hello, my name is Sabreen and…..”

She was caught unprepared when one of the guards swiped the butt of his weapon across her face, propelling her to the floor of the cell with a constellation of stars exploding in her vision!

“DON’T!” A commanding voice spoke, in broken Federation Standard – as Ithariar made to rush the armed guards.

Into the space strode another Kazon, this one exuding an air of authority.

“My name is Commander Jal’ Khatam of the Kazon Nistrim, captain of this vessel.” The man spoke, himself holding a disruptor – pistol on the pair.

“My name is Ensign Ithariar Sh’eshikrar. I am a Starfleet Officer.” Ithariar growled. “You have invaded the Sovereign Territory of the United Federation of Planets and are holding us illegally. If you relinquish your weapons to me now. I will accept your surrender and take your crew into custody.”

Commander Jal’ Khatam barked with laughter and indicated to the stricken Councilor on the floor.

“Humans are weak!” Jal’ Khatam challenged and jabbed his disruptor at Ithariar. “You are not weak, blue – one. Speak to me like that again and the human dies.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Ensign Ithariar Sh’eshikrar demanded defiantly, every fiber of her being refusing to display fear in the face of an enemy.

“You will be ransomed back to your people, when we have done what we have come to do. Do not try to escape, or I will throw you both out to into the void myself. I care not!” Commander Jal’ Khatam spat on Sabreen’s incumbent form, to illustrate his point and withdrew as the hatch was sealed again.

“Come here to do what?” Ithariar sprang forward and began to hammer against the hatch once more, furious with impotent anger.

“WHAT IS IT THAT YOU HAVE COME HERE TO DO!!!”

Location: Former DMZ / Terminus Station / Situation Room / Deck 12

Stardate: 2401.7.17 / 11:17hrs (Station Time)

“The Kazon elements are converging Commander!” The Ops operator could not quite keep the note of fear from her voice as the situation board confirmed that all three encroaching collections of Kazon craft had indeed coalesced into a single fleet – force and we headed on a vector that had Terminus – Station directly in their path of advance.

“Time to contact?” Commander Cassius demanded, a pit of trepidation welling in his stomach.

Despite the technological disparity between the Federation and the Kazon Collective, the incoming invaders outnumbered the outdated Watchtower – Class Starbase by a factor of ten to one, in terms of offensive capability.

 Whilst Terminus Station had a screen of orbital defence sat tiles arrayed around the perimeter of its control – space and the Starbase itself had a respectable – enough screen of Photon – Torpedo Launchers and Phaser arrays – the net-effect would be akin to a mighty – elephant swatting its trunk ponderously against a seething swarm of deadly hornets.

“Two minutes and thirty-four seconds until contact Commander.” The operator confirmed nervously.

“Tactical – bring up all batteries to combat readiness. Select targets of opportunity. Maximum Shields.” Cassius ordered tersely.

He was damned if wasn’t going to go down swinging. There had been no time to effectively evacuate the civilian population of the Starbase and he was sure that their chances of survival in escape pods – faced with the onrushing Kazon Warcraft – would be little better than none. 

Yet the words of Lieutenant T’Vran haunted the back of his mind and he added.

“Only engage once hostile fire is confirmed.”

“Commander?”

“We may have the fight of our lives on our hands, but we’re still Starfleet and we’re not going to be the ones to start this shooting – War, you hear me, Ensign?”

“Aye Sir. Order confirmed.”

~ We’ll be lucky enough if we last the next half-hour – out, anyway! ~ Cassius Washington reflected bitterly to himself.

“Open me a Channel to all vessels.” Cassius commanded.

The Operations officer sent an all-ships communique to the ragtag fleet that had hurried been pressed into service (almost certainly in vain) to present a hurried last – ditch picket around Terminus – station – the USS Savannah, included.

“All vessels. This is ‘Terminus – actual’.” Cassius spoke.

 “The Kazon – Fleet is about to engage us. I know that I have no right to ask this if you, but aboard this station are over ten – thousand civilians. Women, children…. families. Although we face almost – insurmountable odds – I would ask each and every Captain and their crew to think of those families and engage the enemy with everything that you have – so that we can give those people a fighting chance. That is all. Godspeed. ‘Terminus – actual’, out.”

Commander Cassius Washington hung his head heavily.

His entire career, he had been a maverick. Always managed to stand on everyone’s toes as he spoke truth to power. Always pissed of those in Authority. Even ended up posted to this God-forsaken detail – one that he had never envisioned would have led to an end like this. He looked up at the inevitable rush of Kazon aggressors as they tore through his perimeter.

“TAC – Time to contact?” He sighed.

“Thirty Seconds to outer Marker, Commander.”

“All batteries, stand ready to return – fire.” Cassius commanded, grimly reflecting that this was likely the last order that he would ever issue.

~Fuck it. Bring it on, then! ~

“Twenty Seconds to contact!”

On the viewscreen, he saw the tiny flotilla of already – damaged ships, disperse and make way towards the onrush of death, a stoic – but ultimately futile last act of defiance. In the end, what else could be done?

“Ten Seconds to contact!” A distinct note of hysteria, barely contained in the young Ensign’s voice now.

~ Time to make our peace with our maker, then. ~ Cassius thought ruefully.

“Five Seconds!”

He closed his eyes – waited for the end.

“Commander! They’re not engaging!”

“What the?!” Cassius Washington opened his eyes, incredulously.

“Enemy Contacts are bypassing Terminus, Sir!” The Ensign shouted in disbelief.

His own eyes confirmed the truth. 

Instead of destroying the venerable old Watchtower – the Kazon fleet was flowing above, around and underneath the Starbase. They were not engaging the rag – tag Starfleet vessels either – the effect was like being stood in a hail of locusts, as the Kazon swarmed by.

“TAC – What is their projected escape vector! REPORT!” Commander Washington demanded.

 If Terminus Station was obviously not their intended target – what the hell was?!!

“Sir….” The Ensign breathed, confusion now replacing the void recently vacated by fear.

“The Kazon – fleet current course & trajectory will take them through the former Demilitarized Zone and penetrate directly on into Cardassian Union space !!!”

Location: Cardassian Prime / Obsidian Order Black facility / Cell 31

Stardate: 2401.7.18 / Time – Unknown

In a space, within a space, that was not really a space at all – a man sat in a room with no door.

There was no real way of knowing how long he had been there. The space itself was blank and lacked any window – in addition to not having a door.

The dull, constant light shone at all times, from the same source in the ceiling. There was no tell – tale metronomic reference to mark the passage of time, beyond the meals that they brought him and the rhythm of his own digestion and defecation of the same.

He could have been there for hours, days or even weeks.

His captors hadn’t even bothered to interrogate him. Wether this was an intentional display of disinterest in what they thought he knew, an attempt to break his resolve or that they had just decided to let him rot in this place – they man neither knew nor did he really care.

He never had contact with another living being – in this place where time stood still.

His meal would arrive – the same grey sludge, served on the same grey utilitarian tray (not one that could be used to aid in self-harm – after a set amount of time it would dissolve – itself turning into an edible sludge that the cell would automatically sluice into the toilet – hole) – arriving in the cell by transporter. 

The man had to spoon the crud into his mouth with his bare hands – no cutlery was permitted to him, of course.

The man could not even be sure that there was any regularity to the arrival of the tray. He was effectively isolated from the entire galaxy this way.

The man lay in the hard slab – the only feature in the room – save the hole in the floor, in which he could defecate and relieve himself.

As always, he was lost in his inner – thoughts (his only companion and link to sanity) when the tray’s arrival was heralded by a soft twinkling of energies.

With a sigh, the Man levered himself upright and adjusted the paper – smock suit that they made him wear and bowed to scoop up the tray.

The Man regarded the familiar grey – sludge for a moment, then began to scoop it into his mouth with his fingers and commence the tiresome ritual of chewing – when something caught his eye.

Underneath the grey – sludge, something seemed to be written faintly, in Yamok Sauce, on the grey – polymer of the tray.

The man casually scooped up another mouthful and saw the cipher written there – a code known only to a select few in the High Command.

To the initiated, it simply read….” It begins.”

With a small smile, the Man made sure that his fingers erased the missive, and then he raised the next mouthful.

Gul Yomat Ghallir allowed himself a small smile as he chewed in the tasteless sludge and reflected how much everything can been improved with just a spoonful of Yamok – Sauce……..