=/\=Act I – Green Skies, Crimson Vows=/\=
*Vaabanth IV, Surface – Orion-Klingon Wedding Ceremony*

The sky carried verdant, emerald hues. Not the soft sage of Earth’s spring, nor the choking jade of a gas giant. This was Vaabanth green. It was deep and luminous, like the color of sea glass held to the sun. A lightly spiced breeze rustled the gold-dyed silks of the Orion tents spread across the grass. Ornate, jeweled chimes danced in the wind.

Commander Marlon Smythe adjusted the cuffs of his dress uniform and muttered something unkind about formalwear and alien humidity.

“You always talk to yourself like that?” Lieutenant T’Naagi asked as she stepped up beside him. Her heels barely sunk into the mossy soil. Olive-green skin shimmered beneath a shawl of deep violet. Tiny golden chains glittered along her sleeves. The necklace she wore was comprised of three concentric rings of polished jade.

“Only when I’m regretting my life choices,” Smythe replied dryly. “Like accepting invitations without reading the fine print.”

T’Naagi tilted her head, amused. “It’s a wedding, Commander. You don’t have to enjoy it, but you do have to suffer it with dignity.”

He gave her a sidelong glance before closing his eyes and nodding.

She smiled softly. “No sir… Maybe that’s just me.” T’Naagi carried almond eyes and an epicanthic fold unlike many other Orions. It gave her an almost Asian appearance. Her long crimson hair was tied up into a tall, high bun.

Beneath an archway braided from Orion vines and repurposed Klingon disruptor coils, the bride and groom stood face-to-face. Krorg, son of Thok was Chief Gunner aboard the IKS Votaragh. He looked like he’d been forged in the heart of a dying star. His figure was towering and broad, with arms like nacelle pylons. His battle leathers were ceremonial, but real. Dried blood still flecked the edges.

Opposite him stood T’Vaari. She was radiantly clad in layered emerald silks. Her curved Orion dagger rested on her thigh. Iridescent bone and gemstones were woven into her long braid. Her violet eyes held both defiance and joy in equal measure.

Their gaze never left each other.

Orion string musicians began to play, accompanied by a Klingon percussionist who tapped slow, heavy beats with a carved bone mallet. The rhythm was deliberate.

M’kath stood behind them, expression unreadable, arms folded across his chest. The tall Klingon officer wore the baldric of the House of K’Tal across his chest. He stood out from the other Klingons in his Starfleet uniform. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in approval as Krorg unsheathed his dagger.

“They still do the blood vow?” Smythe asked quietly, shifting closer to T’Naagi.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “No marriage without pain. At least, not one that matters.”

T’Vaari took the blade first. She sliced a sharp, clean line across her palm. The green blood welled instantly, yet she didn’t so much as flinch. Krorg followed. The purple-red of his wound was bright against the bronze of his skin. When they pressed their palms together, a low chant rose from the Orion side of the crowd. The sound was soft and melodic as it slowly got louder.

Then the kiss. Fierce. Rough. It wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t long. It was definitely real.

The crowd erupted. Klingons roared. Orions whooped and tossed handfuls of bright petals into the air. Even Sar, the ever-serene Vulcan, offered a quiet nod of approval from his place near the officiants.

Smythe clapped politely. T’Naagi leaned towards him and spoke. “So tell me, how many ships are in orbit? Besides the Votaragh, I mean.” T’Naagi sipped a flute of something bright pink and mildly volatile.

“Four Orion Space Navy Ships, Reesshard’s yacht, the Brawley and the Votaragh. As you mentioned.”

“High orbit. Watching everything”, said T’Naagi. “Captain Raku insisted on giving the newlyweds space.”

Smythe grunted. “How romantic.”

T’Naagi smiled again and let the moment settle.

The ceremony gave way to celebration. Tables emerged as if conjured. Plates were heaped with roasted meats, fire fruit skewers, and jars of sweet Orion chutneys. Klingon bloodwine flowed in lacquered mugs. Orion distillates came in glasses that glowed faintly when stirred. There was dancing, chanting and even a brief food fight. A Klingon engineer and an Orion priestess had an impromptu debate over the merits of poison in courtship rituals.

Lieutenant Sar stood calmly beneath a curved tent awning, politely declining a plate of something still twitching. Beside him, M’kath tore into a skewer of spiced meats with alarming efficiency.

“I expected more security,” Sar observed, not looking up.

“You’re not eating,” M’kath replied. He seemed to ignore the Vulcan’s comment.

Sar lifted one brow. “There is a difference between restraint and suspicion.”

“There is no difference to a Klingon.”

Across the field, Smythe watched a group of Orion dancers move in practiced rhythm, their motions telling a story as much as celebrating. T’Vaari danced with them now, laughing openly. Her hand was still stained faintly green.

Smythe turned back to T’Naagi. “So, how did those two meet, anyway?”

“In the middle of a boarding action. Krorg shot through a bulkhead trying to kill a pirate. T’Vaari tackled him for almost vaporizing her. They ended up in the same medbay. Spent three days arguing. Got promoted. Then they started dating.”

“Of course.” Smythe sipped from a heavy mug of bloodwine.

“Do you know what she said when she proposed?” T’Naagi asked, stepping closer. “She said, If I can survive you, I can survive anything. And he said, Then let’s test it.”

Smythe released a rare chuckle. “I’ll give them this much… They’re not boring.”

Another cheer rose as the couple returned to the table. Someone shouted for more wine. Someone else called for a song. The drums resumed, the dancers spun again, and the celebration continued as if nothing in the galaxy could ever interrupt it.

Above them the stars remained fixed. Ships drifted in their silent ballet. Nothing stirred. Nothing trembled. Not yet.

Beneath the green sky of Vaabanth IV, blood still clung to the couple’s hands. Their hearts beat loud enough for the stars to hear.

=/\=Act II – Green Sky, Red Heart=/\=
*Vaadwaur Warcruiser Intarion’s Fist – Outer Vaabanth System*

The void shimmered as the underspace conduit twisted open like a wound between the stars.

Vaadwaur Commander Gelvar Threx of the Astika-class warcruiser Intarion’s Fist watched from the clawlike helm of his vessel. The dark currents of the corridor ebbed and hummed behind them. One by one, the ships of their detachment emerged from the opening. Two Manasa-class heavy escorts flanked his vessel like jagged phantoms. The spread of Pythus-class fighters formed a wide net. Their little red engines hummed low like a swarm of chattering teeth.

The bridge of the Fist was stark and clearly built for function, not grandeur. Amber lighting cast sharp shadows across pale, firm faces. The skin of the Vaadwaur crew bore their distinct folds beneath the jawline, creases flexing with every breath. Their dark eyes were calculating and predatory. Prominent bony ridges jutted upwards from their foreheads in an almost diamond shaped pattern.

“Transition complete,” droned Tactical Subcommander Rishek. His hands flicked over a curved interface. “All vessels accounted for. Fighter wing maintaining formation. Minor resonant degradation on the Braalek, but within threshold.”

“Course?” Threx asked, not turning to face his officer.

“Three-point descent vector into the system. Next underspace junction within sixty-eight minutes,” said Helm Officer Jivrak. The gaunt officer had a throat ridge shaped like a trident. “Intercept will carry us through Breen sector via corridor seventy-six.”

Threx’s gaze remained on the starfield as Vaabanth’s scattered worlds floated before them. “And the third planet?”

Rishek narrowed his eyes. “Scans indicate a Class-M biosphere. Pre-warp. No artificial satellites. Scattered settlements, atmospheric scrubbers. Baseline tribal nation style cohesion. Minimal threat.”

A beat passed. “Resources?”

“Floral-rich. Organics. Surface minerals. Potential fusion-grade isotopes in polar bands. And the…. Humanoid assets.”

Threx bared his teeth. “A meal worth pausing for.”

The Intarion’s Fist pivoted in silence to adjust its vector. It was joined by the sleek aggression of its escort ships. The fighters broke formation, arcing outward like the petals of a flower.

Then the sensors lit up.

“Contact—twelve light seconds. Outer orbit of Vaabanth IV. Federation starship: California-class. Multiple Orion vessel configurations. One Klingon warship present.”

“Starfleet,” Threx said flatly. “So they still roam where they don’t belong.”

Another officer hissed. “The Orion registry matches diplomatic signals. Energy signatures indicate ceremonial discharge. Their shields are down.”

Threx stood tall. His shadow reached across the deck. “We strike.”

Within moments, the Fist and her cohort accelerated. The void trembled.

—

=/\=The First Volley=/\=

The Intarion’s Fist emerged from behind the cover of a drifting moon fragment before the stars erupted in flame.

Twin torpedoes launched from her forward nacelles cut jagged streaks of red light through space. They slammed into the Orion flagship, the Jahlei, mid-broadside. Plasma licked across her hull like an open wound.

Within seconds, Manasa escorts fired salvo after salvo into the convoy. Disruptor beams tore into the IKS Votaragh. Her shields sparked before collapsing under the concentrated fire. Her hull vented briefly, spinning from the impact as her impulse manifold imploded.

The USS Brawley orbited slightly below. The small ship’s impulse engines flared as she banked hard toward the threat. The Brawley’s port deflector caught a blast from a Pythus fighter’s plasma scatterburst. Shields held, but barely. Fire landed on the Brawley from the escorts as they sailed past.

Aboard the Fist, Threx studied the results with cold satisfaction.

“Klingon vessel’s impulse drive crippled,” Rishek reported. “Orion vessels scattering. Starfleet engaging.”

“They’re slower than their reputation,” Threx muttered.

“They’re dancing,” said Jivrak. “Trying to protect the planet. It makes them predictable.”

Threx’s lip curled. “Then shatter the rhythm.”

The fighter wings pressed the assault, cutting between phaser arcs and torpedo blasts.

The Nyxien flared her secondary emitters and returned fire. Shots were beautiful but uncoordinated. The Fist absorbed the impacts as it took evasive action further from the planet. The mixed convoy concentrated heavy fire on towards the lead Vaaduwar ship.

“Tactical advantage achieved,” Rishek said. “Recommend strike complete. Begin descent to Vaabanth IV for reclamation.”

“No,” Threx said. “We draw them further. Make them bleed as they chase. They’ll try to protect the primitives. It will cloud their judgment.”

He turned to his crew, the folds at his neck tightening.

“We are Vaadwaur. We do not waste the kill. Let them come.”

With a motion, he signaled the fleet to turn.

The Intarion’s Fist surged ahead, fighters swarming in its wake. Escorts pivoted, covering the retreat with burst volleys that seared through the blackness. The Federation and Orion ships scrambled to regroup. The Brawley managed a glancing shot across one of the fleeing fighters. It tried to limp away, before burning alight with fury. A second fighter fell to Ensign Kim’s phaser blasting as the others retreated.

As they fell back, the Vaadwaur ships passed through a towering wall of asteroids. Vaabanth III loomed ahead. Brown continents were strewn with rapid rivers. Huge oceans glimmered like silver under the starlight. No satellites above. No starports below. There were no defenses to watch over them from the atmosphere.

From his command chair, Threx leaned forward.

“Begin descent preparations. Weapons hot. Atmospheric targeting protocols engaged.”

The stars behind them were silent again. But the fire ahead was only just beginning.

=/\= Act III – Green Sky, Red Heart=/\=
*USS Brawley – Bridge*

The USS Brawley shook under the weight of fire.

The bridge lights flickered, panels burst into sparks, and smoke curled from the shattered interface at Tactical. Ensign Kim Jung-soo had been thrown to the deck but was already pulling herself back into the chair. Blood ran down from her temple.

“Shields down to eleven percent!” she shouted. “Multiple hull breaches on decks four through seven! Emergency bulkheads holding.”

Captain Raku Mobra braced himself against the side of his command chair. His knuckles were white with tension. The Bajoran’s jaw was clenched, eyes locked on the forward display. He saw an expanding tangle of wreckage, fire, and chaos.

“Reroute auxiliary power to life support and dorsal shields,” he ordered, voice tight but clear. “And get me a firing solution on those escorts.”

“Negative, sir!” barked Ensign Derrick Vanderssen from the Science station. “Targeting array is down! Primary sensors are offline. We’re flying blind!”

“Tactical control is fluctuating!” Kim said, trying to steady her hands on the sparking console. “I can’t get a clean lock on anything longer than four seconds!”

The deck rumbled again as a plasma torpedo from the retreating Manasa escort impacted their starboard nacelle. The screen flared white.

Behind him, Counselor Ikastrul Zaa steadied herself beside the auxiliary console. Her black Betazoid eyes were wide, yet her voice remained calm. “I’m sensing widespread panic across the fleet, Captain. But the Klingon and Orion crews are rallying.”

Captain Raku tapped the comm embedded into his chair.

“Raku to Smythe, status update” he said sharply.

There was a long burst of static, then Commander Marlon Smythe’s voice cracked through. “We’re good. That first barrage rattled the cliffs, but no injuries. Wedding guests are shaken, but intact.”

“Good. Commander, I’m ordering you to hold position planetside.”

“What?” came the sharp reply. “Sir, if you’re being overrun—”

“Negative. You’re staying with the civilians. We’ve got Starfleet, Orion diplomats, Klingons. There’s too many lives to risk in open terrain. Get them to cover.”

Smythe didn’t argue long. “There’s a cave system northwest of our position. About three klicks. Natural basalt formation, minimal structural risk.”

“Take M’kath, T’Naagi, and Sar. Keep the guests moving and keep them safe. That’s your only priority.”

There was a pause. “Understood. We’ll contact once we’re secure.”

Raku exhaled hard through his nose and turned to helm.

“Ruiz, what’s our vector?”

Flight CONN officer Crismarlyn Ruiz wiped sweat from her brow. “Heading two=zero two. On a vector closing between the planet and the Klingons. Inertial dampeners are at seventy-two percent.”

The IKS Votaragh was limping. Her impulse signature burned unsteady. She rolled, venting green plasma, but still fired her forward cannons in defiance.

The Orion flagship, the Jahlei, had taken a good deal of damage. Half of her port hull was gone, leaving exposed decks and flailing atmosphere. She too stayed in the fight.

The Nyxien and D’Vogh were regrouping, laying down suppressive fire in coordinated arcs. The smaller Ttaren moved to intercept the Vaadwaur fighter wing as it peeled away.

“Vaadwaur forces are retreating toward Vaabanth III,” Vanderssen said, squinting at the flickering readouts through distortion. “All ships took damage. At least two Orion vessels are flight-compromised. The Brodwithe yacht is intact. Minimal scoring, they’re returning fire.”

“They didn’t come to fight,” Zaa said quietly. “None of us did.”

Mobra turned his eyes to the stars, narrowing them. The Vaadwaur vessels were slipping toward the inner system. The fighters continued to fan out in calculated arcs. Vaabanth III, the green jewel with its nationstate cultures and untouched soil, stood defenseless before them.

“They attacked during a wedding,” Ruiz said bitterly. “No warning. No contact. Just blood.”

“Cowards,” an Operations officer named Ensign Mackley muttered, his jaw tight.

“Not cowards,” Zaa said softly. “Hunters.”

Another panel flared in bright light. Engineering’s voice burst over comms.

“Bridge, this is Lieutenant Moon. We’ve isolated power transfer to the port plasma manifold. Our warp core is stable but output is redlined. We’re holding together, Captain. Another hit2 like that and we’re dust.”

Mobra tapped his combadge. “Understood, Lieutenant. Good work. Lock down those EPS relays and prep for combat maneuvers.”

He turned to the bridge.

“All hands, battle stations. Route every bit of energy into what we’ve got left. They’ll reach Vaabanth III in under thirty minutes, and I’ll be damned if we let them burn that world under our watch.”

He stood tall, Bajoran earring glinting in the red emergency light.

“We hold. For now. Let’s make repairs and help the others get sorted.”

“Sir”, Vanderssen chimed in. “I can’t even plot a course beyond a 20 kilometer range. I thought the sensors were down. It looks like.. We’re cut off from the rest of the Quadrant.”

Ruiz spoke next from the helm. “The system is saying the most I can push this ship to is near Warp 1.95.. But it isn’t a problem with power.. At least not based on these readings.”

“Vaabanth III is two light years away”, added Vanderssen.

Captain Mobra clutched his jaw with a closed fist. “Those ships hit hard, but they’re not invincible. We need to get the fleet repaired. We’ll outnumber and overpower them.” He tapped his commbadge. “Lt. Moon, prepare to beam a team to the Votaragh. We’ve got to get their engines back online and reinforced. Also, we’re experiencing some problems here. Sending you a full report.”

“Acknowledged, Captain”, said the Chief Engineer. “I’ll get the team ready and give you a full analysis of the data.”

The stars beyond the viewscreen shimmered with heat and fury. The hunt had begun. Assembled crews were forced to plan and rebuild their convoy. Only time would provide answers to the mystery they were so violently thrust into.