The T’Ong hung in orbit above the planet Balduk, her hull streaked with the old burn scars. She looked every bit the relic she was, kept alive through stubbornness and pride.

Captain K’trok stood before the forward viewport, his silhouette framed by the crimson light of the system’s dying star. The bridge was quiet, save for the deep pulse of the reactor below and the rasp of old ventilation systems cycling. Once, the T’Ong carried the Empire’s banner into glory, a symbol of Klingon strength. Now she was an artifact to be tolerated.

K’trok had gambled everything his house had left to make this vessel space worthy. A last effort to regain the honor and prestige his small house once commanded. Chancellor Toral and the High Council reluctantly agreed to let the T’Ong serve the Empire once more as a part of the Klingon Defense Force, snickering among themselves with shared whispers and jokes. With the discovery that a large region of space was now open, the Empire needed ships, even relics, as long as they were willing to serve.

Grent, the ship’s Tellarite Quartermaster, approached from the comm station with a data-slate in hand. “Transmission from ‘ech Vorrok’s outpost, Captain. Your request is denied. No fresh troops are available, and the requested ordinance has been… reassigned.”

K’trok did not turn. “Reassigned to whom?”

“Anyone more useful than us, apparently. Vorrok stated our requisition was not authorized, and the Empire’s resources and weapons will only go to a vessel capable of defeating a Mizarian transport.”

K’trok’s jaw tightened. “The High Council’s seal was on the order.”

Grent’s tone was dry. “He suggests you take it up with the High Council.”

At that, K’trok turned. The movement was deliberate, heavy with restrained fury. “I stood before the Council chamber when the order was spoken. The Chancellor himself gave his assent!”

“Chancellor Toral gives many assents,” Grent muttered in his grumbly voice. “He just remembers none of them.”

A sharp sound broke the tension, metal striking against metal. L’dren, the ship’s engineer, looked up from the lower console pit. “House Vorrok acts with Toral’s favor,” she said low and measured. “To defy him is to defy the Empire itself.”

“Empire!” K’trok barked. “An Empire built on the corpses of better men than Vorrok or Toral will ever be!” His booming voice echoed across the bridge. “What is the point of allowing the T’Ong into service if we cannot crew or arm her? Is there no honor left in the Empire?”

L’dren’s gaze held his. “Let us remind them. Show them the meaning of Klingon honor. Even an old ship can find glory, Captain.”

K’trok exhaled slowly, letting the anger settle, allowing him to think clearly. “We cannot go to battle with empty torpedo launchers, regardless of how well you have amplified our disruptors.”

Grent cleared his throat, interrupted the two. “There are… alternatives. I have a contact, a merchant… discreet and not loyal to any house. He can provide torpedoes… for a price. Plasma torpedoes can be fired from K’t’inga launchers just as effectively as photons, even more so.”

K’trok’s eyes narrowed. “Romulan torpedoes. I should kill you where you stand for even suggesting it!”

“Then we face this Expanse with claws but no teeth,” Grent replied flatly. “And when we fall, Toral and Vorrok, and all those spineless cowards like them, will laugh at our ruin. They see this ship and your attempt to rebuild House Varek as jokes. They expect you to prove them right.”

L’dren rose from her console, stepping closer. “Captain, the plasma yields can be balanced to be much more destructive. I can make them work with our launchers.”

K’trok studied her, fury rising again behind his eyes. “You would desecrate our ship with Romulan filth?”

She met his glare without flinching. “I would see her armed…”

The bridge was silent for a moment, filled only by the hum of old conduits.

Moving back to the center of the bridge, K’trok sat in his command chair. “Kovor, take us out of the system, the Empire no longer feeds its warriors… So, we will hunt for ourselves. Grent, tell your contact we will meet. If honor has no place in the Empire anymore, we will find it in our survival.”

—————————————-

The stars drifted past the ready room viewport, sharp and steady against the black of space. The Thunderchild moved at cruising speed, bound for the mouth of the transwarp conduit and the edge of the unknown.

Captain Rynar Jast leaned against the edge of his desk, a data slate in one hand, the other tracing circles along the rim of a cooling cup of Tarkalean tea. The faint aroma of spice hung in the ready room’s recycled air.

Across from him, Dr. Thall Th’iveqan, the ship’s Captain of Engineering, stood before the wall display, reviewing mission data projected in shifting layers of blue light. The Andorian’s antennae twitched as he scrolled through columns of deployment schematics.

“So,” Jast said finally, his tone even, “they’re sending an Akira-class heavy cruiser… to lay communications relays.”

Th’iveqan glanced back at his old friend, one white brow rising. “You sound disappointed.”

“I sound surprised.” Jast set the slate down and reached for his tea. “Engineering vessels were built for this sort of work. Why not send a utility cruiser? We were built for…”

“… for holding the line,” Th’iveqan finished. “Yes, but I think Command isn’t interested in how fast we can destroy a target. They’re interested in who sees us out there, and how they see us.”

Jast exhaled through his nose, conceding the point. “That’s fair. While we are there to explore and meet new life in peace, we don’t want to give the impression we are weak and cannot defend ourselves.”

“Exactly. A message to the region that Starfleet is there to help, talk, and learn, but not be intimidated.”

Jast’s mouth curved slightly. “You’ve been reading the diplomatic briefing again. Pretty shrewd for a grease monkey.”

“I design starship engines,” Th’iveqan replied, folding his arms. “That doesn’t mean I am ignorant of what goes on in the universe outside of engineering. The Shackelton Expanse is a massive region of space, largely unexplored due to its subspace distortions. Think about it, we will be some of the first to see it.”

Before Jast could reply, the comm chirped.

The voice of his First Officer, Zuri Velar, filtered through, calm and clipped. “Bridge to Captain Jast. We are approaching the transwarp conduit. Estimated arrival in ten minutes.”

“Understood,” Jast replied. “We’ll be there shortly.”

He turned to Th’iveqan, who had already gathered his data slate.

“I believe that’s our cue,” the Andorian said.

Let’s see if this thing lives up to the reports.

—————————————-

The T’Ong rode the black of space like a blanket, her cloak swallowing the ship’s outline until she was no more than a whisper on the sensors. The hull was a weathered gray, streaked with patched plates and the scars of too many battles. The derelict outpost drifted ahead, a broken ring of duranium and tritanium, studded with poorly executed welds. Beneath the cloak, the bridge lights were dim, reduced to the minimum required for the cloak to function. Nine light-years from the D’Ghor Nebula, K’trok could only hope they weren’t walking into a trap.

“Station keeping, Captain,” Kovor said. His hands steady on the flight controls. “Holding distance from the station, one thousand kellicams.”

K’trok sat in the center command chair with his forearms on his knees, watching the faint console glow. “We will not be the ones surprised,” he said. It was not a boast but a precaution born of experience.

At the science console, Vornak worked in silence. The intimidating Klingon’s movements were economical, precise. They fed a stream of subspace gravimetric scans into the array, cross-referencing with archived Romulan cloaking signatures. His left eye, a biosynthetic replacement he designed himself, glowed red and flashed as he absorbed and interpreted the data stream. “There are no other active cloaks within the sector,” he reported. His voice carried the authority of data presented, not speculation. “No short cloak cycles, no phase variance consistent with Romulan systems. Thermals and micorgrav readings consistent with only the freighter and outpost present.”

“Ready to drop cloak on your mark, Captain,” Kovor said.

K’vathra rose from her station, her bearing elegant, everything her lineage she now denied demanded. “I will lead the transfer team. L’dren will inspect the ordinance. Grent, you’ll man the cargo transporter console. If I so much as taste deceit from these friends of yours, you will be the one who pays for it.”

Grent’s grin was all tusks. “I was a smuggler once. I know when someone is lying. I was also imprisoned. I live because you allow it, Captain. I have reasons to be useful to you.”

K’trok turned back and looked at the Tellarite for a long moment. “You remember that Quartermaster. Your debts are far from fully paid. Make this worth our efforts.”

Grent bowed his head, the motion half jest, half promise. “I will.”

Vornak ran a final sweep. “Helm, on my mark. We decloak for five minutes only. No more… DaH!”

The cloak phased away as several officers left the bridge for the cargo bay. In a heartbeat, the T’Ong was visible. A hail came over from the freighter. K’vathra answered over the comm; her voice was clipped. “We will inspect the cargo, transmit transporter coordinates. Show any signs of deceit and you will be destroyed.”

The freighter’s reply was a curt Romulan chuckle. “Relax, Klingon, we are here for business, we will comply. Transmitting coordinates now.”

At the command chair, K’trok grumbled… The distaste of this encounter already eating at him.

—————————————-

The ready room doors parted with a soft hiss, and as Captain Rynar Jast stepped through, the bridge greeted him with the soft hum of systems and a quiet exchange of duty reports. It was a study in controlled focus. Consoles glowed in muted ambers and blues, and the air carried the faint, steady vibration of a starship at impulse.

Commander Zuri Velar rose from the command chair, datapad in hand. “Captain on the bridge.”

Jast gave a small nod in acknowledgement, moving toward her as he spoke. “Status?”

“Fleet formation is assembling ahead of the conduit,” Velar reported. “We’re approaching the entry vector. All departments report green.”

“At the science console, Lieutenant Commander M’Ryn adjusted her breathing apparatus with a quick, practiced gesture. “All ships in formation, Fleet Command standing by.”

Jast paused beside her console, eyes on the viewscreen in front of him. As they took position, the sight before them filled the bridge with reflected color. A great explosion of emerald light tearing through the dark, its surface rippling with arcs of charged plasma. Around it, dozens of Starfleet vessels held in tight formation, the first wave of ships being sent to explore this new region of space, their hulls gleaming silver and white against the green haze.

“By the Prophets…” someone murmured softly from an aft station.

Jast’s jaw set as he took in the scale. “So that’s it. The door to the Shackelton Expanse.”

Velar stepped closer, the light catching the emerald of her eyes. “All ships report ready; Fleet Command confirms the corridor is stable.”

“Stable for now,” said Th’iveqan from the engineering console, antennae flicking towards the display. “Jurati’s collective stabilized the matrix; they’ve been able to transit, even assembled Framheim Station on the other end, but who knows how long the conduit can remain stable.”

“That’s what makes it a frontier,” Jast replied with a grin. He moved to the center of the bridge and took his seat. “Lieutenant Sorel, bring us to formation position.”

Jalen Sorel, the Thunderchild’s Betazoid helmsman’s hands moved across the conn with smooth precision. “Aye, Captain. Closing on the Henry Hudson’s port quarter.”

On the screen, the Thunderchild slid into her assigned vector, the fleet’s alignment tightening as each vessel angled toward the waiting storm of light. The aperture brightened, spilling green and gold across their hulls.

“Fleet Control confirms transwarp window in twenty seconds,” Velar said. “All ships synchronized to Fourth Fleet command signal.”

Jast rested his hands on the armrests of his chair, the light painting his face in sharp relief. “Helm… take us in with the formation.”

“Aye, sir. Engaging entry vector.”

Th’Íveqan’s voice cut through the rising hum. “Field harmonics holding steady. Structural integrity field compensating.”

M’Ryn’s eyes flicked between sensor feeds. “Energy densities spiking, but within tolerance. Transition complete in three… two…”

The stars vanished.

The storm swallowed whole the Thunderchild and her sister ships, streaks of light bending into a corridor that shimmered like liquid emerald glass.

Jast watched in silence, then said softly, “Here we go…”

—————————————-

The air in the transporter room vibrated faintly with the hum of energy coils. Cargo containers had been cleared from the pads, leaving three large emitters exposed and active. K’vathra stood at the control station, her posture exact and severe. Beside her were Engineer L’dren and Quartermaster Grent, the latter already running calibration sweeps over the transporter interface.

The voice of the Romulan captain came through the comm, a dry, measured baritone. “This is Varus Tal. Our cargo is ready. Stand by for transfer.”

K’vathra’s tone was curt. “Acknowledged. You will maintain a one-meter spread between each torpedo. Any fluctuation in your pattern, and I will order our gunner to open fire.”

There was the faintest pause on the channel. “Understood.”

L’dren adjusted the pattern buffer controls. “Receiving lock on their transporter beam. Plasma torpedoes are not shielded, so the containment fields must be kept at narrow band. Any misalignment and we will scatter volatile matter across the bay.”

Grent smirked. “Then let’s not misalign.”

The first shimmer of golden light coalesced over the pads, and a line of Romulan plasma torpedoes took shape; sleek, silver-green cylinders with their power nodes dimmed. One after another, they appeared until the bay held rows of them, resting in mag-locks. Seventy-four in total.

“Transfer complete,” L’dren said, scanning them quickly. “No active triggers. Their internal plasma is stable, though the containment couplers are old. Republic manufacture, at least fifteen years out of service.”

K’vathra gave a curt nod. “Functional?”

“With modification, yes,” L’dren replied. “I can tune them to our launchers.”

Grent keyed the outgoing channel. “Captain Varin, your end of the deal.”

Moments later, a faint green glow shimmered above the pads as a single containment cylinder disappeared. Refined protomatter, sealed under Klingon field compression.

K’vathra sealed the controls. “You have your payment. Our dealings are done.”

“Your efficiency is appreciated,” Varin said, his voice smooth and unbothered.

The channel closed. The faint hum of the transporter died, leaving the torpedoes gleaming under the white deck lights.

Grent released a breath through his tusks. “Could have gone worse.”

“Could have gone better,” K’vathra countered. “You vouched for these smugglers. Remember that.”

“I remember everything that keeps me alive,” Grent said with a chuckle.

L’dren crouched beside the nearest torpedo, running her tricorder along the conduit seams. “He’s right about one thing. They will fire, but not elegantly. I’ll need twelve hours to balance the magnetic compression chambers. They were not meant for our launch systems.”

“Then you have twelve hours,” K’vathra said. “Report to the Captain when you’re finished.”

L’dren rose, tucking the tricorder under her arm. “Aye, Commander.”

—————————————-

“The transfer is complete,” Vornak reported. “No anomalous signals from the Romulan vessel. They are withdrawing at sublight.”

K’trok nodded once. “Helm, restore the cloak.”

The stars rippled, and the T’Ong vanished once more into shadow.

K’vathra stepped onto the bridge as the shimmer faded. “Cargo received. Seventy-four plasma torpedoes. Engineer L’dren is adjusting the launchers.”

Vornak looked up from his console. “Seventy-four torpedoes are not a full complement, but it is formidable again. The T’Ong has her teeth back.”

K’trok’s gaze drifted toward the viewport. The faint light of the nebula beyond flickered like ghosts in the dark. “Then let the galaxy remember her bite.”

“Course, Captain?” Kovor asked quietly.

“Into the Expanse,” K’trok said. “Let’s see what honor still waits beyond the reach of the Empire.”

The aged warship turned and slipped into the dark, her cloak folding around her once more, leaving only the quiet echo of her engines and the promise of battle yet to come.