The aging bird-of-prey, a relic of the Dominion War, decloaked and approached a lonely star system that no one even bothered to give a name. Just some random alphanumeric designation. It was just another system, with its dwarf star and four planets like millions of others. The second planet was Class M, but the survey probe had indicated nothing of significance.  No dilithium. No duranium alloys. Just trees and a possible indication of primitive beings.  The Empire had no interest in such a world, and Starfleet, bound by its Prime Directive, stayed away.

Yet, the IKS Gorreth had detected an energy signature from the second planet, and the High Council had dispatched the H’Poc to investigate this signature, where there shouldn’t be one.

Commander Hur’agha sat in the command chair, bathed in a red glow of the bridge’s lighting. She did not look forward to this assignment. There was no honor in tracking down sensor ghosts, but when your house was not one of the favored by the Council, there was little glory and honor to be handed out.

“Helm, slow to quarter impulse,” Hur’agha barked, “standard orbit.”

The deck plates rattled as the H’Poc slowed and the hum of the engines subsided.  The Klingon commander sat up, resting her right fist on her leg, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled the scents of lubricants, metal corrosion, and the tangy smoke of roasted targ from the galley. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation, her dry mouth yearning for a tankard of bloodwine, 2381. Not a particularly good year, but acceptable for a mission that would bring no honor.

“Sensors!” Hur’agha stood with her cloak falling around her.

The officer sitting at the sensor station looked over his shoulder and let out a low rumble, “There is a weak energy signature coming from a continent in the northern hemisphere.”

An alarm blared, harsh and discordant against the routine operations of the investigation.

“Mistress!” the weapons officer exclaimed.

Was that fear in his voice? She asked herself.

Hur’agha spun to face the officer, her gaze locked on the young lieutenant, her hands resting on her hips.

“Orbital defense platforms are powering up, and they have locked onto us!”

“Shields! Break oribit!” She dropped into her command chair, legs spread and braced, with her hands clasping the armrests.

The first volley hammered the hull, and the consoles exploded with a shower of sparks. The ship lurched forward. On the viewscreen, the planet that sat at the bottom left corner was now filling the screen. The hull plating creaked and popped as welds were torn apart. Alarms filled the bridge, and acrid scents of singed electronics stung her sinuses.

“Evasive maneuvers! Get us out of here!”

“Engines unresponsive,” the helmsman responded. “Attempting to bypass.”

Hur’agha slammed her fists against the armrests.  “Today is not a good day to die! There is no honor in death at the hands of unmanned orbital platforms in orbit of an abandoned planet.   Destroy them! All weapons!”

The ship shuddered again from another attack, and the lights flickered as the bridge was showered in sparks.  The hull buckled, and a roar of escaping atmosphere deep within the ship thundered through the structure, then silence.   The viewscreen flashed, then returned, with lines of distortion ebbing across the growing image of the planet.

The engineering officer spoke for the first time. Kora’q, Son of Thal, was an old warrior with streaks of grey in his hair and goatee. He had clawed his way up from the bottom, joining as a raw recruit long before the great war with the Dominion. Hailing from the Ketha Lowlands, he had spent decades being overlooked and dismissed, yet the patriarch of Hur’agha’s House, Lu’poc, had seen the true warrior in him. Now he served as both the ship’s chief engineer and her trusted XO.

“Mistress,” he spoke in a conversational tone as if he were telling her about the weather, “shields are destroyed, and there is a hull breach.”

Hur’agha glanced at him and nodded. They both knew the ship was lost.  Now it was time to survive so that they could die in a real battle. “Descent thrusters! Set deflectors to full! Send out a distress signal!”

The bird-of-prey rumbled as it hit the atmosphere. Every console, every deck plate vibrated as if it were a string plucked from one of the ancient Klingon harps. Hur’agha pushed herself into the back of her seat as the viewscreen erupted in flame, bathing the bridge in the warm, yet deadly glow. The only thing preventing the ship from burning up in reentry was the deflector.

The hull protested like an aging targ told to move from a favored bed.  Wind buffeted the hull, and with every pop and creak, Hur’agha felt the ship die in her bones. Biting her lower lip, baring her fangs, she leaned forward, willing everything in her that Kahless himself would hold the H’Poc together long enough for them to make a crash landing.

At last, they burst through the clouds, revealing an undulating plain covered in leafy green trees. A wide, silvery river snaked through the countryside, doubling back on itself to form oxbows. Small boats plied the current, the occupants too distant to make out, but they stared up at the roaring hulk now blackened by reentry and trailing smoke. On the horizon, overlooking the countryside, rose a large stone structure, and from her warrior’s eye, she recognized it as a defensive fortress.

“There! That field,” Hur’agha shouted and pointed at the viewscreen.  To the right, there was a wide-open field, golden in the sunlight.

The helmsman entered commands, grunted in frustration, and slammed his fist into the console before trying again. The ship slowly rolled to the right with a perceptible wobble. At the last moment, they lined up with the field, and seconds later, they slammed into the ground. Hur’agha was hurled forward, and the last thing she heard was the grinding, rending scream of tearing metal before blackness overtook her, sunlight cascading over her bloodied face.