Story:Red Fire, Red Planet/Blood, Fire, and Steel

Fleet Admiral William T. Riker Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, California Earth 0256 PST

So it was more like five minutes. Even Will Riker, who worked here every day, had never seen this level of chaos in Starfleet Headquarters’ central transporter terminal. MACOs and Starfleet Security personnel in full battle dress, armor and all, were working their way through the crowds of people trying to get to their ships. Periodically a ship would find a lock and beam people out before they got to a pad. This chaos wasn’t helped by somebody who saw him and managed be heard hollering, “Admiral on deck!” over the noise of the crowd. Everybody froze where they were and snapped to attention.

“As you were,” Will shouted, but he hand-signaled one of the MACO fireteams, and two of the commandos pressed their way through the crowd with their stunsticks to open a path for him past the security desk.

“Good morning, sir,” one of the MACOs said to him as they reached him and started guiding him through the morass. She was shorter than Deanna, and a Vulcan. No, a Romulan: he could see the v-shaped ridge on her forehead behind her decidedly non-regulation-length bangs.

Will yawned. “I suppose it is, technically.”

The petty officer next to her chuckled. “I suppose you’re usually here on the day shift, then, sir.”

“Usually, Operator, um—”

“Freeman, sir. This is Master Chief Haellh.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Will said. “Trying to get to the command center.”

“This way, sir,” Haellh said. “Move! Out of the way!” The small Romulan forced her way through the crowd, twirling her powered-down stunstick to prod a path open.

“Where are you from, Master Chief?” Will was just making conversation.

“Srhaien originally, sir. Ocean world near Hobus that got caught in the blast. I was offworld with the—out of the way!—with the RSN at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” Will said.

“Twenty-two years ago, sir. The pain can’t last forever and I’ve got a husband here on Earth now. Um, if you’ll excuse my curiosity, do you have children, sir?”

“Grandkids, now, three of them. Wait a minute, are you—”

She smiled. “Six weeks along, sir,” Haellh said, palming the access panel for the turbolift.

“You didn’t tell me that!” Freeman said, wide-eyed.

“Gordon, I only found out yesterday afternoon for S’harien’s sake. I haven’t even filed the paperwork with BuPers yet.”

“Congratulations, Master Chief,” Will said.

“Thank you, sir.”

The turbolift door slid open and the two MACOs stepped inside with him. “You don’t have to—”

“Sir, the other floors are just as much of a mess,” Freeman interrupted. “Getting you to your station so you can save the system is a better use of our time than crowd control. Oh, look at that. Door’s shut. Looks like you’re stuck with us.”

Will didn’t quite know what to say to that. Apart from Master Chief O’Brien he hadn’t held a conversation with any noncoms willing to talk back to the C-in-C of Starfleet like that. MACOs were weird. They were some of the most sane, stable people he’d ever met, and that was actually a little spooky. They also knew they were good, had internalized it completely, and they knew their duty and would complete the mission if at all possible or die trying.

The door slid open and the MACOs muscled their way through various crowds of people rushing back and forth and finally got him to the command center three minutes later. He thanked the commandos for their help, and entered. The command center was arranged like an amphitheater, five concentric semicircles of workstations with several large viewscreens where the stage would be. The center screen was dominated by a plot showing the fleet movements near Mars, but Will’s jaw dropped when he saw the video playing on a loop on one of the secondary screens: A blinding white flash enveloping what he recognized as the control center of Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards.

He grabbed the sleeve of a blue-jacketed two-star from Starfleet Science. Xindi-Primate; Fallora, he thought her name was. “What the hell did they do? Subspace inversion?”

“No sign of anything so fancy, sir,” Fallora said. “Whatever it was, it ripped through the control center’s shields like they weren’t there and hit with the force of a 750 megaton bomb. Based on the maneuvering of one of the Birds-of-Prey in the formation and the fact that something hit the surface a second or so later, we’re thinking kinetic strike.”

“Kinetic?!” Will whistled through his teeth. Hardly anybody used those in space, and certainly nobody had attacked a target in the Sol system with one since the Optimum dropped an asteroid on Mecca in 2060. He pushed aside the bad memory that dredged up of the Thorsen incident in ’66. “How many casualties?”

“The control center had a crew of four thousand and we’re assuming a hundred percent. Kieran City on the Martian surface took a direct hit, too. Emergency services are en route but we’re not expecting much.”

“Son of a bitch. Okay, tell me about the Klingons.”

“Follow me. Admiral Singh!”

They jogged down the steps to reach a red-jacketed woman with graying black hair and brown skin. She turned and saluted. “Admiral Riker,” she said in her Liverpudlian accent.

“Ava. What have we got?”

Admiral Avaninder Singh, the C.O. of Starfleet Command, brushed her bangs out of her eyes and answered, “We count twenty-four Klingon ships, sir. Came out of warp and went straight for Mars. Number twenty-five seems to be staying put outside the system for some reason but it blew up a shuttle that went snooping.”

“Class breakdown?”

“Two B’Rotlh-class, three Hegh’ta-class, and the rest B’rels.”

“So not an invasion, then, just a raid.” Twenty-four Birds-of-Prey couldn’t carry anywhere near enough troops for that; they’d need a couple hundred full troopships at least, and that was just for the major population centers. Depopulating a planet was easy. Conquering and holding an actively resisting planet, as opposed to one that had surrendered once you’d gained space superiority, was an incredibly complicated and resource-intensive effort, as the Cardassians had demonstrated with Bajor.

Ava told him, “We’ve tentatively identified the B’Rotlh leading the pack as the IKS mupwI’, a ship sighted back in January on the border that briefly tangled with Commander Kanril of the Hammond before she ran them off.”

“What do we know about that one?”

Ava pulled up a Starfleet Intelligence file on the console. “Oddball, sir. Part of a house fleet, name of Chel’toK, rather than KDF regular. Really minor power aligned with Martok and opposed to J’mpok. Not sure how they could afford a brand-new B’Rotlh from the shipyard. Captain’s supposedly the house heir, Kidu, son of R’Mor, but he hasn’t been seen in several weeks.”

“Not exactly like the Klingons to use kinetic strikes, is it?”

“If that’s what they used; we’re still not a hundred percent sure. But there’s reports from Intel that some Nausicaan crews used kinetics during the Klingon-Gorn War.”

“KDF’s new blood.”

“Yes sir.”

“What have we got in-system?”

Singh clicked a remote. “Spaceworthy? Fifteen ships, mostly heavies. The Nautilus and the Lincoln have microjumped over and the latter is deploying fighters, but we’ve got four dozen ships that are sitting ducks at the shipyard. Vice Admiral Atoa is coming back from Centauri with the rest of Home Fleet at max warp but he’s still over nineteen hours away.”

Manny Atoa could have actually gotten a couple of his newer ships, like his flagship the Rademaker, back to Earth much sooner than that, but two ships, even with quantum slipstream, wouldn’t be much use against that many Klingons. Better to come in force than in dribs and drabs, as Starfleet had learned to its cost at Wolf 359. Will sighed and grabbed a mug of coffee and a chicken sandwich from a tray being brought around by a petty officer. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Suddenly one of the other admirals shouted, “Command to Nautilus! Break off, now!”

Lieutenant Commander Brokosh Chel’toK House Fleet Bird-of-Prey IKS mupwI’ Mars Orbit 1524 Qo’noS Central Time

“Come right, two three niner, forty up!” Brokosh barked. The Bird-of-Prey yawed and pitched and he braced against the acceleration. He liked keeping the inertial dampeners set a little low on the bridge: just enough to let some g-forces through so Meromi could feel the ship, not enough to turn everyone into blood pie.

The stars blurred and spun past on the viewer and the underside of an Akira-class heavy cruiser swiveled into view. The computer supplied USS Nautilus, NCC-63565, which was spraying torpedoes from its fifteen launchers into a furball of Birds-of-Prey and Peregrines. “Popping cloak! Locked and firing!” Meromi announced. Twin volleys of green energy bolts streaked out and smashed into the underside of the ship, which Brokosh randomly thought looked something like an entrenching tool he’d used over a decade ago on Kreax.

“Enemy shields failing!” Ila’kshath said.

“Fire, fore tube!” Brokosh ordered. Klingon Intelligence had stolen the plans for quantum torpedoes from Starfleet back in the eighties, and the version carried on the mupwI’ was no less potent than those carried by the Defiant-class. Four missiles with bright blue energy jackets shrieked from the launcher above the deflector dish on the Bird-of-Prey’s nose. The first two failed to acquire and shot past on either side of the Nautilus, but the third crashed into the Akira’s shields, collapsing them. Number four proximity-detonated in a blinding flash, sending a shaped charge of energy pulled from the zero-point field slamming into one of the engine section struts and ripping clean through it. Debris struck the starboard nacelle, setting off a chain of secondary explosions that tore the engine apart and set the rest of the shields flickering. “Break his back, Meromi!”

Meromi dropped her reticle onto the remaining strut and fired the cannons again as the mupwI’ closed with the stricken ship. Energy bolts ripped into the hull and the impulse-powered saucer section suddenly broke loose from the warp engines and shot away, out of control.

Brokosh heard a gleeful roar issue from General K’Bor. “Finish them off, Gunner!”

“Belay that!” Brokosh ordered, turning from his readout. “General, they’re helpless. They’ve even powered down their engines and”—he scrolled down the readout—“they’re flashing a surrender signal with their running lights. Even if I didn’t find it personally repugnant, that carrier is still active and our weapons are better used against a ship that isn’t already dead in space. Meromi, activate cloak and take us back to the Lincoln!” He paused. “Don’t you Klingons have something about it being dishonorable to attack an opponent who can’t or won’t fight back?”

K’Bor growled, “You have no right to lecture me, the son of QulDun, about honor. Learn your place, leth’ngan.”

Aaaand that was why Brokosh didn’t like most Klingon nobles. Martok’s people, Ambassador Worf’s family especially, were all right, though that was in part because the late Chancellor had been common-born and never forgot it. And he got on well enough with Lady K’Ronu and with Ba’woV’s cousin Kidu, the current heir, who was recovering from severe injuries courtesy of an exploding console.

But he’d been lucky. For a non-Klingon the only way to get full Imperial citizenship was to join the KDF or the civil service, neither of which happened easily. Brokosh had sixteen years of experience as a combat engineer on the fringeworlds and a chemical engineering degree from a Federation university, and marrying into the House of Chel’toK had gotten his foot in the door. But he’d seen the crime-ridden slums on the fringes of First City where those without his connections and skills, including many of his own people, were forced to live, out of sight of the powerful nobles who controlled their fates without caring. They’d come to Qo’noS for work and found none because the Klingons kept most of the good jobs for themselves.

Much as he hated it, there wasn’t a whole lot he could actually do about it. He did what he could on his visits to the capital and had even recently opened a sort of community center with two other KDF Letheans and a pointy-ear from the Republic named Makus. But without some sort of major shift in the Imperial government it wasn’t anywhere near enough to help everyone in just that neighborhood, never mind the city.

“We’re entering firing range, Captain,” Meromi said, shaking Brokosh out of his introspection.

“Onscreen, max mag,” he ordered. The viewer flicked over to a big Galaxy-class cruiser. Brokosh had always thought the design was something to be admired from an engineering standpoint: Starfleet had managed to develop a ship that was at once beautiful and mighty. And the things were enormous, too, more than big and modular enough to be modified to serve virtually any mission function imaginable. Of course, being so big meant they were also very expensive to build and operate, so only about a hundred had ever been in service at any one time according to Klingon Intelligence records, and their warp cores were notoriously finicky.

The more relevant problem, of course, was that despite having phaser strips covering nearly every approach, they were still vulnerable to swarming attacks. And Brokosh also knew that with the Lincoln and her two sisters in particular, opening up the internal spaces to accommodate an expanded hangar for fighters and attendant equipment meant the Lincoln had lost some structural strength in a key area. “General, I want to try and crack their aft shields and get a shot at the hangar. Might be our only chance of taking that thing out. I’m going to need some help.”

“Very well. Two and Three Flights, vector to assist!”

Over the battlenet Brokosh heard, “M’Char to mupwI’, we’re headed for one of the factories. Detected a shield harmonic and we think we can get a squad or two through.”

“Bold indeed!” K’Bor said approvingly. “Authorized, Commander B’Ren!”

“Captain,” Ila’kshath reported, “we’re in position.”

“Pop cloak and begin attack run. All ships, concentrate on the aft shield!”

The Bird-of-Prey’s cloaking field fell away and Meromi set the main cannons into rapid, continuous fire. Three other Birds added their fire and the giant cruiser’s shields glittered and pulsed under the barrage.

“She’s coming to port, trying to bring the broadside to bear!”

“What, seriously? Trying to outmaneuver a Bird-of-Prey? What an idiot! Stay behind him, Meromi.”

“Reading a power buildup!” the Gorn shouted.

“Taking evasive action,” Meromi said conversationally. The view suddenly spun and Brokosh grabbed his console to steady himself as Meromi tipped the ship up on its starboard wing and pulled “up”. Several searing orange lances erupted from the Lincoln’s chase emitters at the group of KDF ships. Most missed or were blocked, accompanied by the lights on the bridge dimming briefly and Norigom barking an inconsequential damage report, but one, stronger than the rest, smashed into the Qap’gargh, hanging twenty kilometers off where Brokosh’s port side had been a second ago. The unbelievably powerful point of energy sliced through the raider’s shields as if they weren’t there and slammed into the belly armor, reappearing on the other side. A fraction of a second later the fusion bottle blew in a single retina-burning white flash, followed closely by the warp core.

Brokosh gritted his teeth. The name of the captain of the Qap’gargh was Vor’Kang. He was one of the rare common-born officers, a family man and a highly professional soldier. Brokosh had liked him.

“Enemy shields at seventy and increasing!” Ila’kshath announced.

“Goddess, that thing’s tough,” Brokosh remarked, impressed. He’d fought a lot of ships in his time in the KDF but he’d rarely seen a ship hold up so well against this kind of pounding. He hit the intercom. “Ba’woV, I need more power for the main cannons!” A photon torpedo crashed into the mupwI’s shields and a display blew out to his left, sending a Klingon bekk flying from his chair. “Yesterday, preferably!”

“Working on it, dear! I’m trying to ram-boost!”

“Medic to the bridge!” Norigom said into the intercom before clattering over to the fallen soldier with a first aid kit.

“There, try it now!” Ba’woV said.

Meromi hit her triggers and a powerful series of particle bolts crashed into the Galaxy-class. The Hegh’ta, sitting on Brokosh’s wing, added its own fire along with a blast of tachyons from its main deflector that set the shields flickering. “Firing, fore tube,” Meromi announced impassively. Two quantum torpedoes smashed into the remaining shields, enough energy leaking through to rip open a huge hull breach on the back side of the cruiser’s neck, laying compartments on a half-dozen decks open to space. Debris and vacsuited bodies rushed out of the gash and Meromi fired again, this time at the shuttered hangar bay on the saucer. Sickly green disruptor bolts smashed through the tritanium alloy door and an enormous fireball blew back out and was quickly snuffed as it consumed the available oxygen.

“Chong’pogh to mupwI’, their fighters are disengaging!” Sure enough, the Peregrines attacking the other Birds-of-Prey were repositioning to screen their stricken mothership. Two made a run at the mupwI’ and a phaser beam penetrated the shields and blew a crater in the armor on the starboard wing. Brokosh grabbed for the underside of his console as Meromi went evasive.

But the fighters were falling back with their carrier. After a few more salvos back and forth of phaser and disruptor fire the surviving ships suddenly spun hard about and stretched into the distance, vanishing in a staccato series of blue-white flashes. The bridge erupted in cheers and Brokosh crossed his arms with a satisfied smile. “Bravo, people. Let’s head for our second objective. Meromi, take us after those comsats.” As the ship turned back towards Mars, Lieutenant Dorn at one of the ops consoles started singing, “''Qoy qeylIs puqloD. Qoy puqbe’pu’.''”

First the other Klingons on the bridge picked up the song, then Norigom, Meromi, and Ila’kshath joined in. “''Say’moHchu’ may’ ’Iw. maSuv manong ’ej maHoHchu’.''”

By now, despite himself even Brokosh had joined in the tlhIngan Hol battle hymn. “''nI’be’ yInmaj ’ach wovqu’. batlh maHeghbej ’ej yo’ qIjDaq vavpu’ma’ DImuv. pa’ reH maSuvtaHqu’. mamevQo’ maSuvtaH ma’ov!''”

Author's Notes
I envision the MACOs' status in 2409 Star Trek as being basically the Starfleet version of Navy SEALs, hence the use of the address "Operator" for Freeman. It's short for "special warfare operator", an enlisted rating exclusive to the SEALs. As for why he's called "Gordon Freeman"? I came up with the surname first, and it was either that or "Django Freeman" and I thought "Gordon" would be the funnier of the two references.

The thing about the Optimum dropping an asteroid on Mecca isn't a jab at Islam; in fact, it's the opposite. The Optimum were a neo-fascist movement that turned up in the EU novel  and took over much of the world, which led to World War III. In my head the Islamic countries refused to accept them and so the Optimum made an example of a large chunk of the Arabian peninsula. I included it because I really like that book, although I haven't really decided how to account for the chronology issues resulting from Star Trek: First Contact messing with that book's version of Zefram Cochrane's backstory.

The Commander Kanril mentioned in Riker's portion is indeed my own Kanril Eleya from Bait and Switch, before she got the Bajor. Manny Atoa is Manuele Atoa, the guy who did the Samoan fire dance at Jadzia's hen party in

The "pointy-ear from the Republic named Makus" is the Romulan PC's fellow Tal Shiar dupe in episode "Allies", mission "Memory Lane".

The song at the end of the chapter is and 's "" from  and.