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Description
Tholian space.
Sector 51-6-Gamma.
Betar III Mining Colony.

Leslie Parker glanced up at the screen at the number of bogies filling it from short-range.

“Too many to get a positive identification.” The third watch Tactical Officer said.

“Close in. All ships.” The woman ordered briskly. “Let the Tholians know we are here to help.”

“Copy that, Admiral.” The Communications Officer relayed easily enough—turning her attention back to her station on the Bridge.

The Gainesville took a few hits along its starboard quarter almost immediately—pot shots really—giving every member a good reminder that this battle was just beginning.

“Spread out.” Leslie said abruptly. “Then come to new course 57 mark 7. Full impulse.”

“Roger.”

“Tactical spread on all weapons. Let the enemy know that we mean business. It doesn't have to be pretty.”

The Tactical Officer nodded—punching in pre-programmed firing patterns into the console.

“I'll have something ready in thirty seconds, Admiral.”

“Have the Cairo and the Hamilton cover our flank. Get the Klingons to punch a hole in that defense line three degrees off our port quarter.” Leslie instructed. “Then instruct the Winchester and the Klingon cruiser Ju'aG to lend a hand to those three flailing Tholian ships five thousand kilometers distant.”

“Firing patterns laid in, Admiral.” The Tactical Officer announced.

The woman paused for a few seconds to see what else they could do to help even the odds. But so far, this would be a bar brawl of epic proportions—with everyone in on it.

“Knock 'em out of the skies, Ronald. All banks. Helm? Come to course 19 mark 33 and head directly for the center of that defense cluster. Let's give them a bloody nose to start.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral!”

The Gainesville heeled over onto her new course, bringing with her much needed backup. Her support ships opened fire on the closest targets—chewing holes in the plated armor of most enemy ships, while follow up torpedo salvos ripped gaping wide holes into the hulls of those ships closest to them.

The New Orleans class ship pounded out a dirge of outgoing fire and phaser barrages that clipped the space between it and the enemy vessels—shearing off support members, pylons, and cabin modules.

At first, things seemed to be going pretty well. The small ships had no answer to the monster starship bearing down on them without mercy—even though their own weapon banks were hitting the Gainesville without let up; its shields flaring up left and right.

The ship shook and bucked repeatedly, but so far, their luck appeared to hold true for the moment.

“Destroyer class vessels are peeling off or falling back. Our reserves are filling in the gap behind us and firing as they go. The rest of the fleet is still engaged with the main force.” Ronald reported from his station—firing intermittently as he went.

“Losses?”

“Some ships are reporting damage, but everyone is holding the line.”

Vera smiled smugly. “The new system upgrades are holding up better than expected.”

'Yes. They are.” Leslie said in idle agreement. “But for how long?”

Ronald reported some new activity towards the center of the conflict.

“Tholians are responding to our action.” He said—his console station beeping in return. “One of the lead vessels is wishing a temporary alliance with us until hostilities are over. They say they will abide by the rules of engagement until the end.”

Leslie grunted slightly in surprise. “That makes one for the record books. How many are coming along for the ride?”

“I don't know, Admiral. But it looks like we're about to be in good company in the next few seconds or so.”

“Bring up Alpha Reserve and have them follow us in.” The woman instructed evenly. “We'll take our chances then with our new allies.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

***

Artwork by Jetfreak-7.

Description
Tholian space.
Sector 51-6-Gamma.
Betar III Mining Colony.

Leslie Parker glanced up at the screen at the number of bogies filling it from short-range.

“Too many to get a positive identification.” The third watch Tactical Officer said.

“Close in. All ships.” The woman ordered briskly. “Let the Tholians know we are here to help.”

“Copy that, Admiral.” The Communications Officer relayed easily enough—turning her attention back to her station on the Bridge.

The Gainesville took a few hits along its starboard quarter almost immediately—pot shots really—giving every member a good reminder that this battle was just beginning.

“Spread out.” Leslie said abruptly. “Then come to new course 57 mark 7. Full impulse.”

“Roger.”

“Tactical spread on all weapons. Let the enemy know that we mean business. It doesn't have to be pretty.”

The Tactical Officer nodded—punching in pre-programmed firing patterns into the console.

“I'll have something ready in thirty seconds, Admiral.”

“Have the Cairo and the Hamilton cover our flank. Get the Klingons to punch a hole in that defense line three degrees off our port quarter.” Leslie instructed. “Then instruct the Winchester and the Klingon cruiser Ju'aG to lend a hand to those three flailing Tholian ships five thousand kilometers distant.”

“Firing patterns laid in, Admiral.” The Tactical Officer announced.

The woman paused for a few seconds to see what else they could do to help even the odds. But so far, this would be a bar brawl of epic proportions—with everyone in on it.

“Knock 'em out of the skies, Ronald. All banks. Helm? Come to course 19 mark 33 and head directly for the center of that defense cluster. Let's give them a bloody nose to start.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral!”

The Gainesville heeled over onto her new course, bringing with her much needed backup. Her support ships opened fire on the closest targets—chewing holes in the plated armor of most enemy ships, while follow up torpedo salvos ripped gaping wide holes into the hulls of those ships closest to them.

The New Orleans class ship pounded out a dirge of outgoing fire and phaser barrages that clipped the space between it and the enemy vessels—shearing off support members, pylons, and cabin modules.

At first, things seemed to be going pretty well. The small ships had no answer to the monster starship bearing down on them without mercy—even though their own weapon banks were hitting the Gainesville without let up; its shields flaring up left and right.

The ship shook and bucked repeatedly, but so far, their luck appeared to hold true for the moment.

“Destroyer class vessels are peeling off or falling back. Our reserves are filling in the gap behind us and firing as they go. The rest of the fleet is still engaged with the main force.” Ronald reported from his station—firing intermittently as he went.

“Losses?”

“Some ships are reporting damage, but everyone is holding the line.”

Vera smiled smugly. “The new system upgrades are holding up better than expected.”

'Yes. They are.” Leslie said in idle agreement. “But for how long?”

Ronald reported some new activity towards the center of the conflict.

“Tholians are responding to our action.” He said—his console station beeping in return. “One of the lead vessels is wishing a temporary alliance with us until hostilities are over. They say they will abide by the rules of engagement until the end.”

Leslie grunted slightly in surprise. “That makes one for the record books. How many are coming along for the ride?”

“I don't know, Admiral. But it looks like we're about to be in good company in the next few seconds or so.”

“Bring up Alpha Reserve and have them follow us in.” The woman instructed evenly. “We'll take our chances then with our new allies.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

***

Artwork by Jetfreak-7.