Tales of the USS Bluefin: “Between the Hammer & the Sword”
Author’s Note: For those of you who have followed the Bluefin saga, you are aware that the story, “No Honor Among Thieves,” is incomplete and left to languish since early this year. I liked NHAT and thought I had a very promising story-line. Unfortunately, it became apparent that the tale was too ambitious with far too many threads and plot twists. With that in mind, I have decided to place NHAT on indefinite hiatus. The events described in NHAT have not occurred as this story begins, the exception being the addition of Lt. Franklin Shelton as tactical officer.
Perhaps one day I’ll revisit and rewrite “No Honor Among Thieves,” but for now I have another story that needs telling. It will be typical Border Service fare, replete with Orions, Klingons, and of course, the Sisters of Mercy.
On with our tale . . .
Prologue
The region of space that separates the Klingon Empire from the worlds subject to the Orion Syndicate is known as the Borderland. It is a singularly unremarkable area of the cosmos, save for the spectacular Molari Badlands that makes up a small fraction of the sector. Class M planets are few, and most of those are sparsely populated. The area is rich in mineral wealth but plagued with pirates and smugglers. It is most definitely not the safest part of the Alpha Quadrant.
During Earth’s 19th century, war raged between the Klingons and the Orions. The conflict lasted nearly 80 years, fluctuating between epic battles in space and on planetary surfaces and brief periods where each side stepped back to bleed a while, repair and reload.
In the same year that Thomas Edison developed a working prototype for the incandescent light bulb on Earth, Ahmet‘sur Lov Sarnys, the most powerful of the Orion war-lords, made contact with Klingon Chancellor Q’orl through an Efrosian intermediary.
It is reported that Chancellor Q’orl, after reading the Orion’s missive, bellowed with rage and relieved the Efrosian of his head. Then, as he wiped the emissary’s blood from his sword, he growled a shocking order to his gathered generals and admirals: “Recall the fleet. This war has ended.” Q’orl then tossed the message into a flaming pyre and stormed off to his chambers. The Chancellor never revealed the contents of the message, taking the secret with him to Sto’vo’kor.
Both fleets withdrew to their prewar boundaries, leaving a curved finger of space between the rival powers, serving as a buffer zone. 450 years later, the Klingon Empire again went to war – this time against the nascent United Federation of Planets. The Klingon High Command badly underestimated the will and technology of the Federation. After four years of initial success, the Klingons were mauled at Axanar and utterly humiliated at Sulistus. After agreeing to a cease-fire with the Federation, Chancellor Ri’Haq decreed that any Klingon who publicly uttered the name of Garth of Izar would be hacked to bits and fed to his pet Targs.
Following the Four-Years War, the Federation began to rapidly expand their influence with dozens of new systems and races entering the fold. The fledgling Border Service that was created to patrol the Romulan Neutral Zone was now tasked to police the Borderland, ostensibly to counter the rise of pirate activity and the Orion Syndicate’s influence, but also to act as a trip wire should the Klingons decide to once more take up arms against the UFP.
During the late 23rd century a number of brave colonists decided to settle in the Borderland as the age of expansion progressed. Officially, the Federation Bureau of Colonization frowned on settling in the Borderland (“no sense provoking the Klingons,” was the usual refrain) but a fair number of hardy souls settled worlds in the Molari, Aighanis, Hilade and Klaamat systems. Some found riches in the Dilithium mines of Molari IV, others found beauty and tranquility in the azure seas and soaring mountains of Klammat IV. Many, though, found life difficult in the unforgiving Borderland and headed back to the core systems, tired of a hard-scrabble existence and fearful of Orion raiders and the proximity of the Klingon Empire.
Perhaps the most unlikely settlers in the Borderland were a group of Catholic nuns from Earth that settled on the isolated world of Hri’on – so named for an old Orion word meaning “hammer.” Once, Hri’on had been a lush world populated by a peaceful sentient race. Unfortunately for the Hrions, their world was a strategic point between the warring Klingons and Orions. As each side sought control of the planet, the helpless natives were forced into servitude by both sides. At one point when the Orions controlled the planet, the Klingon Admiral, Gh’ov, ordered his fleet of ships to launch a salvo of bio-weapons at Hri’on. The barrage wiped out 90% of the plant and animal life and 80% of the population. The Orions responded a few months later with a hailstorm of nuclear missiles that almost finished off the small planet. By the late 23rd century, only one isolated valley remained habitable – protected by prevailing winds and high mountain peaks. Here, the Sisters of Mercy established a hospital and orphanage for the half-Klingon / half-Orion children that were unwanted and despised by both sides. These children, many bearing the scars inflicted by their former masters, grew to form a colony in the valley, where they lived simply and at peace – unmolested by Klingons or Orions who considered the husk of a planet little more than a navigational aide. Even the Borg incursion and the Dominion War were little more than distant thunder to those that dwelt in this hidden place of refuge. The cloister of nuns practiced their disciplines and served the small colony faithfully. After all the decades of ministering to these people, they thought they were beyond the notice or care of anyone else.
They were wrong.
* * *
Chapter One
Stardate 54655.2 (5 September 2377)
Star Station Echo
Office of Rear Admiral Morgan Bateson – Commander, 7th Border Service Squadron
Admiral Bateson pressed his thumb on the PADD, endorsing the repair certificate on USS Saginaw, then tossed it wearily on his desk and rubbed his eyes. With Vice-Admiral Jellico’s promotion and departure from Starbase 500, Bateson found himself as senior officer in the sector. Now, he was pulling double duty – not only as commander of the 7th Border Service Squadron, but as de-facto sector commander for Starfleet until a replacement was appointed. It was an unusual situation, but these days unusual was the new normal.
To add to his headache, Vice-Admiral Bouvier, Commander – Border Service, had decided that now was a good time to reallocate cutters amongst the various star stations. While he was relieved and gratified that he would retain the Bluefin and Scamp under his command, he deeply regretted that Growler and Pompano were heading to Star Station India along with their veteran C.O.s. In return, the cutter Kittiwake would come to Echo with her maverick C.O., Quinn Destrehan, plus two small Aerie-class patrol scouts.
For the third time since sitting down to his desk hours earlier, Bateson mentally cursed Admiral Bouvier and the hapless parents whose ill-advised union had produced the pinch-faced harpy. He suspected that Bouvier had made the changes just to tweak him and remind him who was really boss. It galled him that Bouvier, an officer who had never commanded a Border Service vessel, should have been appointed as Commander of the Border Dogs. He had his suspicions over how she had attained her place in the Admiralty, but nothing solid that would make any difference in the scheme of things.
His terminal chimed and the long face of Lt. Varnosh, Bateson’s ever-efficient Andorian aide appeared. “Incoming message for you, Admiral.”
Bateson fixed the Lieutenant with a weary gaze. “Varnosh – if that’s the station manager at Starbase 500 again, tell him there was a horrible Holodeck accident . . . that I was playing the part of Caligula in a Roman orgy and I died of sexual exhaustion.”
The Andorian wore his typical patient expression on his face. “Very imaginative, sir. I’ll remember to use that at the first appropriate opportunity. However, this is not from Starbase 500. The source of the signal is Verex III.”
Bateson’s eyebrows shot up. “Verex III? The Syndicate’s charming hell-hole? Who is it?”
“The caller chose to remain anonymous, but said the message was urgent and for your ears only.”
The Admiral frowned. He certainly didn’t have any “friends” on Verex III, but what the hell? It would be an interesting diversion from fuel requisitions and captains vying over time in the repair bays.
“By all means, put him through, Lieutenant.”
A faint smile crossed the Andorian’s face. “It’s most definitely not a ‘him,’ Sir. Stand by.”
The image shifted from the Andorian aide to the visage of a striking Green Orion female. Bateson managed to hide his surprise.
Ahmet’sur Trien Sarnys was well known to the Border Service. Of the current Syndicate clan bosses, she was perhaps the shrewdest and most dangerous. She eschewed the bluster and bling of her rivals, instead maintaining a low profile. She had no interest in narcotics, sex slavery or piracy. None of her business dealings technically violated the law. That is not to say that the Sarnys cartel were paragons of virtue.
Trien Sarnys and her cartel were merchants of death. They provided military-grade weapons and mercenaries to the highest bidders. It was suspected, but never proven, that they were the primary source of firepower for the resurgent Maquis. Bateson had heard rumors that during the war, Sarnys had provided arms and troops to help overrun a heavily fortified Cardassian garrison in the Ghihan system. Supposedly, when Cardassian reinforcements finally arrived, they found the heads of their compatriots skewered on long poles and set ablaze. The mercenaries were long gone. It was not known who had paid the Sarnys cartel for this nasty bit of wet-work.
Of course, those were just rumors.
Trien Sarnys was descended from one of the more prominent Orion war lords that once bedeviled the Klingons. To Bateson, she looked like a businesswoman, adorned in her expensive and exquisitely tailored suit. Her lovely face exuded quiet confidence and professionalism. But her eyes were as cold as a Terran reptile.
“Admiral Bateson, is this a secure channel?” asked Sarnys.
Bateson tapped a control on his desk. “It is now. What can I do for you, Ahmet’sur?”
“You are, of course, familiar with the planet Hri’on?”
“Sure – what’s left of it. Why?”
“The Klingons are going to annex Hri’on within one of your weeks. I suggest you stop them.”
“The Klingons? Why the hell would they want Hri’on? There’s nothing there but a few Terran nuns and a small colony of Klinorions in a twelve kilometer long valley.” Bateson intentionally mentioned the mixed-race Orions, hoping to elicit a response from Sarnys. “Sorry, but that just doesn’t make sense.”
“Nonetheless, they intend to take the planet – by force if necessary.”
“Let’s suppose you’re telling the truth – which is a stretch, I must say – why give me a head’s up? And why would you care about a few Humans and some half-breeds? Neither your people nor the Klingons have shown the slightest interest in those unfortunate people since your war ended hundreds of years ago.”
Bateson caught a spark of anger in Trien’s eye. He suppressed a smile of satisfaction. So, I touched a nerve after all . . . good!
“What happened to the Klinorians was distasteful, but as you say – that was centuries ago. However, if you value those people – particularly the members of the religious order – I suggest you get them off Hri’on immediately.”
“You haven’t told me why the Klingons want Hri’on,” he pressed.
But the channel was already closed. Bateson cursed under his breath, then contacted his aide.
“Varnosh – what’s the name of the new Fleet Intel officer?”
“That would be Lt. Mechelov.”
“Track him down and tell him I need to see him ASAP. No . . . make that immediately.”
“Aye, sir. Is there anything particular about which he should be prepared to brief you?”
“Yeah – ask him if the Klingons are feeling frisky. Get on it Varnosh.”
* * *
Author’s Note: For those of you who have followed the Bluefin saga, you are aware that the story, “No Honor Among Thieves,” is incomplete and left to languish since early this year. I liked NHAT and thought I had a very promising story-line. Unfortunately, it became apparent that the tale was too ambitious with far too many threads and plot twists. With that in mind, I have decided to place NHAT on indefinite hiatus. The events described in NHAT have not occurred as this story begins, the exception being the addition of Lt. Franklin Shelton as tactical officer.
Perhaps one day I’ll revisit and rewrite “No Honor Among Thieves,” but for now I have another story that needs telling. It will be typical Border Service fare, replete with Orions, Klingons, and of course, the Sisters of Mercy.
On with our tale . . .
Prologue
The region of space that separates the Klingon Empire from the worlds subject to the Orion Syndicate is known as the Borderland. It is a singularly unremarkable area of the cosmos, save for the spectacular Molari Badlands that makes up a small fraction of the sector. Class M planets are few, and most of those are sparsely populated. The area is rich in mineral wealth but plagued with pirates and smugglers. It is most definitely not the safest part of the Alpha Quadrant.
During Earth’s 19th century, war raged between the Klingons and the Orions. The conflict lasted nearly 80 years, fluctuating between epic battles in space and on planetary surfaces and brief periods where each side stepped back to bleed a while, repair and reload.
In the same year that Thomas Edison developed a working prototype for the incandescent light bulb on Earth, Ahmet‘sur Lov Sarnys, the most powerful of the Orion war-lords, made contact with Klingon Chancellor Q’orl through an Efrosian intermediary.
It is reported that Chancellor Q’orl, after reading the Orion’s missive, bellowed with rage and relieved the Efrosian of his head. Then, as he wiped the emissary’s blood from his sword, he growled a shocking order to his gathered generals and admirals: “Recall the fleet. This war has ended.” Q’orl then tossed the message into a flaming pyre and stormed off to his chambers. The Chancellor never revealed the contents of the message, taking the secret with him to Sto’vo’kor.
Both fleets withdrew to their prewar boundaries, leaving a curved finger of space between the rival powers, serving as a buffer zone. 450 years later, the Klingon Empire again went to war – this time against the nascent United Federation of Planets. The Klingon High Command badly underestimated the will and technology of the Federation. After four years of initial success, the Klingons were mauled at Axanar and utterly humiliated at Sulistus. After agreeing to a cease-fire with the Federation, Chancellor Ri’Haq decreed that any Klingon who publicly uttered the name of Garth of Izar would be hacked to bits and fed to his pet Targs.
Following the Four-Years War, the Federation began to rapidly expand their influence with dozens of new systems and races entering the fold. The fledgling Border Service that was created to patrol the Romulan Neutral Zone was now tasked to police the Borderland, ostensibly to counter the rise of pirate activity and the Orion Syndicate’s influence, but also to act as a trip wire should the Klingons decide to once more take up arms against the UFP.
During the late 23rd century a number of brave colonists decided to settle in the Borderland as the age of expansion progressed. Officially, the Federation Bureau of Colonization frowned on settling in the Borderland (“no sense provoking the Klingons,” was the usual refrain) but a fair number of hardy souls settled worlds in the Molari, Aighanis, Hilade and Klaamat systems. Some found riches in the Dilithium mines of Molari IV, others found beauty and tranquility in the azure seas and soaring mountains of Klammat IV. Many, though, found life difficult in the unforgiving Borderland and headed back to the core systems, tired of a hard-scrabble existence and fearful of Orion raiders and the proximity of the Klingon Empire.
Perhaps the most unlikely settlers in the Borderland were a group of Catholic nuns from Earth that settled on the isolated world of Hri’on – so named for an old Orion word meaning “hammer.” Once, Hri’on had been a lush world populated by a peaceful sentient race. Unfortunately for the Hrions, their world was a strategic point between the warring Klingons and Orions. As each side sought control of the planet, the helpless natives were forced into servitude by both sides. At one point when the Orions controlled the planet, the Klingon Admiral, Gh’ov, ordered his fleet of ships to launch a salvo of bio-weapons at Hri’on. The barrage wiped out 90% of the plant and animal life and 80% of the population. The Orions responded a few months later with a hailstorm of nuclear missiles that almost finished off the small planet. By the late 23rd century, only one isolated valley remained habitable – protected by prevailing winds and high mountain peaks. Here, the Sisters of Mercy established a hospital and orphanage for the half-Klingon / half-Orion children that were unwanted and despised by both sides. These children, many bearing the scars inflicted by their former masters, grew to form a colony in the valley, where they lived simply and at peace – unmolested by Klingons or Orions who considered the husk of a planet little more than a navigational aide. Even the Borg incursion and the Dominion War were little more than distant thunder to those that dwelt in this hidden place of refuge. The cloister of nuns practiced their disciplines and served the small colony faithfully. After all the decades of ministering to these people, they thought they were beyond the notice or care of anyone else.
They were wrong.
* * *
Chapter One
Stardate 54655.2 (5 September 2377)
Star Station Echo
Office of Rear Admiral Morgan Bateson – Commander, 7th Border Service Squadron
Admiral Bateson pressed his thumb on the PADD, endorsing the repair certificate on USS Saginaw, then tossed it wearily on his desk and rubbed his eyes. With Vice-Admiral Jellico’s promotion and departure from Starbase 500, Bateson found himself as senior officer in the sector. Now, he was pulling double duty – not only as commander of the 7th Border Service Squadron, but as de-facto sector commander for Starfleet until a replacement was appointed. It was an unusual situation, but these days unusual was the new normal.
To add to his headache, Vice-Admiral Bouvier, Commander – Border Service, had decided that now was a good time to reallocate cutters amongst the various star stations. While he was relieved and gratified that he would retain the Bluefin and Scamp under his command, he deeply regretted that Growler and Pompano were heading to Star Station India along with their veteran C.O.s. In return, the cutter Kittiwake would come to Echo with her maverick C.O., Quinn Destrehan, plus two small Aerie-class patrol scouts.
For the third time since sitting down to his desk hours earlier, Bateson mentally cursed Admiral Bouvier and the hapless parents whose ill-advised union had produced the pinch-faced harpy. He suspected that Bouvier had made the changes just to tweak him and remind him who was really boss. It galled him that Bouvier, an officer who had never commanded a Border Service vessel, should have been appointed as Commander of the Border Dogs. He had his suspicions over how she had attained her place in the Admiralty, but nothing solid that would make any difference in the scheme of things.
His terminal chimed and the long face of Lt. Varnosh, Bateson’s ever-efficient Andorian aide appeared. “Incoming message for you, Admiral.”
Bateson fixed the Lieutenant with a weary gaze. “Varnosh – if that’s the station manager at Starbase 500 again, tell him there was a horrible Holodeck accident . . . that I was playing the part of Caligula in a Roman orgy and I died of sexual exhaustion.”
The Andorian wore his typical patient expression on his face. “Very imaginative, sir. I’ll remember to use that at the first appropriate opportunity. However, this is not from Starbase 500. The source of the signal is Verex III.”
Bateson’s eyebrows shot up. “Verex III? The Syndicate’s charming hell-hole? Who is it?”
“The caller chose to remain anonymous, but said the message was urgent and for your ears only.”
The Admiral frowned. He certainly didn’t have any “friends” on Verex III, but what the hell? It would be an interesting diversion from fuel requisitions and captains vying over time in the repair bays.
“By all means, put him through, Lieutenant.”
A faint smile crossed the Andorian’s face. “It’s most definitely not a ‘him,’ Sir. Stand by.”
The image shifted from the Andorian aide to the visage of a striking Green Orion female. Bateson managed to hide his surprise.
Ahmet’sur Trien Sarnys was well known to the Border Service. Of the current Syndicate clan bosses, she was perhaps the shrewdest and most dangerous. She eschewed the bluster and bling of her rivals, instead maintaining a low profile. She had no interest in narcotics, sex slavery or piracy. None of her business dealings technically violated the law. That is not to say that the Sarnys cartel were paragons of virtue.
Trien Sarnys and her cartel were merchants of death. They provided military-grade weapons and mercenaries to the highest bidders. It was suspected, but never proven, that they were the primary source of firepower for the resurgent Maquis. Bateson had heard rumors that during the war, Sarnys had provided arms and troops to help overrun a heavily fortified Cardassian garrison in the Ghihan system. Supposedly, when Cardassian reinforcements finally arrived, they found the heads of their compatriots skewered on long poles and set ablaze. The mercenaries were long gone. It was not known who had paid the Sarnys cartel for this nasty bit of wet-work.
Of course, those were just rumors.
Trien Sarnys was descended from one of the more prominent Orion war lords that once bedeviled the Klingons. To Bateson, she looked like a businesswoman, adorned in her expensive and exquisitely tailored suit. Her lovely face exuded quiet confidence and professionalism. But her eyes were as cold as a Terran reptile.
“Admiral Bateson, is this a secure channel?” asked Sarnys.
Bateson tapped a control on his desk. “It is now. What can I do for you, Ahmet’sur?”
“You are, of course, familiar with the planet Hri’on?”
“Sure – what’s left of it. Why?”
“The Klingons are going to annex Hri’on within one of your weeks. I suggest you stop them.”
“The Klingons? Why the hell would they want Hri’on? There’s nothing there but a few Terran nuns and a small colony of Klinorions in a twelve kilometer long valley.” Bateson intentionally mentioned the mixed-race Orions, hoping to elicit a response from Sarnys. “Sorry, but that just doesn’t make sense.”
“Nonetheless, they intend to take the planet – by force if necessary.”
“Let’s suppose you’re telling the truth – which is a stretch, I must say – why give me a head’s up? And why would you care about a few Humans and some half-breeds? Neither your people nor the Klingons have shown the slightest interest in those unfortunate people since your war ended hundreds of years ago.”
Bateson caught a spark of anger in Trien’s eye. He suppressed a smile of satisfaction. So, I touched a nerve after all . . . good!
“What happened to the Klinorians was distasteful, but as you say – that was centuries ago. However, if you value those people – particularly the members of the religious order – I suggest you get them off Hri’on immediately.”
“You haven’t told me why the Klingons want Hri’on,” he pressed.
But the channel was already closed. Bateson cursed under his breath, then contacted his aide.
“Varnosh – what’s the name of the new Fleet Intel officer?”
“That would be Lt. Mechelov.”
“Track him down and tell him I need to see him ASAP. No . . . make that immediately.”
“Aye, sir. Is there anything particular about which he should be prepared to brief you?”
“Yeah – ask him if the Klingons are feeling frisky. Get on it Varnosh.”
* * *
Bateson (as usual) is up to his arse in alligators. Most days he wishes he were still commanding a cutter.
That's not to say that's the case this time.
