The T’Ong was truly alive again.

Her decks thrummed with power, disruptor arrays running so hot that the air vibrated. On the forward viewscreen, a small barren moon hung against the black, its surface pitted and silent.

“Target locked,” called Meklar, his voice a growl of anticipation.

“wa’… cha’… Wej… baH,” ordered K’trok, son of Morak, his tone calm, with the confidence of one who knew his ship and his crew would perform.

Twin spears of blinding green energy leapt from the T’Ong’s forward emitters, converging on the moon’s surface. The disruptors’ impact carved molten scars across the moon… geysers of vapor rising in their wake.

“Impact confirmed,” Meklar reported, tapping through the readouts at the weapons station. “Output exceeds tolerance by twelve percent.”

K’trok turned toward the engineering station. “L’dren?”

The engineer didn’t look up from her console. “I rerouted the secondary plasma conduits through the backup EPS grid. The T’Ong’s original power couplings were overbuilt… solid, even after over a hundred years of neglect. They don’t make them like that anymore; I thought it was a shame to let that go to waste.”

Meklar chuckled low in his throat. “A shame? This is what happens when you let children lead departments. Those couplings were never meant to run that hot!”

“That’s why I’m monitoring them, not you,” she replied dryly. “They can handle it.”

K’trok smiled faintly, the expression brief but genuine. “You’ve given the T’Ong her claws back. The Empire might have cast her aside, but she was forged in the fires of better days.”

He turned back to Meklar. “Now let’s see about her teeth. Arm the plasma torpedoes.”

Meklar’s scowl returned. “With respect, Captain, I trust those torpedoes as much as the Ha’DIbaH who sold them to us.”

L’dren crossed her arms. “They’ll fire. I’ve modified the targeting relays and launcher assemblies to compensate for the Romulan control protocols. We lose some destructive output, but the ship stays in one piece.”

K’vathra gave L’dren a sidelong glance. “And if they don’t fire?”

“Then the launchers will detonate and take us with them,” L’dren replied flatly. “But they will fire first.”

A low laugh rippled across the bridge.

K’trok raised a hand. “That is enough. We test… nothing more.” He paused, watching the silent moon on the viewscreen. Fire just one torpedo… baH.”

The deck rumbled as the torpedo launcher cycled, a deep guttural hum rising through the hull. A single torpedo erupted from the forward launcher, twisting like living green flame. It struck the moon’s surface and blossomed into a blinding sphere of emerald energy that turned the rock to glass.

When the light faded, the moon bore a new wound.

K’trok nodded once. “Acceptable… report.”

“Energy yield was eighty-seven percent of standard Klingon photon,” L’dren reported, her tone clinical. “Cleaner but less satisfying. I’ll work to increase the output, but Romulan ordinance favors accuracy over mess.”

“Mess,” Meklar growled, “is how you know something died.”

K’trok let them argue a moment before speaking, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “What matters is that we are ready. This ship… our ship… was built for war. Let Toral’s lackeys rot in comfort. We will find our glory in this Expanse.

He moved toward the center of the bridge, eyes fixed on the molten scars below. “Begin system cooldown. Meklar, log the firing telemetry and start running drills.”

Walking over to K’vathra with a half grin, he said in a lower voice, “Have the boy meet me in training chamber two. My blood is boiling; my heart craves battle.”

—————————————-

Captain’s Log, Supplemental. Stardate 79824.6

We are just over thirty-eight light-years spinward of Framheim Station, continuing deployment of the subspace relay network across the Shackleton Expanse. The Thunderchild had already completed two of our assigned sectors, with Dr. Th’iveqan keeping us to a very strict timetable. The Fourth Fleet’s exploratory group has divided the task among multiple vessels, Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan alike. Each responsible for securing a communications corridor that will allow and maintain contact across this new frontier.

It’s a simple mission in theory, but the distances are vast, and the local interferences unpredictable. Some sectors are reporting remnants of the Shroud’s subspace turbulence, while others exhibit other phenomena requiring modifications to the relays, allowing them to work at peak efficiency. Each relay deployed is essentially stitching another thread that will eventually connect all these systems to the outside galaxy. I haven’t received any word on the Romulan’s progress, but in yesterday’s brief, the Henry Hudson reported success in deploying relay 71B, despite significant subnucleonic radiation from a nearby nebula. The Klingon ship nom’Duv reported they ‘conquered’ their sector’s signal distortion, after their engineer was challenged to a duel by his own calibration officer before the problem was resolved.

For now, the Thunderchild serves in the quiet role of an advance caretaker, clearing the path. It’s methodical work, which has given the crew something rare… routine. A chance to breathe, to remember that not every mission begins with an explosion. Some simply trudge along in the silence between new stars.

 

The sound of sneakers on the holodeck floor echoed between the simulated gym walls, rhythmic and sharp.

Captain Rynar Jast moved with deliberate focus, dribbling the basketball in precise, careful beats. He wore a sleeveless Starfleet training top, dark with traces of sweat.

Across from him, Ensign Caden Ellis crouched defensively, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, Sir, don’t think… just move.”

“I usually find that approach efficient,” Jast said, circling. “Though admittedly, less successful here.”

“That’s because basketball’s not about efficiency. It’s rhythm. Instinct,” Ellis replied.

Jast feinted right, stepped left, and drove toward the hoop. The motion was clean, almost elegant, until his shot bounced hard off the rim, the ball thumping away across the court.

Ellis laughed, jogging over to retrieve it. “You had me, Sir, you had me. But you overthought the finish.”

“Story of my life,” Jast said, smiling faintly. “You’d think being joined with the memories of six other hosts would cure me of that.”

“You’ve got good form, though,” Ellis said, tossing him the ball again. “And that first step? You almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

“I’ll take that as high praise from the former Captain of the Academy team,” replied Jast.

“It is,” Ellis said. “You’re much better than most first timers. I mean, you have probably got a few lifetimes of muscle memory to draw from.”

Jast bounced the ball a few times. “Unfortunately, none of them ever played this game. Toren loved parisses squares, and Dren was an avid velocity player… because of the phasers,” Jast ended in a chuckle.

Ellis nodded toward the hoop. “You want to try again?”

Jast lined up again, this time with a bit more determination. The ball left his hand in a smooth arc… and missed, again, by a narrow margin.”

Ellis caught the rebound easily, shaking his head. “Okay, you’re consistent. That’s something.”

Jast turned around to face his Yeoman. “Consistency is the foundation of command.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t win basketball games. Baskets do,” replied Ellis.

“Then I guess I’ll aim for progress instead,” Jast said deadpan.

They kept playing, the competitive edge softened by laughter. For every miss, Ellis offered a piece of advice. Bend the knees, follow through, trust the motion. For every correction, Jast listened, adapted, and missed slightly less.

“You know, Sir, I like this side of you. Less command chair, more… person.” Ellis finally said.

“Same person,” Jast said. “Just with worse aim.”

“Yeah, but that’s kind of refreshing. You miss a few shots, you make a few. You keep at it. That’s the whole game.”

Jast caught the ball one last time and rested it against his hip. “A perfect metaphor for command… or life.”

Before he could attempt another shot, the comm system chirped over his badge.

“Bridge to Captain Jast.”

Commander Taryn Vok’s deep voice was calm, but precise.

Jast tapped his combadge. “Go ahead.”

“Captain, we are receiving a signal. Weak, partially corrupted, UT has identified the words ‘help’ and ‘attack’. Source is approximately nine point five hours away at maximum warp, bearing one-eight-seven mark four.”

Without hesitation, Jast replied. “Understood. Set intercept course and engage. Notify Commander Velar, I’ll be there shortly.”

“Aye, Captain.” Vok closed the channel.

Jast exhaled, setting the ball back on the rack by the bench. “I suspect Dr. Th’iveqan will be furious when he learns we’ve just disrupted his relay deployment schedule.”

Ellis grinned. “He’ll forgive you, Sir… eventually.”

“Doubtful,” Jast said, grabbing his towel from the bench and walking towards the archway. “Engineers hold grudges longer than ex-spouses.”

He paused, glancing back at the court once more. “Good game, Ensign, thanks for inviting me. Next time I’ll be better.”

Ellis laughed. “Looking forward to it, Sir.”

The holodeck doors parted with a hiss, and Jast stepped out into the corridor’s cool light, a rare moment of leisure giving way once more to duty.

—————————————-

Baakonite clashed and sparked in the dim light.

Relar’s blade, a battered mek’leth nearly too heavy for him, rang out as it met K’trok’s own. The Orion youth stumbled back, breathing ragged, sweat and blood streaking down his emerald green skin.

K’trok advanced, each step deliberate. “Again.”

Relar’s knuckles were raw, his grip trembling. Still, he lifted his blade. “You’re going to break me, Lord.”

“Then you were never worth taking from your chains,” K’trok said coldly. The next exchange was savage. K’trok’s strike came low, swift. Reelar parried… too slow. The mek’leth bit into his shoulder, shallow, but deep enough to bleed. He hissed through his teeth.

“Pain is the best teacher,” K’trok barked. “Learn quickly!”

Relar spun, anger flaring. He swung wildly, catching K’trok’s thigh with a glancing blow. A trickle of blood dripping from the cut. The older Klingon smiled… not with amusement, but respect.

“Better,” K’trok said as he lowered his blade.

Relar steadied his stance, anticipating another attack. “You said the Empire will never see me as anything but a kuve. That I must prove myself in blood. So, whose blood do you want?”

“Yours,” K’trok said, eyes hard. “Until it proves your strength. Until no one can ever make you a slave again.”

They moved again, the rhythm brutal and fast. K’trok disarmed him with a twist of the wrist, sending his mek’leth skittering across the deck.

Without hesitation, Relor dove for it, rolled, and slashed upward. The blade nicked K’trok’s arm, but it was his off-hand crashing into the Klingon’s face that surprised K’trok the most.

K’trok laughed, a deep, guttural, joyous laugh. “There it is… Fire!”

Realr stood panting, the heavy weapon shaking slightly in his grip. Then I will bleed Lord. Bleed for my name and for your House.

K’trok stepped close, his voice low but fierce. “You already have a name, Relar. Now make others fear it.”

He reached out, clasping the young Orion’s shoulder where he had cut him, his own blood mingling with the boy’s. “You are not a slave anymore. You are part of my crew. Prove it every day.” He tapped the small House Varek crest the boy had worn since the day he had freed him. “Prove it, or I will take this back.”

Relar nodded once, eyes steady. “Understood.”

K’trok turned away, wiping his blade clean. “Go see T’rena, have the miserable old targ patch you up. You can bring my evening meal when you are done.”

Relar stood up straighter and walked proudly to the door without another word. The doors hissed shut behind as he left, leaving K’trok alone in the training chamber. He pressed his hand to the small cut on his leg, savoring the sting. The boy will do, he mused. And soon, the Empire will remember House Varek.