Star Trek: Ascension

"…I've got you precisely where I want you; helpless to suffer the same fate as myself. What sweeter revenge could there be?"

A cloud comprised of racing hulls and flaring nacelles churns against the colossal spiral arm of the galaxy like a counterpoint on an impressionist painting. Though insignificant against the cosmic backdrop of the Alpha Quadrant, it is comprised of every WARP capable vessel from every space faring species indigenous to the sector. They number in the tens of thousands, and each is burdened beyond capacity with supplies, samples, and refugees who have given up their worlds for the hollow promise within the great expanse of intergalactic space. The most advanced of the starships shepherd older vessels that press their engines in a desperate bid to survive rather than keep up. Yet, within the width and breadth of space any velocity achievable by this nebulous armada remains arduous against the onslaught that tortures the terror infecting each desperate soul within. Leading this doomed population are five starships from the strongest governments in the sector. Blindly they delve into the vast cosmic ocean that separates the galactic islands of life.

It started in the Detrian system, this terror that has set the collective will of every sentient species in the galaxy on abandoning the nurturing spiral for the unfathomable void. A cataclysm on a scale so massive that it devours entire star systems with absolute and indescribable erasure. The decimation of a star system alone would be enough to set any population to flight, yet this obliterating contagion spreads unyielding, leaving an impermeable void in its wake that defies the science of any civilization.

The United Federation of Planets was the first government to call for evacuations and it is a Federation vessel that leads. Beyond the primary hull of the Excelsior class starship lays only the ebony expanse. Beneath the dome at the center of that saucer section, the flashing instruments of the command crew detect an anomaly of rationale and reason.

Flanking her starboard is a long and elegant Vulcan cruiser, the yellowish lights of hundreds of portholes contrasting the tawny alloy of its hull. On her portside, a Klingon Vor’cha attack cruiser keeps pace with its weapons systems fully primed in a futile display of defiance. Looming high on the trail of the three allied starships, a Romulan D’deridex warbird overshadows the formation in keeping with a Cardassian Galor class battleship guarding beneath. Each vessel confirms the stunning advance detected by the crew of the USS Gorkon.

On the bridge of the Cardassian vessel, awash in the dim illumination of rationed power, Gul Evek sits in his command chair with his steely eyes locked on his tactical officer.

“The vessel is on an intercept vector,” the young Cardassian reports, his shallow breath laced with a quiver despite the rigors of his training.

On the bridge of the Romulan Warbird the icy demeanor of the stolid command crew is no less shaken by their plight, as testified by the sweat tracing their devilish brows. A sensor blip flashes on the view screen’s representation of the space ahead.

Commander Tomalek rises from the exhaustion of his chair and steps toward the view screen with an unsteady gate. “Give me visual.”

The Klingons on the bridge of the IKS Hek'tar, however, make no attempt to hide their agitation. Each scowl is a wet mask betraying the fear welling in the heart of the collective warrior. Each gesture is sharp and exaggerated as they grunt and growl on the threshold of Sto’Vo Kor. In this fevered stew, Captain Kern studies the image of the approaching Federation starship on the view screen from the lair of his command chair. “Hailing frequencies.”

Aboard the T’Sing, Vulcan officers observe silently from a command center permeated with a serenity that is ludicrous in the face of reality. Despite the incredible emotional strain, each crew member remains dispassionate as they monitor the galaxy class starship and the overlapping data on their view screen.

“No response,” an impossibly poised Vulcan reports without turning to look at her commander.

In the center seat of the USS Gorkon, Admiral Nechayev stands and steps toward the view screen. Her features are tight and pale as she begins to speak with a strained voice and forced composure. “I implore you, please, respond.”

Captain Picard sits motionless behind the desk in his ready room with Livingston feigning interest from his bulbous tank. The lights are dim as he stares absently into the shadows listening to the emphatic voice of Admiral Nechayev.

“Picard, please, you must listen.”

A chime interrupts his contemplation, and he mutes the transmission with a reluctant tap, looking wearily towards the door.

“Come.”

The brusque order reveals the beleaguered face of Commander Riker. “We're coming into range.”

Picard's eyes meet Riker's and he sighs resolutely. He stands and leads Riker into the bridge where his officers wait at their positions under emergency lighting. Lt. La Forge leans heavily against the frame of the engineering station, his uniform damp and clingy. Lt. Worf looms over the tactical console rigidly, glaring ahead defiantly. Counselor Troi straightens from a somber slump, her eyes deep set and darkly circled. At the helm, Wesley Crusher’s youth seems to have been stripped away by unspeakable dread. Data, however, remains a stark contrast. Neither his demeanor nor appearance are disheveled in any way.

“We are receiving two thousand thirty-six hails in addition to Admiral Nechayev's,” Worf reports in a low voice echoing of the state of the Klingons aboard the Hek'Tar.

Picard looks to Counselor Troi and then takes his familiar stance between his post and the view screen. “Put the admiral on screen.”

Data obeys the order without reply, his fingers dancing quickly over the Ops controls, and Admiral Nechayev's visage appears on the screen, her tired face awash with relief.

“Captain Picard, you must desist!” she pleads.

Picard’s posture stiffens. “We will not desist, admiral. We must not. Not even in the face of such... horror.”

“There is no way of dissuading you then?” the admiral checks, her weary eyes suddenly sharp and searching.

“No, admiral, there is not,” Picard replies flatly.

The keenness of Nechayev's eyes fade to resignation and knowing. Although she will flee with all those who follow and leave the crew of the Enterprise to their fate, she does so with the admiration of the nobility which has already made them legends. “Godspeed, captain.”

The view screen changes abruptly to show the massive clouds of approaching ships and Picard turns to his bridge crew reflectively. “…if it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now.”

The Enterprise D flies into the fleeing armada, swerving to and fro as she dodges the fleeing ships. Clearing the vast armada, she darts into the depths of space.

Chapter One

Phaser fire pours into an ebony plume of cosmic dust to no avail as the stealth and agility of a single pilot craft evades the sleek Hunter ship that dogs her. As the prey vessel vanishes swiftly into the nebulous black ribbon that drapes this remote sector of the Gamma Quadrant, three additional Hunter ships sweep in to close formation around the blackness undulating between them.

“Readings are inconclusive!” the Klingon tactical officer reports through a grimace of frustration from his station behind the captain’s chair, his fingers tightening into a clench.

Captain Kordor examines the sensor display with hungry eyes, leaning forward to study the view screen. His burnished complexion is beaded with eager sweat and cast red under combat lighting. His long hair, disheveled and marbled gray, frames the jagged grin that contorts his face with mad anticipation of the final snare.

“Give me a trans-spectral overlay on visual!” he barks with glee.

His command crew execute the order with the pronounced zeal of pack of wolves that have caught the scent of blood. The graphic display on the view screen changes but does not give any indication of their prey’s location.

Kordor sits back in his chair, his fierce and studious gaze narrows and as he examines the kaleidoscope of charts, graphs, and vectors on the view screen. His jagged smile creeps back onto his lips.

“Tactical!” he trumpets, “calibrate torpedoes for wide-field ion bursts!”

The starboard thrusters of the Klingon’s Hunter ship flare, spinning the craft one hundred and eighty degrees where it fires, fires, fires torpedoes into the inky cover before lurching to full stop.

Great pockets of space expand before them abruptly as the torpedo fire vaporizes the nebula particulates to reveal the flare of thrusters.

The Hunters dive in wildly with their weapons blazing as the Klingon’s ship surges to drive the small vessel into their fiery net.

With a burst of speed, the prey vessel rockets towards the Hunter ships, the nose of its hull glowing with increased shield strength. Through a barrage of artillery, it shoots through the nacelle of the nearest Hunter ship like a bullet through glass, shattering its WARP engine and spewing debris into the path of the other ships.

Having anticipated the prey’s strategy, Kordor surges ahead of the remaining Hunters to rush the fleeing vessel.

The tiny vessel darts out of its vector, dodging Kordor’s fire, and corkscrews into a long cold graveyard of a Federation Alliance and Dominion battlefield. The broken hulls of Starfleet, Klingon, and Romulan ships drift silently amid those of Breen, Cardassian, and Jem’Hadar in silent testament to the savagery of the Dominion War.

“The target is no longer registering on sensors!” Kordor’s tactical officer seethes.

Kordor examines the remnants of the dead vessels. “Take us in slowly and prepare the environmental armor for our hunting party.

“Hail Kempar Vox.”

The pale green reptilian face of the Gama Quadrant’s most noted Hunter appears on the view screen, a picture of envy and resentment.

“Vox! This Tosk is cunning!” Kordor calls with a jubilant roar.

“Have you tracked his location?” the Hunter presses doggedly.

“I have -and I claim the right of the kill! I will take my hunting party and spring his trap.”

“Each of us will search a ship,” Vox’s voice counters sharply, “and then we will see who wins and who is dead.”

Kordor glares at the Hunter menacingly, stretching his malicious grin into a snarl. “The Dominion battleship is ours! I will kill anything on board that is not Klingon!”