Posted April 24, 2019, 10:36 a.m. by Gamemaster Winter Wolfe (Sr. GameMaster) (Andrew Robinson)
The light of the star Ophiuchi beat down upon the surface of Ophiuci III. The small walled city of K’Tesh on the northern continent enjoyed a pleasant summer heatwave appreciated by its Kzinti inhabitants after a particularly brutal winter season. The city council had finally received the resources necessary from The First Kzin to install a weather control station and it was paying dividends already. It had taken thirteen years to grow sufficiently to receive the technology, outer colonies being of low importance to The Patriarchy. In the central park of K’Tesh, dozens of feline Kzinti lay stretched out on the purple grass, their fur soaking in the warm rays of the sun. Small children laughed and hissed as they ran through the trees and carefully sculpted gardens, pouncing and rolling, wrestling and laughing, preparing for their adulthood and the naming trials to come. It would have been the perfect day for M’chall-Councillor if it weren’t for an irritating whine that pricked his ears back as he tried to verify his atmospheric ionization readings in the parks central garden. He muttered and hissed beneath his breath, losing his train of thought as a group of litterlings raced past him. Steadying his gear, he tried to focus again, but the whine was getting louder. It seemed to be coming from above. He squinted up at the sky behind him, his last surprised thoughts swallowed by the blinding flash of the photon torpedo that ended his life.
The Asteroid Z1573-Zaran floated endlessly, the gravity well of the Zaran star too strong to release it. Barely forty miles in diameter, it orbited through the darkness of the Byrdica system. Zaran II came into focus as the First Federation listening post set deep within a cavern on the asteroid swung into the light side. Having never joined the Federation, it was with some friendly competition that the First Federation and the Federation spied on each other, listening posts and sensor stations spread throughout the sectors governing their border. This listening station, governing sector 08 of their southeastern border space was a larger, manned station placed there with the permission of the native Zaranite population, always eager to please and make friends, their love of outsiders legendary. They had little care that the First Federation wanted to protect their borders, even with two centuries of friendly coexistence between them and the Federation. Balor, commander of the station reached up to verify the readings he had just received. Alarm klaxons ripped through the outpost almost as quickly as the phaser beams and photon torpedo bursts that ended his life.
Eta Serpentis, the most boring assignment of Lieutenant Aaron Kepler’s short, but rather aggressive career with Starfleet. A listening post that spied on a friendly race that had never made an aggressive move despite refusing to join the Federation. At least on the Hood, he’d had a little action, some raiders and pirates. Here the highlight of his day was the supply ship his sensors had just detected on approach. He looked over to Crewman Chang and lobbed a rubber ball in his general direction. Chang turned and caught it in the nick of time, once more surprising Kepler with his seeming preternatural senses. Chang chuckled and tossed the ball back “Nice try, Aaron, better luck next time.” Kepler groaned and rubbed his hands up and down across his face in frustration before tapping the comm button =/\= Listening post-3-12 Alpha to supply vessel Archon.. How’s it going up there, fellas? Got my saurian brandy shipment in yet? =/\= His smirk turned to a frown as he got no response. He ran a quick diagnostic to determine there was nothing wrong with his comm system and, frown deepening, verified that his systems were working perfectly. His panel beeped an alert as the supply ships shields were raised. Changs panel rang out an alarm as it detected a transport in progress; the transport that materialized in the middle of their small operations centre, the dissipating energy wake revealing a Starfleet mark IV photon torpedo. With horror descending, Aaron half fell, half ran from his chair towards the door before he was overtaken by the torpedo’s detonation.
His fifth convoy of the last four months, Ukalia, Captain of the freighter Ilia and leader of a nine-ship cargo convoy making its way back to Aamazzara and home after what seemed an interminable run stretched back on the soft webbing of the bridge chair he had spun that morning. The Aamazzarite convoy had received this contract from the First Prelate only six months ago, and the schedule was so gruelling that he was already planning on buying another four ships to maintain his commitments. The latinum he received from this last convoy would be enough to finalize the downpayment to the shipyards and get him the help he so desperately needed. He leaned forward with a yawn as his bridge panel beeped an alert that a ship was approaching at high warp. A Starfleet signature and a transponder that registered friendly. Groaning inwardly as he anticipated a customs inspection, he opened a channel =/\= Starfleet vessel, this is the cargo convoy Ilia-1, how can we help you? =/\=. After a few seconds of patiently waiting, he opened his mouth to repeat his greeting but was interrupted as his panel erupted into chaos, registering two explosions at the back of the convoy. The Starfleet ship had fired on them?! He dropped out of warp, the other convoy ships slaved to his navigation doing the same. He gasped in confusion as he opened a panic distress channel =/\= This is the cargo convoy Ilia-1 to any vessel, we are under attack! by Starfleet! Please! We need help! Can anyone h….. =/\= The transmission was cut off by the detonation of his warp core.
The wreckage of nine ships floated through the emptiness of interstellar space, secondary explosions ripping apart the last of the Ilia as a Starfleet cruiser turned and flashed back to warp.
Hisses. Clicks. Steam. The damp, burning humidity of the hatchery always brought a comforted smile to Lizeya’s face as she strolled through the lines of eggs beginning their maturation cycle. Eight weeks of waiting for this group to hatch were about to pay off. At this rate, she would be back on Sauria just as the last of them finished hatching. Technicians roamed through the hatchery with her, scanning the eggs to verify their viability as several shells began to crack. The smile was shaken from Lizeya’s face as the ship around them rocked from an explosion. Several eggs strained against their cradles as she steadied herself against a wall and slapped the comm unit at her hip =/\= Lizeya to Bridge, what’s happening?! =/\= She could hear screaming and yelling through the commlink as after several seconds and another shaking explosion a voice screamed back =/\= WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!!! IT’S STARFLEET! WHY WOUL…. =/\= The transmission cut off as Lizeya was thrown to the deck by an explosion that tore through the hatchery. Her last thoughts as her body was yanked through the hull breach and into open space were sadness that her eggs would never see life.
As her now lifeless body floated through wreckage and the corpses of hatchlings, a Starfleet destroyer hove into view for a brief moment before streaking into warp.
SGM Winter Wolfe
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