Editor’s Note: This story takes place in the year 2368, during the events of the TNG 5th Season Premiere, “Redemption, Part II.

Qo’noS, Homeworld of the Klingon Empire

Civil war had just begun.

It had been coming for some time. Two opposing forces are at work here: One side loyal to the newly installed Chancellor Gowron, the other from the politically-powerful Duras Family.

Both sides attempted to seize control of the Klingon High Council, the governing body of the entire Empire. The vacuum began half year previous when the chancellor, K’mpek, was slowly poisoned to death.

That dishonorable act--according to K’mpek--“A warrior who kills without showing his face has no honor”--prompted the dying politician to seek an outside arbiter to mediate between the two factions involved.

He chose Captain Jean Luc Picard of the Federation starship Enterprise to decide who would rule the Empire: Gowron, who had little popularity, but had challenged for the right of leadership of the council; or Duras, a well known member of the Council. Duras’ true allegiance was discovered when it was learned that his father, Ja’rod, had betrayed the Klingon people to the Romulans and was responsible for the Khitomer Massacre many years ago. However, in an effort to save the Empire, the High Council did not act against the House of Duras, mainly due to their popular support among the people as well as members of the council itself…and instead laid the blame on another family, the House of Mogh. That dishonor extended to one Klingon who desperately fought to prove his late father’s innocence: Starfleet security officer Worf. Gowron eventually won the right of leadership, when Councilor Duras’ treachery—in connection with the poisoning of K’mpek and complicity with the Romulans were exposed. Duras finally met his end at the hands of Lieutenant Worf, who killed him in vengeance over the murder of Ambassador to the Federation K’Ehleyr, Worf’s mate. But following that incident, the leadership was still not secure as others challenged Gowron. Most of his enemies were defeated, leaving only one to deal with: the House of Duras, who still maintained the loyalty of several military and fleet commanders. Picard, completing his act as arbiter, chose Gowron to succeed as Chancellor of the High Council. But the Duras Family, headed by the late councilor’s sisters, Lursa and B’Etor, intended to place their brother’s illegitimate son Toral as the leader of the Empire. When Picard rejected the sister’s challenge, their claim in ruins, the House of Duras rallied their forces and launched several attacks on key installations loyal to Gowron. The Federation, ally of the Empire, refused to intervene, claiming the expanding conflict to be an internal Klingon affair-- despite the Duras still having secret links with the Romulan Empire, the same hostile force that had aided Ja’rod all those years ago.

However, as battles take place throughout the quadrant, rumors of a possible Romulan connection spread, it looks like another battle begins--this time, on the Homeworld itself.

Outside of the capital city, a group of Klingons, numbers ranging in the hundreds, marched down a wide city street. Both male and female, their ages ranged from teens all the way to honored elders. All of them were clothed in civilian garb; most of them shabby from work or poverty. All of them were armed. Many carried disrupter firearms are seen. The majority of them, though, are armed with bladed weapons: bat’leths, mek’leths, d'k tahgs, yans, axes, clubs, spears, maces, flailing weapons, and other improvised or homemade weapons. Banners carried by some were held high above their heads; the signs showed the image of a clenched hand holding a dark, metallic hammer.

All of these Klingons were focused, determined, with a single goal in mind.

They kept marching down the street, capturing the attention of onlookers, people whose daily work or activities were interrupted by this occurrence. Some of them knew of this group’s intentions, while others were completely unaware. The armed band entered a square, where in the center of the plaza a statue of a great Klingon warrior stood. As they arrived, they came into view of another large group. Just like the first, this second group were armed to the teeth and ranged the same ages and backgrounds. The banners that they carried were different, however. They carried a fierce image of a violent targ leaping to attack. The targ was painted red, flying from a background of fire, as if like a devildog from hell.

The Klingons stood ready: each holding out their disruptors and blades in position. Leaders from each side spoke to each other in Klingon, claiming their statuses (as is custom in addressing in the warrior way). The challenges have been issued.

Then without much preparation, the armed bands charged at each other. Disruptors erupted, their green beams striking a number of the blade-carrying warriors who never reached their opponent. Those that did reach their opponents immediately went at it; blades contacting each other, clashing violently. Feints created by some of the weapon-wielding combatants created exposures at some vital areas on their adversaries, giving him/her the opportunity for a finishing move--a fatal end to the ones involved. Near the statue, one fighter, weakened by wounds received during the clash, could not pick up his mek’leth. His opponent held him by the scruff of the collar, holding out a yan sword up high. He finished off the unlucky man in one blow. Nearby two Klingons battled it out. They dueled with each other; one armed with a mace, the other used the butt of his disruptor rifle as a club. At another corner, a large, bulky Klingon picked up another gang member and slammed his lower back onto his knee. A crunching sound was made before the large fighter threw him down. Elsewhere in the plaza, a female warrior used a mok’bara martial arts technique, grabbing another female with an arm locking maneuver; then moved toward her back, grabbing her neck and snapping it. Another warrior used his banner as a club to dispatch yet another attacker, just before he was stabbed with a d’k tahg. The signifier then collapsed; with his banner still in his hands.

As the violence continued to escalate within the quarter, hiding at a deserted street corner within sight of the plaza but out of the danger, someone else was watching. Shrouded in a shabby, ripped up cloak, with a hood hiding the individual’s facial features, the watcher pulled out a device from the cloaks inside lining. That person--his chin revealing him to be a human male; stubbles of hair showing--brought the device up to his lips and flipped it open, like an old Earth cell phone. He began recording on his Starfleet-issued tricorder his observations of the events he was witnessing. Images were captured and displayed on its small viewscreen. The fight taking place, to the male individual taking account of all of this, looked similar to a medieval battle from an epic movie. Only difference being they had energy weapons with them.

As the shrouded figure finished recording the images, he returned his tricorder to the inside of his cloak. He replaced it in his hand with a Klingon disruptor pistol. Then he immediately, but cautiously, took cover. Keeping vigilant, staying out of view, but maintaining readiness, he pulled part of his hood back up over his head. His face was that of a young Asian in his late-twenties to early thirties. His facial features were that of Chinese origin. Reaching out his left arm, he pulled back his sleeve. Part of a traditional style tattoo of a tiger was revealed. On his wrist was a device similar to that of a 23rd century Starfleet communicator in use during the 2270’s and 80’s. The young male, named Lin Fau Chang, a lieutenant by rank and a field agent in Starfleet Intelligence, activated the device and brought it close to his mouth.

“Black Tiger to King’s Rook. Black Tiger to King’s Rook, do you read me, over?”

“This is King’s Rook. What’s your status, over?” a voice replied.

“It looks like we got another clash of the gangs; this time in the Market Square. Different groups from ones seen over in the Gorkon Quarter, over.”

“You still armed, Black Tiger, over?”

“I’ve got my disruptor in hand.” Chang looked around and noticed someone was approaching. “Check back with you later, King’s Rook! Black Tiger, out!”

Lieutenant Chang immediately ducked into an alley where junk and garbage was piled. His torn robes provided excellent camouflage amid the trash, as he became another addition to the foul items. Chang covered his nose and mouth with a kerchief while taking a small peak though the opening of his cloak. Two Klingon gang members, wearing the tainted yellow insignia of a hammer, looked around the trash heap, bat’leths held at a striking position. They evidently thought they had noticed movement in the alley. Poking and knocking around with the tips of their blades, they came close to discovering the unseen eavesdropper. They never got their chance however, as two disruptor blasts from behind suddenly took them out. Three Klingon opponents rushed through, running over and trampling their deceased enemies.

Realizing he was out of danger…for now…Lin Fau Chang got up, holding his disruptor pistol in position. He looked down at his two would-be killers, then looked over to the direction that their adversaries had disappeared.

“Thanks, guys,” he remarked as went out a different route.

Space, the Final Frontier...

These are the adventures of the Starfleet Marine Corps.

Our mission: To protect and defend the constitution of the United Federation of Planets from all threats…

...Anytime, anywhere.

Star Trek: The Proud Few

“Ready for Action” By David Kingsbury

Marine’s personal log, stardate 45020.4: Private Michael Drake recording;

My platoon has been stationed at the Federation Embassy on the Klingon Homeworld, since shortly after the first shots of their civil war were fired. Though the two main sides of the conflict don’t pose a threat to us, we’ve been getting reports on uncontrolled conflicts by numerous street gangs within and outside the Imperial Capital. The latest reports state that the violence has claimed a number of lives, including many civilians. Imperial security forces are attempting to control these attacks; but are being overwhelmed, or in some cases even joining the gangs, where they control several major townships in the outskirts of the capital. The Klingon Defense Forces are choosing which side to join, either Gowron or the Duras Family--so helping the populace curb these armed punks is out of the question.

The Marine Guard and Starfleet Security contingent stationed here on Qo’noS have requested our assistance. This just after 2nd Platoon from Bravo Company, of the 46th Battalion, completed an extensive combat training program—just after I was assigned to this unit, which I am proud to be a part of.

Private Michael Curzon Drake (middle named after a famous Trill ambassador, whom his family knew well) stood behind a makeshift fortification, with several tons of sandbags stacked in front; the marine had his Type III phaser rifle slung on his shoulder, with an additional Type II phaser on his left hip. Overseeing the horizon, the young Virginian used a pair of Starfleet-issued binoculars, Drake watched. He spotted one area: a place, according to earlier reports, designated by both warring sides as neutral territory. Drake observed as a group of rowdy Klingon soldiers (a few of them Imperial marines) enter an entertainment establishment. According to their style of insignia, they were warriors loyal to Chancellor Gowron. Another group barged in behind them, almost colliding with the Gowron loyalists. Private Drake pretty much guessed that this other crew belonged to the Duras faction. At first they showed a hint of hostile intentions. Then in a short moment, they embraced each other; like comrades, and brothers-in-arms. The two groups of adversaries entered the establishment together.

Drake smiled a little at this distant encounter. He had studied the Klingon warrior culture as a student of his kung fu sifu (instructor), when they both had visited the Homeworld. Like in Earth’s warrior elite of ancient times (knights of Europe, samurai, and so on), the code of honor and respect for one’s adversary (who fought with courage) is demonstrated on Qo’noS.

Drake completed his scan. Next to him, keeping a watch while manning a rapid-fire phaser rifle, stood a tall, muscular marine. His blonde hair was cut very short in a standard Marine style. Private Hector Gonzales was of Hispanic descent, hailing from the Federation colony on planet Kessik IV. Gonzales whispered to Drake, who was also been in his boot camp company during their days on Parris Island; through to advanced training and eventually assigned to the 2nd Platoon together.

“Hey, Drake. What do they got going on over there?”

“Looks like another victory celebration. I have no idea who won.”

“Would you believe Gowron’s side?” A roughed-up sounding voice, almost critical, caught the two marines’ attention. They still did not turn away from their post to look at who it was; but they knew who was speaking.

A large, muscular Tellarite male stepped in behind the fortification. Unlike many of his species, who sport a chubby appearance and long facial hair, this pig-like humanoid looked a little lean for his figure. His head was shaven pretty short; shorter than Private Gonzales’. Wearing the same dark uniform with hunter green bar across his chest; on his right collar were chevrons—three divided parts pointing upward with an upside down arch underneath: the rank of staff sergeant. And this was one marine NCO you did not want to mess with—even if his arguments were still considered customary conversations among his species, a tradition that Staff Sergeant Walc, second-in-command of 2nd Platoon, maintained.

“Report?” the Tellarite sergeant demanded.

Drake answered, “So far, nothing out of the ordinary. None of the reported gang activity so far, Sergeant.”

“Very good,” Staff Sergeant Walc nodded. “Getting back to the previous subject, Gowron’s forces just won a victory despite overwhelming odds.”

“You don’t say, Sarge,” Hector Gonzales commented.

“According to reports, one ship, I think it’s called the Hegh’ta, engaged two Duras vessels, diverting them from attempts to annillate a Klingon division in the Mempa sector. The enemy vessels outnumbered the Gowron ship, until their commander ordered it into a star’s corona. They hovered over the photosphere, luring the Duras ships to her. Then she warped away from the star, igniting a flare that destroyed both Duras ships.”

“Victory achieved,” Drake said, acknowledging their allies.

“Yeah…” Walc grumbled a little; not to that recent battle, but the latest outcome in the conflict. “Our allies could use a morale booster from that engagement right now. They aren’t doing so well on other fronts at the moment.”

“From what I’ve just seen, Sarge,” Drake added, as he looked over in the direction to where the neutral area was located, “they don’t seem to be affected by it.”

Walc reflected back to one such experience. “Even after participating in that troop exchange program years ago, I still don’t understand Klingons.”

Drake noticed the Tellarite platoon sergeant shake his head a little after what he mentioned. Drake and Gonzales remember their fellow squad members telling stories about how their unit’s second-in-command once participated in a Federation-Klingon Exchange Program, similar to the Officer exchange program Commander William T. Riker of the Enterprise participated in when he transferred to the Klingon vessel Pagh. In this particular case, Walc, at the time a regular sergeant, joined a platoon of Klingon marines, serving as a squad leader. (At the same time a Klingon NCO was assigned to the Starfleet Marines, causing more havoc on his human subordinates than did the Tellarite). Living among Klingon grunts, Walc endured much more hardships: having to live off the land for extended periods; enduring harsher environments—nothing new to a combat marine who fought in numerous conflicts. There were two differences in the Klingon way of life: having to sample their cuisine, such as live, sqiggly gagh, ant the constant engagements against their traditional enemies, the Romulans—who have been in conflict with the Klingons for over seventy-five years. And often at times, Sergeant Walc had to don a Klingon uniform, so the enemy did not think the Federation was secretly plotting against them by sending a Starfleet advisor or operative to work with the Klingons. When Walc returned, he shared his experience in the Troop Exchange with his superiors. Taking what he learned from his allies, the Marines adapted these skills into their training; which helped more troops in the years that followed. Similar survival and tactics, combined with those in the Corps, were instrumental in combat exercises that 2nd Platoon completed over at starbase, just prior to war breaking out among the Klingons.

Walc noted a signal coming from his Starfleet comm badge on the left side of his chest. “Lieutenant Collins to Staff Sergeant Walc. Please report to the briefing room immediately.”

The Tellarite tapped on his badge and acknowledged, “On my way, sir.”

“Are Privates Drake and Gonzales present, Sergeant?”

“Right in front of me.”

“As soon as they get relieved, Sergeant, have them join us as well.”

“As we speak, sir,” Staff Sergeant Walc said as he turned to see two other marines arrive to relieve the watch. One was a tall, blonde male; the other, a dark-skinned Ligonian human, a few centimeters shorter than his Terran comrade. The detachment approached the pig-faced, Tellarite NCO.

“…Their relief has just arrived.”

“Sorry to barge in like this, Staff Sergeant,” the blonde man apologized as he stood at attention alongside the Ligonian. “Privates Kurland and Qullad here to relieve Privates Drake and Gonzales.”

Both Privates Kurland and Qullad had interesting backgrounds. Kurland had been the son of a Starfleet officer assigned to the USS Enterprise-D, expected to follow in his father’s footsteps. After an incident that occurred when he did not make the cut on the Academy entrance exam, the teen made the decision to join the elite Starfleet Marines instead, much to his father’s disappointment.

Qullad’s story also began with the Enterprise, when that vessel visited his home world of Ligon II, on a mission to acquire a vaccine needed to combat a plague that had attacked a Federation colony. The young boy managed to stow away aboard the Federation starship until security officers discovered him. He convinced Captain Picard and the crew not to return him to his home world, and was taken in by a family the Drakes knew, growing up with Michael Drake, both eventually enlisting in the Corps.

“Just in time. Carry on,” Walc answered.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Kurland responded. The two soldiers headed to where Drake and Gonzales were stationed. Taking up their positions, Drake and Gonzales started to exit the emplacement. But first the relieving marines wanted a watch report.

“Anything new, Mike?” Kurland inquired.

“Not much I’m afraid. Looks quiet,” Drake looked over the view, as if trying to listen around, “with the exception of the occasional celebration in the neutral area.”

“Why do both sides do this, when they know they’re gonna kill each other the very next day?” Kurland wondered aloud.

Qullad answered, “Part of their culture, and sincere admiration…I thought your warriors from ancient past knew this?” The Ligonian marine’s accent echoed in Kurland’s ears.

“Maybe these guys don’t want to really be involved in this?” Private Gonzales thought. “This war tends to be dividing more than just forces here--more likely hearts and minds.”

“I never knew the Klingons to be concerned with hearts and minds,” Qullad shrugged. “Except perhaps on a dinner plate.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that in depth,” Gonzales remarked.

“Enjoy the show, guys,” Drake said to his reliefs.

Kurland acknowledged, “We’ll be right here. Oh, by the way, Mike. You run into both Slater and Kirby, tell ‘em they owe me the two bars of latinum they lost, following that barroom incident back at starbase before we left.”

“Will do.”

“Alright,” Walc informed them, “this isn’t Risa; as if any of you even been there.”

“Understood, Staff Sergeant,” Drake acknowledged. The two grunts started down a set of steps, heading down in the direction toward a nearby structure. Staff Sergeant Walc followed.

* * *

“Attention on deck!”

Staff Sergeant Walc called the troops to attention. Everyone present stood up, each marine behind a long conference table inside a conference room, Drake and Gonzales at one side of the table. Next to Drake was his squad leader, a human female in her early thirties. She appeared Asian in orgin; Japanese to be exact. Her hair was tied in a Japanese-style topknot, but maintained according to the standards of uniform regulations. Her name was Sergeant Tamara.

Tamara came from a traditional family background; from the days of the ancient samurai through the corporate world of the 20^th century and beyond. The Tokyo-born NCO was also the granddaughter of a Starfleet yeoman who served with Captain James T. Kirk during the incident on the war-torn planet of Eminiar VII.

Sergeant Tamara, before joining 2nd Platoon, had served in a different Starfleet Marine division; in a battalion under the command of Michael Drake’s uncle, Lieutenant Colonel Harold “Hal” Drake. Sergeant Tamara’s previous squad had been part of a joint Starfleet task force, taking on an Ansata terrorist cell-- one operating offworld from their home planet of Rutia IV. That Ansata group—headed by the brother of the late Kyril Finn—had, according to intelligence reports, been harassing Federation supply routes near that sector. Tamara’s task force took out the group and eliminated the threat.

Also joining Drake, Gonzales, and Sergeant Tamara were Corporal Victor Rawlins, a native of Chicago. The corporal, one of the fire team leaders, sported a large handlebar moustache. Beside Rawlins stood the platoon’s Bolian Corpsman, Petty Officer 3^rd Class Loe, or Doc as the platoon members usually referred to him.

On the other side of the table stood Staff Sergeant Walc’s team, the female and male marines about whom Private Kurland had referred about owing two bars of latinum—Sarah Kirby and Walt Slater.

The red-haired Private Kirby was Canadian, and as far as Drake knew was the foremost authority on the 21^st century entertainment format known as reality television. Private Walt Slater, on the other hand, had a reputation for being a rebel and who spent his off time gambling with his fellow marines, sometimes with some luck. Not always the case, however, since losing a substantial amount of gold-pressed latinum (some that he borrowed from Kurland) during a recent dom jot game back at Starbase 24--before 2nd Platoon was ordered to Qo’noS.

Slater and Kirby were soon joined with three others. The first was a man of African descent named Private First Class Vance Haden, Jr. Next to PFC Haden was a skinny male human whose nerdy looks could have made him the victim of many a high school jock’s pranks. But aside from a technical knowhow, as a Starfleet Marine, Private First Class Hiram Silverman from New York City could kill any jock before they even tried to shove him into a locker. Alongside the New Yorker stood a stocky Texan, Lance Corporal Henry Ferguson, who the rest of the unit simply called ‘Tex.’

The troopers focused their attention as four officers entered the room. Two of them Drake immediately recognized. The first was a blonde man in his mid-twenties, his platoon commander 2nd Lieutenant Joshua Collins, from Tycho City on Luna. The other was a male Vulcan and the Bravo company commander, Captain Sholvok.

“As you were!” Lieutenant Collins commanded, as his unit returned to their seats. “I must apologize for interrupting your off-duty time. But I’m afraid we have a situation.”

The marines had guessed something was up. They observed as their platoon leader turned to Captain Sholvok on his right, who stepped forward.

“I will start off with a brief description of what has already been taking place,” the Vulcan marine officer said. “Everyone knows that the current political crisis within the Klingon Empire has caused numerous violent outbreaks to occur between two primary factions. However, according to the Embassy Guard Commander, Major McGregor…” Sholvok turned his eyes to a grey-haired Marine officer with a mustache, and then another officer, this one a Starfleet commander wearing a red duty uniform, “…and Commander Lance, there is more to this conflict.”

Commander Lance, a Starfleet Intelligence officer whose dark hair was starting to show signs of grey but with some youth still evident in his features, stepped forward.

“We were conducting covert surveillance; observing the political events between the forces of Gowron and the Duras Family. Since the fighting began, we’ve also been keeping tabs on some of these gangs. As most of you are probably aware, we believe there may be a connection between the Duras and the Romulans.”

Everyone in the room focused their attention as Commander Lance glanced a little toward a viewscreen mounted on the wall showing images of the recent violence that was taking place.

“One of our operatives working behind the scenes,” Lance said as live images of a Klingon from one of the gangs dispatched another from the opposing group with his bat’leth, “…has learned that some of these armed bands may be receiving support from the Duras.”

The marines at the conference table, especially Drake and Gonzales, were shocked by this news. Are all of these gangs working for the sisters, many thought? And if so, are we--the embassy personnel--the next target? Meanwhile, Commander Lance continued.

“However, we don’t yet have the proof, for we have not heard from our operative since he last checked in days ago.” Commander Lance turned to the troops present. “This is where you come in, marines.”

The marines present, hearing those words, guessed what the Commander was going to say next.

“Although our agent has been training to blend in since first visiting Qo’noS years ago-- and is armed, due to the heavy fighting that has just broken out, the situation has become very intense. If the information our operative has gathered proves that the Duras are working with the gangs, and due to that family’s treacherous nature, it could tip the balance of power; and most probably make this embassy another target.”

“Commander, if I may?” Lieutenant Collins inquired. “Why are the Duras trying to involve us? The Federation turned down Gowron’s plea for help, claiming this was an internal affair.”

“We’re not getting involved in the conflict, Lieutenant,” Lance explained. “But these gangs are considered outsiders by most of Klingon society. According to reports, these bands are poor, with either criminal histories or backgrounds of little political influence. Some of them have martial experience, or want to prove themselves by just killing each other.”

The marines looked at another violent image of the civil unrest on the monitor. Drake and the others were already guessing what their next task was going to be.

“2^nd Lieutenant Collins, you and your marines will don Klingon attire to mask your actual identities. According to your COs, you all participated in undercover training operations back at Starbase.” He then nodded to Captain Sholvok and Major McGregor as he turned the briefing back over to them.

“From our last report from the covert field agent,” McGregor said as he indicated toward the monitor, where a map of the city had replaced the images of violence. “…his last location was somewhere in or near this marketplace, on the outskirts of the Imperial Capital.”

Sholvok then added, “According to Klingon sources, it is one of the economic sectors most active with the trading and selling of goods and other products within the Empire.”

Lieutenant Joshua Collins asked, “How will we know what this Starfleet undercover operative looks like when we find him?”

Commander Lance stepped forward again and answered, “I can only tell you this. He’s a human male. When you arrive, I’m sure he will find you.”

Major McGregor added, as well as warned, “Several armed clashes between the two main gangs: the Iron Hammer, and the Red Targ; broke out in the past five days, changing control over much of the quarter back and forth. Don’t get involved. Your mission is to find our agent and get the hell out of there. Good luck.”

Captain Sholvok then ordered, “Lieutenant Collins, you will take one squad and start in the north section of the quarter, proceeding southward. Staff Sergeant Walc and his team will start in the south and proceed northward. Both teams will continue the search until contact with the agent has been established or you find proof he has been captured or killed.”

“Affirmative, sir,” the lieutenant replied before turning to the men on the side of the table where Drake and Gonzales were sitting. “Sergeant Tamara, Privates Drake and Gonzales, Corporal Rawlins, and Doc will be joining me. Slater, Kirby, Ferguson, Haden, and Silverman, you’re with Staff Sergeant Walc. Assemble your gear and report to the transporter room in ten minutes. Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” everyone responded to the orders. They knew what to do next, and were ready to proceed with the rescue mission.

“Let’s move!” Sholvok ordered.

* * *

Platoon Leader’s log, stardate 45021.1: 2^nd Lieutenant Collins recording;

Both squads each beamed into areas a couple of miles away from the Market Square. According to long-range scans, no recent fighting has occurred. But I’m not counting on this quiet moment. Some of these armed thugs are still lurking the streets somewhere. We must get to this operative before they do…

…and get out before the next series of armed clashes begin.

Alpha Squad, led by Lieutenant Collins, approached their assigned sector. All of the marines wore traditional Klingon civilian attire, cloaks and hoods obscuring their faces. They had to appear like members of normal Klingon society. Under the robes, Private Drake wore a dark mok’bara outfit, an item given to the marine by his kung fu sifu.

In addition to their outfits, most of the Starfleet Marines were issued Klingon disruptors; modified to include a stun setting. Some of the troopers carried the heavier Starfleet support weapons—the SSPW (Squad Support Phaser Weapon), an isomagnetics disintegrator, and a photon rifle. Each grunt was also issued the retractable d’k tahg fighting knife. Those fully experienced in sword combat—such as Drake, Tamara, and a couple of others—also had the privilege of carrying either a bat’leth, mek’leth or yan blade. Hoping they would not have to rely too much on those heirlooms, the marines of 2nd Platoon wanted to be prepared in case they had to fight in close quarters. Lieutenant Collins tapped on his comm badge located under his brown Klingon cloak.

“Alpha Squad in position!”

“Bravo Squad in position!” replied the voice of Walc.

“Copy, Bravo Squad. Proceed!”

Lieutenant Collins turned to Drake and Gonzales. “Drake, you’re leading us! Take point!”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Private Michael Drake brought his Klingon disruptor rifle into readiness and headed forward. He wore a warrior’s baldric slung over the shoulder of his dark cloak, hiding a yan in its sheath. The young marine had chosen it because, according to him, it was similar to a Chinese broadsword or saber.

“Gonzales, provide cover for him,” Collins ordered the Hispanic private.

“Yes, sir,” Hector Gonzales replied as he brought up his SSPW and followed Drake. Collins then turned to the rest of the team.

“Everyone else, staggered columns! And keep your eyes open!”

Spacing out, the marines organized themselves in position, carefully but quickly moving down the deserted and damaged street level that they had transported over to. This was the ideal beamdown point, far from any major gang activity. The last thing the Starfleet Marines want to do was end up in a cross-fire or hand to hand confrontation with any of the gangs. They wanted as much as possible to avoid becoming embroiled in another part of the Klingon civil war.

But what if the intelligence reports that this Starfleet operative was gathering were true, they wondered? That the Duras Family was secretly aiding these gangs; using them to plan an attack on Federation interests? They hoped this threat did not reach the embassy. Then again, would the gangs attack the embassy? The Federation Embassy was well protected, with a defensive shield, phaser cannons, anti-intruder devices and other marine guards. And if things got worse, if the staff were forced to evacuate, the embassy had a number of escape shuttles and transports at the ready.

Hoping that the Duras faction did not place the Federation into their crosshairs, that they did not defeat Gowron’s forces.

* * *

In the south end of the quarter, Staff Sergeant Walc picked out his pointman: Slater. Several dead Klingon bodies, some of them still clutching their weapons, littered the way. The Tellarite platoon sergeant also selected Kirby as his backup. The rest of the team followed them a few meters behind. Walc, wearing traditional Klingon armor (just like he did during the exchange program) brought his rifle up to bear, assessing their present position. Checking each street corner, the marines kept on the move.

Suddenly Slater abruptly paused and immediately took cover. The rest of the squad quickly followed suit, readying themselves into combat firing positions. Each marine took cover behind the larger obstacles littering the street. Staff Sergeant Walc stealthily approached Slater’s position. Private Kirby took up covering position a meter from where Slater stood.

“What is it?” Walc asked.

“Got movement, Sarge!” Slater moved his eyes toward where he noticed something moving toward the squad.

“Kirby!” Walc tilted his head from where Private Sarah Kirby was positioned. “Go smoothly.”

The two enlisted marines cautiously proceeded. Meanwhile, Walc tapped his combadge.

“Bravo Squad, stand by!” As Walc started following a short distance behind the first two privates, he added, “Bravo Squad Leader to Alpha Squad Leader! Come in, over!”

“Go ahead, Walc, over.”

“We got something approaching in front of us. Checking it out.”

“Affirmative, Walc. Proceed with caution.”

“Roger that! Get back to you as soon as we assess the situation. Walc, out!” The Tellarite NCO then ordered his two subordinates, “Take flanking positions!” Kirby and Slater acknowledged, Slater taking the left as Kirby moved toward the right and Staff Sergeant Walc maintained his position in the center. Slowly and carefully, they moved forward. A few meters in front of them, the unusual movement that had attracted Slater’s notice kept coming, but the smoke from burning debris continued to obscure their vision.

The trio carefully approached the next discarded piece of debris, junk big enough to block the sight of whatever was moving toward them. Staff Sergeant Walc remembered his days during the Klingon exchange program, when some of the warriors he was serving with told stories…of how they once fought enemies larger than themselves. Creatures who piloted ships that looked similar to dark spheres and were shaggy in appearance; with skeletal-like horns or wings. The Tellarite tensed up at the thought of those warrior stories, whether true or not. But being a Starfleet Marine, Walc was ready to face this. He approached the center of the obstacle, ready to put all of his muscular strength into pushing it over.

“Get ready!” he whispered.

Slater and Kirby acknowledged, aiming their weapons, ready to charge the instant they were ordered. Walc slung his rifle over his shoulder. With both hands, the sergeant pushed against the obstruction, knocking it down flat. He then quickly drew his pistol out of the holster on his hip as Slater and Kirby jumped out from cover and moved to attack. However, they suddenly halted their advance. No shots were fired. To their astonishment and dumbfounded looks, what moved toward them turned out to be harmless. A targ pup just walked past the three of them as the marines turned to watch.

“I can’t believe you had us preparing to ambush a baby targ.” Walc looked at Slater, rolling his eyes at the dumbfounded expression on the marine enlisted man’s face.

“I…,” Slater tried to explain, but his sergeant cut him off.

“Just start moving again!” Walc ordered his subordinate, who tried to forget what had just happened and prepared to once again take point.

“Get out of here!” Walc shooed the small animal when it stopped to look at the confused marines, causing it to scurry away into the distance. The Tellarite marine signaled the rest of the squad to get up and continue to move. Walc then tapped on his combadge. “Bravo Squad to Alpha Squad Leader. Come in; over!”

“Go ahead, Staff Sergeant.”

“Sir, turns out the situation was not a threat. It just walked past us on all four legs, over.”

“Say again, Sergeant? I didn’t quite get that, over.”

“I’ll explain later. We’re continuing on. Out.”

* * *

Federation Embassy

Commander Lance had just watched the latest broadcast of the High Council session. It looked like a Klingon version of America’s C-SPAN news coverage that took place in the late 20^th and early 21^st centuries, except with less fighting and arguing. Surrounding him were several other viewscreens and controls in what appeared to be an operations center. Starfleet officers and personnel delivered their reports, gathered information about what was happening in the area around the embassy and monitored communications frequencies. In one corner was a layout of the entire Imperial capital. Major McGregor and Captain Sholvok stood nearby, reviewing the latest report that Commander Lance had evaluated. Chancellor Gowron had recently received reports from his field commanders, and things were not going well. Gowron’s forces were retreating from the Mempha sector in spite of the recent destruction of several Duras supply bases in that sector. The Council session was then interrupted by another warrior, who challenged the chancellor to personal combat for the position of council leader. Lieutenant Worf, who had recently resigned his Starfleet commission to fight for Gowron and serve with his brother, Kurn, tried to stop the senseless fighting, only to have Gowron deliver the fatal strike to his challenger before simply returning to his seat and announcing the war’s continuation.

McGregor looked around at the other viewscreens in the operations center as he said, “Gowron’s commanders seem more intent on killing each other than the Duras. If they keep this up, they don’t stand a chance.”

Captain Sholvok presented a padd to McGregor and added, “According to the Mempha report, Gowron has just lost two battalions there. The rest of his troops are on a forced withdrawal.”

“Commander…?” someone called out to Lance from one of the nearby consoles. The Starfleet Intelligence officer moved over to where an ensign and a petty officer sat.

“What is it?”

“Sir, sensors are detecting movement approaching the Embassy perimeter.”

“Can you identify?”

The ensign could only answer, “It appears to be several groups massing from various directions.”

“Can you get a visual?”

“I think so, sir.” The ensign looked up at a large viewscreen, as his subordinate transferred the image from his console.

“What is that?” Lance asked, barely able to see through the distortion on the screen.

“Something is jamming the transmitter, sir.”

“Can you clear it up?”

“I can try.”

After several seconds, the image began to clear somewhat, still flickering and distorting from time to time. It revealed a large number of Klingons dressed in civilian garb, almost all carrying disruptors or traditional bladed weapons. Several of them carried banners with the image of a metallic hammer on them.

“The gangs… Specifically the Iron Hammer,” Lance said with a tone of alarm.

Major McGregor and Captain Sholvok moved over to where Lance stood upon hearing the startling news.

“They’re moving toward the embassy,” Lance reported, recognizing the streets the crowd moved through.

“I’m detecting additional armed groups coming from other directions,” the ensign seated at the console reported.

“Where are they heading toward?” McGregor asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

“From what I can determine, based on their direction of travel and intermittent com signals I’m intercepting, they’re all heading for the same place. Our embassy building.”

“My God,” McGregor reacted.

“Before we speak to your God,” Sholvok commented, “I believe we should put all security stations on full alert.”

“You’re quite right, Captain,” McGregor said as he watched the image of the gangs continuing their march toward the Federation Embassy before pressing the nearby intercom. “Attention all hands, this is the security commander! All hands go to alert status! I repeat, alert status!”

As the three officers continued to watch the monitor, more flickering distortion interfered with the image. Commander Lance turned to the ensign.

“Figure out what’s causing that distortion.”

“Yes, sir.”

McGregor turned to Shovok.

“Get all non-essential personnel and dependants to the designated safe areas.”

“Yes, sir,” Sholvok acknowledged, and left to carry out his orders. McGregor then turned to the Intel Officer again and asked, “Any word yet from Collins?”

“Nothing since beam out, sir.”

* * *

Near the Market Square

A Klingon in civilian garb turned away from the screen, which had already gone dark. He had just finished conferring with a contact. He turned to another individual, who wore an alien silver uniform. On its forefront were decorative military straps consisting of dark metallic emblems. The alien officer also had pointed ears, for he was Romulan.

He looked at the Klingon expectantly.

“All is going as planned; just as you suggested. Captain Larg has just informed me that the ship carrying the software virus should begin affecting the Federation Embassy’s systems within a few hours.”

The captain, which the Klingon had referred to as Larg, was one of the squadron commanders serving the Duras Family. Not long ago Larg had lost two ships that were attempting to blow Captain Kurn’s vessel to dust. Kurn had outwitted them, drawing them too close to the surface of a star. Undeterred by that recent defeat, Larg managed to spare one of his ships to aid this minor cause.

“Excellent.” The Romulan officer, Movar, a special intelligence operative, had been in contact with some of the Klingon gangs since the start of the civil war. He was also the Duras Family’s advisor. “I will inform Lursa and B’Etor of your progress, Tol’dak.”

“Tell them I await their victory over Gowron.”

“Very well.” Movar walked away from Tol’dak for a moment; then turned to look at him again. “Soon your father will be avenged, for once we win this war, the two empires combined will bring the Federation to its knees.” Movar then activated a device he held. The shimmering field of a Romulan transporter beam quickly surrounded him, and he disappeared.

Tol’dak was a young mastermind, but a warrior without a House. As the son of Korris, a Klingon officer who attempted to return the Empire to the glory of the old ways that he believed it had lost since the alliance with the Federation before being killed aboard the Federation starship Enterprise. Tol’dak now lived his father’s dishonor. Now, as a way of restoring that honor, he used the Klingon gangs—both the Iron Hammer and the Red Targ—as an armed insurrection, hoping to gain additional support from their secret benefactors, the House of Duras—hoping to regain his father’s honor. Tol’dak activated a communication console nearby.

“Yeto! T’Kar!”

“T’Kar of the Iron Hammer here!” came the first answer.

“Yeto of the Red Targ here!” came the second reply.

“Are you prepared?”

“We are!” T’Kar answered.

“Good. Then as soon as the Feds lose power, move in! It’s time for us to put fear back into the Federation!”

* * *

“Drake,” Lieutenant Collins ordered, “take out your tricorder and begin scanning for human lifesigns. Widen the field.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Private Drake replied. Aiming his rifle out with his right hand, the young marine reached over to his right side where his tricorder device rested in a holster. Taking it out and flipping it open, he used his left thumb to activate the controls. The whirring sound began as he started to scan for any signs of human life-forms, in accordance with the description that intelligence officer Commander Lance had given during the briefing.

Drake’s teammate, Private Hector Gonzales covered him, as he aimed his SSPW into firing position; ready for anything out of the ordinary. Drake continued scanning, quietly reporting to his platoon leader through the comm cahnnel.

“No hostile activity thus far, sir. And no indications of human life-signs.”

“Maintain scan,” Collins told Drake.

Gonzales moved his eyes back and forth, keeping his eyes pealed; rifle still at the ready, trying to maintain his cool. Like Drake, this was his first time in a real, life threatening situation. What he learned from training would be proven very soon. Compared with those childhood fights he use to have with his neighbor, a young Klingon female, this would be a lot different. He and his fellow squad members (along with Staff Sergeant Walc’s team approaching from the south) would be facing Klingons armed with more than their fists.

“Sir, I’m getting something!” Drake informed his lieutenant through his comm signal.

“We’re right on your tail, marine!” Collins acknowledged. “Move into position! Staggered columns!”

So far the reading was not entirely clear. The smoke and some of the power disturbances caused by the gangs interfered with the tricorder’s accuracy. The enlisted man adjusted the controls to narrow the scan. Though his efforts were helpful, he could not wait for his device to get an exact reading. Drake had to rely on his senses and be ready in case anyone out there planned to draw blood.

“I just hope it’s not the mom of that targ pup Bravo Squad encountered approaching me,” Drake said to himself.

Suddenly, something lashed out in front of him. Covered in torn materials coated with dirt and grime, obviously the height of a normal humanoid, held out a blade and began to slash in one direction near the startled marine. Drake dropped his tricorder and attempted to draw his rifle before the attacker knocked it out of his hands with a martial arts kick.

Drake responded and quickly slung out his yan and drew the blade. Both swords clashed with each other, as the two fighters maneuvered about. Gonzales a few feet away aimed his phaser rifle at Drake’s adversary but held his fire when he could not get a clear shot.

“Lieutenant, Drake’s in trouble!” Gonzales spoke in his combadge. “We’ve got a hostile with a blade! Need you guys quick!”

“We’re on our way!” came the quick response from Collins.

Somehow Drake managed to feint his opponent, dropping down and performing a scissors-like martial arts maneuver. He then quickly knelt down as he held the yan against his foe’s mek’leth, pressing against it so his opponent could not raise it to attack again before lifting his left palm so he could knock him out before he could get out from under his blade.

“Stop…!” a voice yelled out from the hooded coverings. Drake lowered his hand and reached for the opening of his opponent’s hood. Private Gonzales moved toward the other two individuals. The Kessik IV colonist maintained his weapon’s aim at the unknown hostile as Drake slowly withdrew the hood. To his shock, Drake realized he knew the individual, a human of Asian descent.

“I see you’ve improved since the last I saw you,” the Asian individual stated with a grin.

“Sifu!” Drake exclaimed in disbelief as he recognized Lin Fau Chang, his former martial arts instructor, and an operative from Starfleet Intelligence assigned to the Embassy.

“I’m a bit rusty, sir,” Drake replied as he released the yan holding against Chang’s mek’leth, helping him up. Private Gonzales, realizing the man was no Klingon, moved his SSPW away from Lieutenant Chang’s direction.

“So you’re the operative we’ve been looking for?” Private Drake asked, examining the clothing Chang wore.

“Sorry to have dropped in like that, Michael,” Chang apologized. “The way you guys were dressed, I thought you were gang members.”

“Could be worse, sir. We could have been bikers from the Hell’s Angels,” Gonzales added with a shrug. Chang smiled briefly upon Hector’s gesture.

Shortly after, Lieutenant Collins and the rest of the team arrived. The platoon leader noticed that they were not needed to help Drake fend off his attacker.

“Are you all right, Drake?”

“Yes, sir,” Drake informed his superior. “The situation is under control. We found him!”

“Well done, both of you,” Collins acknowledged both Drake and Gonzales in successfully finding the Starfleet operative. “You better go recover your disruptor.”

“Yes, sir,” Drake obeyed, sheathing his yan into its scabbard, and heading to get his weapon and the tricorder he dropped during the surprise attack. Lieutenant Collins then turned his attention to the undercover operative.

“Lieutenant Lin Fau Chang. Special field operative, Starfleet Intelligence, assigned to the Klingon capital city.”

“Lieutenant Joshua Collins, sir…Commanding officer of 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company.”

“I see you got my message,” Lin Fau Chang added.

“Yes, sir.”

Drake, having recovered his rifle and equipment, and Gonzales joined the others and took up defensive positions surrounding Collins and Chang. Collins activated his combadge.

“Collins to Staff Sergeant Walc.”

“Walc here,” the Tellarite platoon sergeant responded.

“We’ve located our objective, alive and well. Standby for transport.”

“Understood.”

The lieutenant then turned to his troops. “Alpha Squad, get ready for beam out!”

The marine grunts all nodded. Time for “dustoff”, according to the military slang. They needed to get out before another round of gang clashes overtook the area they presently occupied.

“Collins to Embassy!”

“McGregor here. I was wondering when you guys were gonna call.”

“We have located the operative, sir. We need an immediate lock on to both teams’ signals; standing by for dustoff!”

“Lieutenant, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“Say again, sir?”

* * *

Federation Embassy

“Our transporters are offline,” McGregor informed the platoon leader. “We’ve developed a technical malfunction that has somehow affected our computer systems, and we’ve got trouble, all around us.”

Outside of the Embassy walls, armed bands of Klingon gangs stood restlessly and waited.

“They’re here; waiting for God knows what?” the major informed.

Near the major, Private Jake Kurland tried to breathe deep, attempting not to feel intimidated by the sight of this large, makeshift army of weapon-carrying civilians. The Klingons began to raise their swords and weapons; shouting and roaring in a psychological attack on the embassy personnel.

“You’re either going to have to hold out,” McGregor informed Collins, “find cover, or try to avoid these armed punks to make it back. And I’d recommend against that…” Major McGregor looked at the roaring mob on the monitor. “…’cause with this unknown power drain we’re suffering, I don’t want to venture a guess on how this is going to turn out. Get back to you soon. McGregor, out!”

* * *

Market Square

Collins looked over to Sgt. Tamara. “Sergeant, inform Walc of the new situation. Tell him we’ll rendezvous with him at the Iron Tower.”

“Yes, sir.”

The platoon sergeant turned to the rest of her team.

“Everyone…we aren’t getting out quickly, as you probably already know. We’re gonna have to plan our way out of this. The gangs will be coming at any moment.

Suddenly out of nowhere, a disruptor beam was fired in the squad’s direction. The gangs had arrived.

Collins, sensing immediate danger shouted to his troops, “Let’s move!”

To Be Continued…

Move on to next part, “Gangs of Qo’noS.”

Return to 2369.

Return to Stories Archive.