The Unknown Regions; deep-space trials MDS Protector. Battlegroup Prestonian…


[FONT=Times New Roman]“She surely is a massive thing, is she not?”

Rear-Admiral Wonerc stood with hands clasped neatly behind his back. He made a fist in the small spot where the vertebrae meet. A quiet pop sounded from the base of his spine. The mission, it seemed, had been unexpectedly stressful.

His neatly creased Guild uniform fit… neatly. Like many Bothans, he understood the necessity of preening. Gold and black lapels marked him as an officer of some rank. Guild Admirals, the few still serving, came in a variety of packages.

“Aye, sir,” replied a communications officer.

The bridge of the Majestic, a Concord Dawn-class carrier, remained quiet save for the occasional beep or key tap. From the forward wing a commanding officer could see the length and breadth of his command.

This had been one of the largest ships in the fleet but seen from below and behind, the new carrier was dwarfed. Admiral Wonerc clicked his tongue.

He envied the Protector with her impossibly thick hull and bristling weapons but he pitted her also; without escort the Deathwatch-class ships were woefully exposed (at least, to his thinking). Vice-Admiral Wonerc had earned his first command aboard a Mandalore.

Bold lines and shadow-paint did little to hide the Protectors girth; any such effort would have been pointless. Like the warships of old she had been designed with the intention to fight firmly in mind. These were not kindly patrol ships.

“Any word from Commodore Kell?” queried the Admiral impatiently waiting for the Deathwatch crew to end yet another stealth drill.

“None sir,” responded the same officer.

Shaking his head Wonerc searched starboard and found the Deception holding steady. Aging though she was the Deception still packed a punch and an interdiction-well generator. Somewhere on her flank one of the Mandalore-class vessels sat under cloak, another just ahead of that and moving.

“Signal Captain Rosun,” ordered Wonerc. “Stand ready for cloak.”

It was all so routine. Deep inside himself the Admiral craved the taste of battle. Honor was best found in the void, facing ones enemy from the bridge of your ship.

“Here we go.”

As the sensor officer was speaking the Protector vanished from sight. To a man, the bridge crew stood aghast.

Wonerc broke the silence. “Sensors, start tracking now. You know what to look for.”

On her outer-hull, the Majestic swiveled her dedicated energy receptor array about. A billion readings filtered through one of the most advanced computer networks in the fleet; a carrier designed to manipulate entire battlefields focused its full attention on the space where a ship had just been.

On flank position the deception activated her interdictor generator. Two invisible warriors tracked their larger cousin.

And then something unexpected happened.

“Sir,” screamed tactical. “Multiple bogies at twelve o’clock high.”

Wonerc knew his crew and if one of his officers was forced to break protocol with archaic spacing terminology then the situation was immediately urgent.

“We have confirmed mass shadows in hyperspace. Sixty four seconds until forced reversion, Sir.”

Wonerc considered his options. It took seconds; seconds he used to track the continual stream of information moving across his bridge. He waved a finger at communications. At his signal the lieutenant opened a secure channel between the battlegroup.

“Commodore Krell, we have a situation I am relaying the information now. Stay under full cloak, full stealth. This is situation Red, repeat situation Red.”

“Captains,” with a subtle change of tone he indicated those other vessels directly under his command. “You know what to do. I want you ready to fire. Protect the Deception at all costs.” He ended the communication.

“Sir, we still have time. Drop the interdiction field.”

“Ahh,” Admiral Wonerc chided his executive officer who had only moments earlier returned to the bridge from engineering. “We could do that, indeed. The enemy may still detect us and reduce speed. Do you suggest we sacrifice the upper hand?”

The XO nodded and keyed open the PA. “All pilots to your craft. This is code Red. Prepare for SWIFT deployment. Repeat all hands to battle stations.”

“Sir, we have reversion.”

On the edge of space, still a far distant horizon, they appeared.

Commodore Krell of the Deathwatch waited aboard the bridge of his Protector. Under cloak he waited to play his hand. His role would come soon and for his part he would be ready.[/FONT]

Captain Klemmerer cursed uner his breath. To any passing being, he might have appeared attractive, at least by Imperial standards. Looking at his reflection in the viewport, however, the man himself disagreed. Two days before had been his fortieth birthday and upon the close inspection travel in hyperspace allowed, Klemmerer spotted a lone grey hair wrenching its way out from the prison behind his skin it had been so successfully trapped in before. Now, he mused, the end was in sight. He would be totally grey before he reached Commodore. So much for my run at Modern Imperial.


" Good morning, Sir."


Klemmerer looked none too happy as his perky executive officer entered the bridge. The man was a competent officer of the Imperial Guard but his manner that day was not welcome. " I'm in a sour mood, Andrei. Look at this!"


Commander Ders looked up where the Captain pointed but could see nothing above the shorter man's thin-rimmed spectacles. " I dont' know what you're talking about."


Klemmerer growled, and slumped back in his seat. He readied a retort to chide the Commander on a crease in his tunic when the ship began to shake. Without warning, the lines of hyperspace began to thin and return from streaks outside to the pin pricks of distant stars. " Report!"


" Captain," replied the helmsman," we've dropped from hyperspace. We lost field stabilization. Reactor still at full power - we haven't hit anything."


" Priority report!" Both the Captain and first officer looked at the tactical station. " We have multiple contacts off the starboard-bow and starboard side. Fighters still registering in the computer, sir. None of the contacts are matching computer readouts."


" Location?"


" We're still on-course for Tarvat prime. We're about two hours' short."


" Shields. Sound battlestations. Ready fighters but hold launch to my mark. Comm - get me a channel to whomever is out there."


A young female Guardsman, the communications officer, looked over to her Captain with concern on her face. " Captain, all circuits are jammed, long range and ship-to-ship."


It's a trap!

[FONT=Times New Roman]On the bridge of the Protector a stern Commodore Kell stood with hands clutched firmly on the back of his command chair. His shoulder plates, armor both ceremonial and functional, bore the bold red markings of a Deathwatch Intendant; a skull and cross hatch. A roadmap of scars criss-crossed his face which would often remain hidden behind the battle-helm of his station. Decorum was relaxed on his bridge and it showed in the similarly dressed officers of the Deathwatch.

Through and through, this ship belonged to the Deathwatch with only minimal Guild presence.

"We have them trapped," thought Commodore Kell aloud. "Tactical, report. Who are they?"

"They read Imperial, but not like anything in our databases." Kells suspicions were confirmed.

The Dominion was, in many ways, young. They had yet to build a database of current information relevant to the fleets and navies of the galaxy. Left to rely on the somewhat outdated information collected by the old Guild much still relied on extrapolation.

"Standby fighter squadrons and boarding crews,” Admiral Worec will doubtless want to talk." Almost as an after thought he added, "Ready all torpedo bays."

Above and before the Majestic, the Protector hung invisible in space.

*

At the same time, impossibly hidden even compared to the larger dreadnought, Captain Nerl and Captain Teatime were both maneuvering their Mandalore-class Stealthships into flanking positions that would put them on either side of the new forces. Their tactic had been tried and proven in numerous smaller conflicts deep within the void yet remained a closely guarded secret with the Dominion.

Each of the sleek, near three hundred meter ships hung with their bows facing inwards. Beneath the cover of their cloak, the network of passive stealth measures, and the combined Shadow Paint and Black Ice shield modulations the pair were utterly untouchable. All technologies could be overcome, however; and the ninety seven serving on each vessel worked to see that it wasn't.

Their Ion canons, impossibly powerful in a single punch, sat charged and ready for the moment of attack. Similarly prepared torpedo crews stood by their stations with the sweat of anticipation threatening to sting their eyes. Everything else, every system not essential to life or not currently dedicated to one of the active systems, remained silent.

They would not break communications silence, not until the breech.

*

Captain Rosun of the attack-ship Deception waited pensively. Where others may struggled he simply sat, reclined in the glory of the Deceptions command chair, and watched with a detached passion held in quiet reserve.

With his gravity-well generator working at 110% he aimed to use his ship as something of a buffer. The advantage was twofold; firstly, it gave the appearance of a dedicated foe intent on keeping the enemy confined to local space. The second benefit of such a strategy was that the interdiction field would create enough interference to help hide their cloaked allies.

“Full forward shields,” ordered the Captain. “Charge all forward weapons.”

In response to a communication with the Majestic he also added, “Bring us alongside the Majestic in defensive pattern Alpha.”

Whatever Worec was playing at Rosun would do his part.

*

“Communications jammed, Admiral.” Worecs XO busied himself accordingly. “Our ident transponders are negative. They’re puzzled, sir.”

“Shields at seventy percent and climbing; auxiliary power re-routing as requested.”

Worec nodded. In the battleground of his mind the Admiral calculated possible outcomes and possible strategies. The Mandalores would be in position shortly and the Deception was moving up even then. Not far away he could imagine the Protector sitting ready.

“Order our fighters to take up offensive positions and hold at 50,000 kilometers.”

Worec would not sacrifice the upper hand, not now; not at any cost.

“Signal the invaders; Identify yourself and prepare for boarding.”

He ran a mental count.

“I want a real-time battlefield representation twenty seconds ago. Names, transpoders and vessel designations are to be acquired as quickly as possible.”

With his allies standing by, Worec awaited the reply of these unknown interlopers. [/FONT]

Captain Klemmerer was quite pleased with his crews. The squadron had its shields up and full weapons compliment manned thirty-eight seconds before regulations required. That, of course, was to be expected on a ship of the Guard.


Klemmerer looked down at the rough tactical-plot on the arm-panel of his command chair. He had seven ships with him: four Curiassier-class Heavy Cruisers and three older Fire-class Frigates. The larger ships were slow, plodding beasts mounting a great deal of large-bore guns under a thick armored carapace while the smaller escort vessels had high-powered shields and engines to match. The force had no ships of the line but was more than able to handle any rogue element or pirate flotilla. The Empire, at this moment, was outnumbered.


Just the kind of fight the Guard enjoys.


" Captain, one of our short-range broadcast channels is being unblocked. We are receiving an indentification querry."


" Commander Ders, would you classify their stance as hostile?"


The executive officer of the Heavy Cruiser Trafalgar nodded affirmatively. Klemmerer knew his ships were in an excellent position - line ahead - running parallel to the aliens though they were rapidly advancing. There could be no other stance save hostile.


" Reply as follows: Alien vessels. This is Captain Klemmerer, commanding officer of the 10th Pursuit Squadron. You are in close proxmity to Imperial Space. You are commanded to depart at once. Identify your allegiance."


Klemmerer listened to unmistakable click of the comm-relay and the verbal sounds of his message's sending. He turned to his first officer. " If any of their ships come within ten kilometers of us, open fire."