The Cholmondely-Smythe Year

The Heq’Tiq threw itself into a wild manoeuvre in an attempt to evade the disruptor blasts of its pursuers. On the Bridge Klumpf, at the tactical console, looked at the reports coming in from all over the ship and frowned. Around him several of the crew were lying, dead or dying, and Gurn was struggling back into the command chair, his long hair flung loose from his usual ponytail.

“Shield strength is failing,” Klumpf reported. “Disruptors are offline.”

Gurn looked at him desperately. “Options?”

Klumpf thought. The system they were in was binary, and they were close to the smaller star of the pair. “Set course bearing 185 mark 17,” he called out to the helmsman.

“That will take us nearly into the sun,” Gurn pointed out, looking at the screen on the arm of his chair.

“Yes,” Klumpf agreed. “I have an idea.”

With the enemy ships in close pursuit, and the shield strength falling closer to zero with every blast, the Heq’Tiq skimmed perilously close to the surface of the star. At Klumpf’s command the vessel engaged warp drive, and the distortion in space so close to a star caused a super-massive solar flare in its wake, overwhelming the shields of the pursuing ships and destroying them.

As the Heq’Tiq dropped out of warp shortly afterwards, Gurn turned to Klumpf with a surprised look on his face. “How did you know that would happen?”

“I saw it once,” Klumpf replied. “Aboard the Psycho.”

“The helmsman and navigator on that ship must be very brave,” Gurn commented.

“They are true warriors,” Klumpf agreed.

The ship set course for the nearest resupply base, hoping they wouldn’t encounter any more of the Durex family’s ships on the way.

 

“Captain’s log, stardate 59762.7836. The Psycho is docked at Starbase 987 as my presence has been requested at a discussion pertaining to the increasing escalation of the Klingon Civil War. This is somewhat fortuitous, as there is something I wish to discuss with Admiral Richardson.”

“Gadroon’s forces are losing,” Admiral Richardson said, bluntly. Around the table, the other gathered admirals nodded in agreement. “Chancellor Gowron has said that he will support whoever wins this internal war, so there really isn’t much we can do at this point.”

Captains Cholmondely-Smythe cleared his throat. He had, once again, given his report on the proceedings that had occurred on the Klingon homeworld, and the gathered flag officers had agreed that there was nothing he could have done to prevent the war from breaking out. Next to him, Commander Hill shifted awkwardly as everyone’s attention turned to their end of the overlarge table.

“One wonders if I may say something,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. Once Admiral Richardson had motioned for him to continue, he stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. Next to him, Hill tried to sink down into his chair inconspicuously. “Ta muchly, Admiral. Has anyone else wondered if this jolly old war is actually internal to the Empire?”

“What do you mean, Captain?” Richardson asked.

“I mean, don’t you find it odd that the forces of Durex have won the last three major engagements in the past two weeks?”

Richardson shrugged. “Not particularly. I assume they have better leadership, better strategies.”

“Admiral, I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t point out the increased Orion activity along certain borders recently. The Psycho alone has been involved in more than one incident – the attempted assassination of the Klingon Colony Governor springs to mind!”

“Yes Captain,” Richardson said with a long-suffering sigh. “We are all very well aware of your more than slightly paranoid feelings towards the Orions.”

“But what if this is yet another attempt to spread dissention and chaos?!” Cholmondely-Smythe insisted. “I have it on excellent authority that the Durex family have been conspiring with Orion pirates for decades. If the Orions are helping them then this isn’t just an internal Klingon matter anymore. Dash it all, we are obligated to help!”

Richardson exchanged glances with the other admirals, many of whom appeared bored or indifferent. Finally, he turned to Cholmondely-Smythe. “How do you think the Orions might be providing this aid?” he asked. “It’s not as if the Orion ships could sneak across undetected-” He broke off as an aide leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Really? And you’re just telling me this now?” He sighed. “So it turns out that one of the Orion Pirate cadres might have access to cloaking technology,” he admitted, begrudgingly.

Cholmondely-Smythe’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? How?”

“I’m sure you recall – some months ago we, ah, liberated certain individuals from the Romulan Empire.”

“The Emperor’s hairdresser, manicurist and pedicurist!” Hill blurted out. Cholmondely-Smythe nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, one does recall,” he said, “seeing as the Psycho and her crew were instrumental in their ‘liberation’.”

“Well,” Richardson grumbled. “Yes. Anyway, as it turns out, they had information suggesting that a rebel faction within the Romulan Empire may have sold an undetermined number of cloaking devices to a Pirate Cadre.”

“Oh, spiffing,” Cholmondely-Smythe said.

“Um,” Hill said then, raising his hand for permission to speak. “I’ve been reading some technical journals recently, and there was a really good article on a tachyon detection grid that was used a few years ago for a blockade on Romulan ships. We could maybe use the same thing here?”

Richardson fixed him with a look. “What would you need?”

“I would suggest we send a fleet to the Klingon-Orion border, not to join in the fight or engage in any jolly old battles, but to create a blockade to prevent any further supplies from being shipped to the bally Durex family,” Cholmondely-Smythe said quickly.

Richardson burst out laughing. “A fleet? What on earth would make you think we would give you a fleet?” he asked incredulously. He tapped at his console for a moment. “There are two unfinished ships in the shipyards on Coriolanus,” he said, “and both the Decrepit and the Reverend Spooner are in drydock for extensive repairs. And I suppose we could lend you the Lobotomy as well.”

“So that’s six ships, including the Psycho,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, turning to Hill. “Number One?”

Hill frowned. “The more ships the better,” he said. “But it’s not a long border. We could probably make do with ten ships, at a pinch.”

Richardson shrugged. “I’ll have to run it past Command, but that’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

Cholmondely-Smythe frowned. “It will have to do, Admiral,” he said. “Come along, Commander. We have work to do.”

The two of them stood up, taking their leave of the collected admirals, and left the room.

“How the bloody hell are we going to magic up four more vessels?!” Hill exclaimed.

“I have a cunning plan,” Cholmondely-Smythe told him.

“God help us all.”

 

“This is your cunning plan!?” Commander Hill exclaimed, a little while later, as he joined Cholmondely-Smythe in the observation deck of the shuttlebay. Down below, engineers were swarming over four shuttlecraft: the Bates, the Lecter, the von Bulow and the Belly Jean, which was on loan from the Reverend Spooner.

“We needed spacefaring vessels,” the captain said calmly. “No-one said they had to be starships. Stark, Barfoot and their teams are fitting the tachyon generators in place of the miniature tractor array.”

“Who are you going to get to fly them?” Hill asked, as the doors opened and Wall, Damerell and Counsellor Hill joined them.

“I’m sure we’ll find some volunteers,” Cholmondely-Smythe said cheerfully. Hill nodded gloomily, horrible suspicious that he was going to be one of the ‘volunteers’. He was pleasantly surprised, then, by the captain’s next words. “The Archibald Weatherington Nastyface III is in need of a captain and an engineer,” he said. “I want you to take Barfoot over there and take charge of the fleet. Be ready by 0900 hours.”

“Yes sir!” Hill said smartly, puffing out his non-existent chest as he marched out of the room.

“Aw,” Wall said grumpily. “What about me? Can I have a starship, please, can I, huh Captain?”

Cholmondely-Smythe regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, one supposes every dog must have its day and all that. Very well, Mister Wall. I was going to ask the Counsellor, but perhaps you would like to take Mister Damerell to the Pant-y-Gurdl and take over as acting captain and first officer, respectively?”

“You got it!” Wall said, grabbing a protesting Damerell’s arm and dragging him out of the room.

“Is that really wise, Captain?” Counsellor Hill asked, coming up to look out of the window at the display of activity going on below. As they watched, Barfoot tugged on a length of isolinear cabling that stretched all the way across the shuttlebay, trying to plug the end of it into a port on the Lecter. Another crewman, carrying a stack of padds, tripped over it and scattered padds everywhere, just in time for another crewman to step on a skidding padd and go completely base over apex, knocking himself senseless on the Belly Jean‘s micro nacelle.

“I’m sure between the two of them they will get everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion,” Cholmondely-Smythe told her.

 

The crowd was rowdier than usual in the Rabid Dog Tavern, on the Klingon homeworld. This was due to the fact that there were warriors from both sides of the civil war drinking there, headbutting each other and armwrestling with d’k tagh knives strapped to their wrists.

Klumpf entered the bar, looking for his brother, and finding him drinking with a Klingon wearing the rank of squadron captain in the colours of an enemy house.

“Klumpf!” Gurn exclaimed, obviously well into his cups. “Let me introduce you to Captain Barge! He’s the dog responsible for hunting us down and trying to destroy us yesterday.”

Klumpf looked at the other Klingon, who looked back disdainfully. “Captain,” Klumpf greeted him, reluctantly.

“Federation pet,” Barge replied. “I think time on board a Starfleet vessel has made you weak, and boring.”

“You dare insult my honour,” Klumpf snarled, reaching for his knife only to find Gurn’s hand restraining him.

“Careful, brother,” Gurn said. “Insults are one thing, but the capital city is neutral ground. Barge’s men are all around us, as are mine. Starting a fight here would only cause mayhem.”

Klumpf subsided, fuming, as Gurn and Barge grabbed goblets of bloodwine from a passing wench, clanked them together and toasted each other’s painful demise before draining the goblets and crushing them in their hands.

“Oi!” the proprieter called out, spotting them. “You’ll have to pay for those!”

Barge strode away to deal with the proprietor, and Klumpf followed Gurn to a table in the corner. “Are you really drinking with our enemies?” he asked.

“I think time on board that ship had affected you,” Gurn told him. “We are enemies, yes, but above all we are Klingons warriors! On the battlefield we will fight to the death, but here we must celebrate impending victories – and defeats.”

Klumpf frowned, thinking about the way Warior Philip preferred a nice quiet cup of tea to a rousing song. He changed the subject. “I have status reports here for you to see,” he said, taking out a padd.

Gurn waved it away. “Is duty all you concern yourself with, brother?” he asked. “Forget the status report and come with me to live the night together as if it is our last!”

Klumpf nodded slowly, putting the padd away and following Gurn to a different table, where some Klingons were playing the equivalent of beer pong, with bladed weapons instead of ping pong balls.

Over in yet another corner, hiding in the shadows, Lurcher and Bernadette watched with interest.

“He is not like his brother,” Bernadette said.

“He is torn between this life and the one he knew,” Lurcher agreed.

“He does not look like he is enjoying it very much,” Bernadette added.

Lurcher smiled. “All the better for us.”

 

On the bridge of the Ambassador-class Pant-y-Gurdl the ship’s surviving senior officer, Lieutenant Ravenhill, hurried from console to console, trying to make sure everything was ready for departure. When the call from Starfleet Command had come in he had thought it was a practical joke to begin with, something the ship’s counsellor, Lieutenant Wordsworth, was renowned for pulling. When command codes had verified the message, however, he had gone into panic mode.

The Pant-y-Gurdl was in no condition to depart drydock, with blown-out subsystems and catastrophic equipment failures all over the ship. Apart from a lone ensign at the helm, he was the only officer on the bridge when the turbolift doors opened and spat out Wall and Damerell.

They stopped in their tracks and looked around. The bridge of the ship was quite a lot bigger than that of the Psycho, decked out in the boringly neutral beige that Starfleet seemed to think was a good colour for pretty much everything. Wall let out a low whistle.

“Pretty swanky,” he said, walking forward.

Ravenhill snapped out of his surprise and strode over to them. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Damerell said, handing over a padd with an apologetic grimace. “Lieutenant-Commanders Wall and Damerell, acting CO and XO,” he said.

“Since when?” Ravenhill asked, grabbing the padd and looking at it. He knew Cholmondely-Smythe had command of the fleet and, yep, there was his signature, right above the seal of Starfleet Command. He looked up at them, taking in Wall’s manic grin and Damerell’s hang-dog expression. Although he’d never had the misfortune to work with members of the Psycho crew before now, he’d heard all the stories. He quickly made a decision.

“Request permission to be relieved of duty,” he said.

“Why?” Wall asked.

“Honestly?” Ravenhill said. “Because I think you’re probably a useless muppet and I don’t want to die following your inane orders.”

“Huh.” Wall gave that some thought. “Nah. ‘Fraid not, sonny-me-lad. Now get back to work!”

Ravenhill stood stock-still in disbelief as Wall strode down to the captain’s chair and plonked himself down in it, caressing the arms lovingly. Damerell sat down in the first officer’s seat much more gingerly.

“It’s good to be the captain,” Wall said smugly. Damerell rolled his eyes.

 

“The Decrepit has arrived,” Bleep announced into the tense silence that had fallen over the bridge of the Psycho.

Cholmondely-Smythe looked around at his oddly sparse bridge crew. With most of his senior crew taking positions on board the other ships for the duration of the mission, the only vaguely familiar faces were Lieutenant Stocks at navigation, Ensign Irving at the helm and, obviously, the blankly familiar visage of Bleep standing at the tactical console. He had stripped his crew down to the bare minimum in order to meet the requirements for getting a starship out of drydock, so there were far fewer unnamed hangers-on wandering around the bridge.

“Very well then,” he said. “Let’s be off, what?”

With that the Psycho and her limping entourage leaped into warp, heading for the Orion border.

 

Bernadette glared at the Orion woman sitting casually on the sofa in front of her. Hands on her hips, the dumpy Klingon woman snarled. “The convoy is late!” she snapped. “Our forces are running low on supplies.”

“The convoy will arrive in good time,” Stella told her. “We must move carefully so as not to draw suspicion. Besides, I have good news. Gadroon’s forces have suffered yet another defeat in the Memphis system, so your forces now have free reign there.”

Bernadette nodded begrudgingly as Lurcher stormed into the room, heavily-ridged brow furrowed even more in worry. “Our sources report that a Federation fleet has just left Starbase 987 on a course to Klingon territory.”

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “How many ships?”

“Not a large number,” Lurcher admitted. “They are being led by Cholmondely-Smythe and the Psycho.”

The Orion’s eyes flashed with anger. “That ship is a perpetual thorn in my side!” she said.

From his position sitting on the floor once again playing computer games, Feral looked up worriedly. “They might be coming to help Gadroon’s forces!” he exclaimed. “If they do, we are finished!”

“Quiet, fool,” Stella snapped. “Gowron himself has asked the Federation not to interfere.”

“But they are entering Klingon space,” Bernadette pointed out. “They must have the High Council’s permission to do that.”

Stella considered that and pressed a button, calling Cremini into the room from nearby, where he was coordinating forces and supplies with members of the Durex faction.

“Mistress,” he greeted her as he entered the room, ignoring the Klingons.

“We must depart for our base of operations,” she ordered him. “We must gather all available cloak-capable ships and prepare for action.”

“It is a bluff,” Lurcher said dismissively. “With that few ships, what difference could they really make.”

Stella smiled grimly. “Wi’ that southern ponce,” she said, slipping once more into the strange accent that seemed to appear in times of stress, “you can never be sure. He’s as slippery as a greased whippet.”

 

Klumpf was now with Gurn and Gadroon in the Rekhtag Sauce Council Chambers, listening to status and battle reports. A wounded Klingon warrior was standing at the foot of the dais, addressing the remains of the Council.

“We have lost the Memphis system,” the warrior said. “The forces of Durex have overwhelmed us and we have been forced to pull back.”

“We destroyed their supply base in the sector weeks ago!” Gadroon yelled furiously.

“They must be getting assistance from somewhere,” Gurn said.

Another Council member stepped forward then. Gadroon looked at him warily. “Councillor Kludge, you have something to say?”

“I have no confidence in your ability to lead anymore, Gadroon,” Kludge said. “As much as I do not want the House of Durex in charge, neither do I want you. I challenge you to combat, with the victor having control of this Council.”

“I accept!” Gadroon said gleefully, over the protests of Klumpf by his side.

As the Council Leader and his opponent began to circle each other, Klumpf tried to appeal to their common sense. “Our enemy is Durex, not each other,” he said. “This serves no purpose!”

They ignored him, circling each other. After a few feints they closed in, knives flashing. Unable to stand back any longer, Klumpf stepped in and grabbed hold of Kludge, expecting Gurn to help him and restrain Gadroon. Instead, however, Gurn just stood to one side and Gadroon, with a yell of victory, plunged his knife into Kludge’s heart. Klumpf felt the warrior go limp and automatically let go, dropping him to the floor.

“Now the war can continue!” Gadroon shouted exultantly, drawing cheers and whoops from the other Klingons in the room, all except Klumpf who looked on in dawning horror.

 

The Psycho and her accompanying mini-fleet dropped out of warp at the designated coordinates on the Klingon-Orion border. Cholmondely-Smythe sat forward in the command chair, eyes fixed on the area of space showing on the viewscreen.

“All starships report ready for deployment of tachyon net,” Bleep reported from the tactical console. It beeped at him and he touched the controls briefly. “I am picking up unusual subspace patterns on the sensors.”

“Could it be from a concentration of cloaked ships?” Cholmondely-Smythe asked.

“Affirmative,” Bleep replied, before adding, “Or it could be distortion from a local pulsar.”

Cholmondely-Smythe nodded, frowning. “Very well. Hail the Archibald Weatherington Nastyface III.”

The comm system beeped. “Acting-Captain Hill here.”

“Number One, deploy the fleet and prepare to spread the net, there’s a good chap.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Launch the shuttles,” Cholmondely-Smythe ordered, and the viewscreen changed so they could watch the junior officers, including Lieutenant j.gs Duffy and Bell, along with Chief Earley and Ensign Oakley, exit the shuttlebay and head for their designated coordinates.

 

On board the Pant-y-Gurdl, Ravenhill rolled his eyes as he listened to Wall going ‘wheeeee!’ over and over again as he spun himself around in the captain’s chair. In the first officer’s chair Damerell had his knees drawn up to try and save his shins.

“We have reached our assigned coordinates,” Ravenhill said , turning in his chair just in time to see Wall try to stop himself spinning, stand up and trip over to faceplant into the carpet.

“I’m okay!” Wall exclaimed, clambering to his feet and swaying dangerously. “Right. What’s next?”

“We wait for the order to deploy the tachyon net,” Ravenhill told him.

“Good, great. Uh, why are we doing that again?”

Ravenhill sighed loudly, but before he could reply his console beeped and red flashed across it in warning. He spun back around, tapping at the controls. “The starboard power couplings have overloaded!” he said. “Decks four through seven are being flooded with radiation. We never should have left drydock!”

“Alright, chill out,” Wall told him.

“I’m taking the phasers and photon torpedo launchers offline. Hopefully that will reduce the radiation output enough to save the people on those decks.”

“Oi! Wait just a minute sonny-jim,” Wall said, pointing at him with a finger. This wasn’t as effective as he had hoped, given that Ravenhill wasn’t even looking at him. “You can’t do that sort of thing without running it past a commanding officer. Er, right?” he asked, glancing at Damerell who just shrugged.

Ravenhill spun around. “I’m trying to save lives, you…” he trailed off, taking a calming breath.

“Bring that stuff back online, that’s an order,” Wall said, trying out his best Olding eyebrow raise. Ravenhill glared at him but did as ordered. “Good. Now deactivate the phasers and torpedo launchers. What, are you trying to kill the people on those decks?”

With a strangled noise, Ravenhill complied. Wall sat back down with a smug look on his face. Beside him, Damerell looked on nervously. “Signal the Psycho we’re ready when they are,” Wall ordered.

Ravenhill just gritted his teeth.

 

As the various starships and modified shuttlecraft activated their tachyon generators one by one, the net formed. There was no outward sign of it, but on the screen of the tactical console where Cholmondely-Smythe was breathing down the titanium neck of Bleep, it appeared as a set of lines connecting each ship to the ones nearest to it – more of a web than a net.

The turbolift doors opened then and Doctor Jackson stepped on to the Bridge, hands shoved into his pockets and an expression of boredom on his face. The utter lack of activity in sickbay was deathly dull at that moment so he had come up to the Bridge for a change of scenery. He looked around, spotted an empty chair off to one side and plonked himself down in it in the hope that something exciting would happen soon. Right behind him was the Counsellor, who was equally bored.

“That should stop the blighters from getting through,” the captain said in satisfaction. He tapped his lips thoughtfully with one finger. “Tell me,” he said to Bleep, “how long do you think it will take any Orion rotters to detect the net?”

“Not long,” Bleep told him. “Orion technology is comprised of an amalgamation of the techology of a number of different species. As a result, their sensors are likely at least as good as ours.”

“Hopefully this will be enough of a deterrent, what?”

 

On board a cloaked Orion cruiser not far away, Cremini frowned down at the readings he was seeing on his instruments. “Mistress,” he said, addressing Stella who was sitting languidly in the centre seat, legs crossed gracefully. “I am picking up increased tachyon emissions from the Starfleet vessels. It seems to be forming a sort of net in space.”

“So?”

“If we cross it, we will be detected,” he told her. “All of our efforts at keeping our involvement in the Klingon conflict a secret will be ruined.”

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “Then I suppose we had better convince them to withdraw. Bring us about. Set course for the Psycho. I think Cholmondely-Smythe and I need to have a little talk.”

 

“Sir,” Bleep reported. “I am detecting activity on the other side of the border. An Orion vessel appears to have decloaked.”

“Should we raise shields?” Stocks asked, nervously.

“No,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “Hold position.”

“We are being hailed,” Bleep said then.

Cholmondely-Smythe stood up out of his chair. “On screen.”

The viewscreen changed from showing an apparently empty starfield to the interior of the bridge of an Orion cruiser. Sitting in a seductive pose in the central command chair was a rather overly-voluptuous woman with green skin and lustrous black hair cascading over one shoulder.

“Hello Captain,” she said. “We meet at last.”

Before Cholmondely-Smythe could respond Jackson rose up from his chair, mouth gaping open in surprise. “Blimey! She looks just like Captain Olding!” he exclaimed. “You know, if he had a sex change and went to a really inappropriate fancy dress party.”

On the screen, the Orion woman smiled dangerously. “Very astute, Doctor,” she purred. “My name is Stella and Christopher Olding was in fact my father.”

“Bollocks,” Jackson said in surprise, shutting up quickly when Cholmondely-Smythe glared at him.

“That is a most interesting claim,” Cholmondely-Smythe said over the stunned silence that followed. “Putting that to one side, however,” he went on, “what can I do for you, my dear?”

Stella face contorted in disgust. “I’m not your bluidy ‘dear’,” she snapped. “Your presence along this border is an act of aggression that the Orion Syndicate will not tolerate. You have twenty hours to bugger off or face the consequences.”

The channel closed and the screen blinked back to the starfield. Cholmondely-Smythe blinked. “Doctor, Counsellor, join me for a mo, would you?”

The three of them headed into his ready room, where he took a seat and they perched uncomfortably on available surfaces. First, the captain turned to the Counsellor.

“Well?” he asked.

She shook her head doubtfully. “I didn’t get the sense that she was lying,” she told him. “Whether it’s true or not, she honestly believes she is Christopher Olding’s daughter.”

“But Captain Olding only had one child – Herbert Gates,” Jackson said.

“Are you absolutely positive about that?” Cholmondely-Smythe asked.

Jackson shrugged. “I mean, to be fair Captain Olding didn’t even know about Herbert, but I can’t see him as the type to go around sleeping with Orion slave girls, can you?”

“I didn’t know him, old chap, so I’ll have to take your word for it,” Cholmondely-Smythe replied.

“Even if Olding had a daughter, she would have to be well into her seventies by now,” the Counsellor pointed out. She could be a clone,” she added, “or surgically altered in some way. But, again, she honestly believes she is Olding’s daughter.”

Cholmondely-Smythe nodded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Well. I’m not letting up the blockade, so I suppose the next move is up to the Orions. Dismissed.”

The other two left the room and the captain sat for a minute at his desk, thinking. The Orion ship, cloaked no less, had arrived on the scene of the blockade far too quickly for it to be a coincidence. No doubt there were other cloaked ships hiding just out of sight, waiting for the blockade to be lifted. He would be damned if he was going to comply with their demands, not with so much at stake!

The matter of Stella’s claim to be Olding’s daughter was a bit of a puzzler, though. Why would she bother to claim such a thing? It didn’t seem to gain her anything.

The door chimed, interrupting his musings. “Enter.”

The door opened to reveal Fred, dressed as usual in his wild west-themed outfit. “Ah, Frederick. What can I do for you?”

Fred nodded as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “Howdy, captain,” he said. The two of them hadn’t exactly interacted much in the last few months that Cholmondely-Smythe had been in charge, mostly because the captain never ventured into the bar and Fred rarely left it.

“I was wonderin’ if we could have a little talk,” Fred said cautiously. “About, uh, the little lady on the Orion ship.”

“What about her?”

“Word is she’s claimin’ to be Chrissy-boy – I mean, Cap’n Olding’s daughter,” Fred said.

“The lines of gossip on this ship really are second to none,” Cholmondely-Smythe said irritably. He waved his hand vaguely. “Yes, that’s true,” he admitted. “Although it’s frankly preposterous.”

“Mmm,” Fred said. “Maybe not as crazy as you might think.”

Cholmondely-Smythe fixed him with look. “What do you mean?”

“What do you know about the USS Extreme?” Fred asked instead.

The captain blinked and shrugged. “Very little. I remember reading the name when I was investigating the history of the Psycho, before I came aboard. It was destroyed, was it not?”

“Got it in one,” Fred confirmed. “Destroyed by Orion raiders at the Noreindeer VII colony seventy-some years ago. Ah looked it up,” he said, “not long ago. Turns out there were rumours of people bein’ taken as slaves and prisoners.”

“What does this have to do with Stella and her claim?”

Fred hesitated. “What would you say if I told you Christopher Olding was aboard the Extreme at Noreindeer?” he said finally. “It’s complicated,” he added at Cholmondely-Smythe’s sceptical look. “But I swear to yah, captain, it’s true.”

“That’s impossible,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “When the Extreme was lost, Olding was still on board the Psycho!”

“Ah promise you,” Fred said. “Ah ain’t lyin’. Ah remember some things that you don’t. Some things didn’t happen for you that did for me. Time travel,” he eventually blurted out. “Believe me, Cap’n Olding was on board the Extreme.”

“Well,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, not entirely certain what to think. “That is a rum do and no mistake. Thank you, Frederick. I shall certainly take what you have said under advisement.”

“That’s all ah ask,” Fred said, touching the brim of his stetson.

 

“It is madness, allowing challenges like that in the middle of a conflict,” Klumpf said to his brother. They were in another tavern on the Klingon homeworld, having a quiet drink for a change. There was no-one else in there except for the ugly-as-sin bartender with one eye and only marginally more teeth, making a show of cleaning out the goblets with possibly the filthiest cloth Klumpf had ever seen. He frowned to himself, fairly certain that things like hygiene had never concerned him much before his posting to the Psycho.

Gurn shrugged. “It is the Klingon way,” he said. He gave Klumpf a shrewd look. “Would you ever challenge Gadroon?”

Klumpf shook his head. “Never.”

“You convinced me to follow Gadroon,” Gurn said then. “I was all for bumping him off and doing it ourselves. If you don’t like the way he does things, perhaps you made the wrong choice.”

He drained his goblet and set it on the table, putting a hand on Klumpf’s shoulder before leaving the room. Klumpf grunted, taking another drink. He felt a little woozy, and had to remind himself that he wasn’t used to drinking as much as before. He stood up and the world tilted. He frowned again, thinking that he shouldn’t be this drunk from one goblet of blood wine. He looked up to see the bartender grinning at him, an evil, knowing smirk.

Klumpf staggered and tipped over, taking the table with him. Just before the world went dark he heard boots on the floor and someone above him said, “The sisters have been looking for you.”

 

Cholmondely-Smythe had decided to meet with Stella to try and provoke her into doing something. As a result, he now found himself sitting across from her in the Psycho‘s conference room.

“Shall I be mother?” he said, taking up the teapot and pouring them both a cup of tea. He pushed hers across the table to her and smiled pleasantly. “First of all, please let me assure you that Starfleet has no hostile intentions towards the Orions.”

Stella raised an eyebrow in a way that made Cholmondely-Smythe squirm in his chair, although he didn’t really know why. She leaned in, displaying a frankly terrifying amount of cleavage, and smiled. “How comforting,” she said mockingly. “Can I tell the Orion Council that a Federation fleet is at our border to provide humanitarian assistance?” She reached out a hand and laid it on his arm.

Cholmondely-Smythe looked down at her hand and pointedly picked it up with two fingers to remove it. She looked momentarily put out, as if surprised at his lack of response to her flirtations.

“Feel free to try to cross the border,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “We have nothing to hide, after all.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and then sat back, smiling again. “Come now, Captain,” she said. “We both know why I am really here. You want to know: how could Christopher Olding be my father?”

“I admit,” Cholmondely-Smythe said slowly. “One is curious.”

“An Orion Matriarch,” Stella said, “saw Olding in a line up of prisoners about to be executed after the attack on Noreindeer VII. He caught her eye and she spared him, using her, shall we say, feminine wiles, to tie him to her. She gifted him to her daughter and, after twenty years of being her slave, she permitted him to get her pregnant, as a reward for good behaviour. I was born and raised knowing he was my father, and that his position in the household was at her feet.” She sipped her tea daintily. “When I was ten my mother became bored of him and allowed her control over him to slip. He tried to escape and take me with him but I alerted the guards and he was killed.” She smiled dangerously.

Cholmondely-Smythe sat in shocked silence after Stella’s little speech, stunned by the independent corroboration of his bartender’s impossible – but apparently true – story.

“Everything human about me died that day,” Stella said. “I’m am now an Orion Matriarch in my own right. She gave him a stern look that, had he but known it, was a carbon copy of Olding’s own. “You have fourteen hours to remove the blockade, Captain.”

She stood up and headed for the door, a security guard trailing her to make sure she went straight to the transporter room. Cholmondely-Smythe watched her go. He needed to think of some way to goad Stella into trying to run the blockade, or all of his efforts would be for nothing.

 

Klumpf woke strapped to a very uncomfortable chair. He pulled against the restraints, biceps bulging, but they were made of thick ghral’dik leather. He stopped, realising that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Well hello there,” a voice said, and a moment later both Lurcher and Bernadette stepped into his field of vision. A waft of perfume drifted over him, heavy and cloying, and he tried to breathe through his mouth. Not only was the perfume disgusting, but it was failing to cover up the smell of unwashed Klingon underneath it.

“You’re awake,” Lurcher said, pleased.

“Release me at once!” Klumpf growled.

“I’m afraid that isn’t an option,” Bernadette said. “We want to make you an offer. Join with us, so we can rule the Rekhtag Sauce Council together!”

“You have no honour,” Klumpf told them. “You care nothing for loyalty, only power. I would sooner eat a raw d’hivshe’k than ally myself with you.”

Lurcher reeled back at the venom in Klumpf’s voice but Bernadette just grinned nastily. “I like this one,” she said. “He has spirit.”

A console beeped then, distracting them, and Lurcher moved to answer the communication. Klumpf saw an Orion woman’s face appear on the screen. She was about to say something when she caught sight of him. “Is that the moron who was stationed on board the Psycho?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lurcher replied.

“I want to know all the strengths and capabilities of the Federation fleet, and he is my best source.”

The door opened and an hulking Orion man entered, big enough to give even Klumpf a run for his money. He grinned nastily, cracking his green knuckles. Stella’s voice sounded out. “Get me that information.”

Klumpf grimaced. This was not going to be fun.

 

“You want me to what?!” Gadroon shouted, looming large on the viewscreen on the bridge of the Psycho.

“If we want to draw the Orions out, we have to give them a good reason,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “Once you launch a full-out assault on the forces of Durex the Orions will have no choice but to cross the border to grant assistance, or leave their allies to be defeated and gain nothing for all their efforts.”

Gadroon frowned, thinking it through. “It would be all or nothing,” he said. “If we fail, we will have nothing left. The war would be lost.”

“But think of the glory in victory,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, using a phrase the Counsellor had suggested. He watched Gadroon’s eyes light up.

“Very well, we will attack,” the Rekhtag Sauce Council Leader said. “Oh, by the by, you might be interested to know that Colonel Klumpf has been captured by the Durex family. We can only hope he dies well.”

On that bombshell the screen went blank.

 

A short while later, Cholmondely-Smythe and Commander Hill met in the captain’s ready room. Hill had been sitting around rather bored on the Archibald Weatherington Nastyface III, disappointed by the lack of action. Cholmondely-Smythe’s call for a meeting had come at just the right moment to avert disaster, moments before Hill had finally given in to temptation and cracked the front panel of the tactical console to ‘take a look’.

“So what’s the sitch Captain?” Hill asked. “The 4-1-1? Gimme the deets-”

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you Number One,” Cholmondely-Smythe said reprovingly. “The ‘sitch’ – as you so colourfully called it – is that Gadroon’s forces are going to launch an assault on the forces of Durex imminently in an effort to draw the Orions over the border. Our job is to give them enough rope to hang themselves. The Nastyface is going to develop engine trouble and be forced to withdraw from the net for a brief time. I will move two of the shuttles in an attempt to cover, and this will leave a gap in the net, a window for Stella’s forces. Once they come across, the Psycho and the Decrepit will swoop in and close the gap, exposing the jolly blighters once and for all!”

Hill nodded. Then he blinked. “Can you go over that one more time?”

Cholmondely-Smythe sighed.

 

“Mistress!” Cremini exclaimed, looking up from his console. “I have received reports that Gadroon’s forces have attacked three Durex-held sectors. The sisters are nearing defeat!”

Stella snarled, glaring at the screen. “Is there any way to disrupt the detection grid?”

Cremini shrugged. “I’ve been doing calculations – if we flood one specific point in the grid with reverse-ionized tachyon radiation, we should be able to disrupt that portion of the grid.”

Then the helmsman spoke up. “Mistress, one of the Starfleet ships is leaving the blockade line.”

Cremini called up a tactical display at his console and Stella examined it closely. “There is a gap which we could sneak through,” Cremini pointed out. “The Starfleet ponce is struggling to hold the line!”

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “No. It is a trap.” She pointed at the screen, at the dot marking the position of the Pant-y-Gurdl. “There. Concentrate the pulse at that location. It is the weakest point of the blockade. Not to mention the moron who scuppered my plans for the mining asteroid is in command of that ship.”

Cremini nodded, fingers dancing over the controls. A moment later the tone of the engine hum changed as the pulse was fired.

 

Cholmondely-Smythe looked on in satisfaction as the hole appeared in the net, and he prepared to give the order to close the trap and catch the Orions in the act. Then a klaxon sounded and Bleep spoke from the tactical console.

“The tachyon net has been disrupted around the Pant-y-Gurdl,” the android reported. “The resulting disruption has made the net ineffective within a five million kilometre radius around the ship.”

“Inform the Pant-y-Gurdl,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “Send a general order to the fleet to fall back and regroup at…” he examined the charts on the navigation board. “Epsilon Ghidora.” He looked at the viewscreen grimly. “We’ll catch those blighters yet.”

 

On board the Pant-y-Gurdl Ravenhill relayed the orders to Wall, who jumped up out of the command chair.

“Okay boys,” he said as he nudged the shoulder of the duty helmsman until he budged out of the way and Wall could sit in his place. “Watch a master at work!”

Damerell put his head in his hands and sighed as Wall, unfamiliar with the more modern console as he was, threw the ship into entirely unnecessary inertial-dampener shredding manoeuvres before pointing them at the appropriate coordinates – or thereabouts – and hammering the board to launch the ship into warp.

“Stop it,” Ravenhill said from the Ops console. “We’re in no condition to do stuff like that! You’ll kill us all!!”

“Wheeee!!!” Wall responded, happy to be back at the controls of a starship once more.

A worryingly high-pitched whine started up, and for once it wasn’t Damerell keening in fear. The reluctant first officer looked up from his hands, brow creased worriedly. “Erm,” he said, “maybe you should-”

Something somewhere went clonk quite loudly and the ship abruptly dropped out of warp, decelerating with such force that Damerell was catapulted about ten feet to the foot of the helm console and both Wall and Ravenhill had the wind driven out of them by their boards.

Ravenhill gave a status report, wheezing. “Engines are offline,” he said. “The main engine coupling has overloaded.” He muttered a few choice words under his breath, which Wall chose to ignore.

“Options?” Damerell asked, staggering to his feet.

“Ordinarily I’d say we could temporarily re-route the power transfer through the phaser relays, but they’re still offline.”

Wall looked worried. “Captain Cholmondely-Smythe is going to be annoyed if we don’t do what we’re told,” he said. “Bring the phasers back online, prepare to re-route the power transfer.”

“What about the people on the decks affected by the radiation leak?” Ravenhill demanded.

“What? We can put them through decontamination, they’ll be fine,” Wall said. “I’m more worried about what might happen to me if I don’t follow orders!”

“You’re a monster,” Ravenhill said. “You don’t care about the lives you might be throwing away.”

“Alright, chill out,” Wall said. “It’s only a bit of radiation. Evacuate the decks and get sickbay on standby. And do as you’re bloody told! We have to get back to the fleet!”

Ravenhill folded his arms. “No.”

Wall looked at him and exchanged a glance with Damerell, who was just as worried about not following the Captain’s orders. Wall raised his eyebrows.

Damerell looked confused.

Wall waggled his eyebrows, tipping his head in Ravenhill’s direction.

Damerell finally caught on and, with a battle-cry Klumpf would have been moderately proud of, tacked Ravenhill out of his chair. As the two of them rolled around on the floor Wall plonked himself down at the Ops console and started pressing buttons.

“Let’s see, phasers, phasers… nope, not that one. Whoops, think I just opened the cargo bay doors, hope no-one was in there… ah hah!” He pressed buttons and two photon torpedoes streaked out. “Hmm. Not that either. Where is that…?

He stopped, looking up in surprise as the torpedoes detonated harmlessly in space, and the shockwave from the explosions washed over and around something invisible. Their cloaks overloading, two Orion vessels appeared from where they had been trying to sneak past undetected.

 

Stella stared at the viewscreen in disbelief. “How…?” she asked, stunned. She shook her head. “Set course for the homeworld,” she ordered. “We cannot continue now our involvement has been revealed.”

“What about the Durex sisters?” Cremini asked.

She shrugged. “They’re on their own.”

 

The Durex sisters and their nephew flinched as yet another explosion rocked the building they were in, dust falling from the ceiling.

“They are not coming,” Bernadette said, resigned.

“All is lost,” Lurcher agreed.

Feral looked between them and scowled.

The door opened and an Orion man entered, dragging Klumpf in behind him. The Klingon Liaison Officer had seen better days. His face was bruised and bloody, and he was limping. Bernadette strode across and spat in Klumpf’s face.

“Kill him!” she ordered.

The Orion man raised a dagger but Klumpf suddenly reacted, bringing up his bound hands to smash them into his captor’s face. Bernadette rapidly stepped away from the fight, grabbing hold of her sister’s arm and pressing a button on a device she pulled out of her pocket. The two of them disappeared in the shimmer of a transporter beam just as, simultaneously, Klumpf headbutted the Orion into unconsciousness and the door burst open, revealing Gurn at the head of a squad of warriors. They quickly took Feral into custody and Gurn walked over to Klumpf, cutting through his bindings with a knife. They both looked down at the Orion.

“That explains a great deal,” Gurn said.

Klumpf grunted. “I need a drink.”

 

The fleet rendezvoused at the location of the stricken Pant-y-Gurdl, where Wall, Damerell, Hill and Barfoot all transferred back on board the Psycho, leaving the various junior officers on the other ships to clear up the messes they had left behind. Once the shuttles were back on board Cholmondely-Smythe ordered the Psycho to set course for the Klingon homeworld.

Then he took Lieutenant-Commander Wall into his ready room.

“How much of a bollocking am I in for?” Wall asked, jumping the gun.

Cholmondely-Smythe looked at him. “I should have you up on disciplinary action,” he said. “If the reports from Lieutenant Ravenhill are anything to go by.”

Wall shuffled like a naughty schoolboy. “Yes sir.”

“However,” the captain went on. “Given that without your ill-advised actions we would likely have lost the day I am minded – just this once, mind you – to leave it at that. No disciplinary action but no commendations either. Dismissed.”

Wall scurried away, relieved, and Cholmondely-Smythe sat back in his chair, smiling. It was good to be the captain.

 

On the Klingon homeworld a few days later, Cholmondely-Smythe was once again in the Rekhtag Sauce Council Chamber, watching as the line of defeated family heads pledged their fealty to Gadroon – along with a substantial decrease in their status on the Council. This time he had brought the rest of the senior crew with him, as a bit of a treat.

“One last thing,” Gadroon said, waving a hand. Two guards dragged Feral into the chamber, kicking and screaming. The Council Leader turned to Klumpf. “I am granting you the honour of killing this weasel, in revenge for his family’s crimes against the House of Vogue.”

Klumpf looked down at the dagger Gadroon had handed him, then at the scared, snarling boy in front of him, and then over at Damerell, who was looking on anxiously. He shook his head. “I will not kill a boy who, despite his other failings, is innocent of his father’s crimes.”

Gurn grabbed his arm. “It’s the Klingon Way!” he shouted.

“Not this Klingon,” Klumpf replied.

Gadroon growled. “Very well, then I give the honour to Gurn instead. Perhaps he will have the guts to do what you cannot!”

Klumpf stopped his brother, who was all too eager to take the knife instead. “You gave me his life to do with as I please,” he said. “I am sparing it. To take that away from me would be to act without honour.”

Gadroon and Gurn gaped at him, and Klumpf dragged Feral off to one side, undoing the ropes tying his hands together. “Go away,” Klump ordered, and Feral scampered out of the chambers without another word.

The Council drifted into small groups then, some of them already discussing the state of the Rekhtag Sauce industry as though none of the events of the previous weeks had occurred. Klumpf looked around and made a decision. He walked over to the crew of the Psycho and saluted Cholmondely-Smythe.

“Captain,” he said. “I feel I have fulfilled my duties as your liaison officer. I am putting in a request to Klingon High Command to be transferred to duty on the Rekhtag Sauce Defence Force. I feel my place is here, instead. I will be… sad… to go.”

Cholmondely-Smythe nodded. “Very well then Colonel. On behalf of Starfleet, and of this crew in particular, I wish you the best of luck.” The senior crew crowded around Klumpf, shaking his hand and saying goodbye, before Cholmondely-Smythe called them to order. He tapped his comm badge.

“Beam us up,” he ordered, and the crew disappeared in blue swirls, leaving Klumpf behind.