Published on fanfiction.net (TV/Star Trek/Other) HERE
Summary: It is the late 23rd century. Aboard the Starfleet Marine flagship War Hammer, Captain John Black must balance his Starfleet training with a need for revenge against a malevolent race that has killed eight of his men, and millions of others.
Star Trek and all its elements are property of CBS/Paramount Pictures
Star Trek: War Hammer
by Robert Gillis
MALODOROUS SWAMPS OF HOTOC-AL’ODEN
THE LATE 23RD CENTURY
The battle had been long, and untypically, the Starfleet Marines were losing.
The planet was called Spica-9 — one of the most repellent, inhospitable places in the quadrant. It even said that on their travel brochures.
The sky was raining fire. Acrid smoke was everywhere. Explosions seemed continuous, blasting up dirt, mud, and rank debris and stagnant water.
The planet’s inhabitants were small beings whose heads resembled blue beach balls. Their gaping maws housed three rows of razor sharp rotating mechanical teeth. Their bodies contained various cybernetic implants whose only obvious purpose seemed to be destruction, and ocular implants that emitted white-hot fire. They were responsible for countless deaths of innocents across dozens of parsecs, and destruction on a planetary scale.
“Fire in the hole!”
Three days ago, the Starfleet Marine scout ship Acadia, on a reconnaissance mission to the nearby Alpha Prime system, had been attacked and hijacked by the Spicans, who’d apparently wanted its cloaking device technology. The resulting crash had killed three Marines; the Spicans had massacred four more. Out-manned and outgunned, the surviving eighteen were trying valiantly to survive this nightmare.
“Rowell! Get down!” Captain John Black managed to spit out as the air above them was ionized by a ruby discharge of electric fire. He watched in horror as the Marine was sliced in half by a razor-beam.
Over the din, Black’s communicator bleeped, “Captain! War Hammer stands ready to assist!”
For the last six hours, Black had reconciled himself to the inevitability of their situation, but the call from his ship snapped him back into command mode.
“About time, Mister!” he barked. “We’re out of ammo! I need two birthday candles and a case of thermal detonators beamed down here right now! Lock onto all signals except mine and Yeldarb. Energize now!”
The surviving Marines dissolved in electric columns of light as another detonation erupted where they’d been a heartbeat before. Black searched through his binos and said one word.
Yeldarb nodded as two round silver cylinders materialized next to the officers. Black turned to the Tamarian in the bloody uniform. “Commander,” he yelled, “prep these candles for proximity burst!”
Black grabbed the other object his ship had transported down — a small green box, loaded with high-yield thermal explosives. He punched in a code on its keypad, and tossed it into the remains of the scout ship. Overkill, he knew, but in case the candles malfunctioned he didn’t want the Spicans to salvage the scout ship.
“Hammer: On my mark…”
He watched as Yeldarb expertly prepped the other devices, armed the launcher, and with a loud “whoosh!” shot them into the Spican stronghold.
“Direct hit!” Black shouted. “Hammer, NOW! Energize and detonate!”
The transporter took Black and Yeldarb in a blue-white strobe, and exactly one second later the Spican regiment was vaporized in an explosion that ripped a half-mile wide crater into the planet’s surface. The resulting fireball climbed nearly half that distance into the crimson sky.
Black and Yeldarb materialized on one of the troop transporters aboard the Federation Starfleet Marine flagship, War Hammer, where the survivors were already receiving medical attention.
Black leapt off the platform as his first officer walked over to him. “LaRosa, you’re with me. Yeldarb, I need you on the bridge as soon as the doc patches you up.”
“Sir,” Commander Kyle LaRosa said, concerned at his commander’s appearance, “you should have Doctor T’vor take a look at you.”
“Later. We have loose ends to tie up.” He waved away the yeoman who tried to put his burgundy Starfleet command jacket over his shoulders and stepped into the turbolift. “Bridge,” Black snapped. As soon as the doors swished shut he demanded, “Where the hell where you, Kyle? It’s been three days!”
“Captain,” LaRosa explained, “we responded immediately, but were ambushed by a squad of Spican vipers nine hours outside this system. They damaged the warp drive and long-range communications with a lucky hit before we destroyed them.”
“How the hell did they get through our shields?” Black demanded. He angrily ran a sweaty hand across his brow.
“The Spicans used a sub-harmonic resonator pulse to reset our shield — “
“Spare me this week’s technobabble,” Black snapped. “Just tell me we can prevent it from happening again.”
“Guarantee it, sir.”
“You’d better, Kyle. We lost eight good Marines down there.”
“Supreme commander on the bridge!” Lieutenant Commander Jared Cameron, the communications officer, announced as the lift brought the officers to the command center.” Privately he added, “Good to have you back, Cap.”
Black crossed the bridge, not taking his eyes off the blood-red image of Spica-9 on the main viewer. It looked like a lunar eclipse, he mused. A bleeding one. “Weaps, cycle down the EM band on our shields.”
“Sir?” the Bolian weapons officer, Lieutenant gc’Arla Mataya, asked. “Begging your pardon, but that will allow the enemy to scan our vessel’s sensor readings.”
“I’m counting on it. Drop EM band only and clear your station.”
As Mataya complied, Black slipped into the Weapons alcove and entered a series of commands into the torpedo initiator. “Computer, run program “Wages of Sin” authorization: Black, angels of Eden, flaming sword.” He pressed a green button and a cross-hair section of the planet came up on his board.
“Locked,” the station chirped. “Warning: Coordinates indicate potentially massive planetary — ” was all it got out before Black swatted the audio mute control.
LaRosa walked over to his CO and discretely whispered, “Sir, the targeting sequence you have initiated will — “
Black replied laconically, “Man your station, Mr. LaRosa.”
“But sir! As your exec it’s my duty — “
“To trust me,” Black said softly.
“Sir!” communications announced. “Urgent message from the planet!”
“Well, what a surprise. On screen.”
The viewer made the obligatory screen noise and and cleared to reveal one terrified Spican.
” — is W’ahzeeti-Boochoo of the Spican Multitude. Respond, please!”
Stepping into the center of the bridge, Black acknowledged the signal. “This is Captain Black, Supreme Commander of the Starfleet Marines, W’ahzeeti-Boochoo. What can we do for you today?”
“Starfleet! We surrender!”
Black remained stone faced. “Surrender? Now? You weren’t surrendering when you hijacked my scout ship and massacred eight of my Marines.”
W’ahzeeti-Boochoo was horrified. “You would trade eight human lives for an entire race?”
“Certainly not. But add them to your slaughter of the Federation colony on Ivor Prime, your massacre of 245 Klingons on Krios, your destruction of the Romulan bird of prey Green Destiny… And that’s just this month.”
“Starfleet! Your targeting sequence — “
“Would activate just the right seismic faults and trigger a chain reaction detonation so large it would completely destroy your planet. Yes, I
noticed that too. Your years of massacre and slaughter are at end. We’re shutting you down.” He added a little motion across his throat to let Cameron know to cut the transmission.
“Mercy!” the Spican leader pleaded as the screen went dark.
Black strode back over to the weapons console, aware that all eyes were upon him. He counted off 30 seconds in his head — might as well make the Spicans sweat just a little more — and tapped WIPE. He pressed in new instructions to run program “Strange flashes in the sky up above,” then hit the firing stud. Four photon torpedoes achieved high orbit over the four planetary poles and detonated with a bright flash.
“Status,” Black barked at Mataya.
She ran a quick scan at the Master Situation station. “Sir, high orbital detonation will create a tremendous electromagnetic disruption pulse. The planet will be incapable of generating any kind of electronic power for decades.”
“What about warp fields?”
“No way, sir. All that plasma will prevent establishment of a stable warp field for at least ten years.”
“Casualties and long term effect?”
She ran some more scans and continued, “Blast was high enough that radiation will disperse harmlessly in the troposphere. No casualties.”
“Excellent. Mr. Cameron, can they still receive a subspace transmission?”
“Receive? Yes, sir.”
“Send this on all channels: CONSIDER YOURSELF QUARANTINED.”
The bridge crew was united in silent awe. This would be one for the history books.
“Nice work, Cap,” LaRosa whispered finally.
“There may still be Spican rogue ships out there,” Black continued. “Continue repairs and get us the hell out of here. EX-O has the Conn.”