(Music)

In the inky void, a predator glided silently against the distant starlight. Her design; utilitarian; everything is designed with purpose and no thought given towards aesthetics. The faded green paint of her hull reflected very little illumination, despite being worn to bare metal in more than a few places by decades of abuse and hasty patchwork repairs. For the few scrapes and dings that had exposed the layer beneath the ageing paint had heavily oxidised through exposure to elements on countless worlds.

She was on the hunt, stalking her prey patiently. Like the tiger stalks its next meal, staying hidden and out of sight. Waiting for the perfect moment to pounce and make the kill.

As the time drew closer, her falcon-like wings unlocked and began a slow travel downwards to lock in attack position. The nose of her bridge, at the end of a long neck, began glowing the deepest shade of crimson as if she were salivating at the anticipation that comes from sinking teeth into flesh.

The only marking giving any recourse to identify her was the tribladed insignia of the Klingon Empire, now fading into the veil of black that surrounded the ship as she slipped into the shadows of her cloak.

On the bridge, the tactical display on the viewscreen positioned the B’rel roughly 45° to the rear port quarter of their quarry. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed flesh and hair, and a slight haze hung at the crew’s feet. Humidity on their vessel would be nearly unbearable for other races, but the environment mimicked the hot, damp climate of their homeworld.

The Captain was a formidable and regal-looking specimen of a Klingon Warrior. Sat in his chair of command at the centre of the bridge, elevated above his subordinates to some degree, he could oversee everything as it happened. He raised his right hand, leaning his head slightly towards the tactical station behind him.

“ngaQHa’moHwI’mey nISwI’ DoS ‘ej QuQ DoS.” His native Klingon language fell ungracefully from his lips, each syllable chewed apart and spat back out with venom.

At the tactical station, a female Klingon with flowing black hair bore a distinct resemblance to her captain. She was his daughter, and hearing the words from her father and commanding officer, she understood the order to lock her disruptors and target their quarry’s engines.

“Standby to drop cloak!” the Captain growled, every word sounding like a declaration of war in his native tongue.

All of a sudden, a muted alarm cut the tension in the air and shattered the silence on the bridge. Captain Korgh slammed his fist down into his chair arm in frustration, “Dochvam nuq?” he barked, demanding to know what the alarm was.

“A distress call… from a Federation cruiser…point six light-years away!” the helm officer reported.

Korgh dwelled on the information for a moment. Distress calls from the federation were unusual, but a cruiser was a very seldom sight.

One word left his mouth, more restrained, as if a mixture of concern and curiosity had quenched his thirst for battle “Wab!” the Klingon word for sound

“TO ANY FRIENDLY SHIP IN RANGE, THIS IS THE FEDERATION STARSHIP FAIRFAX. HAVE COME UNDER ATTACK BY NAUSICAAN RAIDERS. SHEILDS HAVE FAILED. NEED URGENT ASSISTANCE!” The Canadian accent of Captain Alexander Dubois reverberated around the bridge.

Korgh held his thoughts for a moment. They were so close to ambushing their quarry, but his loyalty as an ally of the Federation was imperishable. He knew the only honourable response was to abandon his pursuit and respond. To knowingly omit action would be tantamount to betrayal.

“Change course, Intercept at maximum warp!” his order bounced around the room with a sour taste. Everyone except his daughter Vekrah expressed their frustration with an expression on their face.

“But, sir! We have the enemy right where we want them! We can’t abandon—” the helm officer retorted, suddenly interrupted by Korgh launching himself from his chair in his direction. He felt the impact of his captain’s heavy fist strike his face. A fire of pain ignited in his jaw, like a branding iron was being driven deep into the bone.

“Insolent petaQ!” Korgh bawled in anger.

“Have you no honour!…our ally calls for aid!….and the House of Korgh will answer!” he affirmed.

Without hesitation, the helm officer punched in the relevant command into his console, whilst simultaneously holding his jaw, which he felt as though had been broken by the force of his punishment. He could not speak without immense pain, but raised his hand to verify he had carried out the order.

“Stand down weapons, but maintain cloak!” Korgh instructed as he returned to his seat. “And someone get him out of my sight!” pointing to the injured helm officer.

As he sat down and saw their quarry slip away, he was comforted at the prospect of even greater honour in the battle ahead. The Nausicaans were a worthy opponent; this was sure to be a glorious engagement.

“maqcha!” Korgh ordered, sweeping his hand through the air towards the view screen.