Fifty-eight years ago, four Romulan warbirds attacked Narendra III. Fifty-eight years ago, a single Ambassador-class heavy cruiser broke every law regarding the Klingon-Federation border in a mad sprint to reach them in time. Fifty-eight years ago, a woman with a fire in her heart and determination in her eyes rolled the dice, took a gamble, hoped that whatever they could do over Narendra III would save enough lives that a flagrant breach of Klingon space would be overlooked.

It was not the first time a Federation starship fought for the Klingons. It wouldn’t be the last. But it was the most legendary, the most history-defining. It may have been Archer, Pike, and Kirk who put the name on the map, but it was Rachel Garrett, here, over Narendra III, fighting a battle she had no hope of surviving in the shot-in-the-dark chance she could save lives the Federation had no obligation to save, where history never forgot the name USS Enterprise.

Of course, USS Oakland was no Ambassador-class, and she certainly wasn’t NCC-1701-C. Hers, after all, was a registry never destined to have a letter prefix attached to the end of it. 75012 was supposed to be a legacy that started and ended with an awkward pancake on stilts and clown shoes, waddling through space like a drunken penguin, towing starbase components and running cargo to backwater colonies.

That’s what she was supposed to be. But fate is both fickle, and enjoys the unexpected. And so, a ship that should’ve been an unnotable little footnote in Starfleet history dropped out of warp over Narendra III, shields raised, weapons powered.

To their credit, Narendra’s defense forces had clearly been bulked up since the last surprise attack on the world. Unfortunately, this bulking up consisted of one, possibly two old M’Chala-class birds of prey from the 2250s. Said vessels had already been converted from two ancient escort ships to a wide variety of metal shards that pinged off the old cruiser’s shields as she powered through the debris field, engines thrumming. No escape pods seemed to have been launched- the Klingons, as they often did, elected that today was a good day to die.

It just wasn’t often that a Starfleet vessel, and especially a utility cruiser, came to the same conclusion.

“Three ships on sensors, captain!” the comms officer- Charlie didn’t even know his name, he’d been transferred aboard less than a week ago- announced. “Looks like two frigate analogs and a cruiser, designs unknown. Computer can’t get an ID on them.”

“Don’t worry about what they are, Ensign.” Maising replied, craning forwards in his chair as if that would afford him a better look at the viewscreen. “Have they detected us yet?”

“It… doesn’t seem so, Captain,” the comms officer replied. “We’re still in the debris field, they might not have noticed. The two frigates are standing by the cruiser, and it’s… bombarding the colony, sir.”

Nervous glances shared all around. Klingons were plenty mighty warriors, of course, but even they couldn’t fight off an orbital bombardment with disruptors and bat’leths. By all accounts, an orbital bombardment probably wasn’t particularly honorable, either- for what honor is there to turn battleship-grade weaponry on homes and shops and remain safely outside the line of fire?

A thick silence fell on the bridge, covering everything in a dense fog of worry and concern. This was what they were getting into? A three-on-one against a foe willing to flatten a city from high orbit? In a utility cruiser? Oakland had a grand total of three phasers and two torpedo launchers to her name, all of which were forty years out of date, and they only could carry forty torpedoes at maximum anyways. Maximum. Oakland probably had somewhere closer to twenty.

It was Charlie who finally broke the silence. “We should hit th’ cruiser.”

Maising turned back to his XO with a raised eyebrow, settling back into his seat. “You seem to have a plan, Commander.”

“Eh… nae much of a plan, but it’ll buy th’ colony a moment ta breathe,” she responded, eyes fixed on the viewscreen, watching the cruiser’s weapons thunder away at the planet below. “We got the element ‘a surprise- so we hit ’em first. Drop down from atop ’em, smack th’ cruiser wi’ some fish ‘n a few whacks wi’ phasers. May not do a bloody thing, but it’ll knock th’ bastards off-guard right ‘n true.”

“Disrupt their attention. I like it. And it’s likely the best shot we have at making a meaningful dent- we have to keep them on the back foot.” Maising nodded, face set in resolute stone. “Helm, keep us in the debris field. New course, bearing 016 mark 074- bring us right on top of the cruiser. Tactical, prep weapons and load tubes, but hold fire until our say-so. Helm, once we’re in position, hold and prep to drop the prow, straight down.”

A chorus of “aye, captain!” rang across the bridge, and Oakland thundered through the glinting chunks of hull plating that had once been two Birds of Prey. The viewscreen’s angle on the cruiser increases steadily, slowly creeping further and further over the top.

A part of Charlie still couldn’t believe that she was here, on a California-class, a ship she used to hate because it wasn’t a frontline vessel… about to dive-bomb an unidentified starship shooting up a Klingon colony. Outnumbered three to one, fighting an enemy they had no intel about, in the middle of a quadrant-wide blackout. Right when she’d finally settled for a quieter, humbler ship, the universe came back to laugh in her face and give her what she wanted anyways.

The Klingons had decided today was a good day to die. It just wasn’t often that a California-class utility cruiser came to the same conclusion.

“Hold… hold…”

The angle of attack drew ever wider. Seventy degrees. Seventy-five degrees. Eighty degrees. Eighty-five.

Ninety.

“Hold…”

Oakland quietly groaned as the prow dipped slowly downwards.

“Now! Pattern Maising-One, execute! Tactical, fire at will, two torpedoes center-mass on that cruiser!”

Oakland lurched forward like a bullet from a gun, phasers screaming, stitching the topside of the cruiser with twin orange beams as the dorsal and ventral fore arrays unleashed their little slice of hell. The utility cruiser screamed towards the three ships at full impulse, almost faster than her torpedo tubes could launch the two photon fish that slammed into the bigger foe’s dorsal side.

Charlie had no clue if the torpedoes made it through the shields. She had no clue if they’d done more than give the enemy crews a heart attack. But what she did know was that, as Oakland threaded the needle between the cruiser and one of her escorts and started bringing her prow back around, both dorsal phasers ripping away at the cruiser’s underside… the enemy’s guns had stopped firing at the planet.

The battle was met. Today was a good day to die.

Maybe she’d meet Rachel Garrett in hell.