January 24th, 2381 A.D.

2200 hours

Galaxy-Class Exploration Cruiser,

U.S.S. Excalibur NCC-26517-A


A black-shafted arrow split the air, where, until moments ago, a violet-eyed ex-warlord had been. Mackenzie Calhoun threw himself into a powerful dive, rolling onto his shoulder to lessen the impact, narrowly avoiding certain death at the hands of one of the many Medieval foot soldiers currently combing the woods for the former Xenexian warlord. As he came up on one knee after his evasive roll, he swiftly scanned his immediate surroundings, searching for the owner of the offending arrow.

Microseconds after beginning his search, he had already identified the source of the deadly projectile, a lone archer, equipped with a British longbow, a pair of quivers full of broadhead arrows, and a single medium-length sword, more an extra long dagger than a sword, but deadly none the less at close quarters.

The archer, shocked that he had somehow managed to miss his quarry, neglected to make the most of Calhouns' current position. Namely, that he was kneeling on the ground, recovering from his tumble.

Shocked as he was, he was only immobilized for half a second before he reacted to the new circumstances, attempting to fire off another arrow, from the quiver on his back. That half second was a quarter of a second too long. In that brief period, Calhoun had already gotten to his feet, chosen a course of action, and executed said strategy. Leaping towards the archer in long, swift, sprinting strides, closing the 25-30 foot gap nearly instantly.

Too late did the archer realize the danger he was in, by the time he tried to draw the short sword he carried as a backup, Calhoun was standing in front of him, a feral grin twisting his features. Before the archer's sword was even withdrawn an inch from its sheath, Calhoun's much longer Xenexian Steel blade was buried to its hilt in the archers lightly armored stomach. With a wet squelching noise, and a quick shove, the lifeless corpse was pushed to the ground, the silvery-white blade now stained with streaks of deep red.

The current threat dealt with, M'k'n'zy, as he was named at birth, swiveled his head rapidly, searching for his next target. Only to find that he had made a fatal mistake; he had neglected to stay aware of his surroundings as he dealt with the unsuccessful archer.

Now he found himself in a much more dire situation than before, for on all sides of the Violet-eyed warrior, were armor-clad footmen. Twenty, wearing light plate armor over chainmail. Each carrying a one handed sword, and a small and round iron-banded wooden buckler.

No fewer than five fully armored Knights, astride horses wearing similar armor to their riders, a lance held firmly in their right hand, and a massive tower shield in his left.

Behind all these, was a force of no fewer than forty Archers, all armed similarly to the one Calhoun had just dispatched. All of whom wore expressions of fury, as they saw the body of one of their comrades, laying bloodied and still on the forest floor.

With a dry, mirthless chuckle, the beleaguered warrior wiped a hand across his forehead, and gripped the sword in his hand a little tighter.

"Sixty-five to one huh? Well, I can't say I like your chances of winning. This'll be simple." With these words, and a roar of outrage from the assembled soldiers, the five Knights swept in, the hooves of their mounts thundering upon the grassy forest floor, lances pointed directly at our intrepid warrior.

Calhoun took a deep breath, and moved. There's simply no other way to describe what he did, from one instant to the next, he had sidestepped the first of the charging Knights, the thick iron-tipped ash-wood lance sliding past its intended target by mere millimeters, the owner of that particular lance immediately attempted to reign his mount in as he attempted to find his erstwhile target. In his frantic attempt to stop his horse, he failed to notice one of his fellow horsemen struggling to do the same in front of him. With an explosive clash of metal and horseflesh, and the startled yells of men and the pained screeches of their horses, the two knights collided, one lance plunging into the other Knights horse's side, with that Knight's lance impaling his fellow warrior, slaying him instantly.

In the confused mess of thrashing limbs in the makeshift arena, none of the assembled soldiers noticed several of their number around the large circle fall, massive slashes across their torsos pouring blood down the front of their armor. After five or six had fallen, the ring of archers outside the main circle took notice of the disturbance, and launched a flurry of arrows at the sprinting figure of Calhoun, who at that moment was engaging no fewer than four of the foot soldiers in close quarters combat, his blade flashing back and forth, cutting thick rifts in the iron reinforced bucklers, swiftly beating the once circular shields into a less-recognizable shape, reminiscent of a leaf left in the sun.

As the cloud of deadly projectiles descended towards the one-sided battle, Calhoun continued to decimate the foot soldiers arrayed against him, attacking with such speed that the opposition had no time to react, let alone try to attack themselves. With milliseconds to spare, Calhoun caught a glimpse of the swarm of arrows out of the corner of his eye, grabbed a mangled buckler from the dead hands of a fallen opponent, and began to swing it around to his front, in a last ditch effort to protect himself from the hissing storm of death plunging towards him.

Picoseconds before the first arrow drove itself through the shield, everything stopped, the arrows, the soldiers, the breeze, the clouds in the sky, everything, right down to the shifting of the garments worn by the opposing forces, it all ceased to move. A silent few seconds went by as Calhoun took several rapid, deep breathes, the adrenaline from intense combat still flowing through his body.

Before he had a chance to wonder what had happen, the small delta-shaped disk of Duranium alloy clipped to his belt gave of two quick ascending chirps.


As he reached towards the small communications device, a loud siren began to wail in the background, and his comm-badge began to speak in the voice of Burgyone 172, his former Chief Engineer, and current First Officer.

"All hands, Yellow Alert. Captain Calhoun to the Bridge. I repeat, Mac, you're needed on the Bridge."

With a frustrated and resigned sigh at the untimely Yellow Alert, Captain Mackenzie Calhoun, Commanding officer of the Galaxy-Class Starship, USS Excalibur, N.C.C.-26517-A unclipped the commbadge from his belt and brought it to his lips before responding to his First Officer in the exasperated tone he saved specifically for this sort of occasion. "I'm on my way Burgy, you'd better have a VERY good reason for disrupting my workout session..."

"A Priority One Classified message straight from the top Mac, straight from Starfleet Command." the former Chief Engineer replied hurriedly. "And it seems urgent, Miss Primus is picking up distress beacons from all sectors of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, whatever the hell's going on, it's most definitely not good."

And on that delightfully cheery note, the First Officer closed the channel, leaving hir* Captain deeply troubled by the news. With a resigned sigh, Calhoun addressed the Holodeck's computer system. "Computer, Save program 'Calhoun Workout 5' and end program."

With an acknowledging chirp, the forest battleground faded into the familiar black and gold grid of a standard Galaxy-Class Cruiser's Holdeck suite. Still in the tattered and bloodied medieval-style trousers he'd replicated for the workout, and the thin woven shoes worn by peasants of that era, the Captain hurriedly made his way towards the nearest turbolift shaft, not even bothering to stop by the ship's SickBay and have Dr. Selar treat the various cuts and minor bruises he had accumulated during his 'light' workout session.

*A/N, yes, You read that correctly, 'hir' Burgoyne 172 Is from a race known as the Hermats, a furry species of hermaphrodites resembling...well, I'm not exactly sure WHAT they resemble (I guess just humans with a cat-like fur coat...?), but they ARE hermaphrodites, therefore they require the use of specialized pronouns, ie, hir, s/he etc

so, what'd y'all think? This is my first 'real' fanfic, originally it started as a 3 page Creative Writing Assignment I wrote back in the 9th grade, about 5-and-a-half years ago. Late last year, at the suggestion of my little sister, I made an account on Wattpad, and found myself intrigued by the idea of writing fanfics, though there's a discouraging lack of Star Trek fanfics on Wattpad, and though 'why don't I re-write that assignment I did years ago?' So, after weeks of procrastinating, re-familiarizing myself with the New Frontier universe, and generally working up my self confidence. I posted chapters one and two of my rewritten story, and asked a couple authors I respect on Wattpad to read it and give me pointers. I'm gonna do the same here, and ask that anyone who reads this leaves a review, and any suggestions as to what I could do to make it better, thx y'all! Till next time!


"...And The Struggle That Followed"