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Star Trek: Bounty - 10 - "Take Arms Against a Sea of Tribbles"

BountyTrek

BountyTrek

Commander
Red Shirt
Hello! Here we go again. Another tall(ish) Bounty tale is just about ready to go. :)

As ever, there are some overarching plot threads running through all this nonsense, but it should be ok to just read this as a standalone story. There is a lot of ST: Bounty to read now, after all. But there are a fair amount of references to some of the events of Star Trek: Bounty - 2 - "Be All My Sins Forgiven", so having already read that one in particular can’t hurt. Though that's not really essential.

And I apologise for the dodgy Klingonese in the prologue for this. I’m somewhat behind on my Duolingo lessons, so I’ve cobbled it together via some often conflicting online resources. It’s only really there for effect, so hopefully I don’t offend too many fluent speakers. :klingon:

Hope everyone enjoys reading! And if not, that’s cool too. :D

Star Trek: Bounty is a slightly off-kilter series set in the Trek universe that focuses on the adventures of the ragtag crew of a small civilian ship, who do what they can to get by in the Alpha Quadrant. They're not exactly Starfleet spec, but they try to keep on the right side of the moral line where they can.

The story so far:
Star Trek: Bounty - 1 - "Where Neither Moth nor Rust Destroys"
Star Trek: Bounty - 2 - "Be All My Sins Forgiven"
Star Trek: Bounty - 3 - "The Other Kind of Vulcan Hello"
Star Trek: Bounty - 4 - "It’s Not Easy Being Green"
Star Trek: Bounty - 5 - "Once Upon a Time in the Beta Quadrant"
Star Trek: Bounty - 6 - "He Feedeth Among the Lilies"
Star Trek: Bounty - 7 - “One Character in Search of an Exit”
Star Trek: Bounty - 8 - "A Klingon, a Vulcan and a Slave Girl Walk into a Bar"
Star Trek: Bounty - 9 - "But One Man of Her Crew Alive"

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Star Trek: Bounty
1.10
“Take Arms Against a Sea of Tribbles”

Prologue

Iota Geminorum System, Beta Quadrant
Earth Year 2296

High above Iota Geminorum IV, a vast stretch of the placid and unchanging starscape suddenly began to shimmer and distort without warning.

Within seconds, the tranquillity of the scene was replaced by something entirely different, as the third battle squadron of the Klingon Imperial Fleet decloaked in all of its glory.

The imposing centrepiece of the squadron were two dozen K’t’inga-class battlecruisers, which hung over the planet in tight formation. They were supported on all sides by several wings of smaller and more manoeuvrable Birds of Prey, the light cruisers tasked with flanking and protecting the core of larger vessels from incoming sorties from enemy fighters.

Towards the rear, flanked by yet more Birds of Prey, came the heavier troop transports. Huge bulky rectangular vessels with recessed nacelles running the length of their dull green hulls, filled with thousands of battle-hardened and bloodthirsty warriors ready to be deployed across a planet’s surface in an instant.

And at the head of the entire collective might of the third battle squadron was the incongruous form of the IKS Qam-Chee. An older D7-class battleship, and the flagship of General K’Vusk.

K’Vusk had served aboard the Qam-Chee for many years as a loyal captain of the Imperial Fleet. It was the only vessel he had ever commanded. And while the entirety of the D7 fleet had been earmarked to be scrapped as soon as the more potent K’t’inga-class ships had started to roll out of the Empire’s shipyards, he had made a personal request upon his promotion to General that the Qam-Chee be retained, to serve as his flagship.

It was a request that had raised a few eyebrows throughout the upper echelons of command. After all, Klingon generals were not exactly renowned for their sentimentality.

But when a warrior as noble and decorated as K’Vusk made a personal request, it tended to be carried out. So, in a thoroughly un-Klingon display of mercy, the Qam-Chee had been spared the fate of her sister ships, and was instead thoroughly modernised, refitted and put back into service.

And as K’Vusk sat in his raised command chair in the centre of the Qam-Chee’s ever-familiar bridge, he felt a comforting sense of pride in the vessel around him. Warrior and steed were once again thundering into glorious battle together.

Despite his advancing years, he was still as fearsome a figure as any in the fleet. He stood tall and lean, and while his flowing hair was now a patchwork of grey, it was as thick and lustrous as ever.

K’Vusk was respected throughout the galaxy as a master tactician, and had been hand-picked by the Head of the Imperial Fleet for this particular mission. The culmination of a long, brutal struggle that the Empire had been waging for decades.

And today, here in the Iota Geminorum system, the struggle would finally be over.

He leaned forward in his chair, staring intensely at the planet in front of them. They had finally found it. The homeworld of their enemy was theirs to be conquered at long last.

“Sogh!” he called out to the junior lieutenant standing at the tactical station, “Wly cha’!”

“HISlaH, K’Vusk Sa',” the snapped response came.

The image on the viewscreen shifted from that of the lush surface of the planet itself to a tactical overlay. The planet’s surface was now painted in a range of colours of varying intensity, indicating the population distribution of their enemies courtesy of the Qam-Chee’s sensors.

General K’Vusk took this new information in, as he stroked his grey beard thoughtfully.

Tactically, the most effective battle plan was clear to anyone. The planet was entirely defenceless from their current position, and an orbital bombing campaign was clearly called for. K’Vusk knew that there was more than enough firepower at his disposal to lay waste to the entire surface of Iota Geminorum IV in no time at all.

But he also knew that would not be an entirely appropriate tactic. After such a bloody campaign, and knowing that this would be the final stand for their enemy, he could see that a more honourable approach was required.

Besides, he knew that it had been far too long since he and his men had tasted the blood lust of a true battlefield. They deserved more than a simple bombing raid.

And so, just as K’Vusk’s sentimentality had once saved the Qam-Chee, so it also shaped his battle plan for the Empire’s upcoming victory.

He swivelled around in his chair and barked another order at his tactical officer.

“yay chol, Sogh. TIG-mang-RUP. DaH!”

“Chah-Veh.”

General K’Vusk smiled in satisfaction and stood from his throne-like seat, preparing to join the first of the landing parties on the planet below.

****************************

The massed ranks of a full-scale armed Klingon landing party was a fearsome sight. One to rival just about any in the galaxy.

Thousands of armoured warriors stepped in well-drilled formation across the wide open stretch of the grasslands of Iota Geminorum IV’s northern continent where the orbiting transports had beamed then down moments ago.

And this was just the first party. Back in orbit, tens of thousands more warriors were waiting patiently in line to be carefully and systematically deployed across the surface of the planet, exactly in line with the general’s plan.

None of the Klingons striding through the grass carried a disruptor. Instead, they carried more traditional arms. Swords, daggers, blades of all shapes and sizes, each one freshly polished and sharpened, and primed for action.

The third battle squadron had been waiting for this day for a long time. Each of them knew that this was their enemy’s last stronghold. That after today, victory would finally be theirs, and so this was a battle to be savoured.

But for the time being, each of the hungry warriors kept their weapons at their side, as they patiently marched across the temperate surface of the planet. Nobody raised a blade.

Because, at the head of the line, General K’Vusk strode proudly in front of them. And each of the men that followed in his wake knew that it was a general’s right to make the ceremonial first kill, as it always had been throughout this long, bitter conflict.

Suddenly, without warning, K’Vusk stopped rigidly on the spot and held up a hand with a sharp halting motion.

The wind had changed direction. He could sense something.

As one, every one of the thousands of Klingons marching behind him halted immediately. In silence, they waited for the general’s next signal.

The tactical officer from the Qam-Chee, who K’Vusk had selected to personally carry his vintage bat’leth, was the only one that moved, pacing over to the general with the weapon clasped tightly in his hands.

“NuqDaq, Sa’?” he asked expectantly.

K’Vusk silenced him with a wave of his hand. The grizzled general closed his eyes and gently sniffed the air searching around him for the telltale scent of their enemy.

It didn’t take long for him to locate it. With a satisfied nod, he pointed over towards a deep green patch of bushy plant life in the near distance.

“PoS, khi-GOSH,” he hissed at the lieutenant.

Slowly but surely, the two Klingons crept silently over to the thicker undergrowth, watched on expectantly by the orderly crowd of men behind them in the clearing. As they reached the target, K’Vusk gestured for his weapon. The obedient lieutenant bowed his head with deference and held up the venerable bat’leth.

K’Vusk grasped the familiar weapon tightly in both hands, as the ambient light glinted off the sharpened edge of the curved blade. He stalked over to the thicket as his audience continued to watch on in bloodthirsty rapture.

The ageing Klingon felt a familiar sensation in his body as the blood lust rose up in his veins. As he got nearer and nearer to his quarry, he parted his lips and bared his teeth, emitting a slight snarl of anticipation.

And then he charged forwards with the speed of a warrior half his age, weapon raised, emitting a guttural roar that seemed to emerge from the very depths of his soul.

The faithful lieutenant and the orderly crowd of warriors watched in rapt attention as K’Vusk reached the thicket and disappeared behind the tall bristles of the plant. They heard the weapon swing down with decisive power as it plunged to the ground, and they heard the tell-tale squeal of anguish from the general’s quarry.

And then there was silence.

After a moment, K’Vusk calmly emerged into the open again, his breathing slowly steadying and his blood lust quelled for the time being. He looked out at the expectant faces of his men, and thrust his bat’leth high into the air.

“Qapla’!”

As one, the massed ranks of the first expeditionary force from the third battle squadron raised their own weapons in a victorious cheer that echoed out across the landscape.

His trusted tactical officer stepped up to him and bowed his head again.

“Po’tajg, K’Vusk Sa'.”

General K’Vusk felt satisfied. His fleet had arrived. He had made the first kill. His men were here to answer the call of the Empire, and to fight for the future of their people right here on the enemy’s homeworld.

The final battle had begun.

Impaled on the end of his lofted bat’leth, haloed by the Iota Geminorum system’s deep yellow star where it hung benignly in the sky, was a single dead tribble.
 
Robert Bruce Scott said:
Where is the dead tribble emoji??? I just about spat out my drink at this one - what a hell of an opener!!
Click to expand...

I don’t know if it’s ever been canonically dived into aside from Worf and Odo’s brief conversation in DS9, and it’s not super-relevant to the rest of the story, but I couldn’t resist the chance to imagine The Great Tribble Hunt in all of its warrior glory. :klingon:

admiralelm11 said:
I need to find the time to read these. I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.
Click to expand...

Please don’t apologise. There’s an awful lot of nonsense to read through at this point. And I’m forever miles behind with my own reading. :lol:
 
Part One

“Eighty years ago, the great General K’Vusk led his men into a glorious battle. Today, we honour each of them as we do the same.”

Klath, the imposing Klingon weapons chief of the merchant ship Bounty, stood in the ship’s rear cargo bay, in the middle of delivering the speech of his life.

Anyone who knew him also knew that he wasn’t much of a talker. Still, he felt that an occasion such as this deserved some sort of ceremony. And he had been up most of the previous night on their journey here to memorise his lines.

“You all know why we are here,” he continued, his booming voice echoing out through the bay, “We have been given a call to arms, and we have answered that call. Together, we will not rest, we will not weaken, and we will not falter until the ground is covered with the blood of our enemies.”

He was particularly proud of that part of his speech, even if he had loosely based it on the words purportedly uttered by Kahless himself before a memorable victory over one of Molor’s armies in the Hamar mountains on Qo'noS many centuries ago. Light plagiarism issues aside, he felt as though they were some pretty inspiring words. Even if he did say so himself.

Though he was somewhat disappointed to see that they hadn’t seemed to garner much of a reaction from any of his troops in the same way that Kahless had certainly managed to do with his words all those years ago.

Across the expanse of the Bounty’s mostly empty cargo area, the rest of the ship’s motley crew had diligently lined up for inspection.

In the long and almost entirely fractious history of the Klingon people, plenty of brave leaders had gazed upon the men under their command before a battle with pride. General K’Vusk had surely been no exception, eighty years ago, when he had looked out at those thousands of armour-clad warriors on the surface of Iota Geminorum IV.

But as Klath surveyed the collection of individuals in front of him, he couldn’t bring himself to share that sort of feeling.

Firstly, there was the Bounty’s de facto captain, Jirel. The rangy unjoined Trill slouched slightly, rather than standing to attention, and was patiently listening to the Klingon’s words with a trace of a smile that suggested he wasn’t quite taking their upcoming battle entirely seriously.

Then came Denella, the Bounty’s Orion engineer. Of all the figures in line, she was the only one that was at least doing her best to stand to attention, giving the situation the gravity that she felt it merited. Klath respected this, and was glad that at least someone was taking things seriously, even if he noted that her back was a little too arched in her at-attention stance.

Next came Natasha Kinsen, the ex-Starfleet human doctor of the ship. She was staring straight at him as he spoke, but with a deep scowl on her face, making her feelings on the situation known without having to utter a single word. Klath refused to acknowledge the scowl.

And finally there was Sunek, the Bounty’s curiously emotional Vulcan pilot. He had his usual grin plastered on his face underneath his unkempt shock of hair. And for reasons Klath was certain were merely part of his innate desire to wind the Klingon up, he had turned up for inspection with his face smeared with freshly replicated camouflage paint, like an old school commando. The overall effectiveness of that paint was somewhat offset by the especially garish Hawaiian shirt he had opted for this evening.

All things considered, he couldn’t have been taking their battle less seriously if he had tried.

Klath sighed inwardly and did his best to ignore the Vulcan’s grinning painted features as much as he was ignoring the human’s dark scowl, as he neared the end of his brief, impassioned speech.

“The fight will not be an easy one. Our enemies are vast in number and quickly replenish our resources. What they lack in power and size, they make up for in persistence and cunning. But we must bring them to their knees. And we will!”

He paused for applause. The cargo bay remained silent, save for a slight grimace from Denella, whose back was starting to spasm from all the standing to attention she was doing.

But Klath didn’t let the lack of reaction outwardly affect him, even if inside he felt it had at least deserved some sort of acknowledgement. Instead, he stepped towards his troops and gestured to the items that were laid out in front of them.

“I ask you all now to pick up your weapons.”

Each of them reached down to retrieve a different type of bladed implement. Klath had been extra careful to tailor the weapon to the individual that would wield it, as all good generals should.

Jirel held up a small serrated kut’luch dagger. Klath was sure that the smaller weapon would suit the sort of close combat that the Trill usually preferred.

Jirel himself looked a tad unhappy at the size of the weapon in his hand, especially compared to some of the others on display. But he decided to keep the dozens of quips that jumped to mind to himself, trying his best to respect the serious way his friend was treating their situation. Even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to understand it.

Denella picked up her trusty Orion dagger, an identical copy of the one she had been given by her mother as a youngster, and one that she’d had plenty of reason to use since she had joined up with the Bounty’s crew.

She hefted the weapon with practised ease, and while Klath could have assigned her a dagger from his own personal collection, he knew that her familiarity with her own blade would be crucial in the coming assault. And he knew how adept she was at using it.

Natasha reluctantly picked up the mek’leth that lay in front of her. She looked at it like it was an affront to everything she believed in.

Klath had thought long and hard about which weapon to assign to her, before opting for the larger blade. He saw that as offering her the greatest chance to cause damage despite her relative lack of experience with bladed combat. Still, as he looked at the way she was unhappily regarding the blade, and her persistent scowl, he feared that even those carefully laid plans may not be enough. He expected to lose her early once the battle began in earnest.

Finally, Sunek grabbed the d’k tahg knife that had been placed in front of him and quickly threw out a few sloppy practice thrusts and parries into the thin air in front of him.

Klath had opted for an all-rounder of a weapon for the Vulcan for simplicity’s sake. But watching the painted-up man playfight with it in the cargo bay, he realised that even given that, he was going to have to set his targets particularly low for Sunek not to disappoint him.

Still, with everyone now dutifully armed and ready for action, Klath joined them by grabbing his trusty bat’leth from the sheath behind his back and gracefully wielding it in a flowing series of smooth, well-practised motions using the skills he had honed in the Klingon Defence Force.

Proud of his speech, and his impromptu bat’leth demonstration, he turned back to the disorganised line of soldiers in front of him. Sunek had idly started picking his nose.

Seeing Klath’s annoyed look, and wanting to do what she could to rescue the situation, Denella quickly stepped forwards, holding up her dagger, puffing her chest out and filling her mouth with as much phlegm as physically possible.

“Heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam!” she barked out in her best approximation of the Klingon language.

She remained proudly at exaggerated attention as she looked over at Klath, suppressing the wince from another twinge in her back. The Klingon’s mouth curved into a slight smile as he nodded back at her, respecting her words and her effort, if not her pronunciation.

Alongside the Orion engineer, Jirel leaned across and muttered at her with some amusement.

“Way to suck up, Lieutenant Suck-Up.”

Denella made a face back at the Trill, as Klath turned around and led his troops towards the rear ramp of the Bounty. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

After all, their shift was about to start.

****************************

The Bounty was parked on the third moon of Mentok colony.

The colony itself was a loose agglomeration of settlements and outposts spread out across the habitable planets and moons of the Mentok system, some distance outside the Klingon Empire’s vast borders. They had arrived after receiving a request for immediate assistance that had been broadcast out across all local shipping lanes. One that Klath had found impossible to resist.

Because the third moon of Mentok III had a problem. An infestation of polygeminus grex. Or, to give them their more affectionate name, tribbles.

The call had come from Mortath, an exiled Klingon who appeared to serve as the informal leading figure of the colony. His position of exile from the Empire was common across all of the Klingons in the system. And was also an unwanted status shared by Klath, who carried the weight of his own discommendation every day of his life.

His exile, coupled with his life onboard the Bounty, meant that Klath rarely had an opportunity to indulge in his old Klingon ways. Which meant that, as soon as the Bounty had picked up Mortath’s message, he had pretty much demanded that they join the hunt.

In truth, even Klath knew that it wasn’t all that much of a hunt. But it was the Klingon way, dating all the way back to the era of General K’Vusk. After all, even tribbles deserved the honour of dying in combat.

And so the tribble hunt on the third moon of Mentok III had been organised. Teams of Klingon residents from across the system, alongside merchant crews like the Bounty that had answered the call to arms, worked in shift patterns around the clock to cut down every last one of the enemy scourge and eradicate the infestation for good.

As the Bounty’s crew descended down the ship’s rear ramp onto the dark brown expanse of the terraformed scrubland that made up most of the moon’s surface, they saw the previous shift making their way from the battlefield.

Around a dozen Klingons, their armour coated in blood, carried heavy sacks filled with the bodies of those they had slain over their backs. Even though the combat had been as one-sided as anyone would have expected, Klath still found that he felt a curious sense of pride as he watched the weary but satisfied warriors returning home, a feeling that he hadn’t felt for a long time.

It wasn’t a feeling shared by everyone present.

“Disgusting,” Natasha tutted from behind him.

Her latest complaints, like all of her previous complaints she had voiced all the way to them arriving at Mentok colony, fell on a collection of deaf ears. Still, she looked over at Jirel and persisted.

“You’re really gonna do this? You’re really gonna spend the whole evening out here murdering innocent animals?”

“Of course not,” the Trill replied patiently, “Our shift’s only for four hours.”

Her unhappy glare ratcheted up several more notches. Jirel did his best not to notice, and kept his kut’luch primed and ready for action.

“You know what I mean,” she shot back, “I can’t believe you’re all just going to go along with this…this slaughter!”

“Hey, this is important to Klath. And if it’s important to him, then it’s important to us. You know how we do things on the Bounty by now. What is it we say? One for all, and all for one?”

“You’re not a musketeer, Jirel,” she sighed with her deepest of withering tones, “You’re a delivery man. You say things like ‘Yes, of course we can get that to you by the end of the week’, or ‘No, I’m definitely not a musketeer’.”

“Yeah, well, suck it up. Cos for the next four hours, I’m a stone cold tribble killing machine--”

Klath brought the latest round of bickering between the Bounty’s captain and doctor to an end with a sudden sharp grunt. He stopped on the spot and gestured for the rest of the group to halt.

He sniffed the air, as he felt the blood lust beginning to rise inside of him. The enemy was near. He could sense it.

He gestured over to a dense patch of scrubland ahead of them, and crept onwards, raising his weapon up in front of him. The rest of the Bounty’s crew followed in his wake.

The hunt was on.
 
Love the light hearted tone and the bickering. Of course, tribbles are a pretty serious threat - they're kind of like cute, cuddly, furry eating machines that will decimate your food supply.

And they can't be all that tasty or nutritious. Crap... now you gotta come up with a tribble recipe book... like... one recipe per story installment... Tribble a la mode... Spicy Tribble sushi... Ohio State Fair deep fried tribble... Texas BBQ pulled tribble sandwich...

Thanks!!! rbs
 
Part One (Cont'd)

“That…was awesome.”

A thoroughly exhausted Sunek staggered back over to the rear ramp of the Bounty, dragging two heavy cloth sacks along the ground behind him. His loaned d’k tahg was tucked into his belt, blood still visibly covering the blade.

Denella was already standing by the ramp, her dagger wiped clean and placed back in its sheath at her waist. Her oversized overalls were spattered with blood, and she had a bulging sack of her own down at her feet.

Both of them were thoroughly dishevelled after four hours on the battlefield. The third moon of Mentok III was a humid environment, even in the late evening, and Denella’s face was streaked with sweat, her frazzled hair loosely bunched behind her head. And while Sunek’s physiology meant that he had no such issues with sweat, his unruly mane of hair was even more unkempt than usual, and his painstakingly applied camouflage makeup was now streaked with dust and dirt from the moon’s terrain.

Nevertheless, they both looked proud of their efforts during their shift.

“I mean,” Sunek continued, “It was also kinda really super gross. But totally awesome.”

Denella nodded back, wiping a dusty hand across her tired face.

“Yeah. Not exactly the most challenging fight I’ve ever had, but it turns out a tribble hunt is a great way to work off a few frustrations. Makes up for missing yesterday’s meditation session, I guess?”

Sunek nodded awkwardly. He still preferred to keep their sessions, and the deeper emotional issues he’d been suffering from the last few months, a secret. He didn’t like it when things got serious.

He glanced down at the knife in his hand and recalled the last time he had wielded a similar weapon, when a sudden blind rage had seen him nearly kill a defenceless and defeated outlaw on Nimbus III.

Before he could properly respond, they heard footsteps approaching, and turned to see Natasha arriving back at the Bounty. She was still scowling deeply, her weapon was clean of any sign of blood, and she wasn’t carrying anything else with her.

“Hey,” Sunek said, gesturing to her lack of possessions, ‘You’re supposed to bag up all your kills, doc. Otherwise they don’t count towards our payment.”

She tossed the unused mek’leth onto the dusty ground in front of her and folded her arms across her chest in protest.

“There was nothing to bag up. Because I didn’t kill any poor tribbles. I just went for a four hour hike instead. And the worst part is that it turns out this is a very, very boring moon!”

Sunek and Denella glanced at each other, then looked back at the gently simmering doctor.

“You know why we’re here, right?” Sunek asked with a slight grin, all his worries about his emotional secrets having vanished now there was a chance to wind up his colleague.

“Yes!” Natasha snapped, “And as I’ve repeatedly told you, I’m not going to be a party to any of it! Because I’m some sort of psychopath who wants to spend their time butchering innocent creatures with a big stupid sword!”

Denella and Sunek looked at each other again. Sunek could see from the amused twinkle in the green-skinned woman’s eye that she was up for joining in with the fun.

“I had a knife,” Sunek pointed out to the doctor with a shrug.

“Dagger here,” Denella added.

Natasha sighed in exasperation, her increasing sense of righteous indignation clouding her from the clear fact that she was being so entirely wound up.

“You know what I mean. I had a sword, at least.”

She paused and looked down at the stubby mek’leth on the ground, seeming less sure of herself all of a sudden.

“At least, I think that’s a sword--? Hang on, this is wildly not the point! The point is--!”

“Come on,” Jirel’s voice sounded out from behind her, “Not a single one? Really?”

The group turned to see the tired Trill staggering over to them with two sacks full of kills on his back. Alongside him, Klath carried four full sacks on his own back without breaking sweat. As they arrived and dropped their cargo onto the ground, Jirel gestured to the complete lack of evidence of any kills around Natasha’s own feet.

“You couldn’t even have found one or two that had died of natural causes and claimed them for the sake of it?”

She glared back at the Trill, who met her look with a disarming lop-sided grin.

Klath ignored the latest round of bickering entirely, and focused on the positives of their situation, looking around at their combined tribble haul with satisfaction.

“A fine hunt,” he said with a proud nod, “We have done well.”

Jirel clocked the single sack at Denella’s feet and gestured to it with the bloodied knife in his hand.

“Just the one bag, Denella? Kinda lame for the big wannabe Klingon.”

The Orion raised an eyebrow and gestured over to the other side of the Bounty’s ramp, where five further sacks of tribbles were standing.

“Wanna do a recount?”

She addressed the question as much to Klath as she did to the Trill, glancing at the Klingon in a manner not dissimilar to an eager daughter fishing for her father’s validation. She received another proud nod from Klath for her troubles, along with a slightly annoyed look from Jirel.

“You know,” he muttered at her smiling face, “Smugness is a very bad look for you.”

Denella ignored his comment, choosing instead to revel in her smugness for a few moments longer, even as Klath gestured back up the Bounty’s ramp.

“We should clean up,” he offered, “Mortath has invited us to dine in his residence tonight.”

Leaving the chance for further bickering behind, Jirel regarded his friend with no small amount of curiosity. He had been acting like a new man ever since the Bounty had responded to Mortath’s open transmission.

Although the message requesting assistance had come from a disgraced Klingon, Klath had instantly treated it with the utmost sincerity. Even when the details of the request became clear and it turned out to be a need for some glorified pest control.

Still, while it might not have been the most epic of tasks for a warrior, the Bounty’s weapons chief had treated it with the utmost seriousness throughout.

“So,” Jirel offered, “What’s this Mortath guy’s deal, anyway? How come he found himself out here in the heady, tribble-infested hinterlands?”

Klath stifled a slight grimace before he responded.

“It is…not proper for Klingons to discuss the reasons for their discommendation. I do not know the details. And none of you should ask for them. If you wish to make it through dinner.”

He suppressed the urge to glance at Sunek as he talked about discommendations. Of all of the Bounty’s crew, the Vulcan was the only one who knew the details of his own exile from the Empire, thanks to a vengeful and particularly talkative Klingon that he and Klath had crossed paths with some months ago. The Vulcan had promised to keep it all a secret, and so far he seemed to have stayed true to his word. Still, he certainly wouldn’t have been Klath’s first choice of confidant.

Instead of dwelling on that unhappy matter any further, he retrieved his mek’leth from the ground where Natasha had dropped it and moved towards the ramp, even as the doctor’s protests started up again.

“Ugh! Seriously, everyone needs to look at what they’re doing here. These things are defenceless animals, and--”

“They are a menace,” Klath interjected forcefully, pausing midway up the ramp, “A plague. They destroy crops, obliterate entire planets of any useful produce and condemn other life to famine and hunger. This was an honourable battle.”

“Really?” Natasha persisted, “How many bat’leths did the tribbles have?”

Klath didn’t respond to this latest comment, apart from grumbling unhappily under his breath and starting back up the ramp towards his cabin.

“Seriously,” Jirel sighed at Natasha as the Klingon departed, “There wasn’t one course on ‘letting it go’ at Starfleet Academy? Even a beginner one?”

“I know you all know I’m right, deep down,” she retorted, “This is all completely inhumane.”

“Um,” Denella interjected, gesturing to her green skin, “Not a human?”

“Yeah,” Sunek chimed in as he pointed to himself, the Orion and the Trill, “Read the room, maybe?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, once again allowing her righteousness to cloud her ability to see that her colleagues were successfully winding her up for a second time.

“Bad choice of words, but you know what I mean,” she persisted, “And while we’re on this stupid - and I’ll stress this again: very boring - moon, I’m not going anywhere near any tribbles!”

She folded her arms and stared back at the other three with defiance. Denella merely offered a knowing shrug as she turned to start up the ramp.

“Fair enough,” she called back, “But I have to warn you, you’re gonna really hate supper…”
 
Part One (Cont'd)

The bowl of raw tribble meat was set down in front of her by a stout Klingon woman, who smiled a toothy grin as she did so.

Natasha looked down at the bloody mess in the bowl and suppressed a sudden rush of nausea. She had seen far worse sights during her often perilous career in Starfleet without so much as flinching, but apparently her usual hardy nature drew the line at this particular piece of Klingon cuisine.

The Bounty’s crew had cleaned up and headed for the main residence of the estate. Mortath’s own home, located on the outskirts of the main settlement on the southern hemisphere of the moon.

It was a large building, a towering stone-clad complex that had definitely been built in the style of most of the buildings back on Qo’noS, even if the building’s main resident was an exile. And despite the lowly status of Mortath, and of every other Klingon throughout the colony, he still appeared to be a traditional Klingon in all other respects. A claim that was backed up by the lavish feast that had been laid on in his main banqueting hall, complete with raucous conversation and a never-ending supply of bloodwine.

Not to mention, all the raw tribble meat anyone could wish for.

In truth, there was very little meat actually on a tribble. The majority of the body mass of each creature comprised an indigestible reproductive system, leaving precious little nutrition elsewhere. This was the primary reason that efforts to farm tribbles in the mid-23rd century as a protein resource for long-range colonisation projects had been swiftly abandoned. The colonists found that they expended far more grain and pulses in feeding the tribbles than they got back in edible meat.

Still, the infestation on Mentok colony was severe enough to keep everyone’s plates full for at least one evening.

“'IwlIj jachjaj!”

It wasn’t clear which of the Klingons at the table had called out this time, but even those members of the Bounty’s crew with no real training in conversational Klingonese had quickly caught onto what the shrill call meant.

Around the table, everyone grabbed their goblets of bloodwine and took a generous gulp in candid celebration, breaking up the meal completely.

Natasha wasn’t especially unhappy about the interruption, given the food on offer. But the apparent need to propose a new toast, seemingly apropos of nothing, every few seconds, coupled with the fact that she hadn’t had a thing to eat since lunchtime, meant that she was quickly getting a little tipsy.

Next to her, Sunek stared down at his own plate of pungent nourishment. For the first time since he had turned his back on Vulcan traditions and embraced his wilder side as a member of the V’tosh ka’tur, he wondered if it was too late to return to a vegetarian diet.

Further down, Jirel toyed unhappily with his own portion, taking another long slug of bloodwine to try and summon up enough Dutch courage to actually take a bite and not quite getting there.

Next to him, Denella looked at her own repast and gritted her teeth, significantly more determined than the others to make a good impression. For Klath’s sake, if nothing else.

Opposite her, the Klingon woman that had served them sat and chewed on a mouthful of meat, regarding the four unhappy Bounty crew members with an amused leer.

“Not hungry?” she offered with a mocking tone, “Or perhaps we could prepare something a little milder? We have plenty of children’s food in storage, I believe.”

She punctuated her comment with a derisive laugh, one shared by several other Klingons around the table.

Hackles sufficiently raised, Denella stared back at the woman. Then she reached down with her hand, grabbed a large portion of the slippery mass on her plate and, to the horror of her watching colleagues, shoved it into her mouth without a second thought.

She chewed noisily on the mouthful of raw tribble meat, and put all of her energy into trying to ignore the fact that she was currently chewing noisily on a mouthful of raw tribble meat. Finally, she forced herself to swallow the whole thing.

“Delicious,” she called back across the table, theatrically licking her fingers for good measure, “But it could use a little more, what’s the word…la'yIgh.”

The leer from the Klingon woman switched from one of disdain to one of grudging respect, even as the other three Bounty crew members grew a little paler. She nodded back at Denella, as she gamely swallowed the last remnants of her mouthful and grabbed her goblet of bloodwine.

“'IwlIj jachjaj!” she called out.

She took a long slug of her drink, simply to get the taste of the food out of her mouth, as the rest of the guests around the table mirrored her impromptu toast.

At the head of the table, Klath watched the Orion engineer’s efforts with a small amount of pride.

As soon as they had arrived at the lavish banqueting hall, which was decked out in a similarly extravagant Klingon style to the building’s exterior, complete with carved stone arches and a huge dining table complete with long communal benches on each side, Mortath had beckoned for Klath to leave his crewmates and join him by his side.

Mortath was a Klingon of advancing age, and one whose most glorious days were clearly behind him, discommendation or no discommendation. His grey hair and portly frame were testament to that, and also testament to his appetite, which he had shown off during the four portions of tribble meat that he had consumed so far.

Klath sat to his left along one side of the table. To Mortath’s right sat his son and daughter, Karn and K’Veth. Both had acknowledged Klath when they had been introduced, but both had left the lion’s share of the conversation to their father.

Mortath himself had picked up on Denella’s display further down the table, and the look of pride in Klath’s eyes, and chuckled heartily, slapping the younger Klingon on the back for effect.

“Ah,” the rotund Klingon grunted, “Some very interesting company you’re keeping, Klath.”

Klath looked back at his welcoming host and nodded.

“They are a…memorable crew.”

Mortath chuckled again, shovelling another dripping handful of meat into his mouth and gesturing for someone to pass him one of the communal platters on the table in order to load up his fifth portion of supper.

“I must say,” he said as he worked, “It was good to see a fellow Klingon answer my call and join us for such a great hunt. The other merchant crews that have come will do their duties out there, but it takes a Klingon warrior to really appreciate the glory of victory.”

Klath looked at the elderly Klingon, and took in the sight of the others down the length of both sides of the banquet table.

This was, he noted with a touch of regret, the most of his own people that he had been with since that fateful day in the chambers of the High Council, when his shameful fate had been sealed, as each council member had turned their back on him in turn. His punishment for his actions in the Tygon Nebula, and the beginning of his exile.

He shook those thoughts away and tried to focus on the here and now.

“It is an honour to be a part of your hunt,” he responded to Mortath, truthfully.

Mortath’s broad smile slipped slightly at this comment, and Klath noted that both Karn and K’Veth looked down at their own plates in unison.

“Yes,” Mortath managed eventually, “Well, there might not be a lot of honour for those of us on Mentok colony as far as the High Council is concerned, but I do my best to make sure we keep the traditions alive. We still live as Klingons.”

Klath looked around the banquet hall again and nodded in satisfaction.

“I can see,” he replied appreciatively, “It feels good to be here.”

As he said this and turned back to the master of the house, his eyes momentarily glanced at K’Veth, before he looked away when he saw that she was looking right back at him.

Mortath didn’t pick up on that, but his smile did return to full strength as a result of his guest’s words, and he slapped Klath on the back again for good measure.

“You know, even now I have more hunting parties out across the plains, eradicating our enemy. With luck, and thanks in no small part to you and your…memorable crew, we will be completely victorious any day now.”

At this, Karn grabbed his goblet and held it aloft.

“'IwlIj jachjaj!”

As Klath downed a generous mouthful as part of the latest toast, he nearly choked himself when he heard the sound from the other end of the table.

Natasha hadn’t intended her scoff to be quite as audible as it had been. But due to the amount of potent Klingon alcohol she had been imbibing on what remained a very empty stomach, it had come out loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

The previous cheery and raucous atmosphere was silenced in an instant, as everyone else at the table turned to regard the human doctor. At the head of the table, Mortath coughed unhappily and set his latest handful of tribble meat back down onto his overflowing plate.

“You have something to say, Doctor Kinsen of the Bounty?”

“Uh oh…” Sunek muttered with an amused raise of his eyebrow.

Under the gaze of a dozen or more Klingon warriors, Natasha couldn’t help but squirm slightly. It didn’t take a body language expert to suggest that she might have overstepped the mark.

“Um,” she managed, somewhat self-consciously, “I, ah, just meant--”

“Hey,” Jirel jumped in, gamely trying to steer the conversation elsewhere by gesturing to his plate of food, “What’s the, um, recipe for this, by the way? Cos it is…something else.”

The stout Klingon woman sitting opposite him at the table shrugged her broad shoulders.

“We skin the beasts with the blades of our daggers while their bodies are still warm. Then we flay the flesh from the carcass, and serve it dripping in its own blood.”

Fully furnished with the details of the recipe, the Trill’s face looked even paler under his spots as he mustered the weakest of nods back across the table.

“Huh,” he managed eventually, “And, so, does this come with, like, a salad, or…?”

A satisfied smile spread across the Klingon woman’s face.

“Do not kill an animal unless you intend to eat it,” she replied, as she scooped up another mouthful of flesh with her heavy fingers.

Jirel’s distraction, such that it had been, entirely ran out of steam amidst another wave of nausea passing through the Trill. Throughout the little exchange, Mortath had kept his attention squarely on Natasha.

“You were saying, Doctor Kinsen? No need to be shy. We are all friends here.”

Natasha had some slight doubts about that particular statement, but before she could attempt some sort of appeasing response, Karn jumped in from Mortath’s side.

“She was in Starfleet,” the significantly more brash Klingon spat out dismissively, “It is thanks to her and her people that we are being forced to deal with this plague all over again!”

She flinched slightly, recalling the now-infamous story of how tribbles were reintroduced into the galaxy, an entirely unplanned result of a dangerous trip back through time by the crew of the USS Defiant several years ago.

Until that point, the Klingon Empire had successfully and entirely eradicated the species of polygeminus grex, in a long struggle that had culminated in General K’Vusk’s mission to Iota Geminorum IV.

Their unfortunate reintroduction was an incident that didn’t just cause a stir in the world of Temporal Investigations. It had also caused a diplomatic incident between the Federation and the Empire, just when the Klingon-Federation War was reaching its height. Chancellor Gowron himself suggested that the reintroduction of tribbles was a form of temporal warfare against his people.

Things had been smoothed over eventually thanks to a herculean diplomatic effort, but the cork was out of the bottle, tribble-wise.

“That was an accident--” Natasha began to explain.

“Pah!” Karn spat, standing and jabbing a finger down the table at her, “The same excuse we always hear. But we all know that this menace was brought back deliberately. A Starfleet trick--!”

“Karn,” Mortath growled from the head of the table, “Another time, perhaps.”

The younger Klingon snarled unhappily at his father’s intervention. But he acquiesced to his wishes nonetheless.

An uncomfortable silence descended on proceedings. Once again, Klath found that his gaze had drifted over to K’Veth. And once again, he immediately looked away as soon as she saw that he was staring at her.

Despite his reaction, she grabbed her goblet and raised it high in the air, electing to end the silence in a manner that was in keeping with the broad theme of the meal so far.

“'IwlIj jachjaj!”
 
And there's the first tribble recipe... yIH teywI' 'Iw (bloody tribble flesh)...

And now we're into rising action as there appear to be a number of tension points in Mortath's unhappy family.

Thanks!! rbs
 
Part One (Cont'd)

The blade of the bat’leth swung through the air, missing her by inches.

She spun back around on her toes and brought her own blade down in a tight arc, the two heavy metal weapons impacting in a shower of sparks.

Not for the first time since the fight had begun, Denella regretted indulging in quite so much bloodwine last night.

The two bat’leths remained locked together, as their respective owners desperately strained against each other. She felt beads of sweat on her forehead from the effort she was having to put in just to maintain her position, and she grimaced with exertion as she stared across at her opponent.

On the other side of the bat’leths, Karn seemed more at ease with the situation. He smiled back at her, using his brute strength to force her own weapon down towards the ground.

The Orion shook off the fog on her brain and focused on her predicament. Realising that Karn was likely to overpower her in their current position, she broke away from the bind, wrenching her blade away from his and whirling backwards at the same time, causing him to falter slightly as he was caught off-balance.

He quickly recovered his footing, however, and swung his blade around at her again, forcing her to swiftly parry the blow in another burning shower of sparks.

This wasn’t exactly how she’d been planning to spend her morning, but she’d woken to find that she and Klath had been invited to join some of the colonists in a session of light morning training. And Klath had been very insistent that they accept the offer.

It was the honourable response, after all.

And so, slightly groggy and more than slightly hungover, she found herself thrown into the midst of a particularly frantic duel with Mortath’s own son, wielding a weapon that she wasn’t especially used to wielding. While Klath had given her some rudimentary training with it, she preferred the familiarity of her own Orion dagger when it came to bladed weapons.

Still, thanks to everything else she had learned during her sparring sessions with Klath back on the Bounty, she was managing to improvise enough to hold her own. She parried another swing from her opponent, and spun away across the wide expanse of the training area inside Mortath’s compound to set herself for the next inevitable attack. Feeling her arms starting to ache, she opted to alter her tactics.

It was clear that the bulky Klingon had her beaten in terms of brute strength. But then, so did Klath, and she more than held her own against him during their sparring. She knew that power was rarely all it was cracked up to be, provided she knew when to improvise.

Karn charged at her once again, a whirlwind of snarling teeth and Klingon energy racing towards her across the stone floor, bat’leth raised in anger.

She tensed, then at the last second, she dived away from the incoming blade, while simultaneously sweeping her trailing leg up and across Karn’s path.

The Klingon, taken entirely by surprise, tripped over her outstretched limb with enough momentum to topple clean over onto the ground. Before he had a chance to right himself, Denella sprung back to her feet and brought her bat’leth’s blade down towards his prone form, the sharp leading edge of the blade stopping a scant few millimetres from Karn’s exposed neck.

She looked down at her defeated opponent and smiled with satisfaction.

“Very good!”

The voice of Mortath came from behind her. But she didn’t turn around and acknowledge the comment until Karn had definitively conceded with an angry nod.

Mortath stood by the side of the room, flanked by Klath and K’Veth, forming a small but clearly appreciative audience for the fight that had just unfolded.

“You fight as well as a Klingon,” the elderly Mortath continued with further appreciation.

Denella mustered a nod back at the group, still panting from the exertion of the fight. She held out a hand to help Karn back to his feet, but the somewhat humiliated Klingon forced himself back up without her assistance.

“Fight better than some of them,” the Orion couldn’t help but grin.

“That was a cheap trick,” Karn snarled back at her, “I should have known you would not fight like a warrior--!”

“She fought properly,” Klath interjected sternly, “You left yourself wide open to such a counterattack by charging in as you did. Have the courage to admit your mistakes.”

Karn scowled even more deeply at this, seemingly prepared to admit nothing. Instead, he grabbed his bat’leth from the ground and skulked away towards the exit.

To Mortath’s side, K’Veth looked over at Klath, who felt the intensity of her gaze on him and did his best to try not to acknowledge the look, nor the stirring sensation inside of him.

“Perhaps our other guest wants to show his own skills?” she offered, “I would…be honoured to spar with you.”

It seemed as close as a Klingon could get to flirting without resorting to violence, and it caused Klath to shift uncomfortably on his feet, suddenly keenly aware of how warm it was inside this particular room of Mortath’s compound.

“Not now, K’Veth,” Mortath grunted amiably, patting Klath on the shoulder, “I have much to discuss with Klath. Perhaps you wish to pit your skills against…our champion.”

K’Veth nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show, before grabbing her own bat’leth from a wooden bench at the side of the room and striding out towards Denella.

The Orion winced, still feeling the combined effects of her exertions against Karn, and also her exertions from last night’s feast. But she knew it wouldn’t be honourable to decline such a request. So she forced herself back up straight, held up her bat’leth, and bowed her head at her opponent.

As the next sparring contest began in earnest, Mortath smiled and shook his head, before leading Klath over to the corner of the room to talk more privately.

“A Klingon warrior teaching an Orion Slave Girl the ways of the Empire,” the grey-haired Klingon chuckled, “This galaxy never ceases to surprise me.”

Klath looked back at the fight, just as Denella parried yet another blow, and again forced himself not to spend too long watching K’Veth, turning back to Mortath instead and shaking his head.

“She is not a slave girl,” Klath corrected him.

“No. She is your student.”

“She is my colleague.”

Mortath considered this correction for a moment.

“Still,” he offered back, “You seem to have taught her a lot.”

“I taught her very little. I merely helped to hone that which she already knew.”

“Huh,” Mortath grunted appreciably, “Spoken like a true warrior. Even after all this time.”

Klath felt his jaw clench slightly at the sudden reminder of his discommendation, which he had briefly been able to forget about in his familiar Klingon-style surroundings. But he kept himself outwardly impassive.

“Regardless of what the High Council may have done to my name,” he replied, “I still do my best to maintain my personal sense of honour. And my people’s traditions.”

Mortath glanced back over at the bat’leth-wielding Orion, then back at Klath. He nodded.

“Yes. You do, don’t you. You even came all this way, with your…memorable crew. To help rid me of the menace that had blighted this moon.”

Klath felt a surge of pride at the memory of yesterday’s hunt. Enough to distract him from the Klingon woman on the other side of the room.

“I would have done the same for any Klingon,” he replied.

“I’m sure you would.”

Mortath paused for a second, as the sound of crashing blades continued elsewhere, before he elected to continue.

“Tell me, Klath, what would you say if I told you I might have something for you, and your sense of honour? Something more than killing pests for latinum. A way back into the Empire?”

“I would strike you down for mocking me,” Klath responded, entirely truthfully.

Mortath chuckled again at his candour, and patted in on the shoulder again.

“Of course,” he nodded, “But, if you would keep your blade on your back for a moment, you might allow me to explain myself.”

Klath allowed his host to do just that. And once he was done with his explanation, his blade remained on his back.
 
Part One (Cont'd)

Jirel groaned in pain, as if every weapon in Mortath’s residence had been simultaneously plunged into his stomach.

As he lay on the single bed of the Bounty’s tiny medical bay, Natasha ran a battered old tricorder over him and shot the groaning Trill a smug look.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” he managed to cough out, “But I was just trying to be a gracious guest.”

Her smug smile remained in place as she double checked the readings.

“Well,” she casually replied, despite the suffering her queasy patient was going through, “At least now we know the effect that raw tribble meat has on a Trill’s metabolism.”

“Ugh. I just assumed we were made of sterner stuff. We’re designed to share our bellies with a great big slug, after all.”

Natasha raised an amused eyebrow as she paced over to the stock of medicines she had available and started to mix up a hypospray.

“They could have at least cooked it,” Jirel continued to grumble as she worked.

“Why would they do that? When have you ever known Klath to cook anything?”

She turned back with the prepared hypospray and put on her best impression of Klath’s deep, booming voice.

“To cook the meat,” she grunted, “Is to lose all of the flavour.”

She chucked to herself at the strength of the impression as she strode back over to the bed, where Jirel wasn’t smiling back.

“Whatever,” he muttered, gesturing at the hypospray, “That gonna fix my stomach?”

“Should do. Anti-nausea shot for the effects, analgesic for the irritation. Although, I’m not really sure you deserve it. Given how you only got yourself into this mess in the first place by killing a bunch of defenceless--”

“Nat, I swear, I cannot hear that speech again right now. Please, first do no harm?”

“Fine,” she sighed, reluctantly pressing the hypospray into his neck with a hiss.

He nodded in thanks and took a few moments for the remedy to settle him down. As he waited, they both heard the distinctive sounds of activity from elsewhere onboard.

“What the hell is that?” the Trill muttered, stepping down off the bed with a grimace.

The two of them exited the medical bay and walked down the Bounty’s single main corridor towards the source of the noise, which was coming from the Ju’Day-type raider’s cargo bay.

They arrived to find two unfamiliar Klingons from Mentok colony placing the latest of several large wooden crates down on the deck and securing them in place. There was a telltale clinking of glass bottles from inside.

“What’s all this?” Jirel asked the nearest Klingon with genuine confusion.

“Bloodwine,” he replied simply, before walking back down the rear ramp with his colleague.

“Ask a stupid question.”

Seeing Klath standing with Mortath on the other side of the pile of crates, Jirel and Natasha approached them, hoping for a slightly more complete explanation.

“Hey, Klath,” Jirel offered with a grin, “Planning a party?”

“Planning a mission,” he replied in all seriousness, handing the Trill a small rust-brown padd.

Jirel and Natasha looked at the details on the padd, still entirely confused, even as Mortath explained the details of the Bounty’s latest delivery job.

“Sixteen crates of vintage bloodwine from my very own cellar. The 2349 vintage, to be precise. A quite exceptional year. And this is all bound for a private residence on Brexis II, just a few sectors away from here.”

Jirel saw the delivery information on the padd and looked up at Klath with surprise.

“Um, according to this, Brexis II is inside the Empire’s boundaries. You sure that’s…ok?”

Klath’s face tightened slightly, but he nodded back.

“I suggested that Klath take on this mission,” Mortath continued, “The delivery is for Toran, son of Kradon. He is one of the newest members of the High Council. And he very much appreciates a good bloodwine.”

Jirel kept his focus on Klath, feeling like he was missing a big piece of the jigsaw. Especially now their task had been instantly upgraded from a trip inside the Klingon Empire to a trip to a High Council member’s own residence.

Klath could see the dozens of questions written across his long-time friend’s face, begrudgingly feeling that he had to acknowledge it.

“I will…explain later. Once the rest of the cargo is aboard.”

The Trill watched as the two Klingons from before marched back up the Bounty’s loading ramp with another crate of bloodwine and sighed.

“Damn right, you will.”

****************************

There was a slight delay after the cargo was loaded before they could get underway.

As per standard requirements during a tribble infestation, the Bounty was being subjected to a thorough pre-flight check and decontamination process by Mortath’s men, to ensure that there was no trace of polygeminus grex onboard. Not even a stray hair.

Which gave the Bounty’s crew ample time to gather around the table in the ship’s dining area and wait for Klath’s promised explanation. The Klingon still didn’t want to get into too many details, but he also knew that he owed his colleagues something.

“It is Mortath’s idea,” he began, “Toran is a younger and somewhat…liberal member of the High Council. But also an increasingly influential voice inside the Empire. The bloodwine is for a gathering of other council members he is hosting at his private residence in a few days.”

“But,” Denella sighed from across the table, “Why you?”

Klath squirmed slightly in his chair before reluctantly continuing, wondering just how much of an explanation he would have to provide to satisfy the unspoken social contract at play.

“Toran has developed a reputation for being willing to reassess past discommendations. He is a firm believer that the High Council has often been too rash and quick to hand out such an extreme punishment in the past. And that the reasoning is often inconsistent and flawed.”

“Huh,” Sunek quipped as he leaned back in his chair, “Klingons acting too rashly? You think you know a guy…”

“Shut up, Sunek,” Jirel sighed, his focus still on Klath, “So, what? You bring this guy some free booze and he just lets you off?”

Klath felt his irritation creep higher, felt the walls inside him straining to close up again. But he did his best to power through.

“Not exactly. But Mortath believes it will be enough of a gesture to be granted an audience with him. For me to…argue my case.”

“And then what?” the Trill persisted.

“Then, if Toran believes my cause to be honourable, and my punishment worthy of reassessment, he will discuss it with the rest of the council. And then…”

He tailed off. On the other side of the table, Denella smiled at her friend and nodded.

“And then you can go home.”

Jirel felt himself inwardly flinch at that, suddenly realising what his closest friend was talking about. Klath, for his part, just nodded back at the Orion engineer.

“You really think you have a case?”

To everyone’s surprise, the question came from Sunek. Klath glared at the Vulcan, who offered him a knowing look back that reminded the Klingon that the Bounty’s pilot was the only one onboard who knew the details about his discommendation.

He fought back the desire to try and ignore that comment, to try and distance himself from what the Vulcan knew. But instead, he felt compelled to respond.

“Yes, I believe we do.”

“Huh,” Sunek muttered to himself, “Holy crap.”

As the gathered throng around the table took in everything that Klath had told them, it took a moment for the specific grammar of his final comment to register. When it did, it was Natasha who got to the follow-up question first.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

****************************

Karn and K’Veth stood patiently in the entrance hall of their father’s residence, as Mortath strode over to them, returning from the Bounty.

“You are both ready to leave?” the older Klingon grunted at his offspring.

“Everything will go according to plan,” Karn nodded, fixing his father with a determined glare, “Be sure of that, father.”

“We will do everything you have asked,” K’Veth added, looking a little more wary.

Mortath nodded back in satisfaction. He had made a personal request to Klath that, along with the cargo of bloodwine, he also bring along his son and daughter to Brexis II, so that they might argue their own cases with Toran.

Or, at least, that was the story that he had given to the other Klingon. There was no need to give him any reason to suspect that there might be anything else to the delivery.

“Just make sure the delivery is completed,” Mortath added, “And that Toran receives…all of the cargo.”

The siblings nodded again, before turning and marching off towards the waiting Bounty.

Mortath watched them walk away, and allowed himself a satisfied smile.

End of Part One
 
Part Two

The Bounty streaked through space at warp, the cargo bay loaded up with vintage bloodwine.

From the forward pilot’s console, Sunek gazed out of the window at the streaking starscape ahead and tried to use his innate Vulcan senses to tell precisely when it was going to happen. There wouldn’t be any outward sign that it had happened. One patch of space was much the same as the others in most respects. But still, he knew that they were just about to cross a particular metaphorical Rubicon.

Any second…now.

He glanced back down at his instruments and tutted unhappily. He’d been five point two seconds off.

Must be losing it, he thought to himself.

“We’re now entering Klingon space,” he called out five point two seconds later, “ETA to Brexis II, thirty-two hours.”

The news didn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone. They had transmitted their details to a nearby sentry post to secure passage across the border a scant few minutes ago. Still, it felt like the sort of thing that deserved an announcement.

To the right of the cockpit, where Klath sat at his usual tactical station, he couldn’t help but feel something inside him as he heard the Vulcan’s words. A mixture of happiness and unease as he returned to Klingon territory. He didn’t think he’d given away any outward sign of his true feelings, but he hadn’t factored in quite how well his crewmates knew him.

“So,” Denella asked gently from the rear engineering station, “How does it feel to be back?”

Klath snapped a glare at the kind face of the engineer, as the unease suddenly swamped the happiness inside.

“It is just another region of space,” he replied with as casual a tone as he could muster, “There is nothing to…feel about it.”

“Right,” she nodded back, evidently not convinced.

Klath found himself quietly grinding his teeth at this, and decided that he would rather be elsewhere, before Denella decided to discuss his feelings any further.

“I should check over our paperwork,” he announced to the rest of the crew as he stood, “Everything must be in order for our arrival.”

He turned and walked down the steps at the rear of the cockpit, just as Jirel swivelled round in his centre chair.

“I’ll give him a hand.”

“Jirel,” Denella cautioned as the Trill strode towards the steps in the Klingon’s wake, “Don’t try to get to the guy. This is bigger than some tribble hunt, ok?”

“Hey, you know what it’s like with paperwork. Just gonna lend him a hand. Scout’s honour.”

Before Denella could argue her point any further, he disappeared down the steps.

Natasha watched the exchange from her own console on the left side of the cockpit. It still wasn’t clear what the console had been used for in the past. When she had first been offered it as a place to sit, the entire thing had been powered down and broken. But Denella had since found time to rig up a few of the consoles, turning it into a rudimentary station showing a variety of sensor readouts.

And right now, she kept a close eye on what the sensors were telling her.

There was something about travelling the galaxy in a ship as small as the Bounty that made her a little more wary of something like flying into Klingon space, compared to how she had felt onboard starships in the past.

She could acknowledge the irony of her concerns, given that the last time she had been onboard a starship, the USS Navajo had been destroyed with all other hands by Jem’Hadar fighters. Still, compared to the surroundings of the Excelsior-class ship, the Bounty often felt like she was flying around the galaxy in a tin can.

“Surprised nobody’s come to meet us yet,” she offered into the silence that had descended.

To her surprise, a new voice responded to her concern, as Karn stomped up the steps and into the cockpit.

“The border points have received your registry,” he grunted, “Besides, I don’t suppose anyone would bother to alter course for a…garbage scow like this.”

As the young Klingon somewhat pompously glanced around the Bounty’s weathered cockpit, his verbal attack made Denella’s defences rise faster than a deflector shield.

“If you don’t like it here,” she replied, as calmly as possible, “I’m more than happy to give you a brief tour of the airlock.”

Karn swivelled around and glared at her, with no small amount of menace. For her part, Denella held her own just as much as she had done during their bat’leth fight. She even felt confident enough to lick her lips and reach into her growing list of Klingon phrases.

“Or, perhaps I should say: mamI’ DaneH'a’! nItebHa’ mamI’ DaneH’a'!”

Karn looked a little taken aback to hear her respond in Klingonese. Or, more specifically, that she had chosen to respond with that particular bit of Klingonese.

“You just asked me if I wanted to dance.”

“Oh,” Denella replied, looking a little less sure of herself, “Well, what’s the one that goes: Your mother has a smooth forehead, and your father drinks Romulan ale with Starfleet admirals?”

Karn considered this for a moment.

“I’m not telling you,” he grunted back eventually, “Besides, it was merely a…friendly passing observation about your vessel.”

From behind her console, Natasha struggled to remember ever hearing the word ‘friendly’ being delivered with less friendliness. Still, Denella was determined to defend the Bounty’s honour.

“Yeah, well, pass your observations somewhere else. Because there’s nothing wrong with her.”

For once, that statement was actually true. For the first time in a very long time indeed, Denella had finally managed to repair and resolve every single one of the Bounty’s most pressing issues on her to-do list. And while there were still plenty of refits and improvements that she had in mind, every ship’s system was - at this moment in time - fully functional.

Until a sudden alert chimed out from her engineering station in front of her.

Karn’s face twisted into a slight sneer, as Sunek spun around in his pilot’s seat and innocently gestured at her console.

“What’s that noise?”

Denella shot an annoyed glare at the Vulcan and his ever-present ability to see a hornet’s nest and elect to prod at it for his own amusement. With a slight sigh, she forced herself to acknowledge the alert.

“There’s nothing wrong with her…apart from a minor power drain in the secondary EPS transfer system.”

“Huh,” Karn grunted, “Not just a garbage scow, but a broken one--”

“She’s not broken!” Denella snapped, before reluctantly correcting herself, “I mean, technically, in a more accurate sense, a very small part of her is a little bit broken. But that’s it!”

Karn’s sneer widened, to the point that Denella’s anger caused her to jump up from her seat and stare the Klingon down from across the cockpit.

Natasha noted the stand-off, and the way that Denella’s hands had balled into fists by her side, and decided it was time to step in.

“Um, Denella…?” she managed to calmly whisper across the room.

The fuming Orion and the sneering Klingon stared each other out for a few more seconds, before the engineer finally backed down and retook her seat, still quietly simmering away.

At the front of the cockpit, Sunek turned back to his own controls with a wry smile.

“ETA to Brexis II, thirty one hours, forty nine minutes…”

****************************

Klath sat in the dining area of the Bounty and stared at the screen of the padd in his hand. Though he wasn’t really reading anything off the screen.

He was being distracted from the mundanity of the paperwork by a gnawing feeling inside him, one that he was struggling to pinpoint. It definitely felt familiar, but like something he hadn’t experienced for some time. As such, he was having a hard time figuring out exactly what it was.

He was also being distracted by the presence of an elephant in the room. Or, more accurately, the presence of a Trill in the room.

Jirel sat on the other side of the table with a padd of his own, doing his best impression of someone doing vital paperwork. Rather than someone looking to have an awkward conversation.

“Tsk,” he tutted, breaking the silence and forcing Klath to look up.

The Klingon’s irritation grew as his colleague theatrically wagged a finger at the padd.

“Import duty,” Jirel continued, “That’s where they get you. Every time, with the import duty…”

Klath didn’t really know what to do with that. But he could recognise it as a clumsy attempt at small talk. And there were few things in the galaxy that Klath despised more than small talk. Especially the sort of clumsy small talk that seemed to be disguising a deeper desire from the speaker to discuss something more important. He really despised that.

So, rather than offer what he felt would be a needless opinion of his own on the intricacies of galactic import taxation, he returned his attention to the padd. Or at least he returned to staring at the padd, while he contemplated exactly what it was he was feeling inside.

“Course,” Jirel tutted again moments later, “It’s not as bad as that stupid new transit tax the Ferengi Commerce Authority seem to slap on everything these days--”

“Jirel,” Klath snapped, a little more harshly than he’d intended, “Is there something specific you require from me?”

“Wha--? No! No. Not really. We’re just, y’know, two friends, hanging out and working on some paperwork together, right?”

Klath was perplexed by this comment. After all, he hadn’t asked anyone to ‘hang out’ with him. And he was almost certain that Jirel wasn’t really working on their paperwork in any way. Given that all of the forms for their delivery to Brexis II were on the padd in Klath’s own hands.

Part of him wanted to ignore him entirely. He had more than enough on his mind as it was without getting involved in a conversation he didn’t want to have. But bitter experience had taught him that his crewmates tended to persist at times like these, so he elected to confront the issue head-on.

“You clearly have something to say,” he grunted, “So, say it.”

Jirel squirmed a little more for a moment, not anticipating quite such a direct approach, even from Klath. But ultimately, he relented.

“Fine. I guess I’m just a bit weirded out by you and all this…Klingon stuff.”

Klath’s look of confusion deepened at this.

“You are aware that I am a Klingon?”

“Yeah, I’d noticed that. And yeah, you’re a Klingon, and Klingons like Klingon stuff. But…I dunno, I’m just surprised how seriously you’re taking all this. The tribbles, the meal, the delivery. And now you’re--I mean, do you really think you can get this guy to reverse your discommendation thingy?”

Now it was Klath’s turn to squirm slightly, as that subject came up.

“You know I cannot explain the reasons for--”

“I know. It’s not right to talk about what you did, or why you were exiled. And you know what? Ever since you first told me that, I’ve never once pushed you on it, have I?”

Klath conceded this point with a slightly thankful nod.

“I mean,” Jirel continued, “If you want secrets, that’s fine by me. Hell, everyone on this ship has plenty of them. But…I dunno, I guess I don’t know if you’re getting a bit too eager about all this, y’know?”

Klath set the padd to one side and stared across the table at his friend. He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation, but Jirel seemed to be insisting on it.

“I am not sure you want to hear my truthful thoughts on this mission.”

“Try me.”

Klath stared for a few moments longer, then began to speak.

“Jirel, you are my friend. We have served together on this vessel for many years now. You should know that I appreciate everything you and the others have done for me in that time. And I have greatly enjoyed my time here. But…if there is even a chance that I can return to the Empire, and to my people, then I would leave all of this behind in an instant.”

On the other side of the table, Jirel felt the frank certainty with which Klath delivered those words hit home with the strength of a bat’leth strike.

“Couldn’t have minced your words a bit?”

Klath shrugged his burly shoulders. Any guilt he might have felt for his comments was being entirely overwhelmed by the other feeling he still had inside. One that he was pretty sure he had now managed to identify.

“Klingons do not ‘mince words’,” he offered back.

A moment of silence descended, which Klath took to mean that this latest round of small talk was at an end. He tapped at the padd a few more times, before standing up and handing the device over to the Trill.

“I have finished the paperwork,” he reported simply.

Jirel accepted the padd with a slight nod, before Klath took off towards the door. Just as he was about to walk through, the feeling of guilt inside temporarily overwhelmed the other, now definitively identified, emotion. He paused.

“I…apologise. If I was too harsh.”

Jirel turned back to his friend and mustered a half-smile.

“No. You weren’t,” he lied, “I guess…I just didn’t realise that you still wanted the whole warrior Empire thing, y’know?”

“That,” Klath replied, with complete sincerity, “Is all I have ever wanted.”

With that, he walked out of the door, heading for his cabin.

As he walked, the sense of guilt melted away, and his mind was now entirely filled with the other feeling. The one he had now identified. And one that he had probably not felt since well before the fateful day of his discommendation.

It was a feeling of hope.
 
Part Two (Cont'd)

He had been intending to rest, but once Klath got back to his cabin, he found that such a pursuit was beyond him.

The feeling of hope was becoming infectious, and that was starting to concern him. As Jirel had said in the dining area, he had to avoid getting too eager about their mission. Too much hope, he knew, was a dangerous thing.

Firstly, there was no guarantee that Toran wouldn’t just kill him as soon as he saw a disgraced Klingon in his presence. That certainly wouldn’t be unprecedented.

Then, even if Toran was as liberal a council member as Mortath had suggested, and even if he did agree to hear his case, there was no guarantee he would be swayed by his argument. He could easily see Klath’s discommendation as an entirely legitimate decision.

And, deep down below all of the new-found hope, part of Klath wondered whether or not that was true.

He paused midway through his twentieth lap of his cabin and closed his eyes. He pictured those fateful moments on the bridge of the IKS Grontar, as he sat in the command chair of a Bird of Prey for the final time.

He recalled how, in the midst of the Klingon Civil War, his crew had detected an unidentified vessel in the Tygon Nebula and altered course to investigate.

Finding that the ship was in a region of the border rumoured to be used by the House of Duras to smuggle in illegal weapons to boost their supplies, and seeing that it appeared to be deliberately hiding from their scans in the denser gases of the nebula, he had opened fire.

And destroyed an unarmed and entirely undefended freighter on a resupply mission to a border outpost. Condemning the twenty-seven Klingons aboard to a death without honour, denying them a chance to enter Sto-vo-kor.

He had already been forced to relive those fateful events several months ago, when Kolar, a brother of two of the crew members from the freighter, had tracked down and murdered each of the surviving members of the Grontar’s crew. Before Klath had been able to defeat him in battle.

And he had returned to those memories several times since. Each time, he wondered if he could have acted differently, if he could have been less impulsive and taken time to further observe and study the mysterious vessel from a distance.

He had known that Duras’s forces had become infamous for springing traps from nebulae and other sensor-masking areas, using their cover to remain hidden with their shields raised and weapons armed, as squadrons travelling under cloak were unable to do.

But it should also have been clear to him that one vessel was not a squadron, or a battle fleet. And even if he had suspected the one vessel to be working as a lookout, with the rest of the trap hidden deeper inside the nebula, he should also have considered the alternative explanation. That it was merely a supply ship, bereft of a cloak or weapons, trying to protect itself and avoid enemy forces during a time of war.

Yet he hadn’t considered that, even for a second. He had trusted his warrior’s instinct. And his warrior’s instinct had been wrong.

He had been wrong.

And that was why he was trying to control this new-found feeling of hope before it threatened to get out of control. Because if even he felt as though his actions had been wrong, if even he questioned whether he deserved to return to the Empire, then what chance did he have of convincing Toran?

His contemplative pacing was interrupted by the door buzzer, which he initially acknowledged only with a grunt of irritation. He really didn’t want to deal with another round of small talk from Jirel, or another of his colleagues checking up on him. But the Bounty wasn’t exactly the sort of ship where you could pretend that you weren’t in.

“Enter,” he called out reluctantly.

He was surprised to see that it wasn’t Jirel who walked into his cabin. Nor any of his other shipmates. Instead, K’Veth walked in.

As he stared at her, he tried and failed to recall the last time he had been this close to a Klingon female. And he couldn’t help but recognise the stirring of another feeling inside him. There was an element of hope attached to this one, as well.

But whatever feelings of desire he might have been experiencing, they were entirely overridden by his greater sense of shame. A discommended Klingon trapped in exile did not deserve to indulge in such things.

“You,” he grunted as she allowed the door to close behind her.

It wasn’t exactly his best opener, he had to admit to himself. Even if she did acknowledge it with a slight nod as she looked around his sparse cabin.

“You are not with your brother?” he added, in what he was forced to concede was a pretty poor follow-up line as well.

She looked back at him and his awkwardly rigid stance and mustered a smile. Then, she stepped over to the solid, hard metal slab that served as Klath’s bed, and sat down.

“No,” she replied with a trace of humour, “Karn is…checking over your ship. And, I am sure, making his opinions known to your shipmates.”

Klath nodded back, struggling to reciprocate her more casual air.

“He is a forthright individual.”

“He is an arrogant fool,” she snorted back with derision, surprising Klath all over again, “He talks of honour and of what it is to be a true Klingon, but he knows so little about what that really means. Neither of us do.”

Klath maintained his rigid, formal stance. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this.

“You do not wish to know the reasons for our own exile?” she continued.

At this, he looked down at her where she sat, a little insulted by the question.

“I should not have to tell you that it is not proper for Klingons to discuss such things. A Klingon’s discommendation is between themselves and the High Council.”

K’Veth’s expression shifted slightly, and she stood back up before taking a step across the small cabin.

“You may know that, but I don’t,” she replied sadly, “For Karn and I, our shame is not our own. We were born into exile. We share Mortath’s house, and his dishonour.”

Klath shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Despite his efforts to discourage her, she seemed intent on getting dangerously close to talking about the exact thing he had suggested that they shouldn’t talk about. He silently cursed this latest intricacy of small talk.

“That is why Mortath has not joined us,” she continued, “He feels that he is beyond saving, but without him, we may be able to convince Toran to reappraise our personal cases.”

She looked over at the far wall of his cabin, where his small but perfectly maintained collection of weapons was displayed, including those he had loaned to his shipmates for the tribble hunt. She gazed at the shining blades with awe, and a hint of sadness.

“Our father has tried to teach us our people’s ways on Mentok colony. To be sure that we know what it means to be a Klingon. And yet we have never even set foot on Qo’noS…”

She turned back to him with a look of fascination.

“But you have. Ever since we first met, I have seen that you are surely a true warrior, born to the Empire.”

Internally, Klath was now feeling too many conflicting emotions to keep track of them. A sudden flash of pride had now joined the party as a result of K’Veth’s comment. Swiftly followed by a fresh helping of shame as he again recalled the Tygon Nebula.

“As I said,” he managed to reply, “It would not be proper to discuss it further.”

She stepped a little closer, keeping her eyes focused on him. Klath felt his heart beat a little faster as she did so.

Five years.

It had been five years since he had been this close to a Klingon female, he now remembered. A brief, torrid affair with a bounty hunter he had crossed paths with at a Mizarian spaceport.

“But you feel we have a chance of pleading our cases?”

Her unfortunate choice of words briefly distracted him from his other feelings.

“Klingons do not plead,” he noted with a glare, “But based on what your father has told me, and what I have read about Toran since then, I believe there is a chance. Toran is a growing influence on the High Council, offering a more progressive view of the past. He sees that nothing is absolute, that all things are fluid and worthy of reappraisal. Several other dishonoured warriors have already had their family honour reinstated thanks to him. It may be unlikely, but there is...a chance.”

She nodded and drew herself even closer to him. Klath felt a fresh pang of desire shoot through his entire body.

“And you would leave all that you have here behind for that chance?”

He forced himself to look away from her to take in the confines of the Bounty and think about his friends. But he already knew the answer. He’d made that clear to Jirel earlier.

“Yes. I would.”

She smiled and leaned up towards him, tilting her head to whisper into his ear.

“How very…honourable,” she hissed.

For a fleeting moment, Klath was almost overcome with the urge to act. But just as suddenly, he saw the bridge of the Grontar. And amongst her talk of honour, he felt his sense of shame return with a vengeance.

He stepped back from her with a single decisive movement.

“It might be wise for us to focus on our mission.”

If K’Veth was offended or ashamed by his actions, she didn’t let it show. She didn’t even do what Klath might realistically have expected a Klingon woman to do in the face of such an apparent rejection, and reach for one of the weapons on the wall to challenge him to a fight to the death. Perhaps another aspect of the legacy of her upbringing away from the Empire.

Instead, she mustered as proud a nod as she could manage, before turning and making for the door to the cabin.

She stopped at the exit and looked back at him with a slightly curved smile.

“At least now I know that…there is a chance.”

With that, she walked through the door and left Klath alone, not entirely sure how to take her parting words.

Five years, he thought to himself bitterly.

Still feeling a swirling mass of conflicting and contradictory emotions inside, he spun smartly on his heels and headed for the bathroom of his cabin.

Intending to take a very high frequency sonic shower.

****************************

K’Veth walked the short distance over to the Bounty’s guest cabin where she was staying for their journey to Brexis II. She maintained her proud air as she stepped inside, and only allowed her shoulders to slump down when the doors had closed behind her.

As she looked around the empty cabin, she wondered how long she had to contemplate her issues in private, before Karn tracked her down to demand an update.

The truth was that she was failing in her task, in two quite distinct ways.

Firstly, she was failing to keep Klath suitably distracted on their journey to Brexis II. She wasn’t entirely sure how, given that she was pretty sure she couldn’t have been less subtle about her intentions if she had tried. And yet, he had remained impassive.

And secondly, she was increasingly concerned that the attraction she was showing towards the Bounty’s burly weapons chief had ceased to simply be a falsehood, but was actually becoming a genuine thing.

Perhaps it was her fascination at meeting a Klingon warrior so well versed in the ways of the Empire that she had heard so much about. Perhaps it was the excitement about her mission as a whole, and the anticipation she felt as they got closer to its completion.

Or perhaps it was simply nothing more than a genuine attraction between two entirely eligible and available Klingons.

Either way, she thought to herself as she paced over to the sonic shower, it would probably be best to keep that part of her situation to herself when Karn demanded his update.

Things had definitely gotten more complicated.
 
:devil: So both kidgons are up to something... Klath was wise to resist. Although I suspect Denella is the greater threat to their plot. Nice little mystery building here.. Thanks!! rbs
 
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