Damn it, Jirel, I'm a doctor. Not a zero-g salvage expert... (sweet STOS reference)
Thanks!! rbs
Thanks!! rbs
Star Trek: Bounty - 207 - "The Stars That Shall Be Bright When We Are Dust"
- Thread starter BountyTrek
- Start date
Part Two (Cont'd)
Denella was in agony.
Since Klath had first started teaching her the art of combat, she had spent hours studying up on his people's society, customs, tactics and language, of her own volition. And while she was hardly an expert, she considered herself a conversational Klingon scholar. But there was one aspect to the ruthless and often brutal life of the Klingon people that she had never come close to understanding.
Their hatred of bedding.
She grimaced from a fresh spasm in her aching back as she rolled over on the mercilessly hard metal surface of her assigned bed onboard the qajunpaQ, in the cabin that she had been shown to in order to get some rest.
But rest had entirely eluded her. Partly because of the intensely uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, and partly because she was being expected to rest while she was trapped on a Klingon battlecruiser with no idea where the Bounty was. But mostly because of Klath.
Specifically, his increasingly unsettling reaction to their situation.
Over the years she had been on the Bounty, ever since Jirel, Klath and Sunek had rescued her from the Syndicate, she had come to understand a lot about the Klingon. She would even probably count him as her best friend onboard.
And even though he never liked to talk about it, because he never liked to talk about anything, she knew there was one thing still driving him. The chance to return to his people.
She had made peace with the idea that it might happen one day. In fact, as much as she would miss him, she genuinely hoped it would. Regardless of how little she knew about the reasons for Klath’s exile, she had seen enough of him to know that he was an honourable man. The Empire would be lucky to have him back.
And yet, the current situation deeply concerned her. Of all the ways she thought he might one day return to his people, and all the ways his hopes had been dashed since she had known him, this one seemed especially dubious.
But she knew he would still get caught up in it. Because he always did.
After a few more minutes of worrying and grimacing and tossing and turning, she finally gave up on ever getting used to Klingon beds, opened her eyes and sat up.
She barely had time to process anything more about her situation before the cabin door opened. She jumped to her feet, preparing for the worst, only to see Klath striding in. Accompanied by the sneering Commander K’Vara.
“You are awake,” he noted, “Are you rested?”
“I guess,” she lied, stifling a wince from a fresh spasm in her back.
“Good,” he nodded, handing her an angular Klingon padd, “Then you should report to engineering. Second Lieutenant Brakha is expecting you.”
She stared dumbly back at her friend, wondering if this was some sort of Klingon comedy skit the two of them had been workshopping before they had walked in.
Klath sighed and forced the padd into her hand with a more forceful glare, as he persisted.
“I informed Captain Mekvar of the damage to the cloaking device. They are aware of the issue, but have been unable to affect repairs. I suggested that you would be able to help.”
“But I don’t—” she began.
“Your knowledge of cloaking technology is especially fortunate,” he pressed, “As Commander K’Vara was just explaining that the captain was considering whether or not to deal with your presence here in the…traditional manner.”
That was enough to get the penny to drop from within Denella’s knowledge of Klingon culture.
Klingons don’t take prisoners.
“Right,” she managed as confidently as she could, keeping one eye on K’Vara, “I guess I can take a look at the cloak, while I’m here.”
“And who knows how long that will be for,” K’Vara smiled thinly back at her.
Klath glanced darkly at the crocodile smile of his fellow Klingon. But didn’t allow his concern for his friend to show, instead maintaining an imposing front now he was back aboard a Klingon vessel.
His mind was still a blur of returning memories of life aboard such a ship. Memories that had ensured he hadn’t enjoyed a moment’s rest on his own otherwise perfectly uncomfortable bed in his own guest cabin.
“I will escort her to engineering,” he said, “Then report to the bridge.”
K’Vara hesitated for a moment, her focus returning to Klath in a particular manner that stirred a slightly different sort of Klingon passion in his chest. Then, she nodded and exited, leaving them temporarily alone.
“I apologise for not finding a way to explain things more clearly,” he offered to the Orion, “But I was unable to come here alone.”
“Klath,” she sighed, “What the hell is going on here?”
“I am not entirely certain what Captain Mekvar’s plan is. But he has no intention of returning you to the Bounty, and the Bounty is in no position to mount a rescue. So, for the time being, until we can find a way to get you off this ship, it is vital that you remain useful to him.”
“Ok, one slight problem with that plan,” Denella pointed out, gesturing to the padd, “I don’t know a goddamn thing about Klingon cloaking devices.”
“You will learn quickly. You are an excellent engineer.”
Despite the situation they were in, the Orion couldn’t help but take that genuine compliment to heart, even as she followed Klath towards the door.
“Now,” the Klingon continued, matter-of-factly, “I will show you to Second Lieutenant Brakha.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m pretending to know a cloaking device from a raktajino maker? Are you part of this crew now, or what?”
“It is…complicated,” he responded evasively, “For now, I am trying to find out more regarding Mekvar’s intentions. Details of this…quest he intends for me to join them on.”
As they reached the door, Denella grabbed Klath’s arm to stop him.
“And do you intend to join them?” she forced herself to ask.
Klath didn’t look back. He took a moment to collect himself and push away the maelstrom of warrior’s thoughts that were increasingly flooding through his mind.
Part of him felt the need to lie, or even to ignore the question entirely. But he also knew that, above all else, he owed his friend the truth. Or at least as much of the truth that he himself understood right now.
“I…do not know.”
Before Denella could ask any further follow-up questions, he strode out of the door, leading the way to her assignment in engineering. She followed with a heavy sigh.
In truth, she realised that she didn’t really have many other questions. At least, none that she didn’t now know the answer to, deep down. The answers were clear to her now.
Because Klath was home.
****************************
Shortly after leaving Denella in engineering to bluff her way through repairs to the cloaking device, Klath strode out of the turbolift and onto the bridge of the qajunpaQ,
The command deck was just as he remembered from his time serving onboard, even though his duties rarely called for him to set foot up here. Each panel, each console, each deck plate. It was like he had stepped back in time.
In the throne-like centre chair, Captain Mekvar turned and acknowledged him with a nod.
“Ah, Klath. You have come to a decision?”
Klath paused, not having expected such a direct question so soon.
He allowed himself another moment to look around the bridge. To take in the experience of being back among his people, on the bridge of a battlecruiser, heading into battle. He also thought about Denella, and the important task of ensuring that, whatever he may decide to do, she was returned to the Bounty safely. And for that to happen, he needed to ensure that he stayed on Mekvar’s good side.
So, when he answered, he did so partly for that reason. But also partly because it was the truth. And he found that he couldn’t help but allow the beginnings of a genuine smile to form on his face as he responded.
“I would be…honoured to join your quest.”
Mekvar’s face creased into a triumphant leer of his own. He let out a roar of affirmation, and then signalled to one side of the bridge.
“Come!” he called out, “We cannot allow one fighting for the glory of the Empire to dress like a filthy merchant!”
Klath glanced down at his plain tunic top, then looked back up to see K’Vara approaching, having been beckoned forward by Mekvar. She carried a full Klingon battle dress in her hands.
“A warrior should look the part,” Mekvar affirmed as his exec held out the uniform.
Klath looked at the clothing. The same black and silver battle dress he had worn throughout his career in the Klingon Defence Force. And he hesitated.
“I am still dishonoured,” he hissed back, as if he didn’t want the rest of the officers manning the various bridge stations to hear, “It would not be proper for me to wear—”
“Nonsense!” Mekvar spat, “Any warrior awarded the Order of Kahless deserves a uniform.”
Klath’s mind went back to the Bounty. To the wooden box hidden away in his cabin.
With a modicum of reluctance, he reached out and accepted the uniform. The second his hand made contact with the material, he felt an electric spark through his body, as if he was now complete again having been hollow for so long.
K’Vara leaned a little closer to him and muttered into his ear.
“And I would be…honoured to assist you if you require any assistance putting it on.”
That comment sent a further spark through his body, for somewhat different reasons.
“Now,” Mekvar trumpeted, standing from his command chair with a flourish in his own metal-studded uniform, “Our mission…”
K’Vara reluctantly stepped back to allow Klath room to breathe, as Mekvar gestured them both over to a wall-sized tactical display at the side of the bridge.
“A mission that will surely bring us all the honour we deserve,” he continued, “And one that, if we are successful, might even shake Chancellor Martok and the whole Empire out of its Federation-induced coma. And back to its glory days!”
He gestured to K’Vara, who nodded a stiff affirmation and tapped the screen, calling up a detailed tactical plan over the map of the surrounding space. And Klath’s eyes instantly widened.
“Because,” Mekvar concluded with a growl, “What do Klingons need more…than war?”
Klath stared at the display, even as an impromptu battle cheer rang out around the bridge.
And he felt his warrior’s heart beating faster and faster.
****************************
“I hate this.”
Jirel spun around in his tattered captain’s chair and smiled at the unlikely scene in front of him. One of Sunek actually doing some work.
The Vulcan sat hunched over Denella’s engineering station, with the Klingon transmitter they had cut from the Bounty’s hull positioned next to the bank of controls. A series of improvised wires and circuits ran from the console back into the device itself.
“I thought you said it would be easy?” he couldn’t help but offer back.
The Bounty’s pilot shot a glare in the Trill’s direction that threatened to cause a minor injury.
“It is,” he retorted, “It just takes a crapload of time to set this all up. It’s not just bouncing a signal back from wherever the hell this transporter is pointing, it’s about doing it cleverly enough that the big ship full of knucklehead Klingon warriors isn’t gonna spot what we’ve done and get mad with us. I’d better be getting paid double for this.”
“From the zero bars of latinum we’re gonna make from this Dopterian colony run now I’ve had to tell them we’re gonna be late?”
Sunek’s scowl deepened a little further.
“Well, now I’m really pissed off.”
“Channel that anger into your work.”
“Oh, sure,” Sunek scoffed, idly gesturing in Jirel’s direction, “I’ll keep working while you get on with all that equally important sitting-in-a-chair you’ve got going on, Mr Captain, sir.”
“Just get it done,” the Trill replied, with only a sliver of a smile, “The sooner we figure out where they are, the sooner we can rescue the others.”
“If Klath wants to be rescued,” Natasha’s voice cut in, as she came bounding up the steps and into the cockpit.
Jirel tried not to think too much about that possibility.
He’d already been forced to confront the idea of losing Klath last year during their tribble-derailed trip inside the Empire itself. And while he had accepted the fact that his friend probably wouldn’t be around forever, he wasn’t sure he was prepared for this to be the manner in which they parted ways.
“Well, he’s getting rescued,” he replied eventually, “Whether he likes it or not.”
Before the Trill could question just how much rescuing the Bounty would realistically be able to do when up against some sort of significantly larger Klingon ship, Sunek called out.
“And…that’s how you do that,” he smugly beamed, “One secret return signal hidden inside the standard transmission frequency of this bad boy. All thanks to Sunek the Unappreciated Genius.”
“Well,” Jirel sighed, as Natasha hurried to her sensor panel, “That’s some good news at least.”
“Yep, your incredibly clever and dashingly handsome pilot has done it again,” Sunek’s vainglorious rambling continued, “Just pinged off a signal through subspace, and we should be getting a read on their position any second—”
He stopped in his tracks as both his and Natasha’s consoles pinged out alerts in unison. The Vulcan’s face suddenly looked a lot less satisfied with himself.
“Well,” he managed, “Crap.”
“What?” Jirel pressed, “You found them?”
“We found them, alright,” Natasha nodded, looking up at the Trill with palpable worry, “Right in the middle of Tholian space.”
End of Part Two
Denella was in agony.
Since Klath had first started teaching her the art of combat, she had spent hours studying up on his people's society, customs, tactics and language, of her own volition. And while she was hardly an expert, she considered herself a conversational Klingon scholar. But there was one aspect to the ruthless and often brutal life of the Klingon people that she had never come close to understanding.
Their hatred of bedding.
She grimaced from a fresh spasm in her aching back as she rolled over on the mercilessly hard metal surface of her assigned bed onboard the qajunpaQ, in the cabin that she had been shown to in order to get some rest.
But rest had entirely eluded her. Partly because of the intensely uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, and partly because she was being expected to rest while she was trapped on a Klingon battlecruiser with no idea where the Bounty was. But mostly because of Klath.
Specifically, his increasingly unsettling reaction to their situation.
Over the years she had been on the Bounty, ever since Jirel, Klath and Sunek had rescued her from the Syndicate, she had come to understand a lot about the Klingon. She would even probably count him as her best friend onboard.
And even though he never liked to talk about it, because he never liked to talk about anything, she knew there was one thing still driving him. The chance to return to his people.
She had made peace with the idea that it might happen one day. In fact, as much as she would miss him, she genuinely hoped it would. Regardless of how little she knew about the reasons for Klath’s exile, she had seen enough of him to know that he was an honourable man. The Empire would be lucky to have him back.
And yet, the current situation deeply concerned her. Of all the ways she thought he might one day return to his people, and all the ways his hopes had been dashed since she had known him, this one seemed especially dubious.
But she knew he would still get caught up in it. Because he always did.
After a few more minutes of worrying and grimacing and tossing and turning, she finally gave up on ever getting used to Klingon beds, opened her eyes and sat up.
She barely had time to process anything more about her situation before the cabin door opened. She jumped to her feet, preparing for the worst, only to see Klath striding in. Accompanied by the sneering Commander K’Vara.
“You are awake,” he noted, “Are you rested?”
“I guess,” she lied, stifling a wince from a fresh spasm in her back.
“Good,” he nodded, handing her an angular Klingon padd, “Then you should report to engineering. Second Lieutenant Brakha is expecting you.”
She stared dumbly back at her friend, wondering if this was some sort of Klingon comedy skit the two of them had been workshopping before they had walked in.
Klath sighed and forced the padd into her hand with a more forceful glare, as he persisted.
“I informed Captain Mekvar of the damage to the cloaking device. They are aware of the issue, but have been unable to affect repairs. I suggested that you would be able to help.”
“But I don’t—” she began.
“Your knowledge of cloaking technology is especially fortunate,” he pressed, “As Commander K’Vara was just explaining that the captain was considering whether or not to deal with your presence here in the…traditional manner.”
That was enough to get the penny to drop from within Denella’s knowledge of Klingon culture.
Klingons don’t take prisoners.
“Right,” she managed as confidently as she could, keeping one eye on K’Vara, “I guess I can take a look at the cloak, while I’m here.”
“And who knows how long that will be for,” K’Vara smiled thinly back at her.
Klath glanced darkly at the crocodile smile of his fellow Klingon. But didn’t allow his concern for his friend to show, instead maintaining an imposing front now he was back aboard a Klingon vessel.
His mind was still a blur of returning memories of life aboard such a ship. Memories that had ensured he hadn’t enjoyed a moment’s rest on his own otherwise perfectly uncomfortable bed in his own guest cabin.
“I will escort her to engineering,” he said, “Then report to the bridge.”
K’Vara hesitated for a moment, her focus returning to Klath in a particular manner that stirred a slightly different sort of Klingon passion in his chest. Then, she nodded and exited, leaving them temporarily alone.
“I apologise for not finding a way to explain things more clearly,” he offered to the Orion, “But I was unable to come here alone.”
“Klath,” she sighed, “What the hell is going on here?”
“I am not entirely certain what Captain Mekvar’s plan is. But he has no intention of returning you to the Bounty, and the Bounty is in no position to mount a rescue. So, for the time being, until we can find a way to get you off this ship, it is vital that you remain useful to him.”
“Ok, one slight problem with that plan,” Denella pointed out, gesturing to the padd, “I don’t know a goddamn thing about Klingon cloaking devices.”
“You will learn quickly. You are an excellent engineer.”
Despite the situation they were in, the Orion couldn’t help but take that genuine compliment to heart, even as she followed Klath towards the door.
“Now,” the Klingon continued, matter-of-factly, “I will show you to Second Lieutenant Brakha.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m pretending to know a cloaking device from a raktajino maker? Are you part of this crew now, or what?”
“It is…complicated,” he responded evasively, “For now, I am trying to find out more regarding Mekvar’s intentions. Details of this…quest he intends for me to join them on.”
As they reached the door, Denella grabbed Klath’s arm to stop him.
“And do you intend to join them?” she forced herself to ask.
Klath didn’t look back. He took a moment to collect himself and push away the maelstrom of warrior’s thoughts that were increasingly flooding through his mind.
Part of him felt the need to lie, or even to ignore the question entirely. But he also knew that, above all else, he owed his friend the truth. Or at least as much of the truth that he himself understood right now.
“I…do not know.”
Before Denella could ask any further follow-up questions, he strode out of the door, leading the way to her assignment in engineering. She followed with a heavy sigh.
In truth, she realised that she didn’t really have many other questions. At least, none that she didn’t now know the answer to, deep down. The answers were clear to her now.
Because Klath was home.
****************************
Shortly after leaving Denella in engineering to bluff her way through repairs to the cloaking device, Klath strode out of the turbolift and onto the bridge of the qajunpaQ,
The command deck was just as he remembered from his time serving onboard, even though his duties rarely called for him to set foot up here. Each panel, each console, each deck plate. It was like he had stepped back in time.
In the throne-like centre chair, Captain Mekvar turned and acknowledged him with a nod.
“Ah, Klath. You have come to a decision?”
Klath paused, not having expected such a direct question so soon.
He allowed himself another moment to look around the bridge. To take in the experience of being back among his people, on the bridge of a battlecruiser, heading into battle. He also thought about Denella, and the important task of ensuring that, whatever he may decide to do, she was returned to the Bounty safely. And for that to happen, he needed to ensure that he stayed on Mekvar’s good side.
So, when he answered, he did so partly for that reason. But also partly because it was the truth. And he found that he couldn’t help but allow the beginnings of a genuine smile to form on his face as he responded.
“I would be…honoured to join your quest.”
Mekvar’s face creased into a triumphant leer of his own. He let out a roar of affirmation, and then signalled to one side of the bridge.
“Come!” he called out, “We cannot allow one fighting for the glory of the Empire to dress like a filthy merchant!”
Klath glanced down at his plain tunic top, then looked back up to see K’Vara approaching, having been beckoned forward by Mekvar. She carried a full Klingon battle dress in her hands.
“A warrior should look the part,” Mekvar affirmed as his exec held out the uniform.
Klath looked at the clothing. The same black and silver battle dress he had worn throughout his career in the Klingon Defence Force. And he hesitated.
“I am still dishonoured,” he hissed back, as if he didn’t want the rest of the officers manning the various bridge stations to hear, “It would not be proper for me to wear—”
“Nonsense!” Mekvar spat, “Any warrior awarded the Order of Kahless deserves a uniform.”
Klath’s mind went back to the Bounty. To the wooden box hidden away in his cabin.
With a modicum of reluctance, he reached out and accepted the uniform. The second his hand made contact with the material, he felt an electric spark through his body, as if he was now complete again having been hollow for so long.
K’Vara leaned a little closer to him and muttered into his ear.
“And I would be…honoured to assist you if you require any assistance putting it on.”
That comment sent a further spark through his body, for somewhat different reasons.
“Now,” Mekvar trumpeted, standing from his command chair with a flourish in his own metal-studded uniform, “Our mission…”
K’Vara reluctantly stepped back to allow Klath room to breathe, as Mekvar gestured them both over to a wall-sized tactical display at the side of the bridge.
“A mission that will surely bring us all the honour we deserve,” he continued, “And one that, if we are successful, might even shake Chancellor Martok and the whole Empire out of its Federation-induced coma. And back to its glory days!”
He gestured to K’Vara, who nodded a stiff affirmation and tapped the screen, calling up a detailed tactical plan over the map of the surrounding space. And Klath’s eyes instantly widened.
“Because,” Mekvar concluded with a growl, “What do Klingons need more…than war?”
Klath stared at the display, even as an impromptu battle cheer rang out around the bridge.
And he felt his warrior’s heart beating faster and faster.
****************************
“I hate this.”
Jirel spun around in his tattered captain’s chair and smiled at the unlikely scene in front of him. One of Sunek actually doing some work.
The Vulcan sat hunched over Denella’s engineering station, with the Klingon transmitter they had cut from the Bounty’s hull positioned next to the bank of controls. A series of improvised wires and circuits ran from the console back into the device itself.
“I thought you said it would be easy?” he couldn’t help but offer back.
The Bounty’s pilot shot a glare in the Trill’s direction that threatened to cause a minor injury.
“It is,” he retorted, “It just takes a crapload of time to set this all up. It’s not just bouncing a signal back from wherever the hell this transporter is pointing, it’s about doing it cleverly enough that the big ship full of knucklehead Klingon warriors isn’t gonna spot what we’ve done and get mad with us. I’d better be getting paid double for this.”
“From the zero bars of latinum we’re gonna make from this Dopterian colony run now I’ve had to tell them we’re gonna be late?”
Sunek’s scowl deepened a little further.
“Well, now I’m really pissed off.”
“Channel that anger into your work.”
“Oh, sure,” Sunek scoffed, idly gesturing in Jirel’s direction, “I’ll keep working while you get on with all that equally important sitting-in-a-chair you’ve got going on, Mr Captain, sir.”
“Just get it done,” the Trill replied, with only a sliver of a smile, “The sooner we figure out where they are, the sooner we can rescue the others.”
“If Klath wants to be rescued,” Natasha’s voice cut in, as she came bounding up the steps and into the cockpit.
Jirel tried not to think too much about that possibility.
He’d already been forced to confront the idea of losing Klath last year during their tribble-derailed trip inside the Empire itself. And while he had accepted the fact that his friend probably wouldn’t be around forever, he wasn’t sure he was prepared for this to be the manner in which they parted ways.
“Well, he’s getting rescued,” he replied eventually, “Whether he likes it or not.”
Before the Trill could question just how much rescuing the Bounty would realistically be able to do when up against some sort of significantly larger Klingon ship, Sunek called out.
“And…that’s how you do that,” he smugly beamed, “One secret return signal hidden inside the standard transmission frequency of this bad boy. All thanks to Sunek the Unappreciated Genius.”
“Well,” Jirel sighed, as Natasha hurried to her sensor panel, “That’s some good news at least.”
“Yep, your incredibly clever and dashingly handsome pilot has done it again,” Sunek’s vainglorious rambling continued, “Just pinged off a signal through subspace, and we should be getting a read on their position any second—”
He stopped in his tracks as both his and Natasha’s consoles pinged out alerts in unison. The Vulcan’s face suddenly looked a lot less satisfied with himself.
“Well,” he managed, “Crap.”
“What?” Jirel pressed, “You found them?”
“We found them, alright,” Natasha nodded, looking up at the Trill with palpable worry, “Right in the middle of Tholian space.”
End of Part Two
Ohhh what a web they weave... Looking forward to an encounter with the crystal lobsters.
Thanks!! rbs
Part Three
Great Hall, First City of the Klingon Empire, Qo’noS
Stardate 45034.9
“You should have spoken.”
Klath stood to attention in the ancient anteroom of the main High Council Chamber of the Great Hall, his face remaining stoic as he stared straight ahead.
“I had nothing to say,” he growled back.
To his side, the gruff, elderly face of Kova'gh continued to meet his client’s unhelpful responses with a look of long-suffering disdain.
“You know,” he grunted, “I have represented many lost souls in the Great Hall over the years. But none quite so lost as yours…”
Not for the first time since they had met, Klath gave some thought to striking Kova’gh down for his comments. But he remained standing to attention instead. And continued to have very little to say.
He could have chosen his own cha'DIch for his audience with the High Council. Most warriors brought to the Great Hall to answer charges such as his tended to do just that. But his family, at least those he knew of, had all died in battle. And he had found himself suddenly short of colleagues and allies when the details of his alleged dishonour became common knowledge.
And on top of that, he simply didn’t feel he deserved to nominate his own defender.
So, in order to ensure that due process was followed, any accused in Klath’s position were assigned a cha'DIch by the Council themselves. And Klath had been assigned Kova’gh.
The elderly Klingon had built a career on representing his clients with honour and dignity, even when they often deserved none. Time and again, when the Empire needed him, he would diligently carry out his duties, doing his best for his clients even when their fate was already clear.
In a strange way, it made Klingons like Kova’gh some of the most respected in Klingon society. After all, it was easy to find honour on the battlefield. Less so in the courtroom.
But even by the usually low standards of the cases that came Kova'gh's way, Klath had proven to be especially hopeless. The former captain of the IKS Grontar had barely spoken during the hearing in the Council Chamber, had offered no defence, and aside from confirming the basic facts of the confrontation in the Tygon Nebula to Kova’gh before proceedings had commenced, had given his cha'DIch nothing substantial to form the basis of a case.
Because, as far as Klath was concerned, he was guilty. And the punishment had already begun.
“Nevertheless,” Kova’gh continued in the absence of a response, “I believe there may still be hope for you yet.”
Klath’s ears pricked up slightly. But neither his expression, nor his stance, shifted one iota.
“After all,” the grizzled defender noted, “There is enough circumstantial evidence that the vessel was aligned with the House of Duras. Regardless of its tactical status, Gowron may consider any act to impede his enemy’s war effort to be intrinsically honourable in nature—”
He stopped himself as he finally got a response from Klath, in the form of a sudden furious glare in his direction.
“The vessel was defenceless!” he hissed in anger, directed at himself more than Kova’gh, “I caused those onboard to suffer an honourless death! I did not have to attack. I had the advantage. I could have passed them at warp, rendezvoused with the patrol fleet, and reported the anomaly. And yet I ordered my ship to fire! Their blood is on my hands. And I am dishonoured.”
Kova’gh maintained eye contact with Klath throughout his furious retort. Once it was over, he offered a gruff snort back.
“On second thoughts, perhaps it is better for your case when you don’t speak.”
The increasingly tense atmosphere between unimpressed defender and self-punishing client was interrupted by heavy footsteps approaching. They both turned to see a member of the High Council’s guards marching up to them.
“Ha’!” the guard spat, gesturing back towards the Council Chamber.
That was as much confirmation as they got that the Council’s discussions were over. With one final world-weary sigh, Kova’gh fell into step behind the guard. Klath followed stiffly in their wake.
As he walked, he found himself taking in the grandeur of the Great Hall. The ancient walls, the relics and statues that adorned every corner of the most honourable building on all of Qo’noS. One that had stood for thousands of years, through countless battles, all the way back to the time of Kahless. Every room, every corridor, seemed to echo with the sound of billions of warriors past.
And Klath suddenly wondered if he would ever see these chambers again. Whether he would ever breathe the air of Qo’noS again. After judgement on him was passed.
He suddenly found himself filled with regret. Not just for his actions in the Tygon Nebula, but of his complete inaction in his hearing. Maybe he should have defended himself more, offered mitigation for his decisions. Maybe his situation hadn’t been hopeless after all.
He considered what Kova’gh had told him. That Gowron might still see honour in his actions. That a strike against any ship potentially aligning with Duras and his Romulan-backed bid for control of the Empire was inherently honourable. By virtue of being a strike against a dishonourable man. Even if it had more specifically been a strike against an unarmed freighter.
Despite all of his defeated thoughts and actions since his fateful order to fire. Despite his demands for Commander Torq to kill him, or his unwillingness to eat, or his complete failure to attempt a defence in front of the council, Klath felt something starting to fester inside him.
A sliver of hope.
He and Kova’gh were marched to the middle of the Great Hall, where they stood in silence as the guard took a step back.
In front of them, Chancellor Gowron sat on his throne and glared at them. All around, on a stone dais that hugged the perimeter of the hall in a horseshoe shape, the other members of the High Council stood. Klath could feel their eyes burrowing into him.
After a moment of silence, Gowron stood and stepped down from the raised platform, taking slow, deliberate steps towards them.
“The High Council’s deliberations in this matter are complete,” he growled.
Klath remained at attention, staring forwards. Trying to do what he could to shake the flicker of hope from his mind.
Gowron turned his piercing stare to Kova’gh, who remained as close to attention as his aging body would allow him to stand.
“Kova’gh, son of Tador. Your actions as cha'DIch here today were once again honourable. May glory come to your house, and death come to your enemies.”
The elderly defender now allowed himself eye contact with the new Chancellor, responded to his words with a deferential nod, and stepped back. Leaving Klath alone.
Now, Gowron's attention was entirely on him. And he could feel it.
“Klath, son of Morad,” the Chancellor began, “Do you have any final statements before we pass judgement? Any further justification for your actions?”
For a second, Klath wondered if this was his chance. He hadn’t offered a defence before, but now he had the chance to put that right. To explain himself. Maybe even to save his warrior’s soul.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because, deep down, he was sure he couldn’t save it. Not now. So he ignored the hope kindling inside him.
“The decisions taken that day were mine,” he replied, “The consequences for those decisions must also be mine.”
Gowron’s glaring eyes narrowed slightly, and he nodded back.
“So noted.”
With that, he stepped back from where Klath stood, positioning himself directly in front of his raised throne. Almost as if he had a gift for the theatrical.
“The High Council has come to a conclusion. It has taken into account the words of your cha'DIch, the extraordinary circumstances of the recent civil war, and your previous service in the Defence Force. Including your Order of Kahless commendation.”
Klath suppressed the sense of hope even deeper. He maintained his rigid stance.
“You have been a loyal warrior to the Empire for many years,” Gowron continued, “But…after the stench of Duras's influence has finally been removed from Qo’noS, and I have been rightly installed as Chancellor, it is more vital than ever that the Klingon people are seen to be without reproach. I must lead the most honourable Council in Klingon history.”
Klath no longer needed to suppress the hope. It was being extinguished by Gowron’s words.
“And so,” the new Chancellor concluded, “We cannot show any mercy. You took the honour of the Klingons aboard that vessel with your actions. And so, we too shall take yours.”
Klath’s hope died a final fiery death.
Gowron kept his gaze on him for a moment longer, and then delivered his verdict. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat out the most damning of Klingon insults.
“biHnuch!”
Coward.
To complete Klath’s humiliation, Gowron spun around with a flourish, turning his back on the now-former warrior. One by one, around the raised platform along the sides of the Great Hall, each member of the Council repeated the move, as Klath’s discommendation was finalised.
To strike down a dishonoured Klingon with your blade was too easy. To cast him into exile, with only a journey to Gre’thor waiting for him at the end of their life, was true punishment.
Klath waited until the final back was turned, feeling his warrior’s soul ebbing away with every second, then turned and walked out of the Great Hall. Leaving the High Council, the First City, Qo’noS and the Empire behind.
All hope now completely extinguished.
Great Hall, First City of the Klingon Empire, Qo’noS
Stardate 45034.9
“You should have spoken.”
Klath stood to attention in the ancient anteroom of the main High Council Chamber of the Great Hall, his face remaining stoic as he stared straight ahead.
“I had nothing to say,” he growled back.
To his side, the gruff, elderly face of Kova'gh continued to meet his client’s unhelpful responses with a look of long-suffering disdain.
“You know,” he grunted, “I have represented many lost souls in the Great Hall over the years. But none quite so lost as yours…”
Not for the first time since they had met, Klath gave some thought to striking Kova’gh down for his comments. But he remained standing to attention instead. And continued to have very little to say.
He could have chosen his own cha'DIch for his audience with the High Council. Most warriors brought to the Great Hall to answer charges such as his tended to do just that. But his family, at least those he knew of, had all died in battle. And he had found himself suddenly short of colleagues and allies when the details of his alleged dishonour became common knowledge.
And on top of that, he simply didn’t feel he deserved to nominate his own defender.
So, in order to ensure that due process was followed, any accused in Klath’s position were assigned a cha'DIch by the Council themselves. And Klath had been assigned Kova’gh.
The elderly Klingon had built a career on representing his clients with honour and dignity, even when they often deserved none. Time and again, when the Empire needed him, he would diligently carry out his duties, doing his best for his clients even when their fate was already clear.
In a strange way, it made Klingons like Kova’gh some of the most respected in Klingon society. After all, it was easy to find honour on the battlefield. Less so in the courtroom.
But even by the usually low standards of the cases that came Kova'gh's way, Klath had proven to be especially hopeless. The former captain of the IKS Grontar had barely spoken during the hearing in the Council Chamber, had offered no defence, and aside from confirming the basic facts of the confrontation in the Tygon Nebula to Kova’gh before proceedings had commenced, had given his cha'DIch nothing substantial to form the basis of a case.
Because, as far as Klath was concerned, he was guilty. And the punishment had already begun.
“Nevertheless,” Kova’gh continued in the absence of a response, “I believe there may still be hope for you yet.”
Klath’s ears pricked up slightly. But neither his expression, nor his stance, shifted one iota.
“After all,” the grizzled defender noted, “There is enough circumstantial evidence that the vessel was aligned with the House of Duras. Regardless of its tactical status, Gowron may consider any act to impede his enemy’s war effort to be intrinsically honourable in nature—”
He stopped himself as he finally got a response from Klath, in the form of a sudden furious glare in his direction.
“The vessel was defenceless!” he hissed in anger, directed at himself more than Kova’gh, “I caused those onboard to suffer an honourless death! I did not have to attack. I had the advantage. I could have passed them at warp, rendezvoused with the patrol fleet, and reported the anomaly. And yet I ordered my ship to fire! Their blood is on my hands. And I am dishonoured.”
Kova’gh maintained eye contact with Klath throughout his furious retort. Once it was over, he offered a gruff snort back.
“On second thoughts, perhaps it is better for your case when you don’t speak.”
The increasingly tense atmosphere between unimpressed defender and self-punishing client was interrupted by heavy footsteps approaching. They both turned to see a member of the High Council’s guards marching up to them.
“Ha’!” the guard spat, gesturing back towards the Council Chamber.
That was as much confirmation as they got that the Council’s discussions were over. With one final world-weary sigh, Kova’gh fell into step behind the guard. Klath followed stiffly in their wake.
As he walked, he found himself taking in the grandeur of the Great Hall. The ancient walls, the relics and statues that adorned every corner of the most honourable building on all of Qo’noS. One that had stood for thousands of years, through countless battles, all the way back to the time of Kahless. Every room, every corridor, seemed to echo with the sound of billions of warriors past.
And Klath suddenly wondered if he would ever see these chambers again. Whether he would ever breathe the air of Qo’noS again. After judgement on him was passed.
He suddenly found himself filled with regret. Not just for his actions in the Tygon Nebula, but of his complete inaction in his hearing. Maybe he should have defended himself more, offered mitigation for his decisions. Maybe his situation hadn’t been hopeless after all.
He considered what Kova’gh had told him. That Gowron might still see honour in his actions. That a strike against any ship potentially aligning with Duras and his Romulan-backed bid for control of the Empire was inherently honourable. By virtue of being a strike against a dishonourable man. Even if it had more specifically been a strike against an unarmed freighter.
Despite all of his defeated thoughts and actions since his fateful order to fire. Despite his demands for Commander Torq to kill him, or his unwillingness to eat, or his complete failure to attempt a defence in front of the council, Klath felt something starting to fester inside him.
A sliver of hope.
He and Kova’gh were marched to the middle of the Great Hall, where they stood in silence as the guard took a step back.
In front of them, Chancellor Gowron sat on his throne and glared at them. All around, on a stone dais that hugged the perimeter of the hall in a horseshoe shape, the other members of the High Council stood. Klath could feel their eyes burrowing into him.
After a moment of silence, Gowron stood and stepped down from the raised platform, taking slow, deliberate steps towards them.
“The High Council’s deliberations in this matter are complete,” he growled.
Klath remained at attention, staring forwards. Trying to do what he could to shake the flicker of hope from his mind.
Gowron turned his piercing stare to Kova’gh, who remained as close to attention as his aging body would allow him to stand.
“Kova’gh, son of Tador. Your actions as cha'DIch here today were once again honourable. May glory come to your house, and death come to your enemies.”
The elderly defender now allowed himself eye contact with the new Chancellor, responded to his words with a deferential nod, and stepped back. Leaving Klath alone.
Now, Gowron's attention was entirely on him. And he could feel it.
“Klath, son of Morad,” the Chancellor began, “Do you have any final statements before we pass judgement? Any further justification for your actions?”
For a second, Klath wondered if this was his chance. He hadn’t offered a defence before, but now he had the chance to put that right. To explain himself. Maybe even to save his warrior’s soul.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because, deep down, he was sure he couldn’t save it. Not now. So he ignored the hope kindling inside him.
“The decisions taken that day were mine,” he replied, “The consequences for those decisions must also be mine.”
Gowron’s glaring eyes narrowed slightly, and he nodded back.
“So noted.”
With that, he stepped back from where Klath stood, positioning himself directly in front of his raised throne. Almost as if he had a gift for the theatrical.
“The High Council has come to a conclusion. It has taken into account the words of your cha'DIch, the extraordinary circumstances of the recent civil war, and your previous service in the Defence Force. Including your Order of Kahless commendation.”
Klath suppressed the sense of hope even deeper. He maintained his rigid stance.
“You have been a loyal warrior to the Empire for many years,” Gowron continued, “But…after the stench of Duras's influence has finally been removed from Qo’noS, and I have been rightly installed as Chancellor, it is more vital than ever that the Klingon people are seen to be without reproach. I must lead the most honourable Council in Klingon history.”
Klath no longer needed to suppress the hope. It was being extinguished by Gowron’s words.
“And so,” the new Chancellor concluded, “We cannot show any mercy. You took the honour of the Klingons aboard that vessel with your actions. And so, we too shall take yours.”
Klath’s hope died a final fiery death.
Gowron kept his gaze on him for a moment longer, and then delivered his verdict. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat out the most damning of Klingon insults.
“biHnuch!”
Coward.
To complete Klath’s humiliation, Gowron spun around with a flourish, turning his back on the now-former warrior. One by one, around the raised platform along the sides of the Great Hall, each member of the Council repeated the move, as Klath’s discommendation was finalised.
To strike down a dishonoured Klingon with your blade was too easy. To cast him into exile, with only a journey to Gre’thor waiting for him at the end of their life, was true punishment.
Klath waited until the final back was turned, feeling his warrior’s soul ebbing away with every second, then turned and walked out of the Great Hall. Leaving the High Council, the First City, Qo’noS and the Empire behind.
All hope now completely extinguished.
Part Three (Cont’d)
Klath stood in front of the full-length mirror and ran a hand down his freshly-adorned battle dress, feeling the coldness of the metal armour and the roughness of the black tunic beneath.
He really was home.
It wasn’t a captain’s uniform. But it did carry the field rank of commander, and Captain Mekvar had made it clear that, after himself and Commander K’Vara, Klath was next in line.
Suddenly, the sense of pride that was beginning to grow inside him was joined by something else. A feeling of shame.
He was being a fool, wasn’t he?
After all, he was still discommended. Still an exile. He relinquished his right to wear this uniform the moment he ordered his crew to fire at the unidentified ship in the Tygon Nebula. Surely he couldn’t still claim to believe in the honour of the Empire if he was also willing to commit such a sacrilege against the uniform?
“It looks good on you.”
He turned around in surprise, so wrapped up in his moment of contemplation that he hadn’t been aware of the door to his cabin opening. Even here, among his people, it seemed his warrior’s instincts were still rusty.
Commander K’Vara leaned on the door frame and looked him and his uniform up and down with a twinkle in her eye. He felt a fresh sense of desire stirring inside him. But he tried to keep focus on his immediate concern, as he shook his head back at her.
“I should not be wearing this,” he sighed, entirely missing the double meaning of his words until he saw her face creasing into an amused leer.
“I was just about to say the same thing,” she purred back, as she stepped towards him and allowed the door to close behind her.
Summoning up an admirable amount of willpower, Klath met her movement with a step backwards, maintaining a distance between them that she instantly picked up on.
“Do not test my patience, Klath,” she growled, anger flaring in her eyes, “I could be with any warrior on this vessel right now, but I have chosen to be here. You should be honoured!”
She took another step forward. This time, Klath didn’t step away, but he did his best to keep his focus on more official matters than she evidently had in mind.
“We are flying into battle,” he pointed out.
“All the more reason to make the most of these moments,” she hissed back, “Sto-vo-kor awaits us, Klath.”
Before he could try to argue further, she made a decisive step forwards in her flirting. In the form of a powerful slap across his face, with enough ferocity to leave a mark.
His instincts kicked in immediately. He snarled back at her, fangs bared.
“Much better,” she smiled, her own fangs on display, “So, tell me, Klath, son of Morad. How long has it been since you last had the company of a Klingon woman?”
Eight months, sixteen days, he thought instantly.
“I do not recall,” he quickly lied, pushing powerful memories of his fellow exile K'Veth, their brief affair, and his rather hurried - and rejected - joining proposal to the back of his mind.*
“That long? Hmm. Perhaps you have simply grown weak, after so long without—”
He struck her with the same force she had used on him, sending her flying backwards onto the hard metal deckplates of the cabin.
She snarled with excited energy as she sprang back to her feet, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.
“Now,” she growled, “There’s the warrior I was told about.”
Klath didn’t even waste time trying to work out if that had been a compliment or not. He just snarled back at her. They rushed towards each other, now both consumed by the moment.
And pretty soon, Klath didn’t need to worry about what he looked like in uniform any longer.
****************************
Denella had a sixth sense for when she was being watched.
It was a sense that every Orion had, to some extent. A keen awareness of one’s surroundings. But it was one she had especially honed during her time with the Syndicate. Where it had effectively doubled as a survival instinct.
Right now, she could instinctively sense a set of eyes on her. Even from the compromised position she had managed to get herself into in main engineering onboard the IKS qajunpaQ.
All she could see with her own eyes right now was the grimy interior of the access conduit she had crawled inside in her efforts to repair the ship’s cloaking device. Just as Klath had apparently promised she would.
She was flying mostly blind in her efforts. While she had studied several schematics of Klingon vessels during her downtime on the Bounty, and she had even worked on an old Klingon shuttle with her late father back on Orpheus IV, her knowledge of cloaking devices was entirely surface level. Klingons didn’t tend to give away too many secrets as to how one of their most successful strategic tools worked, after all.
She had once asked Klath about them, out of curiosity. But predictably, instead of a discussion of the engineering challenges in such a complex system, he had instead focused on explaining the honourable way to use such a stealth mechanism in battle. So she knew for certain that it was correct to cloak in order to maneuver yourself within striking range of an enemy, but not to hide once battle was joined. But she had no idea where the secondary power coils were located.
And, while she assumed that everyone else present in engineering on the qajunpaQ did know where they were, she felt that she couldn’t ask such elementary questions when Klath had sold her as some sort of cloaking device expert.
Especially when she knew she was being watched.
As she worked in the dimly lit and narrow conduit, armed only with a head-mounted torch that didn’t fit her forehead properly, a tricorder whose Klingonese readouts she could barely understand and a completely unfamiliar tool kit, she eventually decided to act on her sixth sense. Out of mounting frustration, if nothing else.
“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” she called out, her voice echoing around inside the conduit.
At first, there was only silence from Third Lieutenant Kahtan, presumably having been surprised by her question. But eventually, the angry Klingon engineer, who had been standing watching her work inside the conduit, just as her senses had told her, responded.
“You are the problem,” he growled, “This is foolish. I told you, I have already run ten diagnostics on the entire system!”
Denella sighed and pressed on with her work. Her engineering instincts told her she was close.
She had expected a fair amount of pushback when she had arrived. After all, a proud Klingon crew were never going to react well to being introduced to a scruffy Orion woman in ill-fitting overalls who was apparently about to expertly repair their own ship. But oddly, after a particularly stern command from Lieutenant Brakha, the ship’s chief engineer, to leave her to work by the order of Captain Mekvar, she had largely been ignored.
By everyone, except Third Lieutenant Kahtan. Who she had learned was directly responsible for the operations of the cloak, and so was taking more personal offence to her presence.
Still, she knew she was getting close to a solution. And thanks to her friendship with Klath, she knew enough about Klingon customs to know that she needed to give as good as she got down here. So, as she grabbed a microsoldering tool from the unfamiliar kit at her side and set about working on a specific section of the circuitry in front of her, she called out a response.
“I’m not sure a Klingon who doesn’t realise his own cloak is malfunctioning should be calling anyone else foolish.”
She heard the growl from the young Klingon even inside the conduit, and for a second she feared she might have gone too far. After all, like all officers on the qajunpaQ, Kahtan carried a blade on his belt. And right now, the lower half of her body was lying prone on the engineering deck, as the rest of her had squeezed into the access conduit.
Mercifully, after a quick scan with the tricorder, and a second more to make sense of the Klingonese readings, she smiled and began to extricate herself from the conduit. Her legs remaining un-stabbed.
“Well,” she sighed victoriously as she clambered to her feet and glared back at Kahtan, “That should do it. Looks like I just did your job for you, Lieutenant.”
The Klingon’s eyes flashed red with rage at her confidence. He still didn’t reach for his blade, but she had now stepped at least partly over the line. He stepped closer to her, snarling as he did so.
For her part, Denella forced herself to stand her ground. Not making any aggressive action back at her adversary, despite the presence of her own Orion dagger on the belt of her overalls. But also not backing off even a single step, showing no weakness to her potential foe. She knew enough about Klingons to know that was her best response to Kahtan's action. But her adversary showed no signs of backing down. Just for a moment, she wondered if she was about to have to fight him right here in the middle of main engineering.
“Report!” a harsh voice called out, mercifully curtailing any fight before it began.
Denella and a reluctant Kahtan turned to see Lieutenant Brakha, the gruff chief engineer she had been introduced to by Klath, storming over to them. He stood a little shorter than Kahtan, but his rank ensured that the larger Klingon deferred slightly to his superior. In stance, at least, if not in tone.
“She is taking us for fools!” he snapped at Brakha, pointing a finger at the Orion woman, “She clearly knows nothing—!”
“How many diagnostics did you say you’d run on this thing?” she interjected, continuing to stand her ground.
“More than enough!” Kahtan snarled back.
Denella failed to prevent a smug smile from crossing her face as she triumphantly held up the small cylindrical object she had removed from the panel inside the access conduit.
“Apparently not,” she replied, “One defective ODN diode. Caught a tiny, intermittent frequency offset with the tricorder. My guess is it’s been getting amplified through the entire circuit and caused a slight deviation in your cloaking field. Enough to make you detectable on close-range sensors.”
Kahtan’s sneering face turned to one of disbelief, as Brakha took the component from the Orion woman and ran his own tricorder over it.
As he did so, Denella couldn’t help but twist the knife a little.
“And, of course, even a full diagnostic wouldn’t pick that up. Because that would just be checking the power flow through the diode, which was unaffected.”
“She is right,” Brakha nodded, visibly impressed.
“That’s the thing about engineering,” she pointedly added in the direction of the shocked Kahtan, as she wiped her face with the back of her hand and left a smear of dirt behind on her green skin, “It’s all well and good tapping panels and running diagnostics. But sometimes you’ve just got to get your hands dirty.”
Her knife-twisting finally got too much for the humbled Kahtan, who stepped forwards again with fresh anger in his eyes.
“I will not be lectured to by a filthy Orion—!”
“Lieutenant Kahtan,” Brakha cut in forcefully, “Replace this ODN diode immediately, verify that there is no frequency offset, then report to me when you are done.”
For a moment, the junior officer didn’t move, his eyes still piercing into Denella’s skin.
“Or,” the chief engineer continued, “Perhaps I should inform Captain Mekvar that you do not wish to repair our cloak ahead of battle?”
That thinly-veiled threat was enough for Kahtan to finally back down. With one last snarl in Denella’s direction, he stormed off across the engineering deck to fetch the required part.
Just as Denella allowed herself to breathe out, she almost had the wind knocked out of her by a respectful, but nonetheless forceful thumping pat on her back from Brakha.
“He will likely challenge you to combat now,” he noted.
“Meh,” she replied, keeping her bravado at a requisite Klingon level, “If his bat’leth skills are anything like his diagnostics, I should be ok.”
Brakha's face twisted into a wide smile.
“Hah,” he nodded, “You are a brave woman, Denella, daughter of Telmis.”
She mustered a thin smile back, silently questioning her decision to introduce herself in that way when Klath had brought her down here. It had made sense at the time.
“I’ve been in far worse situations than this, trust me,” she replied, entirely truthfully.
Brakha considered these words for a moment, then nodded back in understanding.
“I’m sure you have,” he noted, “But then, I suspect many of the souls aboard this cursed vessel would have said the same before we set out.”
That comment piqued her interest. Still entirely in the dark as to where the qajunpaQ was going, and how she was getting off the ship, she saw a chance to ask some questions.
“Sounds like you were lucky to survive in the Jessik Nebula, not cursed.”
The slight scoff that escaped Brakha's mouth at this piqued her interest further. She elected to press on with something else she had noticed about the qajunpaQ during her repairs.
“Also,” she offered, “I should compliment you, engineer to engineer. Can’t have been easy to get this ship back in such a battle-ready state with all that damage to repair. Must’ve been carrying a lot of spare parts to go with whatever you salvaged, right?”
The question caused Brakha to do a full double-take. But Denella knew it was a comment worth making. After all, Captain Mekvar had talked proudly about how they had nearly been destroyed in the battle with Dominion forces. Yet, to her eye, this didn’t look like a ship that had been forced to carry out months of improvised repairs in hostile territory. Aside from the odd faulty ODN diode and the pervasive musty smell that seemed to cling to every wall of the Klingon vessel, there was barely a panel out of place.
“Hmph,” Brakha snorted eventually, with a slight hint of dissatisfaction, “An engineer’s perception…”
“Come on, Lieutenant,” she pressed, keeping her posture tall and her gaze firmly on the even taller Klingon, “If I’m really gonna be forced to fly into battle with you, surely I deserve to know the full story here, hmm? Wouldn’t that be the…honourable thing to do?”
She caught a slight flinch in Brakha’s proud features as she said that, and the intensity of his glare seemed to ratchet up another notch. But, after a contemplative moment, he seemed to concede the point with a slight nod.
“Perhaps it would,” he replied, glancing around the populated engineering deck, “There is a plasma relay that needs replacing on deck thirteen, section four. If you begin the work, I will join you there presently to assist.”
Denella’s intrigue was piqued even further by the furtive way that Brakha was now organising some sort of clandestine meeting, just to explain the details of the qajunpaQ's situation. But she elected to leave any follow-up questions for the rendezvous he had suggested.
As she turned and headed for the nearest turbolift, Brakha called after her.
“And watch your back, Denella, daughter of Telmis.”
She took in that candid advice, just as the still-simmering Kahtan returned with the replacement part, staring angrily at her as they passed.
And she couldn’t help but think that it was good advice.
* - K'Veth was a major part of the stories Star Trek: Bounty - 110 - "Take Arms Against a Sea of Tribbles" and Star Trek: Bounty - 111 - "Love, but With More Aggressive Overtones".
Klath stood in front of the full-length mirror and ran a hand down his freshly-adorned battle dress, feeling the coldness of the metal armour and the roughness of the black tunic beneath.
He really was home.
It wasn’t a captain’s uniform. But it did carry the field rank of commander, and Captain Mekvar had made it clear that, after himself and Commander K’Vara, Klath was next in line.
Suddenly, the sense of pride that was beginning to grow inside him was joined by something else. A feeling of shame.
He was being a fool, wasn’t he?
After all, he was still discommended. Still an exile. He relinquished his right to wear this uniform the moment he ordered his crew to fire at the unidentified ship in the Tygon Nebula. Surely he couldn’t still claim to believe in the honour of the Empire if he was also willing to commit such a sacrilege against the uniform?
“It looks good on you.”
He turned around in surprise, so wrapped up in his moment of contemplation that he hadn’t been aware of the door to his cabin opening. Even here, among his people, it seemed his warrior’s instincts were still rusty.
Commander K’Vara leaned on the door frame and looked him and his uniform up and down with a twinkle in her eye. He felt a fresh sense of desire stirring inside him. But he tried to keep focus on his immediate concern, as he shook his head back at her.
“I should not be wearing this,” he sighed, entirely missing the double meaning of his words until he saw her face creasing into an amused leer.
“I was just about to say the same thing,” she purred back, as she stepped towards him and allowed the door to close behind her.
Summoning up an admirable amount of willpower, Klath met her movement with a step backwards, maintaining a distance between them that she instantly picked up on.
“Do not test my patience, Klath,” she growled, anger flaring in her eyes, “I could be with any warrior on this vessel right now, but I have chosen to be here. You should be honoured!”
She took another step forward. This time, Klath didn’t step away, but he did his best to keep his focus on more official matters than she evidently had in mind.
“We are flying into battle,” he pointed out.
“All the more reason to make the most of these moments,” she hissed back, “Sto-vo-kor awaits us, Klath.”
Before he could try to argue further, she made a decisive step forwards in her flirting. In the form of a powerful slap across his face, with enough ferocity to leave a mark.
His instincts kicked in immediately. He snarled back at her, fangs bared.
“Much better,” she smiled, her own fangs on display, “So, tell me, Klath, son of Morad. How long has it been since you last had the company of a Klingon woman?”
Eight months, sixteen days, he thought instantly.
“I do not recall,” he quickly lied, pushing powerful memories of his fellow exile K'Veth, their brief affair, and his rather hurried - and rejected - joining proposal to the back of his mind.*
“That long? Hmm. Perhaps you have simply grown weak, after so long without—”
He struck her with the same force she had used on him, sending her flying backwards onto the hard metal deckplates of the cabin.
She snarled with excited energy as she sprang back to her feet, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.
“Now,” she growled, “There’s the warrior I was told about.”
Klath didn’t even waste time trying to work out if that had been a compliment or not. He just snarled back at her. They rushed towards each other, now both consumed by the moment.
And pretty soon, Klath didn’t need to worry about what he looked like in uniform any longer.
****************************
Denella had a sixth sense for when she was being watched.
It was a sense that every Orion had, to some extent. A keen awareness of one’s surroundings. But it was one she had especially honed during her time with the Syndicate. Where it had effectively doubled as a survival instinct.
Right now, she could instinctively sense a set of eyes on her. Even from the compromised position she had managed to get herself into in main engineering onboard the IKS qajunpaQ.
All she could see with her own eyes right now was the grimy interior of the access conduit she had crawled inside in her efforts to repair the ship’s cloaking device. Just as Klath had apparently promised she would.
She was flying mostly blind in her efforts. While she had studied several schematics of Klingon vessels during her downtime on the Bounty, and she had even worked on an old Klingon shuttle with her late father back on Orpheus IV, her knowledge of cloaking devices was entirely surface level. Klingons didn’t tend to give away too many secrets as to how one of their most successful strategic tools worked, after all.
She had once asked Klath about them, out of curiosity. But predictably, instead of a discussion of the engineering challenges in such a complex system, he had instead focused on explaining the honourable way to use such a stealth mechanism in battle. So she knew for certain that it was correct to cloak in order to maneuver yourself within striking range of an enemy, but not to hide once battle was joined. But she had no idea where the secondary power coils were located.
And, while she assumed that everyone else present in engineering on the qajunpaQ did know where they were, she felt that she couldn’t ask such elementary questions when Klath had sold her as some sort of cloaking device expert.
Especially when she knew she was being watched.
As she worked in the dimly lit and narrow conduit, armed only with a head-mounted torch that didn’t fit her forehead properly, a tricorder whose Klingonese readouts she could barely understand and a completely unfamiliar tool kit, she eventually decided to act on her sixth sense. Out of mounting frustration, if nothing else.
“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” she called out, her voice echoing around inside the conduit.
At first, there was only silence from Third Lieutenant Kahtan, presumably having been surprised by her question. But eventually, the angry Klingon engineer, who had been standing watching her work inside the conduit, just as her senses had told her, responded.
“You are the problem,” he growled, “This is foolish. I told you, I have already run ten diagnostics on the entire system!”
Denella sighed and pressed on with her work. Her engineering instincts told her she was close.
She had expected a fair amount of pushback when she had arrived. After all, a proud Klingon crew were never going to react well to being introduced to a scruffy Orion woman in ill-fitting overalls who was apparently about to expertly repair their own ship. But oddly, after a particularly stern command from Lieutenant Brakha, the ship’s chief engineer, to leave her to work by the order of Captain Mekvar, she had largely been ignored.
By everyone, except Third Lieutenant Kahtan. Who she had learned was directly responsible for the operations of the cloak, and so was taking more personal offence to her presence.
Still, she knew she was getting close to a solution. And thanks to her friendship with Klath, she knew enough about Klingon customs to know that she needed to give as good as she got down here. So, as she grabbed a microsoldering tool from the unfamiliar kit at her side and set about working on a specific section of the circuitry in front of her, she called out a response.
“I’m not sure a Klingon who doesn’t realise his own cloak is malfunctioning should be calling anyone else foolish.”
She heard the growl from the young Klingon even inside the conduit, and for a second she feared she might have gone too far. After all, like all officers on the qajunpaQ, Kahtan carried a blade on his belt. And right now, the lower half of her body was lying prone on the engineering deck, as the rest of her had squeezed into the access conduit.
Mercifully, after a quick scan with the tricorder, and a second more to make sense of the Klingonese readings, she smiled and began to extricate herself from the conduit. Her legs remaining un-stabbed.
“Well,” she sighed victoriously as she clambered to her feet and glared back at Kahtan, “That should do it. Looks like I just did your job for you, Lieutenant.”
The Klingon’s eyes flashed red with rage at her confidence. He still didn’t reach for his blade, but she had now stepped at least partly over the line. He stepped closer to her, snarling as he did so.
For her part, Denella forced herself to stand her ground. Not making any aggressive action back at her adversary, despite the presence of her own Orion dagger on the belt of her overalls. But also not backing off even a single step, showing no weakness to her potential foe. She knew enough about Klingons to know that was her best response to Kahtan's action. But her adversary showed no signs of backing down. Just for a moment, she wondered if she was about to have to fight him right here in the middle of main engineering.
“Report!” a harsh voice called out, mercifully curtailing any fight before it began.
Denella and a reluctant Kahtan turned to see Lieutenant Brakha, the gruff chief engineer she had been introduced to by Klath, storming over to them. He stood a little shorter than Kahtan, but his rank ensured that the larger Klingon deferred slightly to his superior. In stance, at least, if not in tone.
“She is taking us for fools!” he snapped at Brakha, pointing a finger at the Orion woman, “She clearly knows nothing—!”
“How many diagnostics did you say you’d run on this thing?” she interjected, continuing to stand her ground.
“More than enough!” Kahtan snarled back.
Denella failed to prevent a smug smile from crossing her face as she triumphantly held up the small cylindrical object she had removed from the panel inside the access conduit.
“Apparently not,” she replied, “One defective ODN diode. Caught a tiny, intermittent frequency offset with the tricorder. My guess is it’s been getting amplified through the entire circuit and caused a slight deviation in your cloaking field. Enough to make you detectable on close-range sensors.”
Kahtan’s sneering face turned to one of disbelief, as Brakha took the component from the Orion woman and ran his own tricorder over it.
As he did so, Denella couldn’t help but twist the knife a little.
“And, of course, even a full diagnostic wouldn’t pick that up. Because that would just be checking the power flow through the diode, which was unaffected.”
“She is right,” Brakha nodded, visibly impressed.
“That’s the thing about engineering,” she pointedly added in the direction of the shocked Kahtan, as she wiped her face with the back of her hand and left a smear of dirt behind on her green skin, “It’s all well and good tapping panels and running diagnostics. But sometimes you’ve just got to get your hands dirty.”
Her knife-twisting finally got too much for the humbled Kahtan, who stepped forwards again with fresh anger in his eyes.
“I will not be lectured to by a filthy Orion—!”
“Lieutenant Kahtan,” Brakha cut in forcefully, “Replace this ODN diode immediately, verify that there is no frequency offset, then report to me when you are done.”
For a moment, the junior officer didn’t move, his eyes still piercing into Denella’s skin.
“Or,” the chief engineer continued, “Perhaps I should inform Captain Mekvar that you do not wish to repair our cloak ahead of battle?”
That thinly-veiled threat was enough for Kahtan to finally back down. With one last snarl in Denella’s direction, he stormed off across the engineering deck to fetch the required part.
Just as Denella allowed herself to breathe out, she almost had the wind knocked out of her by a respectful, but nonetheless forceful thumping pat on her back from Brakha.
“He will likely challenge you to combat now,” he noted.
“Meh,” she replied, keeping her bravado at a requisite Klingon level, “If his bat’leth skills are anything like his diagnostics, I should be ok.”
Brakha's face twisted into a wide smile.
“Hah,” he nodded, “You are a brave woman, Denella, daughter of Telmis.”
She mustered a thin smile back, silently questioning her decision to introduce herself in that way when Klath had brought her down here. It had made sense at the time.
“I’ve been in far worse situations than this, trust me,” she replied, entirely truthfully.
Brakha considered these words for a moment, then nodded back in understanding.
“I’m sure you have,” he noted, “But then, I suspect many of the souls aboard this cursed vessel would have said the same before we set out.”
That comment piqued her interest. Still entirely in the dark as to where the qajunpaQ was going, and how she was getting off the ship, she saw a chance to ask some questions.
“Sounds like you were lucky to survive in the Jessik Nebula, not cursed.”
The slight scoff that escaped Brakha's mouth at this piqued her interest further. She elected to press on with something else she had noticed about the qajunpaQ during her repairs.
“Also,” she offered, “I should compliment you, engineer to engineer. Can’t have been easy to get this ship back in such a battle-ready state with all that damage to repair. Must’ve been carrying a lot of spare parts to go with whatever you salvaged, right?”
The question caused Brakha to do a full double-take. But Denella knew it was a comment worth making. After all, Captain Mekvar had talked proudly about how they had nearly been destroyed in the battle with Dominion forces. Yet, to her eye, this didn’t look like a ship that had been forced to carry out months of improvised repairs in hostile territory. Aside from the odd faulty ODN diode and the pervasive musty smell that seemed to cling to every wall of the Klingon vessel, there was barely a panel out of place.
“Hmph,” Brakha snorted eventually, with a slight hint of dissatisfaction, “An engineer’s perception…”
“Come on, Lieutenant,” she pressed, keeping her posture tall and her gaze firmly on the even taller Klingon, “If I’m really gonna be forced to fly into battle with you, surely I deserve to know the full story here, hmm? Wouldn’t that be the…honourable thing to do?”
She caught a slight flinch in Brakha’s proud features as she said that, and the intensity of his glare seemed to ratchet up another notch. But, after a contemplative moment, he seemed to concede the point with a slight nod.
“Perhaps it would,” he replied, glancing around the populated engineering deck, “There is a plasma relay that needs replacing on deck thirteen, section four. If you begin the work, I will join you there presently to assist.”
Denella’s intrigue was piqued even further by the furtive way that Brakha was now organising some sort of clandestine meeting, just to explain the details of the qajunpaQ's situation. But she elected to leave any follow-up questions for the rendezvous he had suggested.
As she turned and headed for the nearest turbolift, Brakha called after her.
“And watch your back, Denella, daughter of Telmis.”
She took in that candid advice, just as the still-simmering Kahtan returned with the replacement part, staring angrily at her as they passed.
And she couldn’t help but think that it was good advice.
* - K'Veth was a major part of the stories Star Trek: Bounty - 110 - "Take Arms Against a Sea of Tribbles" and Star Trek: Bounty - 111 - "Love, but With More Aggressive Overtones".
Steamy klingon foreplay...
Very good advice as it might be Brakha's D'k Tahg that ends up sticking out of her back...
Thanks!! rbs
Very good advice as it might be Brakha's D'k Tahg that ends up sticking out of her back...
Thanks!! rbs
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