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"
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
Part Three (Cont'd)
Even by Jirel’s own low standards, this was proving to be an uncomfortable family moment.
The Trill sat at Klath’s vacant weapons console, with Natasha and Sunek either side of him. The three of them faced a monitor on the panel which displayed the distinctly unhappy face of a familiar Starfleet admiral.
“Look, Jirel,” Admiral Jenner, the Trill’s formerly estranged father, sighed, “I’m very glad we’re back on speaking terms. Really, I am. But when I asked you to keep in touch, that doesn’t mean you’ve got a goddamn Starfleet admiral on speed dial. I just got called away from the bridge while the Erebus was right in the middle of a serious situation.”
“Let me guess,” Sunek offered, “A plasma cloud needed scanning?”
Jenner’s face darkened several deeper shades of red at the Vulcan’s interruption. With a heavy sigh of his own, Jirel pointed his pilot to the other side of the Bounty’s cockpit.
“Sunek, go sit over there.”
With an exaggerated tut and a full-on sulky teenager walk, Sunek slouched away, as Jirel turned his focus back to the screen.
“Look, dad. I mean, Admiral. I mean—”
“Dad-miral! Yes! Nailed it!” Sunek called out as he walked off, celebrating his pun with a fist pump.
“—I know I’m kinda out of line here, but we really need your help.”
There was a long pause, as the officer on the other end of the comms line weighed up his workload against a plea from his adopted son. The one he had only recently reconnected with.
Eventually, and reluctantly, he nodded back.
“Fine,” he conceded, “I guess you’d better tell me everything.”
Jirel did just that. He explained about the sensor ghost, the rogue cloaked ship, the kidnapping of Klath and Denella, the transmitter they had found on the Bounty’s wing, and the fact that the Klingon ship was now in Tholian territory. And he explained why he’d elected to send this subspace message in the first place, all the way to his father aboard the USS Erebus.
Because they needed to get into Tholian space. And for a merchant ship like the Bounty, that was usually easier said than done.
“So, we kinda need to get across the border,” he concluded, “And if we set foot over there without some sort of paperwork, they’re probably gonna vaporise the Bounty on sight. Or wrap us in a web. Or whatever it is they do. But I thought…I mean, you know the Tholian ambassador, right?”
On the monitor, Admiral Jenner now looked substantially more tired than when he had first answered the call. He planted his face in his hands and rubbed his temples for a moment.
“Goddammit Jirel,” he sighed, “I wish you hadn’t really told me everything.”
Jirel’s eyes widened in indignation.
“You said—!”
“I know. Because I assumed you’d need me to bail you out of some transport fine, or that you’d managed to piss off the Sheliak Corporate again—”
“That wasn’t our fault,” the Trill managed.
“—But this isn’t some stupid game, Jirel. What you’re talking about is a major galactic incident! And you can be goddamn sure I’m duty bound to report when there’s a rogue Klingon warship about to launch an attack on Tholian territory!”
“Ok,” Jirel persisted, “But all we need is for you to help us get past their patrols.”
Jenner rubbed his temples with a little more force, as if he was trying to burrow through to his brain.
“You understand that, as part of the terms of the new Non-Aggression Pact between the Federation and the Tholian Assembly - a pact that I personally helped negotiate - Starfleet is required to report any intelligence of security threats to the Tholians the second we hear about it. If that Klingon ship destroys a dozen colonies and it turns out I knew about it ahead of time, there'll be hell to pay!”
“But, you can’t—!”
“Jirel, you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do, ok. I have your intel, I have the details of the frequency of that transmitter of theirs, and I…have to report it.”
“But,” Natasha chimed in, her eyes widening, “Then the Tholians will be able to track them as well. The second they decloak, they’ll be destroyed! And Klath and Denella with them!”
“I know you don’t wear the uniform anymore,” Jenner replied to the ex-Starfleet officer, “But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about the needs of the many and the needs of the few.”
“Dad,” Jirel cut in, still surprised with how he was now openly saying that in front of his shipmates, “Please. You’ve got to give us time. We need to at least try and get Klath and Denella back.”
Jenner stared through the screen for a long time. Jirel felt his spots starting to itch under the stern gaze of his father, like they always had when he was a child back on Earth. Then, with a frustrated wringing of his hands, the admiral leaned forwards.
“I’ll send you your border clearance,” he scowled, “If any Tholian patrol asks, you’ve been given special dispensation to cut through their territory on a mercy mission to deliver medical supplies to an outbreak of Correllium fever in the Vargon system.”
“What if they want to inspect the supplies?” Natasha asked cautiously.
“That’s your problem,” Jenner replied, without a trace of warmth, “And then…well, I know that my chief engineer has been wanting to take the Erebus’s comms systems offline for some maintenance. Unfortunately, that will delay me from informing the Tholian ambassador of the…situation.”
Jirel mustered a smile. One that very much wasn’t matched by the continued deep scowl on his father’s face.
“Thank you,” he replied, with complete honesty.
“You get a four hour head start, that’s all,” Jenner pointed out, “So make the most of it.”
Jirel didn’t need telling twice. He barked out an instant order to Sunek, where the Vulcan sat idly spinning around in his pilot’s seat.
“Set course for that signal, Sunek. Fast as you can.”
“Aye aye, Captain Bossy Boots,” the Vulcan fired back.
Despite his comment, he nonetheless stopped spinning immediately and tapped at his controls. A sign that even the ever-loquacious pilot was worried about their friends.
As the Bounty jumped to warp, Jirel felt his stomach tightening into a knot.
A four hour head start. That was what they had to work with.
He just prayed it would be enough.
Author's Note: Jirel's adoptive father and the USS Erebus last appeared in Star Trek: Bounty - 203 - "Three Minutes to Three Minutes to Three Minutes to Midnight". His links to the Tholian Ambassador were referenced all the way back in this entry in Star Trek: Bounty - 102 - "Be All My Sins Forgiven".
Even by Jirel’s own low standards, this was proving to be an uncomfortable family moment.
The Trill sat at Klath’s vacant weapons console, with Natasha and Sunek either side of him. The three of them faced a monitor on the panel which displayed the distinctly unhappy face of a familiar Starfleet admiral.
“Look, Jirel,” Admiral Jenner, the Trill’s formerly estranged father, sighed, “I’m very glad we’re back on speaking terms. Really, I am. But when I asked you to keep in touch, that doesn’t mean you’ve got a goddamn Starfleet admiral on speed dial. I just got called away from the bridge while the Erebus was right in the middle of a serious situation.”
“Let me guess,” Sunek offered, “A plasma cloud needed scanning?”
Jenner’s face darkened several deeper shades of red at the Vulcan’s interruption. With a heavy sigh of his own, Jirel pointed his pilot to the other side of the Bounty’s cockpit.
“Sunek, go sit over there.”
With an exaggerated tut and a full-on sulky teenager walk, Sunek slouched away, as Jirel turned his focus back to the screen.
“Look, dad. I mean, Admiral. I mean—”
“Dad-miral! Yes! Nailed it!” Sunek called out as he walked off, celebrating his pun with a fist pump.
“—I know I’m kinda out of line here, but we really need your help.”
There was a long pause, as the officer on the other end of the comms line weighed up his workload against a plea from his adopted son. The one he had only recently reconnected with.
Eventually, and reluctantly, he nodded back.
“Fine,” he conceded, “I guess you’d better tell me everything.”
Jirel did just that. He explained about the sensor ghost, the rogue cloaked ship, the kidnapping of Klath and Denella, the transmitter they had found on the Bounty’s wing, and the fact that the Klingon ship was now in Tholian territory. And he explained why he’d elected to send this subspace message in the first place, all the way to his father aboard the USS Erebus.
Because they needed to get into Tholian space. And for a merchant ship like the Bounty, that was usually easier said than done.
“So, we kinda need to get across the border,” he concluded, “And if we set foot over there without some sort of paperwork, they’re probably gonna vaporise the Bounty on sight. Or wrap us in a web. Or whatever it is they do. But I thought…I mean, you know the Tholian ambassador, right?”
On the monitor, Admiral Jenner now looked substantially more tired than when he had first answered the call. He planted his face in his hands and rubbed his temples for a moment.
“Goddammit Jirel,” he sighed, “I wish you hadn’t really told me everything.”
Jirel’s eyes widened in indignation.
“You said—!”
“I know. Because I assumed you’d need me to bail you out of some transport fine, or that you’d managed to piss off the Sheliak Corporate again—”
“That wasn’t our fault,” the Trill managed.
“—But this isn’t some stupid game, Jirel. What you’re talking about is a major galactic incident! And you can be goddamn sure I’m duty bound to report when there’s a rogue Klingon warship about to launch an attack on Tholian territory!”
“Ok,” Jirel persisted, “But all we need is for you to help us get past their patrols.”
Jenner rubbed his temples with a little more force, as if he was trying to burrow through to his brain.
“You understand that, as part of the terms of the new Non-Aggression Pact between the Federation and the Tholian Assembly - a pact that I personally helped negotiate - Starfleet is required to report any intelligence of security threats to the Tholians the second we hear about it. If that Klingon ship destroys a dozen colonies and it turns out I knew about it ahead of time, there'll be hell to pay!”
“But, you can’t—!”
“Jirel, you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do, ok. I have your intel, I have the details of the frequency of that transmitter of theirs, and I…have to report it.”
“But,” Natasha chimed in, her eyes widening, “Then the Tholians will be able to track them as well. The second they decloak, they’ll be destroyed! And Klath and Denella with them!”
“I know you don’t wear the uniform anymore,” Jenner replied to the ex-Starfleet officer, “But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you about the needs of the many and the needs of the few.”
“Dad,” Jirel cut in, still surprised with how he was now openly saying that in front of his shipmates, “Please. You’ve got to give us time. We need to at least try and get Klath and Denella back.”
Jenner stared through the screen for a long time. Jirel felt his spots starting to itch under the stern gaze of his father, like they always had when he was a child back on Earth. Then, with a frustrated wringing of his hands, the admiral leaned forwards.
“I’ll send you your border clearance,” he scowled, “If any Tholian patrol asks, you’ve been given special dispensation to cut through their territory on a mercy mission to deliver medical supplies to an outbreak of Correllium fever in the Vargon system.”
“What if they want to inspect the supplies?” Natasha asked cautiously.
“That’s your problem,” Jenner replied, without a trace of warmth, “And then…well, I know that my chief engineer has been wanting to take the Erebus’s comms systems offline for some maintenance. Unfortunately, that will delay me from informing the Tholian ambassador of the…situation.”
Jirel mustered a smile. One that very much wasn’t matched by the continued deep scowl on his father’s face.
“Thank you,” he replied, with complete honesty.
“You get a four hour head start, that’s all,” Jenner pointed out, “So make the most of it.”
Jirel didn’t need telling twice. He barked out an instant order to Sunek, where the Vulcan sat idly spinning around in his pilot’s seat.
“Set course for that signal, Sunek. Fast as you can.”
“Aye aye, Captain Bossy Boots,” the Vulcan fired back.
Despite his comment, he nonetheless stopped spinning immediately and tapped at his controls. A sign that even the ever-loquacious pilot was worried about their friends.
As the Bounty jumped to warp, Jirel felt his stomach tightening into a knot.
A four hour head start. That was what they had to work with.
He just prayed it would be enough.
Author's Note: Jirel's adoptive father and the USS Erebus last appeared in Star Trek: Bounty - 203 - "Three Minutes to Three Minutes to Three Minutes to Midnight". His links to the Tholian Ambassador were referenced all the way back in this entry in Star Trek: Bounty - 102 - "Be All My Sins Forgiven".
Part Three (Cont’d)
“Flux coupler.”
Denella patiently reached into the engineering kit and handed the correct tool to Lieutenant Brakha as he finished the installation of the replacement plasma relay.
The engineer inside of her had been happy to find that the gruff Klingon hadn’t just suggested a random clandestine meeting place. There really had been a plasma relay to replace. But as much as she was enjoying learning now to replace a plasma relay on a K’t’inga-class ship, she forced herself to refocus. She was still waiting for the explanation that Brakha had promised, and so, with the repair almost complete, she decided to force the issue.
“So, Lieutenant, what the hell’s really going on here?”
Brakha merely grunted as he continued his work. Just as Denella was wondering if he was having second thoughts about talking to her, he finally replied.
“I have seen enough of you to know that I can trust you, Denella, daughter of Telmis.”
“What makes you so sure?” she found herself asking.
It was a fair question, but not one that Brakha answered directly. Instead, he merely handed the flux coupler back to her and continued talking.
“I called this vessel cursed, and that is the truth you are after. You do not wonder why Captain Mekvar has not ordered us back to Qo’noS in all this time?”
“He said that you’re looking for the…glorious victory you were denied by your battle damage in the Jessik Nebula.”
Brakha snorted again, grabbing a tricorder from his belt and turning back to the plasma relay to give it a final once-over.
“We were not denied a battle,” he muttered with a shake of his head, “We…fled a battle.”
Denella felt her jaw drop. She didn’t need her more detailed grasp of Klingon culture to understand the gravity of that admission.
“We had been delayed by a fault in our primary torpedo launcher,” he continued, “And by the time we neared the battlefield, it was clear that the Dominion forces were far superior. So…Captain Mekvar ordered us into the nebula itself. Not to join the battle. But to hide.”
Brakha growled quietly and returned the tricorder to his belt.
“Like cowards, we obeyed, and we left the fleet behind.”
With visible effort, he forced himself to turn back to her. Anguish written on his face.
“That is why we are on this quest. Not because we were denied a battle. But because we denied ourselves one.”
The Orion nodded back at the simmering Klingon in understanding.
“And that’s why the ship looks in such good order,” she mused, “Because there wasn’t really any damage to repair.”
“We remained shrouded until the battle was over,” Brakha snarled bitterly, “And then Mekvar realised what he had done. He was a great warrior, a veteran of countless battles. And yet, on that day, he must have…frozen. I am sure he came up with this quest of ours then.”
He sighed as he closed up the access point in the corridor wall where he had been working, and then turned back to her.
“So far, all we have found is the occasional scuffle. No great battle. And so…we are still cloaked in our collective dishonour.”
“Huh,” Denella replied, “The crew all followed his orders, as a collective?”
She saw an even deeper scowl develop on Brakha’s face at this. He looked down at his feet in apparent shame, before forcing his eyes back up to hers.
“Not all,” he admitted, “When the orders were given, a number of the crew, including my own second of engineering, rallied behind Commander Kravon.”
Denella recognised the name from Mekvar and K'Vara's earlier conversations with Klath. The former first officer of the qajunpaQ.
“Captain Mekvar said that he…died in battle?” she motioned.
Brakha’s scowl deepened even further.
“Perhaps that is how he chooses to explain it. In truth, Kravon and a dozen or more warriors far more honourable than I confronted him on the bridge.”
“A mutiny?”
“A choice. Kravon demanded that we fight like Klingons. To join the battle and fight with our allies, even if the cause was hopeless. And he expected the rest of the crew to back him. As…we should have.”
“But they didn’t,” Denella nodded, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
Brakha growled in anger, thumping his balled-up fist into the corridor wall with enough force to leave a dent in the metal.
“Captain Mekvar had Kravon and his allies taken away. And executed.”
He thumped the wall again, leaving a deeper dent.
“And we…allowed it to happen. Our cowardice was complete.”
If Denella hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn that the enormous Klingon warrior in front of her was on the verge of tears.
“But—” she began, trying to find some way to comfort him.
“That is why this is a cursed vessel,” Brakha cut her off with a bitter growl, “And that is why, wherever we may travel now, we will find no honour.”
He grabbed the engineering kit from next to Denella’s feet, and then walked away, leaving Denella stunned into silence.
After a few steps, he turned back and called out in his own tongue.
“Butlh ghajbogh nuv'e' yIHo'”
“I beg your pardon?” Denella managed. As passable as her conversational Klingonese was becoming, she was still some way off being fluent.
“You asked why I was so sure that you could be trusted,” he explained, “That is why.”
He gestured to her hands and offered a translation.
“Admire the person with dirt under their fingernails.”
With that, and with shoulders still slumped, Brakha turned and walked off, leaving Denella to study her dirt-streaked hands from her earlier repair work, and contemplate the strange bond between engineers of any ship.
Then, resisting the temptation she had to do something about the fresh dents in the panels of the corridor, she turned the other way and headed off. In search of a turbolift. And Klath.
Now more sure than ever that they needed to get the hell away from this cursed ship.
“Flux coupler.”
Denella patiently reached into the engineering kit and handed the correct tool to Lieutenant Brakha as he finished the installation of the replacement plasma relay.
The engineer inside of her had been happy to find that the gruff Klingon hadn’t just suggested a random clandestine meeting place. There really had been a plasma relay to replace. But as much as she was enjoying learning now to replace a plasma relay on a K’t’inga-class ship, she forced herself to refocus. She was still waiting for the explanation that Brakha had promised, and so, with the repair almost complete, she decided to force the issue.
“So, Lieutenant, what the hell’s really going on here?”
Brakha merely grunted as he continued his work. Just as Denella was wondering if he was having second thoughts about talking to her, he finally replied.
“I have seen enough of you to know that I can trust you, Denella, daughter of Telmis.”
“What makes you so sure?” she found herself asking.
It was a fair question, but not one that Brakha answered directly. Instead, he merely handed the flux coupler back to her and continued talking.
“I called this vessel cursed, and that is the truth you are after. You do not wonder why Captain Mekvar has not ordered us back to Qo’noS in all this time?”
“He said that you’re looking for the…glorious victory you were denied by your battle damage in the Jessik Nebula.”
Brakha snorted again, grabbing a tricorder from his belt and turning back to the plasma relay to give it a final once-over.
“We were not denied a battle,” he muttered with a shake of his head, “We…fled a battle.”
Denella felt her jaw drop. She didn’t need her more detailed grasp of Klingon culture to understand the gravity of that admission.
“We had been delayed by a fault in our primary torpedo launcher,” he continued, “And by the time we neared the battlefield, it was clear that the Dominion forces were far superior. So…Captain Mekvar ordered us into the nebula itself. Not to join the battle. But to hide.”
Brakha growled quietly and returned the tricorder to his belt.
“Like cowards, we obeyed, and we left the fleet behind.”
With visible effort, he forced himself to turn back to her. Anguish written on his face.
“That is why we are on this quest. Not because we were denied a battle. But because we denied ourselves one.”
The Orion nodded back at the simmering Klingon in understanding.
“And that’s why the ship looks in such good order,” she mused, “Because there wasn’t really any damage to repair.”
“We remained shrouded until the battle was over,” Brakha snarled bitterly, “And then Mekvar realised what he had done. He was a great warrior, a veteran of countless battles. And yet, on that day, he must have…frozen. I am sure he came up with this quest of ours then.”
He sighed as he closed up the access point in the corridor wall where he had been working, and then turned back to her.
“So far, all we have found is the occasional scuffle. No great battle. And so…we are still cloaked in our collective dishonour.”
“Huh,” Denella replied, “The crew all followed his orders, as a collective?”
She saw an even deeper scowl develop on Brakha’s face at this. He looked down at his feet in apparent shame, before forcing his eyes back up to hers.
“Not all,” he admitted, “When the orders were given, a number of the crew, including my own second of engineering, rallied behind Commander Kravon.”
Denella recognised the name from Mekvar and K'Vara's earlier conversations with Klath. The former first officer of the qajunpaQ.
“Captain Mekvar said that he…died in battle?” she motioned.
Brakha’s scowl deepened even further.
“Perhaps that is how he chooses to explain it. In truth, Kravon and a dozen or more warriors far more honourable than I confronted him on the bridge.”
“A mutiny?”
“A choice. Kravon demanded that we fight like Klingons. To join the battle and fight with our allies, even if the cause was hopeless. And he expected the rest of the crew to back him. As…we should have.”
“But they didn’t,” Denella nodded, not bothering to phrase it as a question.
Brakha growled in anger, thumping his balled-up fist into the corridor wall with enough force to leave a dent in the metal.
“Captain Mekvar had Kravon and his allies taken away. And executed.”
He thumped the wall again, leaving a deeper dent.
“And we…allowed it to happen. Our cowardice was complete.”
If Denella hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn that the enormous Klingon warrior in front of her was on the verge of tears.
“But—” she began, trying to find some way to comfort him.
“That is why this is a cursed vessel,” Brakha cut her off with a bitter growl, “And that is why, wherever we may travel now, we will find no honour.”
He grabbed the engineering kit from next to Denella’s feet, and then walked away, leaving Denella stunned into silence.
After a few steps, he turned back and called out in his own tongue.
“Butlh ghajbogh nuv'e' yIHo'”
“I beg your pardon?” Denella managed. As passable as her conversational Klingonese was becoming, she was still some way off being fluent.
“You asked why I was so sure that you could be trusted,” he explained, “That is why.”
He gestured to her hands and offered a translation.
“Admire the person with dirt under their fingernails.”
With that, and with shoulders still slumped, Brakha turned and walked off, leaving Denella to study her dirt-streaked hands from her earlier repair work, and contemplate the strange bond between engineers of any ship.
Then, resisting the temptation she had to do something about the fresh dents in the panels of the corridor, she turned the other way and headed off. In search of a turbolift. And Klath.
Now more sure than ever that they needed to get the hell away from this cursed ship.
It's a story a old as time. Those who seek glory often find themselves instead. The real courage is in choosing to look at what you've discoved.
-Will
-Will
Part Three (Cont’d)
“You mate like a Klingon.”
Klath paused in the middle of re-adjusting his uniform in the mirror and looked over at the smiling K’Vara, as she finished dressing on the other side of his officer’s cabin.
He found himself not entirely certain how to respond to that, not least because he wasn’t entirely sure if it was meant as a compliment or as another thinly-veiled insult designed to kick off another round of reassuringly violent lovemaking. And while that possibility did tempt him, even one as starved of Klingon companionship as he was had to concede that, for the time being, seven rounds was probably enough.
“…Thank you,” he responded instead, a little awkwardly.
K’Vara flashed a toothy grin at his response. Having finished dressing, she marched over to where he stood and grabbed a dermal regenerator from the collection of medical tools to the side of the mirror.
“Let me help you,” she offered, flicking on the device and bringing it up to a deep cut on his face, “It would not be proper for the second officer to report for duty like this, would it?”
Before he could stop himself, his mouth curved into a fresh smile.
He corrected the aberration immediately, not wanting to repeat the way in which he had hopelessly and entirely experienced par'Mach after he had mated with K’Veth last year, and reached to take the tool from her.
“I can tend to my own injuries,” he affirmed with a formal tone.
“I am sure you can,” she conceded, “But it is only right that I repay you for repairing my broken ribs with the bone knitter.”
Klath reluctantly accepted her point, and allowed her to meticulously seal the wound, trying not to think about how significant these moments often were in the Klingon bonding process. After the violence of the mating itself, the tenderness of patching up one another’s injuries helped to forge a closeness between a new couple.
But he wasn’t ready to fall into another par'Mach-laced trap as he had before. So while he allowed her to work, he deliberately maintained a formal conversation.
“It is important that we both carry no injuries into our upcoming battle,” he noted, “And we are both due on duty soon.”
On duty. He silently marvelled at how quickly he had fallen back into life in a formalised and rigid command structure, after so long away.
K’Vara simply smiled again as she continued her work.
“I meant no insult,” she offered, “When I said you mate like a Klingon.”
He found himself momentarily dropping his formal approach as their eyes met in the mirror.
“You expected different?” he asked, with a hint of amusement.
“Not exactly,” she conceded, “But you have been away from the Empire for so long, I wondered if it had changed you.”
Klath now felt himself bristling slightly.
“You have also been away from the Empire,” he felt compelled to point out.
“But I have been on a Klingon ship, surrounded by fellow Klingons. And I have had my pick of mates during our exile. You have not. Sometimes, that can make a warrior…soft.”
Without bothering to process whether or not that had been an unwelcome double entendre, Klath shot his hand out and grabbed her arm, fresh passion flaring in his eyes.
“Do not insult me,” he growled, “I may be an exile, I may be dishonoured, but I am still Klingon. And I will be until the day I die. Never doubt that.”
He had doubted that himself, recently. Whether he was still a warrior. Whether his battle-hardened instincts were failing him. Whether he could still call himself a Klingon.
But now, on this ship and in this uniform, that doubt was gone.
He kept a tight grip on her wrist. She responded to his fresh challenge by growling and baring her fangs, dropping the dermal regenerator to the ground. They turned to face each other, both snarling greedily. It seemed that their duty shifts would have to wait for the end of round eight.
And then, the harsh noise of the door buzzer punctuated their foreplay.
The sound focused them back to reality. Their snarling subsided, their heartbeats steadied, Klath released his grip on K’Vara’s wrist and took a step back.
“Enter,” he called out once he was satisfied that he had steadied his desires.
The door opened and Denella walked in, distracted enough not to fully take in the scene initially.
“Hey, Klath, I didn’t realise they put you up on the officer’s deck. Took me forever to—Oh.”
The Orion stopped herself as she looked around the officer’s cabin, a more expansive living area compared to the meagre crew cabin she had been assigned, that currently showed plenty of signs of rounds one through seven in various items of broken furniture and dented walls.
She didn’t need, nor especially want, an explanation as to what the two Klingons had been up to.
“I must report to the bridge,” K’Vara offered into the uncomfortable silence, striding towards the door Denella had just walked through.
Just as she passed the Orion, she felt the need to lean in and mutter to her.
“He appreciates it when you bite him.”
With the muttered comment still audible to the other individual in the room, Denella found that she was able to add the sight of Klath looking positively bashful to the growing list of unlikely things she had seen so far onboard the qajunpaQ. But, while it was usually standard practice between Bounty crewmates to take the time to rib each other over an embarrassing moment like that, she had far more urgent issues on her mind.
“Nice digs,” she offered as K’Vara exited, “And…nice uniform.”
Klath barely acknowledged either comment. He picked up the dermal regenerator from where it had fallen and returned his attention to finishing the repair to the cut on his face in the mirror.
“Captain Mekvar assigned me this cabin,” he explained dismissively, “He felt it was proper for me to be located on the officer’s deck if I am to serve as second officer.”
Denella raised an eyebrow, increasingly worried at the changes in not only Klath’s appearance, but his demeanour as well.
“Look,” she sighed eventually, “We need to talk.”
He finished tending to his wound, then adjusted his battle dress once more and turned back towards Denella. Or more accurately, to the door behind her.
“Later,” he replied simply, “I must also report for duty.”
“Duty?” she scoffed, “Klath, come on. I’ve been talking to some of the crew, and you really don’t have the full picture of what’s going on here. Not by a long way. So, please, as your friend, can you give me a minute to explain?”
Klath’s eyes remained focused on the door for a moment, but then drifted back to Denella. He found himself torn between his newly-kindled sense of duty to his people, and his equally pressing sense of personal duty to his friend.
Eventually, he reluctantly gestured for her to continue.
So she did. Without referencing him by name, she told him what Brakha had told her. The inaction of the qajunpaQ in the Jessik Nebula, Captain Mekvar’s merciless treatment of Commander Kravon and his allies, through to the endless search for their ‘honour’ that the ship was now on. Klath stood rigidly in his uniform through the whole thing, listening but not commenting.
“So, that’s the whole story,” she concluded, “I’m sorry, Klath. But we’re not caught in some noble quest for the glory of the Empire. We’re stuck on a ship of the damned on some endless pursuit for redemption for their past screw-ups. And we need to get the hell out of here.”
She waited for a response. Inside, Klath battled with a succession of different emotions. From hope, to anger, to loyalty, to shame. All set to the soundtrack of his freshly-beating warrior’s heart.
Eventually, he settled on a response. Denial.
“Not possible,” he grunted, “Our services are required for the forthcoming battle.”
“Klath,” Denella sighed in exasperation, “What battle? And weren’t you listening? I just told you, in the last battle this ship faced—”
“Captain Mekvar told us what happened. The qajunpaQ was badly damaged in combat.”
“Look around,” the Orion shot back, “This ship looks like it’s fresh out of drydock! There was no battle, Klath! They ran away, on Captain Mekvar’s order!”
Klath’s eyes flashed red at the slander against his commander. He growled so loudly that, for a moment, Denella thought he was about to charge across the room and attack her. But she held her ground in the face of his reaction.
“I’m sorry,” she added in a calmer voice, “I know how much being back here means to you—”
“No,” he barked out, “You do not know! You do not understand at all! You cannot know what it means to be here, to wear this uniform!”
Fire still raged in Klath’s eyes, but Denella was now matching him on the anger front, as the two friends descended deeper into their confrontation.
“You know what?” she fired back, “You’re right. I don’t understand. And you know why? Because you won’t explain anything to me. Or to anyone! Talk to me, Klath. For one goddamn minute, stop bottling everything up and just…tell me what the hell’s going on in your head, before it’s too late!”
Klath’s scowl deepened further, but he paused for a second.
“I am needed on the bridge,” he replied eventually, controlling his flaring emotions and stalking off towards the door.
Denella sighed sadly as she watched him go, then called out. Not caring if her latest challenge really did cause him to turn back and attack her.
“You know, I thought being on the Bounty might have changed you. I thought you were more than just a warmongering soldier of the Empire now.”
Klath bristled with anger all over again, and shot a glare back at her.
“I am Klingon!” he growled.
He marched on through the door, leaving Denella alone.
“Yeah,” the Orion muttered sadly into the empty cabin she was left in, “I guess you are…”
****************************
As soon as Klath had arrived on the bridge, the watch officer had directed him to the War Room of the qajunpaQ.
Each Klingon battlecruiser was equipped with such an area, an anteroom to the rear of the main bridge, similar to the briefing rooms of Federation starships. But instead of comfortable chairs and a polished conference table, this was standing-only, the room dominated by a huge table-mounted tactical display of the qajunpaQ’s position in space.
As Klath entered the room, he found Captain Mekvar, Commander K’Vara and Lieutenant Brakha already deep in discussion.
“Ah, Klath,” Mekvar nodded as he approached the group, “I have confirmation from Lieutenant Brakha that the cloak is now fully repaired. We have been keeping our distance from Tholian patrols to ensure that our…sensor echo was not detected by their close-range sensors, as it was with your ship. But now, we are fully concealed, and ready for battle.”
“Excellent,” Klath nodded, trying to forget all about what Denella had told him and focus back on his new role, “What is our target?”
Mekvar gestured to the vast tactical display and focused the interactive display onto a specific area of Tholian space they were currently cruising through under cloak.
“I have selected the Tholian outpost in the Gamelan system,” he explained, “One that they claim is for civilian purposes, but that the High Council has long suspected is a long-range weapons platform for a future attack on Klingon territory.”
Klath cast his warrior’s eye over the readouts, as K’Vara chimed in.
“We have the opportunity to do what the High Council has not been willing to do, and take out the entire platform. The qajunpaQ can decloak in orbit of the fourth planet and use its full battery on the target on the planet’s surface!”
“The outpost would be destroyed,” Klath nodded, before he cast a more critical eye on the plan, “If it is indeed a weapons platform.”
This comment caused an immediate scowl to cross Mekvar’s features.
“You doubt my plan?”
Klath tried to push away the memory of watching an unarmed freighter being torn asunder by a volley of torpedoes on his order, and offered a conciliatory response.
“I am merely offering my analysis. Without intelligence on the exact nature of the settlement, we should endeavour to conduct detailed sensor scans before we attack.”
“I know the Tholians,” Mekvar spat, “They have no need to place a colony in such a region. It must be a military installation!”
“Nevertheless,” Klath replied, his tone still measured, “We do not wish to waste our tactical element of surprise on a non-critical target.”
Mekvar went to retort again, but stopped himself and mustered an irritated nod instead. Whether or not Klath was out of line, the crux of his argument was logical.
“There is another issue,” Brakha spoke up, tapping a set of controls on his side of the tactical board, “Our passive long-range scans have not given details on the surface settlement, but they have picked up…something.”
The display now showed a further tactical overlay. One that featured several tell-tale hotspots around the Gamelan system.
“Interesting,” Klath nodded, “There appear to be multiple orbital defensive platforms around Gamelan IV. And a small fleet of Tholian ships stationed deeper inside the system.”
“Exactly the sort of defences you might expect to protect a planetary weapons platform,” Mekvar pointedly offered in Klath’s direction.
“Or to protect a colony positioned close to the borders of their space,” he responded calmly.
Mekvar’s eyes narrowed slightly as he sized up the younger Klingon.
“Do not give me cause to doubt whose side you are on, Klath, son of Morad.”
“I serve you, Captain Mekvar,” Klath replied quickly, “And one day, Kahless willing, the Empire once again. But, whatever the purpose of these defences, this new information renders our chances of a successful attack on Gamelan IV considerably lower. As soon as we decloak, we will be a direct target for multiple Tholian weapons.”
Mekvar folded his arms across his barrel chest and glanced at K’Vara.
“My former torpedo room specialist now fancies himself a tactician,” he sneered, “Tell me, Commander, do you have an alternative plan?”
Klath ignored the sniping remark and scanned the extent of the tactical display, then pointed a thick finger to a different section of the surrounding space.
“There,” he offered, “The V'rad system. A long-time Tholian stronghold. But it is currently poorly defended. They must have redeployed vessels from there to the Gamelan system. We stand a better chance of success attacking them there, and still achieve your goal of provoking a war.”
“It is a further two days' travel under cloak,” Brakha noted, “But the repaired systems will be capable of remaining active for that long.”
Mekvar cast his own warrior’s eye at the details of the V’rad system, then looked back at Klath with fresh determination.
“We attack the Gamelan system,” he growled, “That is my order. Or do you wish to challenge your captain for command of this vessel?”
Klath felt the eyes of K’Vara and Brakha on him, and felt the weight of his uniform as well.
“I do not,” he replied after a moment, “We attack the Gamelan system. Sir.”
“Very good,” Mekvar nodded in satisfaction, “We will reach our target in three hours. I want a full report on our weapons and defensive status before then.”
Klath nodded to acknowledge the order, then filed out of the War Room along with Brakha. As K'Vara went to follow, Mekvar grabbed her arm.
“Do you believe in our mission, Commander?” he queried with a hiss.
She turned back to him, her mind recalling the final moments of Commander Kravon, the man whose position as executive officer she had taken after his execution.
“Yes, sir,” she nodded in affirmation.
“Good,” Mekvar nodded, “But…I am concerned that my new second officer may prove to be less committed to our cause.”
“He is a proud warrior,” she offered back, “I am certain he only wants the same glory that we all do.”
Mekvar considered this statement, then roughly pulled her closer to him, so he could growl directly into her ear.
“You are my most loyal officer, Commander. And I trust you to follow this order, and repeat this to nobody. Understood?”
“Completely, sir.”
“Good,” he nodded, “Now, I want you to keep a close eye on Klath, son of Morad. And, at the first sign of weakness or treachery from him, I want you to take the blade from your belt…and plunge it into his back. Do I make myself clear?”
K’Vara stared at the empty space where Klath had been standing moments ago.
And she nodded in affirmation, without a moment of hesitation.
End of Part Three
“You mate like a Klingon.”
Klath paused in the middle of re-adjusting his uniform in the mirror and looked over at the smiling K’Vara, as she finished dressing on the other side of his officer’s cabin.
He found himself not entirely certain how to respond to that, not least because he wasn’t entirely sure if it was meant as a compliment or as another thinly-veiled insult designed to kick off another round of reassuringly violent lovemaking. And while that possibility did tempt him, even one as starved of Klingon companionship as he was had to concede that, for the time being, seven rounds was probably enough.
“…Thank you,” he responded instead, a little awkwardly.
K’Vara flashed a toothy grin at his response. Having finished dressing, she marched over to where he stood and grabbed a dermal regenerator from the collection of medical tools to the side of the mirror.
“Let me help you,” she offered, flicking on the device and bringing it up to a deep cut on his face, “It would not be proper for the second officer to report for duty like this, would it?”
Before he could stop himself, his mouth curved into a fresh smile.
He corrected the aberration immediately, not wanting to repeat the way in which he had hopelessly and entirely experienced par'Mach after he had mated with K’Veth last year, and reached to take the tool from her.
“I can tend to my own injuries,” he affirmed with a formal tone.
“I am sure you can,” she conceded, “But it is only right that I repay you for repairing my broken ribs with the bone knitter.”
Klath reluctantly accepted her point, and allowed her to meticulously seal the wound, trying not to think about how significant these moments often were in the Klingon bonding process. After the violence of the mating itself, the tenderness of patching up one another’s injuries helped to forge a closeness between a new couple.
But he wasn’t ready to fall into another par'Mach-laced trap as he had before. So while he allowed her to work, he deliberately maintained a formal conversation.
“It is important that we both carry no injuries into our upcoming battle,” he noted, “And we are both due on duty soon.”
On duty. He silently marvelled at how quickly he had fallen back into life in a formalised and rigid command structure, after so long away.
K’Vara simply smiled again as she continued her work.
“I meant no insult,” she offered, “When I said you mate like a Klingon.”
He found himself momentarily dropping his formal approach as their eyes met in the mirror.
“You expected different?” he asked, with a hint of amusement.
“Not exactly,” she conceded, “But you have been away from the Empire for so long, I wondered if it had changed you.”
Klath now felt himself bristling slightly.
“You have also been away from the Empire,” he felt compelled to point out.
“But I have been on a Klingon ship, surrounded by fellow Klingons. And I have had my pick of mates during our exile. You have not. Sometimes, that can make a warrior…soft.”
Without bothering to process whether or not that had been an unwelcome double entendre, Klath shot his hand out and grabbed her arm, fresh passion flaring in his eyes.
“Do not insult me,” he growled, “I may be an exile, I may be dishonoured, but I am still Klingon. And I will be until the day I die. Never doubt that.”
He had doubted that himself, recently. Whether he was still a warrior. Whether his battle-hardened instincts were failing him. Whether he could still call himself a Klingon.
But now, on this ship and in this uniform, that doubt was gone.
He kept a tight grip on her wrist. She responded to his fresh challenge by growling and baring her fangs, dropping the dermal regenerator to the ground. They turned to face each other, both snarling greedily. It seemed that their duty shifts would have to wait for the end of round eight.
And then, the harsh noise of the door buzzer punctuated their foreplay.
The sound focused them back to reality. Their snarling subsided, their heartbeats steadied, Klath released his grip on K’Vara’s wrist and took a step back.
“Enter,” he called out once he was satisfied that he had steadied his desires.
The door opened and Denella walked in, distracted enough not to fully take in the scene initially.
“Hey, Klath, I didn’t realise they put you up on the officer’s deck. Took me forever to—Oh.”
The Orion stopped herself as she looked around the officer’s cabin, a more expansive living area compared to the meagre crew cabin she had been assigned, that currently showed plenty of signs of rounds one through seven in various items of broken furniture and dented walls.
She didn’t need, nor especially want, an explanation as to what the two Klingons had been up to.
“I must report to the bridge,” K’Vara offered into the uncomfortable silence, striding towards the door Denella had just walked through.
Just as she passed the Orion, she felt the need to lean in and mutter to her.
“He appreciates it when you bite him.”
With the muttered comment still audible to the other individual in the room, Denella found that she was able to add the sight of Klath looking positively bashful to the growing list of unlikely things she had seen so far onboard the qajunpaQ. But, while it was usually standard practice between Bounty crewmates to take the time to rib each other over an embarrassing moment like that, she had far more urgent issues on her mind.
“Nice digs,” she offered as K’Vara exited, “And…nice uniform.”
Klath barely acknowledged either comment. He picked up the dermal regenerator from where it had fallen and returned his attention to finishing the repair to the cut on his face in the mirror.
“Captain Mekvar assigned me this cabin,” he explained dismissively, “He felt it was proper for me to be located on the officer’s deck if I am to serve as second officer.”
Denella raised an eyebrow, increasingly worried at the changes in not only Klath’s appearance, but his demeanour as well.
“Look,” she sighed eventually, “We need to talk.”
He finished tending to his wound, then adjusted his battle dress once more and turned back towards Denella. Or more accurately, to the door behind her.
“Later,” he replied simply, “I must also report for duty.”
“Duty?” she scoffed, “Klath, come on. I’ve been talking to some of the crew, and you really don’t have the full picture of what’s going on here. Not by a long way. So, please, as your friend, can you give me a minute to explain?”
Klath’s eyes remained focused on the door for a moment, but then drifted back to Denella. He found himself torn between his newly-kindled sense of duty to his people, and his equally pressing sense of personal duty to his friend.
Eventually, he reluctantly gestured for her to continue.
So she did. Without referencing him by name, she told him what Brakha had told her. The inaction of the qajunpaQ in the Jessik Nebula, Captain Mekvar’s merciless treatment of Commander Kravon and his allies, through to the endless search for their ‘honour’ that the ship was now on. Klath stood rigidly in his uniform through the whole thing, listening but not commenting.
“So, that’s the whole story,” she concluded, “I’m sorry, Klath. But we’re not caught in some noble quest for the glory of the Empire. We’re stuck on a ship of the damned on some endless pursuit for redemption for their past screw-ups. And we need to get the hell out of here.”
She waited for a response. Inside, Klath battled with a succession of different emotions. From hope, to anger, to loyalty, to shame. All set to the soundtrack of his freshly-beating warrior’s heart.
Eventually, he settled on a response. Denial.
“Not possible,” he grunted, “Our services are required for the forthcoming battle.”
“Klath,” Denella sighed in exasperation, “What battle? And weren’t you listening? I just told you, in the last battle this ship faced—”
“Captain Mekvar told us what happened. The qajunpaQ was badly damaged in combat.”
“Look around,” the Orion shot back, “This ship looks like it’s fresh out of drydock! There was no battle, Klath! They ran away, on Captain Mekvar’s order!”
Klath’s eyes flashed red at the slander against his commander. He growled so loudly that, for a moment, Denella thought he was about to charge across the room and attack her. But she held her ground in the face of his reaction.
“I’m sorry,” she added in a calmer voice, “I know how much being back here means to you—”
“No,” he barked out, “You do not know! You do not understand at all! You cannot know what it means to be here, to wear this uniform!”
Fire still raged in Klath’s eyes, but Denella was now matching him on the anger front, as the two friends descended deeper into their confrontation.
“You know what?” she fired back, “You’re right. I don’t understand. And you know why? Because you won’t explain anything to me. Or to anyone! Talk to me, Klath. For one goddamn minute, stop bottling everything up and just…tell me what the hell’s going on in your head, before it’s too late!”
Klath’s scowl deepened further, but he paused for a second.
“I am needed on the bridge,” he replied eventually, controlling his flaring emotions and stalking off towards the door.
Denella sighed sadly as she watched him go, then called out. Not caring if her latest challenge really did cause him to turn back and attack her.
“You know, I thought being on the Bounty might have changed you. I thought you were more than just a warmongering soldier of the Empire now.”
Klath bristled with anger all over again, and shot a glare back at her.
“I am Klingon!” he growled.
He marched on through the door, leaving Denella alone.
“Yeah,” the Orion muttered sadly into the empty cabin she was left in, “I guess you are…”
****************************
As soon as Klath had arrived on the bridge, the watch officer had directed him to the War Room of the qajunpaQ.
Each Klingon battlecruiser was equipped with such an area, an anteroom to the rear of the main bridge, similar to the briefing rooms of Federation starships. But instead of comfortable chairs and a polished conference table, this was standing-only, the room dominated by a huge table-mounted tactical display of the qajunpaQ’s position in space.
As Klath entered the room, he found Captain Mekvar, Commander K’Vara and Lieutenant Brakha already deep in discussion.
“Ah, Klath,” Mekvar nodded as he approached the group, “I have confirmation from Lieutenant Brakha that the cloak is now fully repaired. We have been keeping our distance from Tholian patrols to ensure that our…sensor echo was not detected by their close-range sensors, as it was with your ship. But now, we are fully concealed, and ready for battle.”
“Excellent,” Klath nodded, trying to forget all about what Denella had told him and focus back on his new role, “What is our target?”
Mekvar gestured to the vast tactical display and focused the interactive display onto a specific area of Tholian space they were currently cruising through under cloak.
“I have selected the Tholian outpost in the Gamelan system,” he explained, “One that they claim is for civilian purposes, but that the High Council has long suspected is a long-range weapons platform for a future attack on Klingon territory.”
Klath cast his warrior’s eye over the readouts, as K’Vara chimed in.
“We have the opportunity to do what the High Council has not been willing to do, and take out the entire platform. The qajunpaQ can decloak in orbit of the fourth planet and use its full battery on the target on the planet’s surface!”
“The outpost would be destroyed,” Klath nodded, before he cast a more critical eye on the plan, “If it is indeed a weapons platform.”
This comment caused an immediate scowl to cross Mekvar’s features.
“You doubt my plan?”
Klath tried to push away the memory of watching an unarmed freighter being torn asunder by a volley of torpedoes on his order, and offered a conciliatory response.
“I am merely offering my analysis. Without intelligence on the exact nature of the settlement, we should endeavour to conduct detailed sensor scans before we attack.”
“I know the Tholians,” Mekvar spat, “They have no need to place a colony in such a region. It must be a military installation!”
“Nevertheless,” Klath replied, his tone still measured, “We do not wish to waste our tactical element of surprise on a non-critical target.”
Mekvar went to retort again, but stopped himself and mustered an irritated nod instead. Whether or not Klath was out of line, the crux of his argument was logical.
“There is another issue,” Brakha spoke up, tapping a set of controls on his side of the tactical board, “Our passive long-range scans have not given details on the surface settlement, but they have picked up…something.”
The display now showed a further tactical overlay. One that featured several tell-tale hotspots around the Gamelan system.
“Interesting,” Klath nodded, “There appear to be multiple orbital defensive platforms around Gamelan IV. And a small fleet of Tholian ships stationed deeper inside the system.”
“Exactly the sort of defences you might expect to protect a planetary weapons platform,” Mekvar pointedly offered in Klath’s direction.
“Or to protect a colony positioned close to the borders of their space,” he responded calmly.
Mekvar’s eyes narrowed slightly as he sized up the younger Klingon.
“Do not give me cause to doubt whose side you are on, Klath, son of Morad.”
“I serve you, Captain Mekvar,” Klath replied quickly, “And one day, Kahless willing, the Empire once again. But, whatever the purpose of these defences, this new information renders our chances of a successful attack on Gamelan IV considerably lower. As soon as we decloak, we will be a direct target for multiple Tholian weapons.”
Mekvar folded his arms across his barrel chest and glanced at K’Vara.
“My former torpedo room specialist now fancies himself a tactician,” he sneered, “Tell me, Commander, do you have an alternative plan?”
Klath ignored the sniping remark and scanned the extent of the tactical display, then pointed a thick finger to a different section of the surrounding space.
“There,” he offered, “The V'rad system. A long-time Tholian stronghold. But it is currently poorly defended. They must have redeployed vessels from there to the Gamelan system. We stand a better chance of success attacking them there, and still achieve your goal of provoking a war.”
“It is a further two days' travel under cloak,” Brakha noted, “But the repaired systems will be capable of remaining active for that long.”
Mekvar cast his own warrior’s eye at the details of the V’rad system, then looked back at Klath with fresh determination.
“We attack the Gamelan system,” he growled, “That is my order. Or do you wish to challenge your captain for command of this vessel?”
Klath felt the eyes of K’Vara and Brakha on him, and felt the weight of his uniform as well.
“I do not,” he replied after a moment, “We attack the Gamelan system. Sir.”
“Very good,” Mekvar nodded in satisfaction, “We will reach our target in three hours. I want a full report on our weapons and defensive status before then.”
Klath nodded to acknowledge the order, then filed out of the War Room along with Brakha. As K'Vara went to follow, Mekvar grabbed her arm.
“Do you believe in our mission, Commander?” he queried with a hiss.
She turned back to him, her mind recalling the final moments of Commander Kravon, the man whose position as executive officer she had taken after his execution.
“Yes, sir,” she nodded in affirmation.
“Good,” Mekvar nodded, “But…I am concerned that my new second officer may prove to be less committed to our cause.”
“He is a proud warrior,” she offered back, “I am certain he only wants the same glory that we all do.”
Mekvar considered this statement, then roughly pulled her closer to him, so he could growl directly into her ear.
“You are my most loyal officer, Commander. And I trust you to follow this order, and repeat this to nobody. Understood?”
“Completely, sir.”
“Good,” he nodded, “Now, I want you to keep a close eye on Klath, son of Morad. And, at the first sign of weakness or treachery from him, I want you to take the blade from your belt…and plunge it into his back. Do I make myself clear?”
K’Vara stared at the empty space where Klath had been standing moments ago.
And she nodded in affirmation, without a moment of hesitation.
End of Part Three
INTENSE!
-Will
-Will
Really like the dad angle. "Tell me everything..." "...you shouldn't have told me everything..."
And nice twisty plot. One very dishonorable captain. Looking forward to seeing how sticky his ultimate fate is.
Thanks!! rbs
And nice twisty plot. One very dishonorable captain. Looking forward to seeing how sticky his ultimate fate is.
Thanks!! rbs
If Mekvar knows how to play the game, maybe he returns to the "fold" with honors, then the high stakes cover-up begins, as one by one, each of his crew somehow end up dead for one strange reason or another; suicide, accident, "heart" problems, random mugging, arrested and found dead in their cell, drugged out, crazy conspiracy theorist with no credibility, then dead? It's sad what years of isolation, lost aboard a "disabled" battle cruiser, can do to a Klingon.
-Will
Then they're found at the Mustang Ranch. By the cadaver dogs...
Part Four
Merchant ship Bounty
Stardate 50184.5
Klath sat in the Bounty’s small dining area and ate in silence. Just as he liked.
Technically, what he was doing couldn’t really be termed eating in silence, given the loud satisfied slurping noises that accompanied every handful of food he was shovelling into his mouth. But he was being allowed to eat his evening meal in peace, free of any irritating conversation.
Right now, Jirel and Sunek were busy in the cockpit, as the Bounty made steady progress on a supply run to a Bolian colony on Reyva III. And so Klath’s meal was distraction-free.
Until he heard the door to the dining area open.
He paused, halfway through scooping up another mouthful of food, and glanced at the doorway with some annoyance.
As soon as he saw who was standing there, he did his best to switch to a more neutral look.
Denella hadn’t been onboard the Bounty long. It had only been a few days since they had rescued her from Syndicate-controlled space. And since beaming her onboard, she had spent most of her time inside the cabin she had been given. But now, she stood in the doorway, her rangy Orion frame looking oddly tiny inside the oversized overalls she’d found to wear.
“S—Sorry,” she managed to stammer at the scowling Klingon, “I can come back later.”
Part of Klath was happy to leave their interaction there. To let the nervous former slave girl retreat back to her cabin and leave him to finish his meal in peace. But his more civilised side reluctantly took over.
“No,” he boomed out, “You are…welcome to join me.”
The timid green-skinned woman mustered a shaky nod back and stepped over to the Bounty’s sole replicator, scanning through the options on the small display screen of the unit and eventually choosing an option.
Klath reached for a fresh handful of food, and was stopped almost immediately by the singularly foul scent coming from the plate that Denella set down in front of her on the other side of the table.
“What…is that?” he managed to ask, staring at the gloopy yellowish concoction.
“There’s no Orion food,” Denella shrugged nervously, “So I’ve just been picking from what options there are. This is an Earth dish, apparently. Macaroni and cheese?”
Klath’s scowl returned as he nodded in unhappy understanding.
“Human food,” he grimaced, “Unfortunately, Jirel’s upbringing on Earth appears to have ruined his sense of taste.”
Denella tentatively poked at the creamy dish in front of her with a fork, trying the smallest morsel and wrinkling her nose at the taste.
“Hmm,” she managed eventually, “It’s very…”
“Bland? Yes, it will be.”
The Orion woman managed a smile of agreement at this, as she toyed with the unpalatable meal. Klath again reached for a mouthful from his own plate, and was again interrupted.
“Um, what are you eating?”
“Racht,” he replied, looking longingly at the writhing, living meal in front of him that he was finding frustratingly impossible to finish.
“Could…I try some of that?”
He looked up at the nervous Orion woman with a trace of amusement.
“I suspect that Klingon food would be too…intense for you.”
She peered across the table at the wriggling mass in the bowl in front of Klath. To his surprise, she didn’t recoil at the sight of it in the same way that Sunek and Jirel tended to do.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “When I was growing up on Orpheus IV, me and my friends used to hunt for tikka grubs. They burrow into the trunks of fruit trees to eat the sap, and if you were careful you could hook them out with a stick. They were always best eaten alive. That’s when they tasted sweetest.”
For a moment, Denella drifted off into a distant memory. Klath suddenly felt a little uncomfortable, as if he was intruding on a private moment.
“Racht is not sweet,” he replied eventually, “It has a sharp flavour. Delicious, but I have come to understand that non-Klingons do not agree.”
Denella glanced at the Klingon delicacy again, and then gestured to the macaroni and cheese on her own plate.
“Can’t be any worse than this.”
Klath was surprised to find himself smiling at that. He hadn’t done much of that in the years since he had left the Empire behind. He pushed the bowl towards her.
“yISop!” he barked in his native language.
Denella looked a little confused by the impromptu spot of Klingonese, but she got the intent, and tentatively reached over to pick a couple of the writhing worms from the bowl.
The unhappy look on her face as she ate them confirmed to Klath that he would remain the only connoisseur of racht on the Bounty. But, just as he was about to drag the bowl back towards him, he was surprised to see her reach out for a second helping.
“It’s…interesting,” she said as she chewed, the look on her face failing to get anywhere near hinting that she was enjoying her meal, “I mean, I think I’d prefer a tikka grub. But it’s…interesting.”
As she reached back for a third helping, Klath’s brain began to process what was unfolding in front of him, aside from someone inexplicably forcing down several helpings of a food they clearly didn’t like. For the first time since she had arrived onboard, Denella seemed relaxed. As she tried to make the first genuine connection with someone since she had been taken by the Syndicate.
And so, despite hating mealtime conversations, and not being especially fond of sharing his food for that matter, he felt compelled to keep the moment going.
“What was it like?” he settled on, “Your homeworld?”
Denella flinched a bit, though he couldn’t tell if that was down to the subject of his question or the fourth mouthful of racht she was chewing on.
“It was beautiful,” she replied eventually, “I’d give anything to go back there. But…it’s Syndicate territory now.”
The Klingon nodded back across the table in solemn understanding.
“Still,” she managed, fighting off the tear that threatened to escape her eye, “I can always hope, right? Nobody can take that away from me. Does that make sense?”
Klath experienced another curious sensation at this statement. Suddenly seeing the woman on the other side of the table, not as a frightened former slave girl they had rescued on a whim, but as a kindred spirit.
“I understand,” he nodded sincerely, “What you speak of is also my hope. That I will one day be able to return to…my home.”
It was the truth. Somehow, despite his discommendation, despite his lonely exile, despite his own self-loathing for his actions in the Tygon Nebula all those years ago, a sense of hope still persisted somewhere inside.
That was all he had. At least, that was all he thought he had.
On the other side of the table, Denella picked up another helping of racht and held it up in something approximating a toast.
“Well,” she said, managing the slightest of smiles, “Here’s to having hope.”
Klath met her comment with a fuller smile of his own, and pushed the bowl further towards her across the table. An action met with confusion by the Orion.
“It is yours,” he motioned, as he stood and headed for the replicator, “I will get another portion.”
Denella smiled a little wider, and accepted the rest of the meal, as Klath returned with a freshly replicated bowl of his own. And together, the exiled former warrior and the homeless former slave girl ate their racht.
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Author's Note: This is another poorly-signposted flashback to kick off Part Four. More flashback scenes of Denella's rescue and her early days onboard the Bounty can be found scattered throughout Star Trek: Bounty - 104 - "It's Not Easy Being Green", and in this single scene from Star Trek: Bounty - 112 - "The Woman Who Cried, Among Other Things, Wolf".
Merchant ship Bounty
Stardate 50184.5
Klath sat in the Bounty’s small dining area and ate in silence. Just as he liked.
Technically, what he was doing couldn’t really be termed eating in silence, given the loud satisfied slurping noises that accompanied every handful of food he was shovelling into his mouth. But he was being allowed to eat his evening meal in peace, free of any irritating conversation.
Right now, Jirel and Sunek were busy in the cockpit, as the Bounty made steady progress on a supply run to a Bolian colony on Reyva III. And so Klath’s meal was distraction-free.
Until he heard the door to the dining area open.
He paused, halfway through scooping up another mouthful of food, and glanced at the doorway with some annoyance.
As soon as he saw who was standing there, he did his best to switch to a more neutral look.
Denella hadn’t been onboard the Bounty long. It had only been a few days since they had rescued her from Syndicate-controlled space. And since beaming her onboard, she had spent most of her time inside the cabin she had been given. But now, she stood in the doorway, her rangy Orion frame looking oddly tiny inside the oversized overalls she’d found to wear.
“S—Sorry,” she managed to stammer at the scowling Klingon, “I can come back later.”
Part of Klath was happy to leave their interaction there. To let the nervous former slave girl retreat back to her cabin and leave him to finish his meal in peace. But his more civilised side reluctantly took over.
“No,” he boomed out, “You are…welcome to join me.”
The timid green-skinned woman mustered a shaky nod back and stepped over to the Bounty’s sole replicator, scanning through the options on the small display screen of the unit and eventually choosing an option.
Klath reached for a fresh handful of food, and was stopped almost immediately by the singularly foul scent coming from the plate that Denella set down in front of her on the other side of the table.
“What…is that?” he managed to ask, staring at the gloopy yellowish concoction.
“There’s no Orion food,” Denella shrugged nervously, “So I’ve just been picking from what options there are. This is an Earth dish, apparently. Macaroni and cheese?”
Klath’s scowl returned as he nodded in unhappy understanding.
“Human food,” he grimaced, “Unfortunately, Jirel’s upbringing on Earth appears to have ruined his sense of taste.”
Denella tentatively poked at the creamy dish in front of her with a fork, trying the smallest morsel and wrinkling her nose at the taste.
“Hmm,” she managed eventually, “It’s very…”
“Bland? Yes, it will be.”
The Orion woman managed a smile of agreement at this, as she toyed with the unpalatable meal. Klath again reached for a mouthful from his own plate, and was again interrupted.
“Um, what are you eating?”
“Racht,” he replied, looking longingly at the writhing, living meal in front of him that he was finding frustratingly impossible to finish.
“Could…I try some of that?”
He looked up at the nervous Orion woman with a trace of amusement.
“I suspect that Klingon food would be too…intense for you.”
She peered across the table at the wriggling mass in the bowl in front of Klath. To his surprise, she didn’t recoil at the sight of it in the same way that Sunek and Jirel tended to do.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged, “When I was growing up on Orpheus IV, me and my friends used to hunt for tikka grubs. They burrow into the trunks of fruit trees to eat the sap, and if you were careful you could hook them out with a stick. They were always best eaten alive. That’s when they tasted sweetest.”
For a moment, Denella drifted off into a distant memory. Klath suddenly felt a little uncomfortable, as if he was intruding on a private moment.
“Racht is not sweet,” he replied eventually, “It has a sharp flavour. Delicious, but I have come to understand that non-Klingons do not agree.”
Denella glanced at the Klingon delicacy again, and then gestured to the macaroni and cheese on her own plate.
“Can’t be any worse than this.”
Klath was surprised to find himself smiling at that. He hadn’t done much of that in the years since he had left the Empire behind. He pushed the bowl towards her.
“yISop!” he barked in his native language.
Denella looked a little confused by the impromptu spot of Klingonese, but she got the intent, and tentatively reached over to pick a couple of the writhing worms from the bowl.
The unhappy look on her face as she ate them confirmed to Klath that he would remain the only connoisseur of racht on the Bounty. But, just as he was about to drag the bowl back towards him, he was surprised to see her reach out for a second helping.
“It’s…interesting,” she said as she chewed, the look on her face failing to get anywhere near hinting that she was enjoying her meal, “I mean, I think I’d prefer a tikka grub. But it’s…interesting.”
As she reached back for a third helping, Klath’s brain began to process what was unfolding in front of him, aside from someone inexplicably forcing down several helpings of a food they clearly didn’t like. For the first time since she had arrived onboard, Denella seemed relaxed. As she tried to make the first genuine connection with someone since she had been taken by the Syndicate.
And so, despite hating mealtime conversations, and not being especially fond of sharing his food for that matter, he felt compelled to keep the moment going.
“What was it like?” he settled on, “Your homeworld?”
Denella flinched a bit, though he couldn’t tell if that was down to the subject of his question or the fourth mouthful of racht she was chewing on.
“It was beautiful,” she replied eventually, “I’d give anything to go back there. But…it’s Syndicate territory now.”
The Klingon nodded back across the table in solemn understanding.
“Still,” she managed, fighting off the tear that threatened to escape her eye, “I can always hope, right? Nobody can take that away from me. Does that make sense?”
Klath experienced another curious sensation at this statement. Suddenly seeing the woman on the other side of the table, not as a frightened former slave girl they had rescued on a whim, but as a kindred spirit.
“I understand,” he nodded sincerely, “What you speak of is also my hope. That I will one day be able to return to…my home.”
It was the truth. Somehow, despite his discommendation, despite his lonely exile, despite his own self-loathing for his actions in the Tygon Nebula all those years ago, a sense of hope still persisted somewhere inside.
That was all he had. At least, that was all he thought he had.
On the other side of the table, Denella picked up another helping of racht and held it up in something approximating a toast.
“Well,” she said, managing the slightest of smiles, “Here’s to having hope.”
Klath met her comment with a fuller smile of his own, and pushed the bowl further towards her across the table. An action met with confusion by the Orion.
“It is yours,” he motioned, as he stood and headed for the replicator, “I will get another portion.”
Denella smiled a little wider, and accepted the rest of the meal, as Klath returned with a freshly replicated bowl of his own. And together, the exiled former warrior and the homeless former slave girl ate their racht.
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Author's Note: This is another poorly-signposted flashback to kick off Part Four. More flashback scenes of Denella's rescue and her early days onboard the Bounty can be found scattered throughout Star Trek: Bounty - 104 - "It's Not Easy Being Green", and in this single scene from Star Trek: Bounty - 112 - "The Woman Who Cried, Among Other Things, Wolf".
Those are some advanced replicators to produce live Racht.
Great scene. Excellent character building. I can almost smell the blandness in the replicated Kraft M&C. Cheddar, a good xtra-sharp cheddar is what you want for a decent Mac&cheese.
-Will
Great scene. Excellent character building. I can almost smell the blandness in the replicated Kraft M&C. Cheddar, a good xtra-sharp cheddar is what you want for a decent Mac&cheese.
-Will
Nice backstory on this unexpected friendship. And kudos for including food. I try to include some eating in every episode - taste and scents are often overlooked as powerful writing tools.
Thanks!! rbs
Thanks!! rbs
I am now worried for my safety if my 10-year old niece ever finds out that I've been bad-mouthing Kraft-style mac n cheese on the internet.
Part Four (Cont'd)
Klath was becoming an expert at ignoring his concerns.
As he stood in the turbolift onboard the qajunpaQ alongside Lieutenant Brakha, he worked on dismissing several concerns that were now rattling around inside his head. Not only his concerns about what he was doing in the uniform he was wearing, but the concerns that Denella had raised about Captain Mekvar, and now the concerns he had about Mekvar's battle plan.
Even as he worked on compartmentalising the swirling chaos in his head, a fresh concern joined the overcrowded party, as Brakha tapped a button on the wall to halt the turbolift mid-journey.
Klath looked at the other Klingon with a modicum of annoyance, but Brakha began speaking before he could say anything.
“You are correct,” he hissed, “Captain Mekvar’s plan is flawed.”
Klath's eyes narrowed a tad, as he tried to figure out whether this was a genuine comment, or some sort of trick from the chief engineer.
“He commands this vessel,” he replied curtly, “And he has given his orders.”
With that, he reached out to resume the lift. But Brakha persisted.
“There is no need to deny it, we both know the truth. There will be no glory for this vessel in the Gamelan system. Only death.”
“Death in battle is glory,” Klath pointed out.
This earned a bitter scoff from Brakha, who shook his head slowly.
“There is far more glory in your plan. Attacking the V'rad system. And I am sure that many of the warriors onboard would agree with you.”
“If I did not know better,” Klath muttered, “I would take your words to be an attempt to incite action against Captain Mekvar.”
Brakha paused for a second, his mind drifting back to Commander Kravon's failed challenge.
“I already had that opportunity,” he admitted eventually, “And I did not take it. Perhaps, if I had, we would have found our way to Sto-vo-kor.”
Klath’s often slow-paced brain put together the pieces in front of him.
“You were the one who spoke with Denella,” he surmised, “Who told those falsehoods about Captain Mekvar. Accusing him of cowardice.”
Brakha scowled and turned to face Klath, pulling his d'k tahg blade from its sheath.
Klath reacted to the threat by assuming a defensive posture, but was shocked to see the other Klingon make no aggressive move. Instead, he flipped the weapon around and offered the hilt to his adversary.
“What I told her was the truth,” he growled, “If you require proof, I can access logs, navigational data from the Jessik Nebula, whatever you require. But if you truly do not believe me, it would be easier for you to simply kill me. As Mekvar did to Commander Kravon and his followers.”
Klath remained frozen in place, studying the face of the world-weary Klingon in front of him, offering his blade. He couldn’t tell if this was an act of a man certain of the truth of his words, or simply someone who had lost all desire to keep living in exile, and saw this as an opportunity to end it.
Eventually, the determined look on Brakha's face and the ongoing concerns swirling inside Klath’s head combined to inform his next move.
“Put away your blade,” he intoned with a snarl.
“Then you believe me. That Mekvar suffered a moment of cowardice, and ever since he has been dragging us all onwards to our doom.”
“Perhaps,” Klath grunted, as Brakha sheathed his dagger again, “Or perhaps I do not wish the further dishonour of killing an unarmed Klingon in a turbolift.”
Brakha mustered a faintly amused snort at this.
“So, you still see the mission as a means to restore your honour?”
“I would not be here if I did not,” Klath stated flatly, and truthfully.
“But,” Brakha urged again, “There is more honour to be found in your plan than Mekvar’s. If you will not use force, you must at least try to convince him to change tactics. It seems that he would listen to you.”
Klath reached over to the controls and resumed the lift’s journey.
“What we must do is carry out our captain’s orders, and complete a full report on the status of our weapons and defensive systems. And then we must prepare for the glorious battle that awaits us…in the Gamelan system.”
He was sure that was the answer.
Despite his mounting internal concerns, he was still back amongst his people, with his old captain, in the uniform of the Klingon Defence Force. And he had spent too long in exile for this to be another false dawn.
Brakha continued to glare at Klath as the turbolift slowed to a stop at its destination.
“The battle in the Gamelan system is nothing more than a suicide mission,” he growled, “You know that as much as I.”
Klath flashed him a steely glare of his own as the lift doors opened.
“Then,” he retorted, with total sincerity, “It would seem that…today is a good day to die.”
****************************
“I really don’t wanna die today, you know.”
“Then for the next few minutes, and I say this with all the love and respect in the quadrant: Shut up, Sunek.”
The Vulcan didn’t fire a retort back at Jirel. Because he was too busy gazing out of the Bounty’s cockpit window, with a worried look on his face.
In front of them, a vast tetrahedral-shaped ship hung off their bow.
It hadn’t taken long from them crossing the border into Tholian space for a patrol vessel to alter their course to intercept. The clearance papers that Admiral Jenner had sent over subspace were about to get an immediate test.
“They’re hailing again,” Natasha called out from behind her console.
Jirel ignored the itching sensation that was developing around his spots, licked his lips and drew himself up as much as he could in his tattered centre seat.
“Ok then, here goes nothing. Put ‘em on.”
A split-second later, a curiously shrill and high-pitched voice filled the cockpit. The unerring attempts of the Bounty’s aging universal translator to deal with the distinctly alien speech of the crystalline Tholians.
“This is Commander Lasharen patrolling the twenty-sixth annex of the Tholian Assembly. This is our territory, and you are required to leave immediately.”
Jirel’s throat felt dry all of a sudden. Despite that, he mustered his friendliest tone in response.
“Hi, Commander Lasharen, this is the merchant ship Bounty. We respect your territory, but we are on an urgent mission of mercy. To, um, the Vargon system on the other side of your space. We’re transmitting our border authorisation…now.”
He glanced back at Natasha, who nodded in affirmation as she found herself slipping seamlessly into her temporary role as the Bounty’s communications officer.
There was a long pause over the open comms link, punctuated by the occasional hiss or click that Jirel couldn’t definitively identify either as random bursts of static or untranslatable fractions of Tholian speech.
“Merchant ship Bounty,” Lasharen's intelligible response finally came, “Your authorisation has been noted. However, we have scanned your vessel and detected no signs of the medical supplies that you claim to be transporting. Deceit will not be tolerated.”
A trickle of sweat meandered its way down the back of Jirel’s neck. He ignored that, and kept up his charm offensive.
“I’m sorry, I should have explained. The supplies form a treatment for an outbreak of Correllium fever. They’re especially delicate, so we have to transport them in magnesite-lined crates to protect them from interstellar radiation belts. These crates often interfere with ship-to-ship sensors.”
Another long pause.
Sunek remained silent, but he did swivel around in his seat to aim a confused raised eyebrow in the direction of the Trill, who dismissed him with as casual a wave of his hand as he could muster.
“If this is the case,” the Tholian voice returned, “You must permit a visual inspection. If you do not comply, we are authorised to use force in this matter.”
Sunek's second eyebrow raised up, as his look switched from confusion to deep concern. Jirel licked his lips again and deployed his gambit.
“We’d be happy to arrange a visual inspection,” he smiled through a mildly rictus grin, “But we’d need time to prepare our cargo bay for a Tholian boarding party, I’m afraid.”
“State how much time this task will take,” the reply came immediately.
“Well, last time it took roughly...ten hours, forty-three minutes. Which will, of course, delay us getting to the Vargon system and this medical emergency. Which has apparently already spread far enough to be seriously impacting the whole system. Including the tritanium mines on Vargon III. The ones I think have recently become the Tholian Assembly’s primary source of tritanium imports?”
Another pause. Sunek’s look had now come full circle back to one of total bemusement, his eyebrows now raised so high that they were interfering with his hairline.
“So, Commander Lasharen,” Jirel continued in the absence of a response, “I guess while we’re prepping our cargo bay for your inspection, you can get on with explaining to the Assembly Seniors that you’ll be responsible for any delays to their next tritanium shipment.”
The Trill leaned back in his seat as calmly as he could manage, doing his best to ignore the speed with which his heart was currently beating.
For a long while, there was no response. He stared out at the huge Tholian patrol ship in front of them, the one that could almost certainly turn the Bounty into little more than a trail of space debris with a single shot.
Eventually, just as Jirel found that he was leaning back so calmly, he was straining a muscle in his back, the high-pitched voice of Commander Lasharen returned.
“Merchant ship Bounty. In the interests of interstellar amity, we are prepared to allow your mission of mercy to continue. Do not deviate from your course. We will be observing you. Commander Lasharen out.”
With a final burst of static, the comms link went dead. And Jirel finally breathed out.
“Sunek,” he gestured as he stood and stepped towards the forward pilot’s position, “Resume course. Quickly.”
The Vulcan tapped his controls. Seconds later, the starscape ahead exploded in a burst of light as the Bounty jumped back to warp.
“Nice negotiating,” Natasha called out to the Trill, “We might make a diplomat of you yet.”
He accepted the playful backwards compliment with a smile, even as Sunek glanced at him, his eyebrows still on an escape course from his face.
“How the hell did you just blag your way out of that?” he asked.
“Well,” Jirel shrugged back, “Given we were planning on flying through Tholian territory with only the flimsiest of cover stories, I thought it was probably a good idea to spend some time doing a bit of research on the Vargon system. To find something useful just in case…that happened. Good plan, wouldn’t you say?”
The Vulcan considered this explanation for a moment, then stopped well short of a compliment.
“I mean, I still don’t think they liked us.”
“Come on, Sunek,” the Trill replied with an even wider grin, “You’ve got to be used to people not liking you by now.”
The pilot’s expression switched to an unamused one. But before he could respond, Jirel offered another comment of his own. Given Sunek’s recent complaints about him.
“Oh, and by the way: That’s what I do around here.”
And, for Jirel’s final trick, he was able to stun the galaxy’s most talkative Vulcan into silence.
Klath was becoming an expert at ignoring his concerns.
As he stood in the turbolift onboard the qajunpaQ alongside Lieutenant Brakha, he worked on dismissing several concerns that were now rattling around inside his head. Not only his concerns about what he was doing in the uniform he was wearing, but the concerns that Denella had raised about Captain Mekvar, and now the concerns he had about Mekvar's battle plan.
Even as he worked on compartmentalising the swirling chaos in his head, a fresh concern joined the overcrowded party, as Brakha tapped a button on the wall to halt the turbolift mid-journey.
Klath looked at the other Klingon with a modicum of annoyance, but Brakha began speaking before he could say anything.
“You are correct,” he hissed, “Captain Mekvar’s plan is flawed.”
Klath's eyes narrowed a tad, as he tried to figure out whether this was a genuine comment, or some sort of trick from the chief engineer.
“He commands this vessel,” he replied curtly, “And he has given his orders.”
With that, he reached out to resume the lift. But Brakha persisted.
“There is no need to deny it, we both know the truth. There will be no glory for this vessel in the Gamelan system. Only death.”
“Death in battle is glory,” Klath pointed out.
This earned a bitter scoff from Brakha, who shook his head slowly.
“There is far more glory in your plan. Attacking the V'rad system. And I am sure that many of the warriors onboard would agree with you.”
“If I did not know better,” Klath muttered, “I would take your words to be an attempt to incite action against Captain Mekvar.”
Brakha paused for a second, his mind drifting back to Commander Kravon's failed challenge.
“I already had that opportunity,” he admitted eventually, “And I did not take it. Perhaps, if I had, we would have found our way to Sto-vo-kor.”
Klath’s often slow-paced brain put together the pieces in front of him.
“You were the one who spoke with Denella,” he surmised, “Who told those falsehoods about Captain Mekvar. Accusing him of cowardice.”
Brakha scowled and turned to face Klath, pulling his d'k tahg blade from its sheath.
Klath reacted to the threat by assuming a defensive posture, but was shocked to see the other Klingon make no aggressive move. Instead, he flipped the weapon around and offered the hilt to his adversary.
“What I told her was the truth,” he growled, “If you require proof, I can access logs, navigational data from the Jessik Nebula, whatever you require. But if you truly do not believe me, it would be easier for you to simply kill me. As Mekvar did to Commander Kravon and his followers.”
Klath remained frozen in place, studying the face of the world-weary Klingon in front of him, offering his blade. He couldn’t tell if this was an act of a man certain of the truth of his words, or simply someone who had lost all desire to keep living in exile, and saw this as an opportunity to end it.
Eventually, the determined look on Brakha's face and the ongoing concerns swirling inside Klath’s head combined to inform his next move.
“Put away your blade,” he intoned with a snarl.
“Then you believe me. That Mekvar suffered a moment of cowardice, and ever since he has been dragging us all onwards to our doom.”
“Perhaps,” Klath grunted, as Brakha sheathed his dagger again, “Or perhaps I do not wish the further dishonour of killing an unarmed Klingon in a turbolift.”
Brakha mustered a faintly amused snort at this.
“So, you still see the mission as a means to restore your honour?”
“I would not be here if I did not,” Klath stated flatly, and truthfully.
“But,” Brakha urged again, “There is more honour to be found in your plan than Mekvar’s. If you will not use force, you must at least try to convince him to change tactics. It seems that he would listen to you.”
Klath reached over to the controls and resumed the lift’s journey.
“What we must do is carry out our captain’s orders, and complete a full report on the status of our weapons and defensive systems. And then we must prepare for the glorious battle that awaits us…in the Gamelan system.”
He was sure that was the answer.
Despite his mounting internal concerns, he was still back amongst his people, with his old captain, in the uniform of the Klingon Defence Force. And he had spent too long in exile for this to be another false dawn.
Brakha continued to glare at Klath as the turbolift slowed to a stop at its destination.
“The battle in the Gamelan system is nothing more than a suicide mission,” he growled, “You know that as much as I.”
Klath flashed him a steely glare of his own as the lift doors opened.
“Then,” he retorted, with total sincerity, “It would seem that…today is a good day to die.”
****************************
“I really don’t wanna die today, you know.”
“Then for the next few minutes, and I say this with all the love and respect in the quadrant: Shut up, Sunek.”
The Vulcan didn’t fire a retort back at Jirel. Because he was too busy gazing out of the Bounty’s cockpit window, with a worried look on his face.
In front of them, a vast tetrahedral-shaped ship hung off their bow.
It hadn’t taken long from them crossing the border into Tholian space for a patrol vessel to alter their course to intercept. The clearance papers that Admiral Jenner had sent over subspace were about to get an immediate test.
“They’re hailing again,” Natasha called out from behind her console.
Jirel ignored the itching sensation that was developing around his spots, licked his lips and drew himself up as much as he could in his tattered centre seat.
“Ok then, here goes nothing. Put ‘em on.”
A split-second later, a curiously shrill and high-pitched voice filled the cockpit. The unerring attempts of the Bounty’s aging universal translator to deal with the distinctly alien speech of the crystalline Tholians.
“This is Commander Lasharen patrolling the twenty-sixth annex of the Tholian Assembly. This is our territory, and you are required to leave immediately.”
Jirel’s throat felt dry all of a sudden. Despite that, he mustered his friendliest tone in response.
“Hi, Commander Lasharen, this is the merchant ship Bounty. We respect your territory, but we are on an urgent mission of mercy. To, um, the Vargon system on the other side of your space. We’re transmitting our border authorisation…now.”
He glanced back at Natasha, who nodded in affirmation as she found herself slipping seamlessly into her temporary role as the Bounty’s communications officer.
There was a long pause over the open comms link, punctuated by the occasional hiss or click that Jirel couldn’t definitively identify either as random bursts of static or untranslatable fractions of Tholian speech.
“Merchant ship Bounty,” Lasharen's intelligible response finally came, “Your authorisation has been noted. However, we have scanned your vessel and detected no signs of the medical supplies that you claim to be transporting. Deceit will not be tolerated.”
A trickle of sweat meandered its way down the back of Jirel’s neck. He ignored that, and kept up his charm offensive.
“I’m sorry, I should have explained. The supplies form a treatment for an outbreak of Correllium fever. They’re especially delicate, so we have to transport them in magnesite-lined crates to protect them from interstellar radiation belts. These crates often interfere with ship-to-ship sensors.”
Another long pause.
Sunek remained silent, but he did swivel around in his seat to aim a confused raised eyebrow in the direction of the Trill, who dismissed him with as casual a wave of his hand as he could muster.
“If this is the case,” the Tholian voice returned, “You must permit a visual inspection. If you do not comply, we are authorised to use force in this matter.”
Sunek's second eyebrow raised up, as his look switched from confusion to deep concern. Jirel licked his lips again and deployed his gambit.
“We’d be happy to arrange a visual inspection,” he smiled through a mildly rictus grin, “But we’d need time to prepare our cargo bay for a Tholian boarding party, I’m afraid.”
“State how much time this task will take,” the reply came immediately.
“Well, last time it took roughly...ten hours, forty-three minutes. Which will, of course, delay us getting to the Vargon system and this medical emergency. Which has apparently already spread far enough to be seriously impacting the whole system. Including the tritanium mines on Vargon III. The ones I think have recently become the Tholian Assembly’s primary source of tritanium imports?”
Another pause. Sunek’s look had now come full circle back to one of total bemusement, his eyebrows now raised so high that they were interfering with his hairline.
“So, Commander Lasharen,” Jirel continued in the absence of a response, “I guess while we’re prepping our cargo bay for your inspection, you can get on with explaining to the Assembly Seniors that you’ll be responsible for any delays to their next tritanium shipment.”
The Trill leaned back in his seat as calmly as he could manage, doing his best to ignore the speed with which his heart was currently beating.
For a long while, there was no response. He stared out at the huge Tholian patrol ship in front of them, the one that could almost certainly turn the Bounty into little more than a trail of space debris with a single shot.
Eventually, just as Jirel found that he was leaning back so calmly, he was straining a muscle in his back, the high-pitched voice of Commander Lasharen returned.
“Merchant ship Bounty. In the interests of interstellar amity, we are prepared to allow your mission of mercy to continue. Do not deviate from your course. We will be observing you. Commander Lasharen out.”
With a final burst of static, the comms link went dead. And Jirel finally breathed out.
“Sunek,” he gestured as he stood and stepped towards the forward pilot’s position, “Resume course. Quickly.”
The Vulcan tapped his controls. Seconds later, the starscape ahead exploded in a burst of light as the Bounty jumped back to warp.
“Nice negotiating,” Natasha called out to the Trill, “We might make a diplomat of you yet.”
He accepted the playful backwards compliment with a smile, even as Sunek glanced at him, his eyebrows still on an escape course from his face.
“How the hell did you just blag your way out of that?” he asked.
“Well,” Jirel shrugged back, “Given we were planning on flying through Tholian territory with only the flimsiest of cover stories, I thought it was probably a good idea to spend some time doing a bit of research on the Vargon system. To find something useful just in case…that happened. Good plan, wouldn’t you say?”
The Vulcan considered this explanation for a moment, then stopped well short of a compliment.
“I mean, I still don’t think they liked us.”
“Come on, Sunek,” the Trill replied with an even wider grin, “You’ve got to be used to people not liking you by now.”
The pilot’s expression switched to an unamused one. But before he could respond, Jirel offered another comment of his own. Given Sunek’s recent complaints about him.
“Oh, and by the way: That’s what I do around here.”
And, for Jirel’s final trick, he was able to stun the galaxy’s most talkative Vulcan into silence.
Last edited:
Similar threads
