Glal’s summons to the brig had been a brief three-word summation over comms, ‘We have them.’
Trujillo fairly stormed into the security bay having prepared herself for additional casualties from the security team.
Instead, she found two disheveled Human-looking individuals lying unconscious in separate holding cells and being examined by medical personnel.
Glal and the security specialists were stowing gas cylinders of some kind into the armory vault and at Trujillo’s arrival the Tellarite paused to address his CO.
“Two soft-shelled Klingons for you, Commodore. We’ve confirmed their species with blood and tissue samples.”
“No injuries among your team?” she inquired, still hurting from the mission’s recent loss.
“No, sir. They were heavily armed with disruptor rifles, pistols and various bladed weapons, but we didn’t give them the opportunity to use any of it. Once we had them located, we sealed off that section of the conduit and gassed them with neurozine. We drug them out of the service conduits and beamed back. Station security wisely opted not to intervene.”
She raised an appraising eyebrow, impressed.
“Fight smarter, not harder,” Glal quoted from behind his scraggly beard. He cast a glance at one of the newest prisoners as the medics and security specialists backed out of the cell and activated the forcefield barrier. The fields of the other holding cells containing the Klingon brigands had been set to opaque sound-proofed, denying them the spectacle of Starfleet’s most recent captures.
“Agents of the Klingon So’taj, I’d bet my pension on it,” Glal grumbled. “It appears our Klingon friends may have directed significantly more resources into this little operation than we had guessed.”
“It makes sense,” Trujillo concurred. “If their military wanted this to be a covert affair, it stands to reason the Klingon intelligence service would be involved.”
Trujillo crossed her arms, looking thoughtful. “Is it fair to assume that if we couldn’t extract information out of the pirate crews then getting anything out of two of their intel types is a lost cause?”
“Yes, sir. They’re rumored to be subject to torture as part of their training, to include bouts with their own mind-sifter device.” Glal performed a safety check of his phaser pistol, removed its power-pack, and handed the weapon and e-mag over to the armory chief. “We’ll go through the motions just the same, sir, but everyone involved will know it’s just for show.”
Trujillo considered that for a moment. She then bade Glal to follow her and led him out into the corridor and into a nearby empty crew break room, assuring their privacy by sealing the door. “I presume you’ve heard?”
Glal sighed. “Yes, sir. A damn shame. She was a fine officer.”
“Indeed she was. In that vein, we need someone heading up Operations. I don’t like that post sitting vacant for too long. Ops is too integral to the smooth operation of the ship.”
An inclination of Glal’s large head conceded the point. “Agreed, sir. Shukla would be my first choice, given that he’s the deputy Ops manager.”
Trujillo appeared unconvinced. “He’s pretty new. He’s been aboard for all of what, two months?”
“Almost five now, sir. He got top marks aboard the Guangzhou, and he’s coming up on a time-at-grade promotion to full lieutenant. DeSilva told me herself she was impressed with how he was coming along.”
Trujillo appeared to mull that over. “I’d been considering promoting Naifeh to JG and moving him over to the post.”
Glal’s reticence was apparent. “Naifeh’s a good pilot and he’s advancing well as a junior officer, but he’s lacking a lot of the prerequisite Ops data and personnel management training that Shukla’s already got under his belt. That, and putting a newly promoted JG over Shukla in the department’s chain-of-command would be a slap in Shukla’s face. I’d anticipate an almost immediate transfer request.”
She nodded. “Sage counsel as always, my friend. Thank you. Shukla it is, then. I’ll let him know this afternoon.”
Trujillo turned to leave but paused as Glal called, “Commodore?”
She turned back.
“How are you doing with this, sir?” Glal’s concern was a palpable thing.
“Awful, actually, but I’ll muddle through.” Trujillo was caught off guard by her own admission. “It was just so damned sudden.”
“It nearly always is, sir.”
“Bridge to Commodore Trujillo,” the bridge called via the overheads.
“Go ahead.”
“Sir, the starship Exeter is on approach at high warp, ETA thirty minutes. Captain Kiersonn is requesting to come aboard to meet with you.”
Trujillo’s jaw tightened noticeably. “Understood. Make arrangements to have him beamed over. Commander Glal will meet him in transporter room three.”
“Well,” Glal noted acidly, “this can’t be good.”
“This smells like Markopoulos,” she agreed. “He’s sent his little pet out here to check up on me.”
Glal eyed her warily. “All due respect, sir, this would be one of those times when we want to play nicely with the other children, at least until we figure out what his angle is.”
“So noted,” she sighed. “Please greet the captain and see him to my ready room.”
* * *
“Enter.”
The doors parted to admit Glal, who stepped aside to bid entry to Captain Olaf Kiersonn of the Excelsior-class USS Exeter.
“Thank you, Commander,” Trujillo directed towards Glal, who stepped out of the compartment with a mischievous wink that went unnoticed by Kiersonn.
Trujillo stood, gesturing for Kiersonn to take a seat. “Please make yourself comfortable, Captain.” She extended a hand, mindful of Glal’s advice.
Kiersonn was tall, just under two meters, with a slim frame and a well-kept grey beard. His grey hair was long, worn in a single braid down his back that was rumored to honor his Viking ancestry. He wore a stylish captain’s-jacket variation of the uniform tunic over his white turtleneck undershirt.
“Thank you, sir,” he shook her hand and waited for Trujillo to resume her seat before he took his.
“I presume this isn’t a social call?” Trujillo asked pointedly.
“Not as such, no,” he replied, somewhat ill-at-ease. “As I’m sure you’ve already surmised, Admiral Markopoulos has dispatched me on a fact-finding mission to ascertain your progress with Operation Venatic.”
“It’s all in my reports, Captain. If you’re checking up on me, I’ll assume you have access to those missives I’ve sent up the chain.”
“I do, sir, and I’d like to offer my condolences on the loss of Lieutenant DeSilva.”
Trujillo inspected him as she accepted his gesture with a nod. “Thank you.” Was this genuine, she wondered, or was he setting her up for bad news or a knife in the back?
“You know,” she said, “the admiral dropped your name when he bought off on my mission proposal, Captain. I half expected you were here to nudge me out of my chair and assume command of the task force.”
He shook his head. “No, sir. Exeter just finished a three-month refit, and we performed a max-speed run out here to test out our engine upgrades.” He appeared momentarily pained. “Permission to speak freely, Commodore?”
She waved a hand. “Please.”
“Yes, Markopoulos sent me out here in a blatant effort to light a fire under you, despite the fact that based on your reports you’re doing everything you can to locate the Klingons. He sent along provisional orders to have me assume command of the task force if I found that you weren’t up to the job. I have no intention of executing those orders.”
He sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together in his lap. “Look, I know I’ve earned a reputation as the admiral’s errand boy, but those efforts, however detestable, have finally paid off for me. Exeter’s slated to start a five-year deep space exploration mission next month, hence our refit. I got what I want, and I don’t feel I owe the old man anything in return at this point. I’ll tell the cranky old bastard whatever you’d like.”
Her skepticism was all too obvious. “Really?”
Kiersonn held up his hands. “It’s true. I’ll be hundreds of light years away soon, far from the admiral’s clutches. I’m technically under Exploration Command right now; this was more of a last personal favor to him that jibed with our need for a shakedown. I’ve hated having to work under that man’s thumb. You may be on his shit list, but at least you have the self-respect that comes from knowing you’ve never had to lick his boots.”
“So, what do you plan to tell Markopoulos?”
His answering smile appeared genuine. “Whatever you tell me, Commodore, short of ordering him to piss up a rope.”
She surprised herself by laughing out loud at that. “Wouldn’t that be a sight?”
Kiersonn’s grin faded, and he grew more serious. “I do have something I’d like to offer, sir, if you’ve a mind to hear me out?”
Trujillo presented the same wave of her hand. “Certainly.”
“In going over your mission reports, I’ve seen that you’re having no luck getting answers from the Klingons you’ve captured. I may have a solution to your problem.”
“An airlock?” she joked. “I have those, too.”
“Better, sir. A Betazoid.”
“A what now?”
* * *
Kiersonn had introduced Bemsal Craylee as his ship’s civilian bartender, a member of a species that Trujillo was unfamiliar with. The young man certainly appeared Human enough, with the exception of his black, iris-less eyes.
Kiersonn had explained that Craylee’s homeworld had been contacted by Starfleet some thirty-years earlier but had since expressed little interest in diplomatic relations with the Federation. Still, some Betazoids chose to explore Federation worlds as tourists or students, eager to investigate the multispecies panoply that was the UFP.
Most interesting of all, Kiersonn had explained that Betazoids were very powerful telepaths. Unlike Vulcans, they need not touch a person to read their thoughts or memories, and also unlike the Vulcans, some Betazoids had no moral qualms about using their abilities to extract information from unwilling subjects.
Craylee was apparently one of his species with a more flexible moral framework. He would never use his skills to compromise a friend or stranger for his own personal benefit or gratification, but Craylee could not abide bullies. Criminals, pirates, and the like, those persons Craylee was more than willing to scan if it could potentially save lives.
And so, Trujillo, Kiersonn and Craylee found themselves in Reykjavík’s brig, having chased out all other personnel due to the delicacy and dubious legality of their plan. True, there were no specific Starfleet regulations at present forbidding the telepathic scanning of sentient minds, due mostly to the fact that the various Federation species possessing such psionic talents had their own codified prohibitions against such. Still, they were skirting the edges of ethical conduct with this course of action.
“Are you certain you don’t want to wait outside, Commodore?” Kiersonn asked. “It’d be another layer of plausible deniability, however thin.”
Trujillo shook her head fractionally. “No, thank you. I’m responsible for everything that happens on this ship, this included.”
Kiersonn smiled grimly. “I figured as much, sir. I wanted to offer just the same.”
“Will they be in much pain?” Trujillo asked, still flirting with second thoughts about this.
The captain laughed lightly. “They won’t even know it’s happening. That’s our other defense. They can’t very well refuse or object to something they know nothing about.”
The young man loitered in front of each of the opaqued cell barriers for a few moments then returned to the two starship commanders. “What would you like to know?”
* * *
Arggentha Secundus, Myrovar System
The Orion marauder blew apart with the detonation of Shras’ volley of photons, adding another victim to Task Force Scythe’s tally for the day.
“By the gods,” Glal murmured from his bridge post, “those missile-cruisers can certainly lay down the fire.”
Trujillo had to agree. The Andor-class ship’s torpedo spreads put Reykjavík’s healthy rate of fire to shame. It was for that reason that the rest of Task Force Scythe’s ships were essentially running interference for Shras, herding the pirates’ other misfit corsairs, skiffs, and brigs into the missile-cruiser’s weapons envelope.
The ambush on the Klingon pirate base, an abandoned Tellarite asteroid mining station, had become a slaughter. The pirates, used to having the advantage of surprise, were wholly unprepared to be attacked by a well-armed battle force. Jamming local subspace frequencies had only added to their woes, denying them the ability to coordinate a defense against Starfleet’s onslaught.
Even Kiersonn’s Exeter had joined in, her captain insisting that his crew needed live-fire tactical practice before undertaking their deep-space exploratory mission.
In short order, a Klingon formation of seventeen assorted ships had been whittled down to a remaining five. With Shras and Exeter having blasted apart the asteroid sheltering them, their only recourse was seeking to escape the system’s gravity well so they could safely jump to warp and attempt to flee.
Trujillo had reconfigured her swing-arm console to display a three-dimensional hologram of the battlespace in the air in front of the command chair.
“Have Hathaway, Feynman, and Zelenskyy come to zero-seven-three-mark-two-two-four and cut off their egress from the system. I don’t want any of them escaping to rebuild this awful little band of malcontents someplace else.”
“Aye, sir. Transmitting orders.”
Trujillo toggled a comms channel open, broadcasting in the clear. “Klingon vessels, you will stand down and prepare to be boarded. If you resist, you will be destroyed. Your attempts to flee like cowardly petaQ amuses me. Only by surrendering will you live to see another day. If you choose to run or stand your ground, you will die just the same.”
Glal, usually the voice of prudence, growled his approval from his post behind her.
“The raider at three-three-seven-mark-one-nine-four is now in weapons range,” Jarrod announced from the Tactical station.
“Torpedo spread, proximity burst to overwhelm shields and disable. Follow up with phasers if necessary. Fire when ready.”
Torpedoes flashed, phasers blazed and another Klingon marauder was updated on the holographic display, it’s icon flashing from red to yellow, indicating its disabled status.
“Find me another,” Trujillo ordered, fully engrossed in the running battle.
Lieutenant Shukla, his Sikh turban a glaring reminder of DeSilva’s absence at Ops, announced, “Signal from al-Ashtar, sir. They report one of their torpedoes has prematurely detonated. They believe it may have struck a cloaked vessel.”
This garnered Trujillo’s full attention. “Tell Captain Rith’vin to proceed with caution. Sciences, sensor sweep of that location, look for tachyon particle fields.”
“On it, sir,” Garrett affirmed.
“Mister Naifeh, set course for those coordinates and engage, full impulse. Ops, order Exeter and Vespula to continue the pursuit.”
Glal moved to lean in, whispering to Trujillo over her shoulder. “We may have got someone’s attention.”
“That’s what I’m concerned with,” she replied quietly. Trujillo glanced over at Sciences, wanting to prompt an update but satisfied that Garrett would alert her as soon as she had something.
“Tachyon surge ahead!” Garrett exclaimed. “Collision close!”
“Helm, hard over!” Trujillo ordered, activating her seat’s restraint system as Reykjavík’s extreme maneuvering momentarily overwhelmed the ship’s inertial dampers.
“Vessel decloaking,” Garrett continued. “Reads as a Klingon K’tavra-class battlecruiser.”
“Bring us around, nose-to-nose with them.” Trujillo said in a low voice.
A larger, more powerful evolution of the venerable K’tinga-class battlecruiser, the K’tavra was the empire’s newest heavy warship. Bristling with weapons ports and sheathed in reactive armor, it looked every bit the part of a Klingon battle-wagon.
The open red maw of the ship’s active torpedo tube only added to its menace.
Reykjavík came around in a tight arc, using the momentum from her evasive maneuver to swing back to face this newest threat.
“Stop engines,” Trujillo ordered. “Hold position here. Tactical, reinforce forward shields with auxiliary power.”
Shukla announced, “We’re being hailed, Commodore.”
Trujillo released her chair’s safety restraints, standing to face the main viewer. “On screen.”
The image of a glowering Klingon warrior seated in his throne-like command chair appeared, the man’s greying hair and visible decorations giving testimony to his long career. It was not lost on Trujillo that reckless young warriors were not entrusted with the empire’s largest, newest and most destructive assets.
Trujillo heard Glal’s involuntary intake of breath from behind her as recognition dawned on her and she fought to suppress a similar reaction.
“I am General Kang of the Klingon Imperial Navy,” the man rumbled in a voice that had made whole worlds tremble in the not so distant past. “Explain your purpose here or face the full might of our forces.”
Garrett’s voice rang out in the otherwise silent bridge. “Sir, additional Klingon warships are decloaking.”
* * *
