* * *
“What have you got, Captain?” Trujillo inquired across subspace from her ready room data terminal.
“It began as an anomalous contact, sir,” Commander Va'obb replied. The bulbous-headed Arkenite continued, “Vespula was tracking a convoy of Boslic refugee ships fleeing the Toliza system when we detected an object decloaking near us, roughly the size of a photon torpedo. We initially feared the Klingons might be deploying cloaked mines, but further examination indicated that the object was a message drone. It delivered a brief, localized signals burst on a Starfleet frequency before self-destructing. The transmission was a message for you, sir.”
“For me?”
“Yes, sir. Specifically. It requests that you and Reykjavík rendezvous with a Klingon ship at coordinates that I’m transmitting to you now. ETA for the meeting is at 0400 Zulu-time tomorrow.”
“Any indication as to the reason for the meeting?” she asked.
“None. However, the message is signed, ‘the wielder of Z’Orberik’s blade.’”
Trujillo suppressed a smirk at that revelation. “Understood. Thank you, Captain. I’ll need Vespula and Feynman to escort us to that rendezvous in case our Klingon friends are plotting some kind of mischief.”
“Understood, sir. We’ll be standing by. Vespula, out.”
The transmission terminated and Trujillo shot a curious look to Glal, seated across from her desk.
“Well, something’s afoot,” she surmised. “Kang doesn’t just request a meeting for the hell of it.”
“You suspect an ambush?” Glal asked skeptically.
“No, not really, but anything’s possible. Now that Klingon aggression is out in the open, sneak attacks on individual starships wouldn’t make a lot of sense. Especially since their forces have been going out of their way to avoid confrontations with Starfleet.”
Glal stood, stifling a groan as his knees crackled. “Still, taking two extra ships with us is a good idea. Better to be safe than dead,” he offered sagely. He looked out the ready room’s viewport, admiring the local constellations before saying, “The Klingons have lost more ships and troops than they’d planned to. The assistance we gave those colonies in upgrading their orbital defenses gave the empire an unexpected bloody nose.”
Trujillo replied with a disconsolate grunt. “It wasn’t enough. They were overrun and occupied anyway. So what if a few hundreds or even thousands more warriors died in the effort? It’s what they want, after all. What they spend their days glorifying.”
“You would think that,” Glal countered, “but I wonder how much of that is a grand social pretense? Is there really any glory when a Klingon soldier in the bowels of an engine room is atomized when his ship explodes? Does his or her family mourn their absence any less, regardless of how many songs are sung about the honor of it?”
Glal turned his bearded face towards her, his tusks quivering with irony. “Imagine what it must be like to have to grow up in that society. The crushing weight of those expectations. Any dreams a child may have of the future would be supplanted by the prospect of their being slain in combat at some point. What of their artists, their scholars, the shopkeepers and the old man who cooks the gagh at the corner kiosk?”
“You’re suggesting a society so devoted to war and conquest is more aspirational than concrete reality?”
“It’s possible. Quite probable, actually. I don’t see how their culture could function, otherwise. Someone has to build the ships, work the farms, and toil in the factories. You can’t do all those things if everyone is a warrior.”
“They subjugate whole worlds and take their people as slave labor. jeghpu'wI', they call them.”
“Well, there is that,” Glal allowed.
“I’d be a lot more empathetic if they weren’t butchering innocents at this very moment,” Trujillo remarked acidly. Her weary sigh presaged, “I don’t know. When I was young it all seemed so much simpler. They were the enemy, bloodthirsty savages just waiting to descend upon a thousand worlds and crush them under the weight of their ancient empire. Now, though? Now they’re just… people, as flawed and fickle and complex as the rest of us.”
He grinned. “You prefer your foes painted with a broad brush?”
“It helps me sleep at night,” she confessed.
Glal gestured to the doors leading to the bridge. “Shall we go find out what General Kang wants from us, sir?”
* * *
Zeta Upsilon IX had been mined out a century before, the planetoid having surrendered its heavy metals and dilithium over the previous five-hundred years to countless spacefaring species. What remained was a roughly spherical husk surrounded by a cloud of debris that stretched out across half the system like a massive comet’s tail.
This made it a perfect location for an illicit rendezvous far from prying eyes or sensors.
Shukla’s summons brought Trujillo onto the bridge from the ready room with a pre-emptive call of, “As you were,” before the lieutenant could formally announce her arrival.
“Report,” she instructed as she assumed the newly vacated command seat.
“A Bird-of-Prey has just decloaked five thousand kilometers directly ahead, sir. They’re signaling via direct laser-link, requesting permission to beam a party over.”
Glal stepped out of the turbolift, fastening the shoulder clasp of his tunic and looking as though he had just crawled out of bed. He spotted the Klingon scout nose-on with Reykjavík. “They’re prompt. That’s unusually considerate of them.”
“They’re requesting to beam over, Commander. Please see to the arrangements, taking all necessary security precautions, of course.”
“Of course, sir,” he echoed. Pointing towards Jarrod, Glal ordered, “With me, Lieutenant, and have a security detail meet us in transporter room two.”
* * *
Three partially formed patterns shimmered atop the transporter pad.
The chief advised, “There are three individuals, sir. I’m holding them in transit. One of them is inside a container… looks to be some kind of cryogenic tank. No weapons detected.”
Glal snuffled in response, “None that we can detect, anyway,” over his shoulder to Jarrod and his security team. Then with a nod to the transporter operator he said, “Bring them in.”
He straightened involuntarily as the figure of General Kang materialized on the pad, along with a shorter Klingon carrying a satchel over his shoulder, notable for not being clad in their seemingly ubiquitous armor. A torpedo-sized containment vessel lay across two of the pads, presumably the cryogenic unit.
Glal called the assembled security team to attention.
“I am Lt. Commander Glal, first officer. Welcome aboard Reykjavík, General.”
Kang scanned the Starfleet contingent, then turned to introduce his companion. “This is Physician Kardec, my medical officer. We have urgent need of your medical facilities, Commander.”
Glal nodded to Jarrod, an indication he should scan the cryo-chamber to ensure it didn’t contain weapons, explosives, or toxins of any kind. A quick but comprehensive sweep was completed and Jarrod gave the all-clear.
Glal led the party to Sickbay, notifying Trujillo of their destination on route.
The commodore arrived to find Dr. Bennett inspecting the readouts on the cryo-chamber’s antiquated display. He looked up to give Trujillo a questioning expression as he swept a sensor wand over the statis tank. “Single male Klingon occupant in cryonic suspension. He’s suffered significant injuries and I’d judge him to be in critical condition.”
Trujillo wheeled on Kang. “What is this about, General?” she barked. “Tell me you didn’t just pull me a parsec out of my way because some favored soldier of yours has been wounded?”
Glal tensed, expecting outrage from Kang who doubtless was not used to being spoken to so forcefully, especially by Federation officers.
Instead, the general merely inclined his head towards the tank. “This man may be the only one who can stop the empire’s push into the borderlands. If he dies, all hope of tempering that offensive is lost.” Kang gestured with evident frustration at the imperial physician standing idly by, transfixed at the sight of all the advanced Starfleet medical equipment. “Our healers were not up to the task.”
The Tellarite realized suddenly that Kang had accepted Trujillo’s ferocity as Klingon asperity. It was how they addressed one another, and he appeared to take no offense at such coming from her.
Trujillo looked to Bennett and her curt nod prompted the doctor and his medical staff to sweep the cryo-tank towards Sickbay’s surgical theater.
As they departed, she turned again to the Klingon general. “Explain.”
“His father sat on the High Council. Theirs is an old and honored house. His family has opposed the chancellor’s ill-advised offensive, and their stance had nearly split the council on the matter. This courted the chancellor’s wrath. The same disguised brigands and operatives used to test the defenses of the alien colonies were sent against his family’s stronghold on Khorast. His father and siblings were killed in the attack, but he managed to fight his way past their blockade and made it to my flagship.”
Trujillo absorbed that for a long moment, watching through the transparent partition as the Klingon physician assisted Bennett’s team with removing the wounded man from the stasis tank. “Presuming we save his life, what then?”
“We see him safely back to Qo’noS, to take his rightful place on the Council as the surviving head of his household. From there, he may be able to sway the Council's decision regarding this invasion.”
“We?” she said sharply, her head snapping around to direct a withering gaze on Kang. “You propose we escort you to the homeworld to safeguard him from further attack?”
Kang hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with that idea. “I do not know. If your doctors are unable to save him, this goes no further. If he lives, the opposing houses on the council may send their own ships to try and kill him. So far this power struggle has been kept to the shadows, but an attempt on his life in the open could spark a civil war.”
Trujillo’s reply could have frozen plasma. “And you brought him… here.” She touched hand to her forehead in a gesture of exasperation. “You risk dragging the Federation into a Klingon civil war.”
“Yes,” Kang replied, guileless.
“So be it,” she said after a second’s consideration. “If Federation blood may yet be spilled in this young man’s defense, I would ask to know his name at the very least.”
“He is K’mpec, son of Anag, and last remaining heir of House Korrd.”
* * *
“What have you got, Captain?” Trujillo inquired across subspace from her ready room data terminal.
“It began as an anomalous contact, sir,” Commander Va'obb replied. The bulbous-headed Arkenite continued, “Vespula was tracking a convoy of Boslic refugee ships fleeing the Toliza system when we detected an object decloaking near us, roughly the size of a photon torpedo. We initially feared the Klingons might be deploying cloaked mines, but further examination indicated that the object was a message drone. It delivered a brief, localized signals burst on a Starfleet frequency before self-destructing. The transmission was a message for you, sir.”
“For me?”
“Yes, sir. Specifically. It requests that you and Reykjavík rendezvous with a Klingon ship at coordinates that I’m transmitting to you now. ETA for the meeting is at 0400 Zulu-time tomorrow.”
“Any indication as to the reason for the meeting?” she asked.
“None. However, the message is signed, ‘the wielder of Z’Orberik’s blade.’”
Trujillo suppressed a smirk at that revelation. “Understood. Thank you, Captain. I’ll need Vespula and Feynman to escort us to that rendezvous in case our Klingon friends are plotting some kind of mischief.”
“Understood, sir. We’ll be standing by. Vespula, out.”
The transmission terminated and Trujillo shot a curious look to Glal, seated across from her desk.
“Well, something’s afoot,” she surmised. “Kang doesn’t just request a meeting for the hell of it.”
“You suspect an ambush?” Glal asked skeptically.
“No, not really, but anything’s possible. Now that Klingon aggression is out in the open, sneak attacks on individual starships wouldn’t make a lot of sense. Especially since their forces have been going out of their way to avoid confrontations with Starfleet.”
Glal stood, stifling a groan as his knees crackled. “Still, taking two extra ships with us is a good idea. Better to be safe than dead,” he offered sagely. He looked out the ready room’s viewport, admiring the local constellations before saying, “The Klingons have lost more ships and troops than they’d planned to. The assistance we gave those colonies in upgrading their orbital defenses gave the empire an unexpected bloody nose.”
Trujillo replied with a disconsolate grunt. “It wasn’t enough. They were overrun and occupied anyway. So what if a few hundreds or even thousands more warriors died in the effort? It’s what they want, after all. What they spend their days glorifying.”
“You would think that,” Glal countered, “but I wonder how much of that is a grand social pretense? Is there really any glory when a Klingon soldier in the bowels of an engine room is atomized when his ship explodes? Does his or her family mourn their absence any less, regardless of how many songs are sung about the honor of it?”
Glal turned his bearded face towards her, his tusks quivering with irony. “Imagine what it must be like to have to grow up in that society. The crushing weight of those expectations. Any dreams a child may have of the future would be supplanted by the prospect of their being slain in combat at some point. What of their artists, their scholars, the shopkeepers and the old man who cooks the gagh at the corner kiosk?”
“You’re suggesting a society so devoted to war and conquest is more aspirational than concrete reality?”
“It’s possible. Quite probable, actually. I don’t see how their culture could function, otherwise. Someone has to build the ships, work the farms, and toil in the factories. You can’t do all those things if everyone is a warrior.”
“They subjugate whole worlds and take their people as slave labor. jeghpu'wI', they call them.”
“Well, there is that,” Glal allowed.
“I’d be a lot more empathetic if they weren’t butchering innocents at this very moment,” Trujillo remarked acidly. Her weary sigh presaged, “I don’t know. When I was young it all seemed so much simpler. They were the enemy, bloodthirsty savages just waiting to descend upon a thousand worlds and crush them under the weight of their ancient empire. Now, though? Now they’re just… people, as flawed and fickle and complex as the rest of us.”
He grinned. “You prefer your foes painted with a broad brush?”
“It helps me sleep at night,” she confessed.
Glal gestured to the doors leading to the bridge. “Shall we go find out what General Kang wants from us, sir?”
* * *
Zeta Upsilon IX had been mined out a century before, the planetoid having surrendered its heavy metals and dilithium over the previous five-hundred years to countless spacefaring species. What remained was a roughly spherical husk surrounded by a cloud of debris that stretched out across half the system like a massive comet’s tail.
This made it a perfect location for an illicit rendezvous far from prying eyes or sensors.
Shukla’s summons brought Trujillo onto the bridge from the ready room with a pre-emptive call of, “As you were,” before the lieutenant could formally announce her arrival.
“Report,” she instructed as she assumed the newly vacated command seat.
“A Bird-of-Prey has just decloaked five thousand kilometers directly ahead, sir. They’re signaling via direct laser-link, requesting permission to beam a party over.”
Glal stepped out of the turbolift, fastening the shoulder clasp of his tunic and looking as though he had just crawled out of bed. He spotted the Klingon scout nose-on with Reykjavík. “They’re prompt. That’s unusually considerate of them.”
“They’re requesting to beam over, Commander. Please see to the arrangements, taking all necessary security precautions, of course.”
“Of course, sir,” he echoed. Pointing towards Jarrod, Glal ordered, “With me, Lieutenant, and have a security detail meet us in transporter room two.”
* * *
Three partially formed patterns shimmered atop the transporter pad.
The chief advised, “There are three individuals, sir. I’m holding them in transit. One of them is inside a container… looks to be some kind of cryogenic tank. No weapons detected.”
Glal snuffled in response, “None that we can detect, anyway,” over his shoulder to Jarrod and his security team. Then with a nod to the transporter operator he said, “Bring them in.”
He straightened involuntarily as the figure of General Kang materialized on the pad, along with a shorter Klingon carrying a satchel over his shoulder, notable for not being clad in their seemingly ubiquitous armor. A torpedo-sized containment vessel lay across two of the pads, presumably the cryogenic unit.
Glal called the assembled security team to attention.
“I am Lt. Commander Glal, first officer. Welcome aboard Reykjavík, General.”
Kang scanned the Starfleet contingent, then turned to introduce his companion. “This is Physician Kardec, my medical officer. We have urgent need of your medical facilities, Commander.”
Glal nodded to Jarrod, an indication he should scan the cryo-chamber to ensure it didn’t contain weapons, explosives, or toxins of any kind. A quick but comprehensive sweep was completed and Jarrod gave the all-clear.
Glal led the party to Sickbay, notifying Trujillo of their destination on route.
The commodore arrived to find Dr. Bennett inspecting the readouts on the cryo-chamber’s antiquated display. He looked up to give Trujillo a questioning expression as he swept a sensor wand over the statis tank. “Single male Klingon occupant in cryonic suspension. He’s suffered significant injuries and I’d judge him to be in critical condition.”
Trujillo wheeled on Kang. “What is this about, General?” she barked. “Tell me you didn’t just pull me a parsec out of my way because some favored soldier of yours has been wounded?”
Glal tensed, expecting outrage from Kang who doubtless was not used to being spoken to so forcefully, especially by Federation officers.
Instead, the general merely inclined his head towards the tank. “This man may be the only one who can stop the empire’s push into the borderlands. If he dies, all hope of tempering that offensive is lost.” Kang gestured with evident frustration at the imperial physician standing idly by, transfixed at the sight of all the advanced Starfleet medical equipment. “Our healers were not up to the task.”
The Tellarite realized suddenly that Kang had accepted Trujillo’s ferocity as Klingon asperity. It was how they addressed one another, and he appeared to take no offense at such coming from her.
Trujillo looked to Bennett and her curt nod prompted the doctor and his medical staff to sweep the cryo-tank towards Sickbay’s surgical theater.
As they departed, she turned again to the Klingon general. “Explain.”
“His father sat on the High Council. Theirs is an old and honored house. His family has opposed the chancellor’s ill-advised offensive, and their stance had nearly split the council on the matter. This courted the chancellor’s wrath. The same disguised brigands and operatives used to test the defenses of the alien colonies were sent against his family’s stronghold on Khorast. His father and siblings were killed in the attack, but he managed to fight his way past their blockade and made it to my flagship.”
Trujillo absorbed that for a long moment, watching through the transparent partition as the Klingon physician assisted Bennett’s team with removing the wounded man from the stasis tank. “Presuming we save his life, what then?”
“We see him safely back to Qo’noS, to take his rightful place on the Council as the surviving head of his household. From there, he may be able to sway the Council's decision regarding this invasion.”
“We?” she said sharply, her head snapping around to direct a withering gaze on Kang. “You propose we escort you to the homeworld to safeguard him from further attack?”
Kang hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with that idea. “I do not know. If your doctors are unable to save him, this goes no further. If he lives, the opposing houses on the council may send their own ships to try and kill him. So far this power struggle has been kept to the shadows, but an attempt on his life in the open could spark a civil war.”
Trujillo’s reply could have frozen plasma. “And you brought him… here.” She touched hand to her forehead in a gesture of exasperation. “You risk dragging the Federation into a Klingon civil war.”
“Yes,” Kang replied, guileless.
“So be it,” she said after a second’s consideration. “If Federation blood may yet be spilled in this young man’s defense, I would ask to know his name at the very least.”
“He is K’mpec, son of Anag, and last remaining heir of House Korrd.”
* * *
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