So much emphasis has been placed on the Klingons since the onset of The Next Generation, I actually despaired of finding
something of real importance to say about them.
By the same token, the Klingons are a fundamental part of the Trek universe
and experience, and to avoid addressing them in some fashion is akin, in a way,
to cutting off an arm. So, in this story, and the upcoming "Blade of Choice," I'll take my shots.
We'll see how close I come.
"When you were young, and your heart was an open book,
You used to say, 'Live
and let live.'
"But if this ever-changin' world in which we're livin'
Makes you give in and
cry… say, 'Live and let die.'"
- Paul McCartney
Just to be sure he'd said it exactly
right, he read it again.
Mother,
I'm sending you this letter for two reasons: One, visual messages
often fail to reach their destination. From what I've been told, they're stolen
from the postal clerks, erased, and used for… less innocent purposes. Since you
are the truest of ladies, I'll refrain from pursuing this topic any further
than I already have.
More important, though, is this: I wrote it because I know you're
fond of them. Father always says it's the romantic in you—something about the
Elder Days, "when the very scent of paper bespoke learning and
wisdom." I think it's because you
like holding something you know was last touched by someone you miss.
To tell you the truth, I like letters myself. In my mind's eye, I can see you reading it,
over and over again.
That makes it worth the effort.
I hope you and Father are well. I know he and I didn't part on the
best of terms. He may not have mentioned it, but he tried one last time to
prevent me from enlisting even as we traveled to the recruitment center. I
refused to listen, and we quarreled—as we so often did in the weeks after I'd
announced my intent, but before I'd reached an age where I could act on it
without his leave. He was furious that I would disobey him… but I reminded him
that he had defied his own father and joined the military. That confounded him,
until he fell back on his most favored tactic.
"That," he told me, in that tone he has ( you know which one I mean), "was different."
It makes me smile now… but then, it was just infuriating.
Since then, I've given some of the opinions he espouses a lot of
thought.
"Your enemies," he told me before I boarded the
transport, "believe in their cause as fervently as you do yours. They're
not monsters—no matter what you hear from the frightened and the angry. They
have art, and music, and culture… and they love their children—though not as
much, my son, as I love you."
I think that was the first time I'd ever heard him say it.
I have duty in less than an hour. I'll mail this before I begin my
shift, and if I'm not too tired, I'll write you again soon.
My love to Kala,
and you all.
Jarin
Satisfied at last, he sealed the scroll
and left the barracks.
As he turned the corner, a glint of
metal attracted his attention, and he stooped to retrieve it from the grass
alongside the path.
It was a slip of gold-pressed latinum; while it wouldn't finance his retirement, he'd be
able to purchase more than a little cheer for his next off-duty
cycle—enough, in fact, to pass around… and soldiers who shared liquor with
their fellows were always popular.
Hmm… perhaps my luck is changing.
With that optimistic thought in the
forefront of his mind, he stood again, and turned towards the mess hall.
For the second time in as many moments,
though, something else caught his eye. He looked past the building for which
he'd been headed, towards the mountains beyond. There, before his dumbfounded
gaze, appeared a shimmering apparition that solidified into an
all-too-merciless reality.
In the second-and-a-half or so between
the Klingon Bird-of-Prey's launch of its photon torpedoes, and their
impact—one, ironically enough, only four or five feet from where he stood—Sub Glinn Jarin Evek,
37th Reserve Infantry Structure, Cardassian 11th Order, had time
enough for a pair of thoughts.
The first was that his mother would
never get the letter…
…and the second was that his luck, after
all, was the same as it had always been.
***
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE) 51030.9 (
TIME:
0645 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD (FST)
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21779
FEDERATION
EXCELSIOR-CLASS EXPLORER/HEAVY FRIGATE USS CAMELOT, CAPTAIN M.
DARAN COMMANDING,
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
“I still
can’t wrap my mind around it.”
Ensign Vaerth Parihn shook her head minutely at Lieutenant Gage's
declaration; she'd heard that statement, and assorted variants thereof, more
than enough over the last few hours. It seemed no one could really
believe the Dominion had finally attacked—no one else, that is.
Humans were
an odd lot, she'd decided, long before now… but this was a good example
of precisely why: Even though most of them very well could believe it,
they would say such things merely to hear their fellows murmur agreement in an
unacknowledged conclave of emotional security.
She could
understand the need intellectually, but it was, frankly, more than a little
irritating once it'd been repeated 20 or 30 times.
And while
another captain might have eventually instructed his bridge crew to cut the
redundant chatter, Parihn knew she couldn't expect that reaction from Captain Daran. He was an El Aurian; and
they, as everyone knew, were a race of listeners. Thus, he silently
allowed his officers to express their disbelief…
…over and
over again, Parihn
thought.
When Camelot's
crew had received the Code One notification that full-scale war had broken out
between the Federation and the Dominion, they'd been on the periphery of
verifiable subspace transmission, headed out on an extended mapping mission of
sectors previously unexplored by any Starfleet vessel. Poised on the very edge
of discovery as they'd been, it was doubly frustrating to be recalled for a
conflict their side hadn't wanted.
Now, as the
crew struggled to reorient their attitude towards one of martial determination,
Camelot closed on their interim destination: A gathering of those
Starfleet and allied vessels which had been caught on the wrong side of the
lines when the shooting had begun.
"
Parihn
pondered for a moment, then answered, "Our
current speed of warp 8.2 puts us four hours and 22 minutes away."
"Show
off," Gage
muttered from ops… and then grinned at her. "Could you at least pretend
to use the nav computer for your calculations?"
he asked in mock exasperation. "I'm getting an inferiority complex over
here."
There were
more than a few chuckles around the bridge.
Her lips
curved upward slightly, and she countered with, "Maybe you shouldn't lump
all your problems together, Kenny. Being unable to calculate is a lot different
from being unable to measure up."
A chorus of
laughter broke the tension.
"Oh, my!"
exclaimed Lieutenant Kensington, even as Kenneth Gage smiled and reddened. "Direct hit! He's listing badly to
port."
It was a nice
moment for a good crew…
…and it
didn't last.
In response
to the beep of his tactical board, Lieutenant Commander Sodek
sought answers with a few carefully input commands. Then the Vulcan informed
them, soberly, "Long range sensors indicate four vessels closing from
astern. Their speed is warp 9.5." A moment later, sober devolved into
grim. "Computer extrapolation indicates a 97.4%
likelihood that they are Jem Hadar
attack ships."
Reality had
just come calling.
Captain Daran tapped his center seat comm panel.
"Engineering,
what's the fastest velocity you can give me?"
After an
instant's hesitation, a voice filled with uncertainty answered, "Warp
9.5, sir—at best."
The El Aurian didn't hesitate.
"You
heard her, Ensign Parihn."
She complied
instantly; and for a long, hopeful moment, the Camelot maintained her
lead…
…but only for a moment.
"They're
closing again, sir," the young conn officer
announced quietly after she'd confirmed—this time using the navigational
computer—what was becoming slowly apparent on the aft-angled viewer.
"We'll be within their weapons' range in approximately 19 minutes."
There it
was—a stark acknowledgement of their situation.
Camelot was a good ship… but had been
commissioned in 2308. If the vessel had instead been a person living in Earth's
20th century, she would have qualified as a senior citizen. Despite
the care she'd received, and her various engineers' innovations over the
decades, she simply didn't have the legs to outrun her pursuers.
That left
only one option, and they all knew it.
"Prepare
to drop out of warp," their commander declared. "We'll have to fight
them."
Even as a
suddenly silent Captain Daran listened, Lieutenant
Commander Hawkins, the X-O, snapped out a sharp series of commands.
"Slow to
impulse… bring us about, course 177, mark 182… activate phaser banks and stand
by for firing orders… load all torpedo bays… auxiliary power to the forward
shields."
"Ahead full, Ensign. Let's make them sorry they spotted us."
It was Vaerth Parihn's first battle, in
her first war, during her first assignment after graduating
The sensors
had been wrong: Their attackers did, indeed, number four… but only three were Jem'Hadar attack ships. The fourth was also a fighter, but
it was one of the
The quartet
of attackers gradually distanced themselves from each other, and swept in using
a fairly standard assault pattern that was, nonetheless, effective against a
slower, less maneuverable foe like Camelot.
"Concentrate
your fire on the lead Jem Hadar
vessel, Sodek," instructed Hawkins. "We'll
take them out one at a time; it's our best chance."
In that first
terrible instant, all five combatants opened fire.
Camelot's screens flared under the combined
barrage; the Jem Hadar's polaron beam weapons hit hard, but were deflected by the
newly-instituted shield modulations. The plasma wave disruptors preferred by
the Cardassians also shook them, but the tough old lady came through the first
pass well.
Meanwhile,
she'd scored first blood: Her counterstroke, focused as it was on a single
ship, had first battered down its deflectors, and then turned it into a
short-lived blossom of fire.
"Shields
down to 78%," Sodek noted. "One enemy
target destroyed."
Hawkins
pumped his fist as the bridge crew cheered.
"Three
to go!" he exulted.
Daran nodded.
"Captain
Sisko's alterations to Starfleet shield frequencies
seem to have given us an advantage. Let's make the most of it. Ensign, give me
as tight a turn as you can. I don't want them behind us if we can help
it."
"Aye, sir." Parihn entered a series of commands into her console.
"Captain…
our shield strength is dropping… it is now 62%," noted Sodek.
A moment
later, they all understood why. Their conn officer
had, in quick succession: Diverted auxiliary power; distributed it to the
inertial dampeners and structural integrity field; and finally yanked them
around in an arc that was meant more for a Japanese Zero than an old Excelsior-class
starship.
"Damn
it, Ensign…!" Hawkins barked, even as he clung desperately to his
seat.
Then the turn
was complete, and the energy was rerouted back where it belonged.
Even as Sodek reported, "Shield power restored," Daran raised a hand to forestall Hawkins' castigation.
"Now is not
the time," he cautioned. With a wry tone, he then announced, "A
clearer indication of your intent would be better, though, Ensign."
"Aye,
sir," she acknowledged, not quite understanding what she'd done wrong—Why
warn someone when you're carrying out their orders?—but silently
acknowledging that the captain was correct about a debate being inopportune.
Her trick had
had worked, though: They'd avoided growing a trio of fighters on their six, and
could again whittle down their ranks by one.
Parihn
noticed that the three vessels' speed changed minutely as they closed; the pair
of remaining Jem'Hadar ships accelerated, while the Hideki
suddenly hung back.
A moment
later, the reason became clear.
For a second
time, every vessel opened fire almost simultaneously… and once more, Camelot's
phasers overloaded a Jem'Hadar fighter's shields,
while her trailing photon torpedoes finished the job. She took another series
of strikes, but, as expected, her own screens held up under the assault.
The Hideki-class
ship then veered away.
The remaining
Jem'Hadar fighter, though, didn't.
Only in that
last instant did Vaerth Parihn realize what was
coming. She threw the great vessel into as steep an evasion as she dared, and
then grabbed her console.
"Brace
for im–…!"
By the time she'd finished, though, the
warning was far too late.
***
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE) 51036.76 (
TIME:
0955 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD (FST)
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21779
FEDERATION SOVEREIGN-CLASS
HEAVY EXPLORER/FAST BATTLESHIP USS LIBERTY, CAPTAIN L.C. MANTOVANNI
COMMANDING, HEADING STARFLEET/KLINGON SPECIAL TASK FORCE, DESIGNATE EPSILON ONE
THREE SEVEN TWO
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
Sera MacLeod handed her captain the
latest long-range sensor data wearing an expression that was equal parts satisfaction
and alarm.
"Our upgrades are nominal; we now
have the advantage you required." Then, she added, "Unfortunately,
you may have been correct about what we'd see once we had those
readings."
Mantovanni scanned the PADD with a
critical eye, and nodded.
"You're certain of these
results?" he inquired.
At her arched brow, tolerant grin, and
folded arms, he gestured apologetically.
"Forget I even asked,
Commander." A moment later, he added, "Contact the task group
commanders; tell them our strategy session has been rescheduled for 1030
hours."
Sera frowned, and noted, "You are
aware that's in 35 minutes?"
Now it was Mantovanni's turn to raise an
eyebrow, and hers to concede.
"Forget I even asked."
In the moments after she'd left the
ready room, Mantovanni again examined the information his chief of operations
had labored so hard to acquire for him… and for a moment, found himself almost
wishing he didn't know what was soon to come.
Interlude
"And to think the Cardassian Union claims
a proud military tradition. Thus far, you haven't shown yourselves anything but
incompetent hangers-on."
Gul Ocett gritted
her teeth, and silently accepted the chastisement. This was not the time for
her pride to rear its head, despite the provocation. Determinedly, she beat
down her angry retort… and then, with difficulty, actually summoned a smile.
After all, this man led the reinforcements for which the battered assault group
had asked.
"In comparison to the Jem'Hadar," she answered levelly, "you are
correct, Sethon… but we serve the Dominion as ably as
we may."
Her obsequious response had limited
effect; the Vorta was clearly no one's fool. He
sneered, but gave no other immediate response. Sethon
seemed vexed Ocett hadn't provided further
justification to denigrate her in the manner he obviously felt she—and, by extension, the entire Cardassian race—deserved.
Still, his harangue wasn't entirely
complete… or, she had to grudgingly admit, without justification.
A few seconds later, he picked up the
thread of his rant.
"A pair of task forces—Cardassian-led
task forces, I might add—gone! And not a single enemy vessel—other
than that run-down old Excelsior-class frigate—destroyed in response. This
is why the Federation humiliated you in your first war, and the Klingons did the same only a year ago."
Killing him would only be satisfying momentarily, Ocett.
You have farther-reaching goals. Retain hold of yourself.
Bellicosity became bluster.
"Now that the Jem'Hadar
have assumed responsibility for the destruction of
this rag-tag group of vessels that has so stymied you Cardassians, we can
attend to this quickly, and return to the true business at hand: The
subjugation of the Federation."
"I look forward to watching you
work, Vorta Sethon,"
she answered carefully. "I have no doubt that you and Kathara'klan
shall bring a swift end to this unfortunate little phase of the war."
At last, he seemed appeased.
"It is the Vortas'
responsibility," he allowed expansively, "and the Jem'Hadar's duty, to protect the Dominion's members,
so that they may further serve the Founders. We are only too pleased to aid our
Cardassian subjects."
You insufferable prig; you sound like
you're reading from a political manifesto, Ocett thought. You don't have to convert
me. We know full well we're members of the Dominion…
…until it's time to rid ourselves of
you, that is.
"Now," Sethon
declared, even as his optical sensor rotated into place with an ominous buzz
and click, "you may observe a proper application of force."
He moved to stand near the First, who
nodded at his final comment.
"This will be over within a
week."
End Interlude
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE) 51036.78 (
TIME:
1011 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD (FST)
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21779
FEDERATION
EXCELSIOR-CLASS EXPLORER/HEAVY FRIGATE USS CAMELOT, ADRIFT AFTER
ENGAGEMENT WITH DOMINION/CARDASSIAN VESSELS
ALERT
STATUS: AUTOMATED DISTRESS SIGNAL ACTIVATED AND FUNCTIONING
Vaerth Parihn's life continued.
Aboard the
USS Camelot, that was a unique distinction.
She had been
a first-hand witness to the struggle between Jem'Hadar
devastation and Federation emergency measures.
She hadn't,
however, considered it much of a privilege.
Her desperate
attempt to evade the fighter had failed, and it had sheared through first the Camelot's
shields, and then the great vessel's skin, at approximately 12,500 kilometers
per hour.
In other
words, the bridge had become hell in the blink of an eye.
The aft
section of the room had simply disappeared, torn away by the shattering force
of the impact. The atmosphere within had exploded into the vacuum, and she'd
nearly lost her fanatical grip on the helm console as departing air wrenched
her towards the oblivion of open space.
In the second
or two she'd hung there, she felt something drench her right side. For a
moment, in the impossible cold of the vacuum, it had felt warm.
Then,
whatever it was had started to burn.
Even though
the bridge had been a shambles, independent systems throughout what was left of
it had struggled to compensate for the mortal blow. An emergency force field
had sprung into being; and she'd crashed first onto her station, and thence to
the floor, when artificial gravity had inconceivably reasserted itself.
As her
exposed skin had started to blister, and her uniform dissolve, beneath whatever
to which it had been exposed, Parihn had writhed on the deck, trying
desperately not to breathe until the emergency life support systems could
refill the now-enclosed space with oxygen. Even as the pain on her entire right
side had grown almost intolerable, she'd surrendered with an explosive hiss of
exhaled breath… and breathed in air that was thin, but survivable.
As it was,
she might have been better off, for the substance which had showered her entire
right side was a coolant that normally ran through certain conduits in Camelot's
bridge module—a coolant that was, in certain controlled circumstances,
occasionally used as a corrosive.
The
circumstances had hardly been controlled… and the last survivor of the doomed
USS Camelot had twitched, and flailed, and shrieked… and felt the pain
grow slowly, inexorably worse.
A human's
nervous system, in the face of such impossible agony, would simply have ceased
functioning, closing down to avoid what was happening to the body whose
experiences it was tasked to register.
Parihn,
though, was most emphatically not human: She was an Orion animal woman,
built almost from her genetic foundation, some biological theorists said,
precisely for the giving and receiving of physical sensation. Unfortunately,
while her nerves distinguished quite easily between pleasure and pain, they
were also more enduring than their human counterparts.
In the face,
then, of just so much to feel, she had screamed... and screamed again.
She had
screamed herself raw… then hoarse… then to a choking gurgle, as her vocal cords
ruptured into decrepit fibers.
Then, when
she could no longer hear herself—as seconds gave way to minutes... then
hours... and, finally, days—Vaerth Parihn had
proceeded to give the phrase "silent agony" an entirely new standard
of meaning.
It was a standard she would have much
preferred never to set.
"The gods are slain, and it was rightly done…
for how can a man serve two
masters?"
- Klingon proverb
Thought
Admiral Kuras vestai
K'Mok—veteran of a hundred campaigns, slayer of a
thousand men, servant of the Empire—surveyed the
fruits of his labors, and was well pleased.
As a famous
commander had once said, "Tactics work." Time and again in his
glory-filled career, Kuras had proven that axiom with
his innovations. This time, the plan had been a simple one: Under cloak, the B'rel-class Bird-of-Prey IKS Taj'chuch
had descended on target, until the depot's shield generators had lain within its gunner's sights.
The descent
itself, though, had taken 17 hours—17 hours of maneuvering at a gagh's pace downward through the storms and currents
of an uncooperative atmosphere, so slowly that even scanners specifically
focused on their position would fail to register the infinitesimal air
displacement the little sloop was causing. An error might not have been
fatal—it was a rear area, after all, and the vigilance of men who are not
imperiled is often notoriously lax—but he was Kuras…
and Kuras believed even more in precision when it was
not necessary.
And so, the
helmsman had stayed at his post for the entire maneuver, sweating, straining,
trembling… all while his captain grumbled at the inaction, and an amused Kuras watched from his flag chair.
Finally, he
had been satisfied; they had settled into station-keeping, and waited.
Eventually,
their efforts had borne fruit: The Cardassians, efficient and predictable as
ever, had run a maintenance cycle on the depot's shield grid. Naturally, they'd
conducted an intensive scan of the surrounding system first, knowing that
they'd be vulnerable in the 30 seconds the generators were offline.
Of course,
they had found nothing.
While a
running man, indeed, could slit a thousand throats in a night, there were times
when a quiet, crawling one could strike a single, much more telling blow.
Taj'chuch had revealed herself and immediately attacked. Truth be
told, the outcome of the battle had been decided in those first few seconds.
Even as the installation's shields and heavy weapons had been knocked out of
action, and what was left of the depot's astonished personnel had scrambled for
side-arms, above them, in orbit, a second vessel—the Vor'cha-class
attack cruiser Ch'moch—had decloaked,
and unleashed an exhaustively planned, exactingly placed barrage of photon
torpedoes. These eliminated the arsenal, the sensor/comm array (which had
probably detected Ch'moch's approach, but the
suddenly weaponless Cardassians had been unable to respond), and the docking
facilities that had, until recently, been host to a task force charged with the
protection of both the base and the systems beyond.
After that,
it had simply been a matter of attrition…
…and, now, it
was one of amusement, for they had taken prisoners, a few common soldiers whose
knowledge of the greater war was non-existent, and so had no value—other than
their lives.
Taj'chuch's captain—the until moments ago sullen Kuvog—approached,
grinning broadly. "Qapla, Thought
Admiral! The system is secure."
"For the
moment," the older man replied, almost absently. "No doubt the
Central Command will dispatch a reconnaissance-in-force to investigate why the
depot has gone silent. We must be on our way in an hour."
He then
smiled and folded his arms.
"…but
you may have that hour."
Kuvog grinned in
return, knowing that Kuras had magnanimously decided
to indulge his troops' craving for personal combat. The surviving Cardassians
would die well…
…but they would
die.
***
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE) 51036.81 (
TIME:
1028 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD (FST)
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21779
FEDERATION SOVEREIGN-CLASS
HEAVY EXPLORER/FAST BATTLESHIP USS LIBERTY, CAPTAIN L.C. MANTOVANNI
COMMANDING, HEADING STARFLEET/KLINGON SPECIAL TASK FORCE, DESIGNATE EPSILON ONE
THREE SEVEN TWO
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
Luciano Mantovanni wasn't one for grand entrances,
and didn't feel the need to arrive last—either to reinforce some petty
hierarchical urge, or to be, as Hatshepsut might say, "fashionably
late." Thus, he was already present as the seven men and women who
commanded the vessels in his charge entered and seated themselves.
Krajak arrived first. He was archetypically
Klingon: Armored; arrogant; and alternately wearing, from what Mantovanni had
seen, either a wicked grin or an angry glower. Currently he looked in excellent
spirits. It had been his Bird-of-Prey, after all, that had, at
Mantovanni's instruction, unleashed the solar flare on the Dominion/Cardassian
fleet; and K'Char's commander was clearly
still reveling in having caused so much death among his people's enemies.
For him, clearly, it had been a glorious
couple of days.
He saluted Mantovanni enthusiatically, and claimed the seat at the opposite end
of the table. It was the only other chair that seemed placed to command the
room.
No doubt he's earned it.
That rather imposing figure was followed
by a significantly less assuming one: Mantovanni had spoken briefly with Ptolemy's
commander, Bela Tiraz, some
hours ago. He seemed to be a quietly clever man, wearing a secret smile that
was not underhanded, but instead bespoke of some amusement to which only he was
privy. Not surprisingly, he chose a seat which had no distinguishing feature or
location, settled into it… and, like an extra cushion, promptly escaped
notice—especially in light of who followed.
Matt Forrest's entrance was, of course,
punctuated by one of his typically grandiloquent salutations: "Reporting
as instructed, Commodore. I eagerly await your pearls of tactical
wisdom."
Erika Donaldson, who'd followed on his
heels, suppressed much of her disapproving snort… and found the seat furthest
away from him she could.
The rest had entered silently, and
filled the remaining places. Mantovanni knew but one of them; the others were
familiar only via reputation,
or a hasty glance through their personnel file.
He dispensed with the introductions and
niceties.
"Ladies and gentlemen… we have not
one, but two task forces bearing down on us even now. Altogether, there are over 50 ships converging on this position—including two
Dominion battle-cruisers, each with their accompanying fighter squadron."
"Well isn't that a peachy
'How do you do?'" Forrest observed.
"The Cardassians are represented,
too: Each of those Jem'Hadar capital ships is being
escorted by two each of the Keldon and Galor-class cruisers, and a brace of those Hideki-class
fighters are along to screen, as well."
"It's a damned shame the
spoon-heads actually learned something in the last war," opined
Jason Winters. There were a few nods of agreement around the table, and a
chuckle or two.
Mantovanni, though, wasn't amused.
"Despite the… heartfelt
sincerity… of that sentiment, from this point on let's all leave the
racial epithets in the last millennium where they belong."
Winters, the commander of the Miranda-class
USS Coral Sea, looked a little affronted, and replied with a, "Yes,
sir," that was a bit too polite.
Erika Donaldson interjected, "At
any rate…" then asked, "…we can't just outrun them?" It was
a none-too-subtle attempt to get them back on topic. Despite that, Mantovanni
was grateful for the effort.
Of course, it's reassuring to know that
I'm making myself as wildly popular a figure as ever.
"Unfortunately, no," he
replied. "
One of the captains loudly and
meaningfully cleared his throat, saying, "I'll try not to take that personally,
Captain."
The speaker, Robert DeSoto
of the Excelsior-class USS Hood, was a longtime Starfleet
veteran, and something of a legend in his own right: He'd commanded his ship
for over 30 years, through numerous harrowing ordeals and extraordinary
incidents. In addition, it had been that selfsame USS Hood that had
escorted the newly re-found USS Intrepid, commanded by one Luciano Mantovanni, back to Vulcan when it had reappeared
almost seven years ago. DeSoto was gray-haired,
balding, and a little bowed with the weight of his experiences… but all present
knew that to underestimate him would be foolish indeed.
"Por
favor, Roberto," Forrest
interjected, chuckling. "He didn't say 'slow and useless.'"
"I know, Matt," DeSoto acknowledged with a wry smile, "but this raises
a pretty serious question: How in the hell are we supposed to get out of
here?"
All eyes turned to Luciano
Mantovanni for inspiration…
…and
In that precise moment, he got a
reprieve—or a least a stay—when his table comm panel beeped.
"Bridge
to Captain Mantovanni."
"Go ahead, Bagheer."
"Sir, Sera's new sensor array is
detecting a disturbance in the system four light years away. That Cardassian
base that for now we took great pains to avoid is under assault…
"…and
indications are that its attackers are the Klingons."
Mantovanni
reacted instantly.
"Return
to your ships, everyone… our conversation's just been postponed by
circumstance. All hands, stand to battle stations."
In an oddly
atypical moment of whimsy, the Sicilian imagined he could feel the
silver lady girding herself for combat, as his crew prepared her for whatever
awaited them in that nearby star system. In his mind and heart, he knew she was
the pride of the Federation Fleet, and would acquit herself accordingly.
One by one,
the other vessel commanders disappeared, summoned back to their own bridges or
transporter platforms. Eventually, the room emptied, until only the captains of
"You
didn't have any idea what you were going to say, did you?" the older man
asked, then requested beam out from his own ship.
In that
intervening moment, Mantovanni responded, "Do you want the truth, or a
comforting lie?"
From within
the disappearing column of transporter incandescence, the strangely haunting
voice of Robert DeSoto finished the exchange.
"I think
that's answer enough."
USS Liberty’s first officer, Rajah Bagheer, spent much of his life in
so profound a state of irritation that even the only person on board who could
truly empathize with him—Ship’s Counselor M’Raav Hatshepsut—nevertheless called
it a “self-imposed distemper.”
“Growly” was how even his few friends aboard described him,
when they thought he was out of earshot—forgetting that all too often, aboard a
starship, “line of sight” and “earshot” were synonymous for a Tzenkethi.
They, of course, meant the term
fondly; that was clear even to him. It was one of the reasons he’d never
killed, or even seriously maimed, any of them. Humans were, he knew, often
unpredictably affectionate, like their primate forbears—though they had an
unfortunate tendency to congregate and chatter like them, too. His Academy
paper on the similarities between modern human socio-sexual mores and those of
their arboreal ancestors had been exhaustively researched, carefully outlined,
and written with a scientist’s objectivity.
The human instructor who’d given
him a “C-” evidently hadn’t agreed with its conclusions—either that, or found
them too telling for comfort: When he’d taken it to the department head, a
Vulcan, she had read the piece…
…and adjusted his grade upwards
to “A.”
Bagheer didn’t really dislike
humans, after all, but he didn't really like them either… and was more
than willing to concede, privately, that he also didn’t particularly like
Andorians, Vulcans… or even, for that matter, his
fellow Tzenkethi. Thus, he’d been predictably aggravated by Captain
Mantovanni's invitation to accompany him aboard Ch’moch to meet Thought Admiral Kuras.
“Why?” he’d demanded, as if the very idea were absurd. “You’d be
better served taking Sito or Sera,
“And if I wanted a diplomat, I wouldn’t be
taking you, Commander,” had been the easy response. “Think about it, Bagheer.
Who would you have
escort me aboard a Klingon vessel to meet their legendary Thought Admiral: The
tiny Bajoran pilot, the pacifistic Vulcan, or the
hulking Tzenkethi who not only looks
like he could eat Klingons for breakfast, but
probably did a few times before
joining Starfleet?”
That statement, Bagheer
admitted, had been both thoughtful and incisive.
Now,
as the two strode through Ch’moch’s dark corridors, there was much less posturing on
the part of their allies than no doubt they would have enjoyed, and employed, had Mantovanni’s feline
shadow not been present. As a matter of fact, some of the Klingons
seemed almost deferential—precisely as the Sicilian had predicted.
“I sometimes forget,” the
Tzenkethi purred almost inaudibly, as they paused before the door leading into Kuras' presence,
“just how cunning you are… for a
fruit-picking primate.”
Mantovanni’s only reactions were an arched brow, and
a whispered, “Have a care, Rajah… or
housecleaning may forget to tend your litter.”
No, he didn't like humans much at all… but he had to
admit there were some few amusing exceptions.
It was only 15 minutes later, when events had taken
an unfortunate—and, on reflection, perhaps, unavoidable—turn, that Bagheer had
decided something else.
He didn't like Klingons,
either.
***
Jasad was disgusted.
The Cardassian looked around the
quarters he'd been assigned—officer's quarters, no less, albeit with a
pair of guards outside the door—and cursed loudly.
He was a prisoner, but the Federation
refused to treat him as such. He had not been abused, or deprived, or even held
in contempt. Instead, Jasad had been given a room,
food, medical treatment… and even allowed, once, to address his fellow officers
and let them know he was well.
They are attempting to suborn us, he thought. Humans are insidious
creatures.
He'd even, once, a few days ago,
experimentally asked one of the guards for kanar…
and had been given a carafe full of the replicated version only a few moments
later.
It stood now on the table in the room's
center, unopened, untouched—a symbol of his defiance in the face of the enemy's
temptation.
His room chime sounded once… then, a few
seconds later, again.
He ignored it.
After a moment more, the door slid aside
to reveal a pair of adversaries: The first to enter was one of the felines—a
Felisian, he supposed. She was followed by a rather formidable-looking
Andorian, who set himself near the door with the easy readiness of a born
soldier.
They'd had this conversation seven times
before… and he imagined they would have it again and again as long as he was
held prisoner.
The fools.
"Gul Jasad," she began. "As you know, my name is
Lieutenant Hatshepsut. I've been instructed to ask you a number of
questions."
"I do not answer questions posed by
the enemy."
She nodded, probably for his benefit; he
didn't imagine it was Felisian kinesthics to do so.
"It will do you no harm to hear
them, sir… and it allows me to fulfill my obligation."
Jasad nodded, then
gestured to the table.
"Kanar,
Lieutenant? It's all I have to offer, but you're welcome to
it." His tone was mocking, but, as always, she gave no reaction.
"No,
thank you, sir. I'm on duty.
"Might we begin?"
"Tell me, Lieutenant… are there Vulcans aboard your
ship? Betazoids?"
She exchanged glances with the Andorian,
who nodded slightly: Clearly he saw no harm in a frank response, and so she
supplied the gul with one.
"A
number of Vulcans. No Betazoids
of whom I’m aware—though no doubt the other vessels may have members of that
race aboard."
Jasad nodded, smirking.
"And your medical facilities are
obviously adequate: The treatment of my radiation sickness was handled with
swift efficiency."
This time, uncertain of how to reply,
she simply didn't.
He laughed contemptuously.
"You have personnel capable of
probing my mind for the information you require. You possess a pharmacopoeia of
drugs, any number of which might prove effective against Cardassian physiology.
Yet you come here, every day, and ask the same questions… and every day, you
slink away to report, 'No success,' to that weak-willed fool on your bridge.
"Take this message to your
captain, Lieutenant: Your cause is lost before it begins! You do not have the
stomach to win this war, for you will not do what you must to achieve victory.
"Tell him I shall accept his
surrender whenever he comes to his senses and decides to offer it!
"Now get out, Felisian. I've
grown weary of this."
Hatshepsut said nothing at first; as she
turned to depart, though, she left Jasad with a final
comment.
"Thank goodness your fellow officers
aren't so obdurate as you.
"If
you'll excuse me, sir."
He sneered at her obvious ploy…
…but, even as she'd known he would,
wondered if, indeed, it really was.
Suddenly, the
kanar was more tempting than it had been.
***
Kuras vestai
K'Mok was most displeased at the turn events had
taken…
…yet
there had seemed no real way to avoid it as it had occurred.
His
initial face-to-face contact with the human captain, Luciano
Mantovanni, had been most enjoyable—a glad meeting with a fellow leader
of men in the midst of conflict: Heroes before a storm, as it were.
Mantovanni
had brought his Tzenkethi shadow along with him, and the creature had loomed in
the background of their discussion like a personification of menace.
Kuras had thoroughly approved.
This
Mantovanni will not go gently into another targ's
den, he had thought, but the manner of
his arrival cannot be faulted.
Excellent.
He
gestured for the two to follow, even as he stood, swept past them, and strode
back the way they had come.
"Captain...
I have read your situation reports and engagement synopses. The seduction and
destruction of the Cardassian task force was an impressive feat. You have done
well: A Thought Admiral himself could not have asked for, or achieved,
better."
While
Kuras always meant what he said, he had
complimented Mantovanni to see what the man would do with it. Would he
be human, and downplay his accomplishments in a display of what that
race called "modesty"? Would he bluster, attempting to be Klingon in
an attempt to impress Kuras?
Much
to the older man's pleasure, but not surprise, he had done neither.
"Thank
you, sir; though the tactic was mine, Krajak and K'Char executed it perfectly."
Assumes
the appropriate credit, Kuras had thought, but does it in his own fashion. I find
myself liking this Mantovanni already… and I trust my judgment.
"I
have given consideration to our upcoming engagement with the forces closing on
our position," Kuras had announced; then, he'd
appended, "I believe we can be victorious, despite the odds…
"…but
I would hear your thoughts first, Captain."
A
low, almost sullen growl had emanated from the vicinity of the Tzenkethi
trailing them through Ch'Moch's dingy,
mist-filled corridors.
Kuras had chuckled aloud.
"You
wish to speak, Commander Bagheer?"
"No,
Thought Admiral," had come the immediate reply. "I have nothing… beneficial…
to contribute."
He'd
led them into the transporter room. On the platform, already in place, had been
a pair of guards wearing armor slightly more intricate and ceremonial than the
usual utilitarian Klingon protection.
Mantovanni
and Bagheer had exchanged slightly surprised glances, and then taken their
respective spots on the pads, following Kuras'
example.
A
curt "rIH" ("energize") had sent
them all to
Bagheer,
curious, had inquired, "Do you wish us to prepare for inspection, Thought
Admiral?"
An
interesting officer, Kuras had
thought. He is irritated by my presence, yet attempts to do his duty without
rancor. Remarkable in a Tzenkethi.
"No. I am not concerned with the accumulation of dust in crew
quarters, Commander."
The
edge of disdain he'd added for the human concept of "inspection" did
not, surprisingly, rankle the great cat further. He'd seemed actually to
approve… and his muttered, "Thank the Pride Lord for that, at
least," had provoked the merest of smiles from both his superiors.
Even
on Mantovanni's vessel, Kuras had known exactly where
he was going. He'd had a purpose…
…which had become apparent only moments later, when he'd suddenly
veered to starboard and stalked, unannounced, into the quarters of a certain Gul Jasad.
The
Cardassian had sprung to his feet; clearly he'd been taken by surprise at the
intrusion.
No
doubt the humans knock.
Mantovanni,
Bagheer and the pair of Klingon guards had followed.
Unconsciously,
Jasad had taken a step back, and glanced about for a
reprieve, a vole in a room full of hunters.
He'd
tried bravado to cover his uncertainty.
"What
do you want now?" he'd sneered.
"Despite
the fact I know Captain Mantovanni has no doubt had this done many times
before, I shall repeat it… once.
"You
have information on troop deployments, installation defenses, logistics
contingencies, and other data we shall find useful in crushing the life from
the Cardassian Union. You will answer the questions I ask, to the fullness of
your knowledge, immediately upon hearing them."
Over
the seconds of the inquiry, Jasad had recovered his
courage fully.
"I
shall tell you nothing, Klingon. The information would be purposeless
anyway, since you haven't long to live."
Kuras had gestured to his escort.
"We
have no time for this. Take him. The mind scanner will tell us what we need to
know.
"It
will not be pleasant for you, Gul, but I promise to
kill you quickly rather than leave you a vegetable once we have what we
need."
It
was only as the two burly Klingons had seized the
Cardassian that Kuras had realized he'd
miscalculated.
Luciano Mantovanni had asked,
"Sir… might I see you outside before we continue?"
Kuras had acceded, and the trio of command
officers had stepped into the corridor…
…where
the situation had devolved faster than the older man would have thought
possible.
"Thought
Admiral…" Mantovanni had hesitantly informed
him, "…Gul Jasad is my
prisoner. He's under the protection of the Sdeldonis IV
Convention.
"I
can't allow you to take him."
Kuras had folded his arms.
"You
do not have to concern yourself, Captain. This is not an issue: The Klingon
Empire did not sign the Seldonis Accords."
"But
the Federation,"
The Klingon
had smiled slightly. Suddenly, he'd known precisely where this was headed… but
realized there was no honorable way to prevent it.
He'd
tried one other tact.
"Then
allow me to assuage your concerns, Captain. I am now in command of this task
force. The decision is mine. You will release Jasad
into my custody, because I have ordered it."
The
Tzenkethi had begun an almost inaudible rumble. He, too, had sensed that the
amiable nature of their brief association was about to disintegrate under
unforeseen pressures.
Mantovanni,
too, had seemed distressed… but resolute.
"I'm
sorry, sir. I consider the Seldonis Convention
binding in this case. I shall not relinquish the prisoner, knowing that
his fate would be torture, psionic coercion for the
purposes of information gathering, and eventual death. Nor shall I permit the
release of any other Cardassian prisoners to your custody."
Kuras had declared, "Then I shall
simply relieve you."
"No…
you won't do that, either, sir. As the highest-ranking Federation
officer, it's my duty to protect Jasad—much as
I'd love to turn my back."
Kahless preserve us
from men of determination and far-reaching conscience.
With
real regret, the Thought Admiral had slowly acknowledged the situation's
reality.
"You
have challenged my authority, Captain."
It
was only then that Kuras had noted a change in
expression from the younger man. He'd crossed a line…
…and
wasn't planning on withdrawing behind it again.
"Yes, sir," Mantovanni had
answered.
"I suppose I have."
Now, Kuras vestai K'Mok prepared to satisfy honor, as well as pride…
…and
knew that, now, only the bat'etlh could do
both.
***
As
soon as the doors to Mantovanni's ready room closed behind them, the Tzenkethi
snarled, "You are insane. Even you
are no match for a Klingon Thought Admiral wielding a bat'etlh. He's going to kill you."
Mantovanni
considered the statement.
"Probably."
Bagheer's aggravation—and, if he
were being honest, distress—revealed itself in the growl that started out
subsonic and ended almost irritatingly high-pitched.
"So
you will die a useless death, spitted on the blade of that sly-whiskered
conniver? If that is your desire, I shall not attempt to gainsay you."
Then,
he leaned over the desk and brought his face to within inches of his captain's.
"But when you have fallen, I shall kill Klingons until they gather like jackals to drag me down. When you have fallen, I shall drink blood, and rend flesh, and
taste of the days when my people hunted the hairless monkeys for sport.
"When you have fallen, I shall satisfy Tzenkethi honor, in the name
of my captain!"
Now
the Sicilian smiled.
"Thank
you... I think." Then his gaze grew steely, and the two matched glares,
wolf to panther.
"But
no, you won't. You will obey the
Thought Admiral; you will relinquish the prisoner; and you will command the
Now
Bagheer threw back his head and roared. It was deafening, and mournful, and
heartfelt.
"I hate when you do that to me!" he screamed. "I should
kill you myself!"
Mantovanni
was undeterred.
"But
you'll honor my request?"
Bagheer's black pupils narrowed
to slivers, and his eyes glimmered angry emerald... but he growled, "I shall honor your request."
After
the Tzenkethi had stalked furiously from the room, Mantovanni exhaled slightly.
Though Bagheer had meant his comment about killing him as a compliment,
challenging a Tzenkethi male in such a fashion wasn't conducive to continued
health.
Then, again, he knew, challenging Kuras probably wouldn't be, either.
***
Even the manner in which notification of
the upcoming duel had been distributed seemed a little odd—Almost
understated—to Brennig Tethyan.
He reread the text-only message he'd
just received from the Klingon flagship Ch'moch,
instructing each "13th Fleet" vessel to send a pair of representatives
in two hours—that, then, Captain Mantovanni and Thought Admiral Kuras would settle what had been termed "a difference
of opinion" in the time-honored Klingon fashion.
The Vor'shan
had, only seconds ago, quietly forwarded the message on to Captain Donaldson in
her ready room… and now waited for a reaction.
It wasn't long in coming.
She came roaring out, issued a curt, "Doug,
you have the bridge," and then added, impatiently, "Come on,
Brennig."
Silently, he followed.
On the turbolift, Brennig
was treated to one of his commander's patented soliloquies.
"Damn
it, damn it, damn it! We don't have time for this adolescent posturing! What the hell ever happened to 'Only a fool fights in a
burning house'?!"
She managed to restrain her frustration
for the trip over to
Erika instinctually stepped—practically hopped—out
of the way… and it was a good thing, too: Bagheer was clearly not
inclined to respect personal space at this time, and it was an even bet he
might have knocked Donaldson over, or at least brushed her aside, in his stormy
exit.
His state of mind was clearly…
unsettled.
Brennig made a decision then. Knowing that Adventurous'
commander would trust his instincts, he turned away from the ready room and
followed Bagheer into the turbolift—leaving Erika to deal with Luciano Mantovanni.
After a short turbolift ride—one that
had no destination, since neither had announced one, Brennig
decided to speak.
"Commander
Bagheer."
Adventurous' tactical officer knew he was taking a risk:
An interesting tactical problem, he thought.
"What
do you want, Lieutenant Commander?"
"You
seem distressed. I thought to offer a partial solution to your
frustration."
For someone who lacked ears, Tethyan's audio-acuity was excellent. He could hear the
resentful growl building into a thunderous reverberation.
That's not a good sign.
"You
are presuming on my good nature and restraint, wyrm.
Speak, or absent yourself."
“Very
well, Commander… I shall.
“I
imagine combat practice must be an exercise in restraint for you, considering
that you’re surrounded by, as your people say, ‘hairless monkeys.’ I thought I
might offer my services as sparring partner.” Or battering dummy, as the case may be, he thought wryly.
After
a moment of grumbling consideration, Bagheer asked, rather suspiciously, “Why are you doing this?”
“Catharsis,”
Brennig replied, stressing the first syllable in the
word… and then adding, with a hint of humor, an ironic, “no
pun intended.”
Bagheer,
though, was in no mood to be teased, however gently. He turned his glare on Tethyan, and the steam from fire-scorched ice was almost
palpable.
"You
are cold and clever, Vor'shan.
Those are traits of which I do not usually approve."
It
was as impossible for Tethyan to smile as it was
Bagheer… but the humor in his tone could not be mistaken.
"And
you are hot-tempered and prideful, Tzenkethi. Normally those are genuine
weaknesses, but you seem to have harnessed them well enough.
"Would
you care to spar?"
Something
in Bagheer's eyes changed then.
Brennig was Vor'shan,
a warrior born and bred, but he knew with a heavy certainty that he had no
advantage here. This was predator against predator, and he truly didn't know
who was the fiercer.
The
Tzenkethi growled, "Holodeck two"…
…then added, jade irises glimmering
with relish, "I believe I would."
***
One of the great advantages of being a Klingon who'd remained in
the High Council's good graces consistently for the best part of a century was
that the wealth and booty you'd accumulated in that time was all still
yours.
A goodly portion of it was on display in the main dueling hall of
IKS Ch'moch as Robert DeSoto
and his chosen escort, the Andorian Varan Mir’eth, entered, and took their place on the periphery of
the blood-stained circle that dominated the impressively vaulted room's floor.
If you wanted a picture as an example of "barbaric
splendor" for a dictionary database, DeSoto thought, you could do worse than this.
There were tapestries, paintings, wall-mounted braziers, and even
a small mural: An Andorian blood color that had clearly been painted by a
captured renegade as a sign of respect for the man who had defeated him—since
such a gesture could almost certainly not be coerced. It was the only bastion
of ice-blue in a sea of darkened metal and caked crimson-brown.
While ambience was clearly important to Kuras,
he didn't completely ignore pomp and ritual, either. The assembled Klingons and Starfleet officers were both spectators and
participants, but with very different demeanors, as one might expect: The Klingons were boisterous, anticipating the slaughter as a
matter of course; the Federation personnel wore expressions that ranged from
barely concealed disgust to nigh as enthusiastic as their hosts.
All fell silent, though, as, from far ends of the room, the
combatants entered and took their places opposite each other.
Neither was wearing armor, which was a rarity for a Klingon, but
certainly an honorable gesture from Kuras. The
thought admiral, who most of them had not even seen since the fleets had
rendezvoused, was an impressive specimen even without the bulky protection,
standing a full head taller than the slighter Luciano
Mantovanni—who was not exactly a small man himself.
Each held in his hands what DeSoto knew
to be a famous blade. Kuras brandished his house
sword, which had, according to tradition and legend, never known defeat. He
hefted it with the casual ease of a man who'd killed many, and knew what it was
to slay both formidable foes and pathetic ones. His expression was appraising,
as if speculating on what type stood before him now.
Against Kuras' bat'etlh,
Luciano Mantovanni wielded a weapon that, at first
glance, might be mistaken for a katana. Robert DeSoto,
though, knew his swords, and he immediately identified it as a Vulcan Sha'rien. These were the work of a legendary smith
who'd plied his craft in the days before Surak and
the Great Awakening of logic. So valuable were they that, of the 12 that yet
remained known, the people of Vulcan had decided at least three must always
remain off-planet, so that in the event of a world-shattering disaster, the
work of Sha'rien would survive.
And here was one of them, matched against another sword of legend.
DeSoto wondered if Kuras
was aware of the respect that was being paid him.
He suspected the Klingon did know—precisely.
Abruptly, the gathered warriors had fallen silent.
Kuras twirled his blade with a flourish that was both intricate and
casually executed, then spoke.
"I am Kuras vestai
K'mok.
"The foes who have faced me are
many… but they are all silent now."
There was a slight stirring among the gathered Klingons,
as the ensuing quiet made clear that Kuras would not
list either his myriad victories or his vanquished enemies. No doubt it
was a concession to time constraints: The Dominion task forces were less than a
day away, and a century of victory might take some hours to account—hours they
simply didn't have.
A single glare silenced them as one.
The thought admiral then
gestured with his bat'elth.
"It is your right to speak if you wish, Captain."
Grimly,
The Klingon gave a slight, favorable inclination of his head…
…and then moved forward, with singular and deadly purpose.
Mantovanni met him in the circle's center, and the blades clashed
once, twice, thrice. The blows had been swift, but not in any way
uncomplicated: Kuras had attacked with a mok'bara combination calculated to end the battle
quickly, but it had been repelled with skill and swiftness.
As the two came apart, the thought admiral smiled, and again gave
an approving nod.
"You are worthy of the blade you wield, Captain. It will have
a place of honor on this wall, if I defeat you."
An astonished murmur ran through the Klingon side of the hall. If? it seemed to say.
Their commander was affording his opponent with tremendous, almost
unprecedented, respect… and they looked at Mantovanni with renewed interest.
Another pass ensued. This time, the ante was raised abruptly, as Kuras began utilizing the advantages inherent in wielding a
bat'elth against a straight blade. A shifting
of weight, of emphasis, and it was immediately clear to anyone with even a
smattering of knowledge about bladed combat that the human was already on the
defensive.
"Excellent, Captain… truly excellent. I hope you are
relishing this as much as I am. Your master, Sevek,
trained you assiduously, and I see you were an apt pupil. I believe, though,
that I am slowly taking your measure, and will score a touch on the next
exchange."
At last, Mantovanni spoke…
…but it was in Klingonaase, perfectly
accented, and with a devastatingly derisive sneer that surprised everyone but
the people who knew
As one, the warriors gasped…
…but Kuras burst into roaring laughter.
"You are full of surprises, Captain! I ask your
permission to use that insult someday."
Now Mantovanni switched back to English.
"You can use it in the Black Fleet, Admiral."
This time, though, when they met, only one of them drew back
unscathed…
…and it wasn't Mantovanni.
The Klingon flicked the blood from his bat'elth,
and then indicated the shallow wound he'd inflicted on his opponent's left arm.
He let his actions speak, this time, though, and moved again with lethal
intent, pressing his advantage relentlessly. He forced Mantovanni towards the
Federation side of the ring, first creasing him on the right leg, and then
leaving a ribbon of blood across the Sicilian's chest. None of the three wounds
were immediately mortal… but they were deep enough to bleed freely, and sap a
combatant of desperately needed vitality.
It was obvious to all that such was occurring as they watched.
…and then it would be over.
Luciano Mantovanni had come to a conclusion that didn't bode well for his
continued existence.
I can't beat him. He's just better
at this.
Every faint hope he'd had was now gone: He'd played it
conservatively, hoping for an overconfident misstep, but Kuras
had shown too much care, too much respect; he'd even insulted the man—damned
dirty pool, Mantovanni had known, but this wasn't a game—and the Klingon had
simply saluted his cleverness.
He glanced at the Sha'rien he held, and
thought, I'm sorry I'm not good enough to do you credit, despite my
opponent's compliment. I should put you aside, and preserve your honor.
Mantovanni knew he was going to die anyway… so he decided to die
as spectacularly as he could.
Perhaps I can at least entertain Bagheer.
The final pass began, and Robert DeSoto—despite
the fact that he wasn't a particularly religious man—crossed himself.
Kuras attacked with strength and speed, weaving a pattern of sword-work
that left Mantovanni a shade too slow each time, and falling further behind
with each motion. One move… a second… and, in swift succession, a third, fourth
and fifth.
At last, the opening was there.
With all his strength, the thought admiral gave a mighty wrench,
intending to wrest the blade from Mantovanni's hands… and was successful.
All too successful, as it turned
out…
…for at the last moment, Luciano Mantovanni simply let go.
Kuras had gauged his opponent's strength carefully throughout the
contest, even estimating what it might be in Vulcan-enhanced extremis,
and had used the force necessary to overcome it.
Thus, when Mantovanni had released the Sha'rien,
Kuras' prodigious power and inevitable success had
pulled his arms up and away from his enemy, leaving him exposed for an
instant—an instant that had not come at any other time during the combat…
…an instant, though, that was more than enough.
Before he could recoup the situation, Kuras
vestai K'mok
felt his opponent's nearness, and then a sudden heaviness in his chest—the
result, he knew, of a blow that was as precisely placed as it was powerful. It
was followed by the strangest wrenching sensation…
…and for the first time in his adult life, he dropped a bat'elth, as his strength suddenly left him.
He knew, with a dead man's certainty, that
it would never return.
***
The eagle claw, as the Shaolin
monks had named it centuries ago, was a blow that was exceedingly difficult to
execute, and Luciano Mantovanni had expected the attempt
to fail. Its success left everyone stunned…
…including the man it had killed.
He knew it might be foolish, but the Sicilian couldn't help
himself; as Kuras fell, he stepped forward, caught
him, and lowered the Klingon as gently to the ground as he could.
For a moment, they examined each other.
"Clever, guileful boy," the Klingon whispered. "Well done."
Grimly, Luciano Mantovanni answered,
softly, "I'm sorry, Thought Admiral… but you gave me no
choice. I didn't want this."
Kuras scrutinized
"Now you disappoint me. I
didn't think you'd be such a sentimental fool…" he paused and coughed, spraying his younger adversary with spittle
and blood… then, suddenly, raised his voice;
for a moment it had all its old power.
"…Commodore…"
Kuras never wasted words, Mantovanni knew, and he never made mistakes.
Well, almost never.
My God… I've just killed the man, and he's promoting me before the
breath leaves his body.
"…concerning the upcoming battle… you know what must be done."
And still
strategizing, as well.
Mantovanni nodded, but added, "I don't know that I can,
sir—that I have the will."
Now, with his last strength, Kuras
grabbed the younger man and pulled him closer.
"I… shall not have died…
at the hands of a weakling!
"If you must, consider it my final order."
And now he's making things easier for me.
My God… what have I done?
What he'd done, Mantovanni knew with a
sick certainty, as the life left Kuras' eyes, was
kill his commander.
The rumble of the assembled Klingons' voices grew towards a storm of grief, and, at
last, unleashed itself like thunder. They roared for their commander, and
warned the Black Fleet that it had a new admiral—one who would brook no mistakes.
Even in death, Kuras
vestai K'mok's gaze
was intimidating and reproachful; he was still expectant of perfection… and in
that moment, Luciano Mantovanni knew that he would
give the man exactly what he required.
It was, after all, the least he could do.
As he stood, Krajak
approached him, and loudly declared, "What are your orders, Commodore?"
For a moment, Mantovanni wondered
whether Kuras had somehow known how the title
"commodore" irritated him… but found he couldn't begrudge the man
such a tiny revenge, even so.
"Stations," he ordered the Klingons… then swept his gaze over the Federation personnel
as well.
"All of you."
As
they filed out of the hall, Erika Donaldson gave a shudder. She'd seen more
than her share of death, but this was different—both wasteful and, in a way,
casual.
"He
was expressionless during the kill… like what he'd done was simply a matter of
course."
Oblivious
to his commander's upset—or, perhaps all too
aware of it—Brennig Tethyan
answered.
"Yes...
when necessary, he's a cold, efficient executioner." He flicked his tongue
once. "That's an admirable trait in a mammal."
Her
expression was momentarily horrified.
"You
don't mean that?"
She
regretted blurting that reflexive response a moment later, when her tactical officer
turned his unblinking gaze on her.
"Of course I do, Captain. While I
understand that's not your way… if
all you humans appropriately cultivated that trait a little more,
perhaps the Dominion would have thought twice about attacking the
Federation."
Erika
Donaldson found she had no ready answer for that.
***
"I wonder what the captain said that so amused the
admiral?"
Hatshepsut's statement to the rest of the
"I have to admit, I am not as fluent in our allies' language
as perhaps I should be," Theren observed
quietly. "At least one of us, however, is."
All eyes turned to Sito Jaxa.
"Well?" growled an expectant Bagheer, after she wasn't immediately forthcoming.
"It was… an insult," she eventually supplied.
No one looked satisfied with that;
Hatshepsut, after a second, pieced the events into a theory.
"You taught the
captain how to say it, didn't you? Why, you naughty kit!"
The tiny Bajoran actually blushed, which
confirmed that the phrase was at least slightly off-color.
Still, though, she said nothing, hoping against hope they'd let it
drop.
Tzenkethi patience, however, wasn't particularly noteworthy at the
best of times… and Bagheer's had already run short.
His growl became a snarl.
"Sito… What exactly did he say?"
At his none-too-subtle behest, she finally translated. Despite her
initial reluctance, she even gave it a hint of the vicious tone and mocking
cadence their captain had.
"He said, 'From what I've seen, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a fuckin' boat.'"
***
Of those Starfleet officers who'd assembled to witness the duel,
only Robert DeSoto lingered after Mantovanni's
order—perhaps sensing what was about to occur.
Thus, when he staggered, and stumbled, Hood's captain was there to catch him.
"You don't look so good," DeSoto
observed, even as he wrapped an arm around him, taking much of his weight on
himself.
"At least I'm not
bald," came the
whispered answer.
DeSoto chuckled.
"Couldn't let them see me like this," Mantovanni added.
The older man nodded; as they turned towards the door, they found
the room's only other remaining occupant suddenly
before them.
"I am Bornas, Commodore," the
Klingon announced, with perhaps less bluster than was usual for one of his
race. "I am our medic; I shall treat your wounds." He gestured
towards the far door, in the direction of Ch'moch's dispensary.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," answered DeSoto,
a bit warily, "but I think we'll head back to the
"No!" He addressed himself to Mantovanni, ignoring the other. "I shall treat your wounds, sir.
"It would be my honor."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and hobbled through the
portal, favoring his left leg. Both men wondered at that: The limp didn't seem
to be the result of a recent injury, which probably meant that Kuras had either protected him against reprisals and duels,
Bornas' skills were especially formidable…
…or he was, like his late admiral, that rarest of Klingons—a careful one.
"Follow him."
DeSoto sighed slightly, and did as he was ordered.
The room was a small one; as they'd expected, not much space was
devoted to the injured. Klingon vessels, after all, usually didn't have what
any Starfleet officer would consider a proper sickbay, and Ch'moch was no exception. There
were two types of Klingons, for the most part, after
all: Living; and dead. The sick and injured generally rejoined the ranks of the
former…
…or were encouraged by their fellows into the latter.
Bornas, fortunately, was true to his word; he dressed Mantovanni's
wounds with an efficiency, and a gentleness, that was
surprising. His workplace seemed well-stocked, and he used the materials on
hand with wisdom and generosity. In a way, that made
The room, surprisingly, was not totally deserted. One patient
occupied the lone biobed; he or she was covered in a blanket, but seemed to be
shivering despite that.
With an effort, Mantovanni stood, and walked over to the small
form.
Bornas, stangely, made no move to interfere.
He pulled back the cover…
…and gasped at what he saw.
There, on a bed that was little more than a slab,
was curled an Orion woman. At least, that was Mantovanni's best guess: She was horribly disfigured, the flesh of her
entire right side seared, scalded, or practically melted away; in places,
muscle and even bone was exposed to the air.
Jesus, Mary
and Joseph.
"We found her in the wreckage of the Federation starship Camelot some two days ago; as you can
see, her wounds are… extensive. She will not long survive, but deserves to face
her fate with honor.
"She bears her pain in silence."
Luciano Mantovanni listened to her breathe a moment. Every half-second
she gave a twitch that probably would have been a convulsion if she'd had the
strength. Her breaths were, shallow, pathetic little
gasps…
…and he suddenly found himself terrified that each one might be
the last.
On an impulse, he bent and lifted her from the bed, cradling her
misshapen form in his arms. She nestled towards him, seeking comfort.
Please don't die, little
one, Mantovanni thought.
I don't think I could
bear it.
From the cold, lonely place she had gone, Vaerth
Parihn heard someone call her. She was tired, and the light she'd seen ahead
had seemed so peaceful, but the voice was a strong, beautiful one…
…and it sounded so
lonely.
She turned towards it.
"
The younger man,
though, clearly had no intention of
conceding that these were the girl’s
final hours.
“Mantovanni to
“Understood,
sir.”
Robert DeSoto could hear the undertone of desperate determination
in the Sicilian's voice. Somehow, Hood’s
captain sensed Mantovanni had immediately invested something in this young
woman.
His friend’s
heart had been suddenly laid bare.
DeSoto only hoped something could be done…
…for his sake almost as much as hers.
***
Hatshepsut
purred, “He specifically asked to see you, and said it was vitally important to
the current situation.”
Luciano Mantovanni stood outside Gul Jasad’s quarters, and Erika Donaldson watched him consider
the sudden change of heart from his prisoner.
“I assume you
told him what happened?” she asked, frowning. She, Robert DeSoto,
Bela Tiraz and Maitland
Forrest had been with Mantovanni, discussing what he expected of them all in
the upcoming engagement with the Dominion task force, when
“Yes,” the Felisian replied. “He knows about the duel.”
“Well, at least he’s man enough to be grateful,” Forrest opined. “Too little, too late, if’n you ask me.”
DeSoto’s expression clouded; Tiraz was almost
unreadable, but if Erika had been forced to take a guess, she would have said
he was pensive.
“Please wait out
here, ladies and gentlemen," Mantovanni decided. "I’ll be back in a
few moments.”
Lieutenant Commander Sih’tarr stepped
forward to escort him inside, and was completely unimpressed with his captain’s
discouraging glance.
“I’ll be fine, Theren,” he assured the Andorian.
“Indeed you will be, sir, for I shall be with you—unless you plan
on fighting another duel so soon
after the last.”
The other captains all hid their smiles with varying degrees of
success.
Mantovanni conceded gracefully.
“Very well, Commander. Since I’m not ready to take up chakas at this
time… lead the way.”
The door opened before them, and then closed behind.
For a few moments, silence reigned.
“How long now before the
Dominion gets here?” Hatshepsut abruptly asked.
Absently, Bela
Tiraz replied, “Seven hours, four minutes.”
Forrest chuckled at his
precision.
“Could y’all possibly be a little more specific, Bela?”
Ptolemy’s
commander flicked a glance at Athene’s, but that secret smile the former had patented was,
on this occasion, only momentary before his gaze was drawn back to the closed
door.
“I have a fairly good time
sense,” he explained quietly.
It was Robert DeSoto who finally voiced what all of them, even the
optimistic Matt Forrest, had felt.
“I don’t like this,” he said.
It turned out he had reason: The
first sound that assailed them when the door opened a few seconds later was
laughter…
…but it was not, by any means, a pleasant sound.
Mantovanni emerged from their
“guest’s” quarters, and started slowly back up the corridor.
They could hear Gul Jasad begin to speak again,
only to be interrupted by Theren Sih’tarr’s
sibilant, “I don’t care if I’m thrown into the brig for it,
Cardassian. If you say another word
in the next few moments, I promise you a painful death.”
The ensuing silence told the
four captains that Jasad believed him.
When Theren
appeared, they could see he was on the verge of an uncontrollable storm of
fury.
Oh, no. I was afraid of this.
Though
she knew full well, Erika had to ask.
“Commander…
what did he say?”
Theren, mastering himself with
difficulty, hissed, “Can’t you guess,
Captain Donaldson?
“He mocked the captain for protecting him,
telling us that it was our very ideals that would destroy us. He was very
eloquent… but I shall not perpetuate
his vitriol by repeating it.” He glanced up at Mantovanni’s retreating back,
and added, wonderingly, “And the captain never
said a word, never changed expression or moved—other than to raise a hand for
restraint when I would have killed Jasad, that is.”
“Perhaps
ah need to fight a duel o’ my own,” Matt Forrest muttered angrily.
As
she watched Luciano Mantovanni withdraw, Erika
thought, He doesn't deserve this.
She didn't know how the others
would perceive it, but in that moment really didn't care. Risking a familiarity
she wasn't certain would be welcome, she strode to catch him, gently touched
his sleeve, and addressed him with his given name.
"
It
stopped him. He glanced back at them all, then smiled at Donaldson—a
heart-rending mixture of gratitude and anguish that, from such a customarily
emotionless man, affected them all the more.
He
replied, "Erika… I killed a hero… to protect a monster. I appreciate your
support...
"…but
I don't feel very right about
it."