CHAPTER ONE

Laden with the weight of her prize, IKS Taj’qIj (“Black Blade”) crept home.

The raid had been a highly successful one, if not particularly exciting... and that was just the way Krador preferred it.

Let those too young to know better crave battle with a mighty foe. I’d just as soon de-cloak, shred the enemy’s defenses with my opening salvo, and strip them of their valuables at my leisure.

And that, much to his delight, was exactly what had occurred.

The Romulans, despite having invented the cloaking device, were just as vulnerable to having it employed against them as any other people. Tracking sensors were all well and good for detecting sudden movement, but Black Blade had approached on inertia, little more than drifting towards its target, for four days. Krador imagined the garrison’s on-duty staff had done little more than gape in astonishment when their death came into existence… just before they left it.

Two old Rom frigates had for a time made it a chase… but not much of one. They were sturdy craft, but pathetically slow; and their commanders, bereft of support from a Swarm, would not cross into Klingon space. Instead, they’d buzzed angrily at the border before turning back to patrol an already ravaged system.

Now, his ship’s cargo holds, corridors and even crew quarters were bulging with refined pergium. While such was not a prize about which bards would compete to produce a song, it was fuel necessary to the machinery of empire—in both senses of the phrase.

A trio of bulk carriers awaited Black Blade’s arrival at her home base. To send them all on their way, full to bursting, would please Brigadier Kudras no end; and Kudras was flagrantly generous when pleased. Krador looked forward to sampling the contents of his cellar... and his harem.

First, though, it was time to handle less pleasant duties.

He activated his desk’s comm unit, and barked, “Mi’kal, cha vul.”

All of two seconds later, his office door slid aside to admit her.

Krador did not allow his surprise to show; she had clearly been waiting for his summons just outside, and the moment or two he would have liked to consider his words were denied him.

Still, he would try to soften the blow. This much, at least, she deserved.

“You have done well, Mi’kal. Your recommendations and stratagem were instrumental in the success of our mission. I have noted it in my log, and the ship’s annals.”

Her salute in reply was precise, but almost perfunctory. She would not be distracted.

“And what of our previous discussion, sir?”

Those glittering, discerning black eyes of hers would miss nothing, he knew.

“I made inquiries… but the command has gone to Karnok.”

A long, disturbing moment of silence followed.

Krador had expected more of an immediate reaction to his news, and been ready to forgive curses, vows… even the destruction of a few less valuable office breakables.

Instead, between one blink and the next, Mi’kal’s eyes lost that spark he so valued, becoming cold and flat—calculating as opposed to clever.

“I see,” she replied at last. “And I understand.”

He thought that was all of it but, again, she surprised him—showing she understood all too well.

“You said you made inquiries, sir. Did you personally recommend me for the command?”

Her voice’s inflection had not discernibly changed, yet Krador suddenly found himself glad for the d’k’tahg at his side.

His answer was as honest as he could make it.

“It would not have made any difference, Mi’kal.”

He watched as she considered that. How like a blade she herself was, Krador again noted: Tall and lean, with an austerity that still somehow became her. Not for the first time, he wondered how she would feel beneath him… but knew this conversation had ended any chance of that.

“Perhaps not… but it would have mattered to me.”

He heard what she left unsaid: “It should have mattered to you.”

His temper flared… but he mastered it.

After all, she was right.

“Return to your duties,” he ordered. “Leave will commence upon securing berth.” He wasn’t sure if he’d meant that last as a consolation, but it rang hollow even in his own ears.

Again, she saluted him, and it was, again, just as exacting… but whereas once Mi’kal had praised the man, he knew now that it was only the rank and position she acknowledged.

He had lost her respect. And while he knew that such shouldn’t bother him, it did.

Krador reached for a bottle of bloodwine—already knowing that it would not wash away the taste of what he had done… and not done.

He did not want leave now.

It would give him too much time to think.

***

Presumptuous bitch.

Mi’kal held herself rigid next to Black Blade’s center seat. In the two days since her discussion with Captain Krador, she had stood three watches—literally.

She knew her refusal to use the chair was meaningless—even childish, in a way… but she could not bring herself to sit in it. It was not hers; it would never be hers—nor would any other, apparently.

It will be different for me, she remembered thinking 17 years ago, when coming aboard her first frigate as an eager young officer. There has never been anyone like me. I shall be the one to do what no Klingon woman has ever done—break through and gain my own command.

It was only now that she fully realized what a naive, arrogant fool she’d been.

She issued her orders with cold efficiency and saw Taj’qIj brought safely into port. Her duty no longer held any joy… but still, it was her duty.

Spirits were high; the bridge crew practically trembled at their posts, as the yardmaster declared them berthed and the ship under his authority. They were waiting for Mi’kal to release them.

One minute became two, then five… and finally ten.

And still they waited.

Krador emerged onto the bridge and came up short. He had expected an empty room, and was instead greeted by confused murmurs and even, from one of his younger officers he knew had a transport to catch, a look half-pleading, half-furious.

“You are all dismissed,” he declared.

Their mood had been temporarily darkened. They filed past him, one or two glancing resentfully back at their second officer—who had still not spoken, or even moved.

Lieutenant Kala, though, stepped away from her communications station, and intentionally chose a path that took her past Mi’kal… there to whisper a single phrase en passant.

Krador couldn’t hear it, but for a moment, the older woman actually smiled.

When Kala passed him, her salutation was perfectly, carefully respectful… and yet somehow reminded him of the exchange in his office two days ago.

He waited until he and Mi’kal were alone.

“Because you are a fine officer, I have tolerated this resentment far longer than I should have. Remember your…” Abruptly, Krador stopped, realizing he’d miscalculated.

“…my place?” she finished.

“I am well aware of it, sir.”

She was the kind of woman with whom he could not win an argument without resorting to rank—which was, in its own way, an acknowledgment of defeat.

He could feel her condemnation added to his own... and reacted angrily beneath the weight of both.

“My patience is at an end, Mi'kal. Do not return to my ship until you have accepted things as they are… and always will be.

“Affirm?”

Reflexively, she replied, “Affirm.”

He then left her alone on the bridge.

Thus, Krador didn’t hear her final word.

Mi’kal smiled, and murmured, “Acting.”

CHAPTER TWO

After a moment’s consideration, Kang issued his commands—as Mara listened in anger and dismay.

“The decision is made: Alter course; maximum sub-light until we reach the system border, then increase to warp. Time until intersection with target, helmsman?”

Distractedly, she performed the calculation in her head, even as Karn employed the computer. Her husband waited, none too patiently, for the eight seconds it took his young officer to supply him with the data. Kang had been spoiled by a woman who could do higher math unaided.

It was one of many ways he had been spoiled.

“Nineteen hours, seven minutes, Commander,” the boy, at long last, said.

Nineteen hours, four minutes, actually, Mara thought. You forgot the subspace variance. She made a note to discuss it with the lad later—quietly, privately. It was a minor error, and pointing it out now would only damage his confidence… and his career, if Kang chose to make an example of him.

“Both IKS Lancer and Boreth are significantly closer. Despite target’s optimal evasion, both will overtake the Orion within 12 hours.”

The bridge crew tensed; it was as close to questioning Kang’s orders as she had ever come.

As if speaking aloud to himself, their captain announced, “We shall close and lend support.”

Mara snorted. “From seven hours away?”

Two or three actually cringed in their seats.

Kang stood.

“Helm… maintain vector and velocity. Korav, you have authority.

“Mara… come with me.”

She watched him carefully on the lift. He was maintaining his temper only with a great effort of will—a will that would surely flag once they were in the privacy of their quarters.

The door had barely closed behind them when she was proven right.

Punctuating a growl, Kang’s fist swung out and crushed a delicate vase from Terran China’s T’ang Dynasty—a piece she had acquired only with tremendous difficulty, and at great expense.

“I have killed officers for less—for far less—than the disrespect you just showed me!”

Mara closed her eyes briefly, summoning the reserves of resolve she knew were necessary to face the next few minutes.

“Do not speak to me of disrespect, Kang.” She’d leeched as much acid from her words as she could, but still, they had an acerbic bite. “The studies I was conducting in orbit of Veridian III would have advanced Klingon science–”

“We were given a higher priority mission,” he insisted.

“I may be your science officer, Kang, but I comprehend tactics—military and marital—very well. You do not need to support two cruisers in their pursuit of a ship that lacks less punch than you showed in smashing my vase! There is such a thing as captain’s discretion—at least, there is for some captains.”

He frowned. “We can return to Veridian within two days.”

Mara rolled her eyes, and barely suppressed an urge to stamp her booted foot.

“Their storm cycle will have ended by then, as you well know! It took me four days just to calibrate the sensors, which are now already reconfigured for tactical mode.”

He exhaled expansively. “You have been at this for nearly a week, Mara. Surely the data you’ve collected is of some value.”

Her gaze again fell on the ruined crockery, and this surge of fury had a distinct undercurrent of sadness at its core.

“Real science doesn’t work that way, Kang. My research is ruined—all so you could set me in my place before your new crew.”

Kang started. “That is not true.”

“Isn’t it?” she pressed. “You have been cold with me ever since…” It was only then the problem came further into focus. “…ever since we returned from Federation space.” Her voice softened. “Are you still thinking about what happened with Kirk?”

“No,” Kang answered.

“Are you?”

Mara felt a chill.

Now she knew.

“Kang,” she whispered fervently, “you are my husband; I would not lie to you. Kirk did not touch me. None of them touched me! I would have killed or died before letting that happen. I am your woman.”

She moved closer, extending her hand towards him… and he stepped back.

“I saw how you looked at him.”

He was a prideful, jealous man… and despite the fact that she had never given him reason, his rages had nearly broken their bond of love twice before. Never before, though, had she failed to reassure him.

Mara tried again.

“Then you do not understand me so well as you think, Kang. I looked at Kirk not with desire, but with respect. He is a good commander, and a good man—like you.”

Kang turned away, and poured himself a flagon of blood wine.

“It seems he is a better man.”

Her hand fell back to its side.

“I cannot speak to you when you are like this.”

Seeing no other viable option, Mara began to remove her uniform.

He sensed rather than saw. Almost against his will, Kang turned to the sight of burnished skin and silken limbs.

Reviling herself for employing such a pathetically female tactic, Mara smoothly knelt before her husband, hands crossed over her breasts… and humbled herself for his sake.

At least, she thought, I can speak the truth.

“There is no man like you, Kang… and there is no man before you in my heart. You conquered me long ago.”

Now her smile grew lazy, and calculatedly wicked.

“Perhaps you would like to… tour your possessions, milord?”

The set of his jaw was firm… but his eyes smoldered.

“You are a sorceress,” he rasped. “You have bewitched me.”

Her arms uncurled, and she beckoned him. “Then join your magic to mine… and let us conjure together.

“Reclaim what has always been yours.”

A moment passed.

She saw his face change, and Mara knew she had spoken one sentence too many.

“‘Reclaim’?” he roared. “Then you were with Kirk!”

Now he did come for her, and she braced herself for a blow.

It never fell. Instead, he loomed over her for a moment… and then swept past and out the door.

For a long time afterward, she knelt there, utterly lost.

Thought Mara, wife of Kang, If we still had gods…

…I would pray.

CHAPTER THREE

Klingon shipbuilding philosophy had not changed much during the course of their time in space. “Tried and true” was more than just a perspective; it was practically an axiom.

In some ways, this was not surprising. Practically all of their aerospace technology had not been created, but rather inherited from their ancient masters, the Hur’q—who, though completely without honor, inept in hand-to-hand combat and horrifically ugly to boot, had at least been excellent craftsmen. The space vehicles in various states of disrepair they’d left behind in their hasty departure from Qo’nos had been, if not pristine, then still serviceable; and while Klingons weren’t a particularly imaginative people, they were a determined one… and determination can conceal other faults admirably well.

So, while there were few old warriors, there were many old ships, and the techniques used for maintaining them had been polished for generations into a process that was the envy of many more technologically adept cultures.

This is not to say, of course, that Klingons couldn’t be innovative. It was, though, the exception rather than the rule.

And Barella was an exception.

Her father, Commander B’Rel, had indulged his daughter in her youth, as so many men did. From the time she could walk, Barella had been neither ladylike (which would have been uncommon, but not unheard of) nor aggressive (which would have been conventional, but unremarkable).

Instead, she had been… curious.

When she was only three years old that curiosity had led the tiny Barella to claim her father’s disruptor pistol from its holster in his private office, and take it apart. Furious at her disobedience (even Klingon children do not handle energy weapons at that age), he first turned her over his knee for having dared to touch it, and then set her before the dozens of pieces again.

“Now fix it,” he’d rumbled, determined that she would learn a second lesson in consequence.

As he had watched, though, Barella, tongue perched at the side of her mouth, had begun playing with the haphazardly strewn parts.

Only she hadn’t been playing.

While loudly singing her favorite song, “Taroq the Happy Targ,” she’d proceeded to reassemble the weapon—in less than two minutes.

B’Rel, who had (like most parents) imagined his child to be extraordinarily bright, realized in that moment just how limited his imagination had been.

Now, 30 years later, retired General B’Rel listened as his oldest child, and only daughter, sang that same song…

…and finished assembling a slightly larger weapon.

She is beautiful, and heedless of it, he thought.

Barella’s sweat-soaked, short-cropped hair clung to her skull; both her coverall—and the all they didn’t cover—bore generous stains of kla’then, a coolant/lubricant used in the cycling of disruptor coils.

Looking at her now, B’Rel remembered a phrase he’d once heard a kuve mechanic employ in reference to his Klingon overlord—that is, just before the man had cut the human’s tongue out for impudence.

What was it again?

Grease monkey.

Now he understood it.

He vaguely wondered when his daughter had last eaten or slept.

His nostrils flared. Or bathed.

“You have made excellent progress, ka’lia.”

Barella grinned at the nickname “little girl,” and with a forearm, wiped away—or rather redistributed—a smear of grease.

“More than that, Father. She is ready for flight—space-worthy. Once the B’Rel-class is proven, the High Council will have no choice but to adopt her!”

The B’Rel-class, he noted. My naïve, faithful child.

“On that matter,” he said, clearing his throat, “both the Design Bureau and Shipwright’s Guild have reviewed your schematics and production proposal. Their decision…”

At that hesitation, his daughter scrambled to her feet. She had never been much of a soldier; but now, a Klingon Marine could not have stood more rigidly at attention.

Kahless, give me strength.

He almost faltered, but pressed on.

“…is to further evaluate the vessel. They will commission a panel of advisors to assist you in refining the design, with trial runs to follow upon their approval.”

Her shoulders drooped. Her jaw dropped.

“I–I don’t understand. Why would they…?”

In the next instant, it became apparent that, suddenly, she did understand.

Mechanically, she said, “They are going to take my design, alter it slightly and call it their own—after having dismissed me from the team over some disciplinary quibble. They cannot bear that I have done this without their help.”

He had warned her… but, for the first time in his life, B’Rel took no pleasure in having been correct.

“It is their right… their property, child.”

“I should never have allowed them to contribute materials!” she raged. “It was only so they could lay claim to her later! I should have done all the work myself!”

B’Rel sighed.

“We are a proud House, Barella—not a rich one. It would have been another 20 years before you were done.”

“Better that than to lose her now!”

For all that she was his eldest, Barella had none of his flair with people… and his heart hurt as he watched her flail desperately for an answer to something she could neither design nor repair.

It was rare that his daughter asked for anything. In that, she was a true Klingon woman. Yet now, she turned her trusting eyes upon him, and implored, “Is there nothing you can do, Father?”

He considered her question, and knew there were many things he could do.

Whether or not he possessed the courage to do them, however, was yet another question.

CHAPTER FOUR

For most empires, “Expand or die” is an excuse. For the Klingons, at least initially, it was an imperative.

When they mysteriously fled Qo’nos (and this part of the galaxy) centuries ago, the H’urq didn’t leave their Klingon vassals with much in the way of resources or recourse. They had stripped the planet nearly bare of useful materials, while leaving much of the two-and-a-half billion strong population living at or below the subsistence level… and competing savagely over the little that remained.

As best they could, the Klingons expanded their shipbuilding program, relying heavily upon the mining and other industrial facilities the H’urq had begun constructing on Praxis, their largest moon. It, too, had limited resources, but “limited” was better than “nonexistent,” and rather than shepherding what little they had in hopes of regaining their collective feet through commerce, the Klingons instead threw everything they had into building a star fleet that would give them the means to regain their sense of honor—by force. In some ways, it was an all-or-nothing gamble: They wouldn’t have the wherewithal with which to try something like this again.

They were afforded a little time, fortunately: The H’urq, while unpopular, had been feared, and this, coupled with force of habit, had kept the more acquisitive and avaricious star-faring peoples from exploiting Klingon weakness in a period when they were perhaps their most vulnerable. Any number of races, early on in this chain of events, could have with a moderate effort utterly crushed the burgeoning Klingon Navy and isolated them on their homeworld, there to eventually destroy themselves. Why this didn’t happen is no mystery, though: There were easier pickings elsewhere; and, more importantly, the Klingons no longer had anything anyone would want.

The reverse was another matter entirely.

The Spartans had the Helots. The Klingons had the Kh’Van.

They’d stumbled over them only a handful of years after the H’urq withdrawal, and it seemed almost as if the Dead Gods had sent them a gift from whatever place it is that Dead Gods go: The Kh’Van were industrious, intelligent and peaceable; their infrastructure was extensive and well established; their technology was on the verge of bringing them into the warp era; and their system’s resources were so bountiful as to be beyond belief.

The war lasted all of a week, and to this day remains the most bloodless conquest in Klingon history. When it was done, the Klingons had acquired their first colonial possession—an entire system almost tailor-made to aid in the restoration of their homeworld’s viability.

Strangely enough, though, the Kh’Van were not long resentful. Instead, they embraced their overlords in all senses of the word, and both sides soon discovered that such embraces had consequences. The two races could interbreed… and did so enthusiastically.

Supplies and materiel flowed to Qo’nos, while culture and pride made the trip to Kh’Van. They essentially abandoned their own societal mores, and fervently adopted those of their Klingon masters. The Klingons, to their credit, accepted the Kh’Van as brothers, and little was made of the rather marked physical differences between the two sides.

Together, the Klingons and the Kh’Van formed the Second Klingon Empire.

By the time it was generally realized that the H’urq were no longer a player, they’d been replaced by another—one that wasn’t interested in either keeping to itself or getting along with its neighbors. In the first few years of their appearance, the Klingons made spectacular gains. Races like the Hanari, the Rhoviin, and the Maladar are little remembered today. That’s because their worlds are now Klingon possessions, and their peoples either eradicated or remade into a servant class.

The Klingons were determined never to bow down again; and the best way to ensure that, they deemed, was to make certain everyone bowed down to them. To that end, the various noble houses began staking claims off-planet, settling and quickly making the holdings (which varied in size from city-state to continent, and in the case of a few major houses, encompassed an entire world) hereditary through Imperial charters.

Agrimar II was one such planet. The House of Kuras had taken possession of it near the time of the American Revolution, reached the apex of its power and influence at around that of the United States’ first moon shot… and, since then, experienced a slow decline of fortunes that had left them with little more than the planet itself.

Its cities were much like its people: Run down, perhaps… but tended and mended with care and pride. On the slopes of its tallest mountain stood Kur’thal, a massive, sprawling keep built in the style of the first Klingon warlords, with granite transported from the stone quarries on Qo’nos—hand-wrought as an ancestral dwelling must be, that it can take on the spirit of those who dwell within.

Kur’thal was an amalgam of ancient and modern. Its battlements held not catapults, but photon torpedo launchers and disruptor cannons. Its walls held foes at bay, but because of the shield emplacements built into them. Its stables held riding beasts, to be sure… but also held a fleet of Raptors and other small craft that constituted much of the Kuras House Fleet—such as it was.

Such as it has become, thought the house’s current lord.

As he often did when troubled, B’rel strode through the Hall of Kings, and gazed upon the statuary depicting each of the 29 men who had led House Kuras. They, too, were made not from some valuable stone, but that same granite from which the walls around them had been raised—a decision to avoid pretension made by the first Kuras hundreds of years before. B’rel approved—both for the sentiment, and for the fact that he could probably ill afford to purchase the obsidian currently in favor for such work.

One figure in particular caught his eye, and he paused before it… or, rather, her.

The artisan who had carved Vana from un-living rock had surely captured a portion of her spirit within. The lone woman to ever rule House Kuras—one of the few, in fact, ever to have led a Klingon family—had, in life, been a lady of boundless energy, limitless courage, and matchless cunning. Her place in Sto-vo-kor was unquestionable.

It was his own about which he—and, B’rel wagered, she—now wondered.

Would you have approved of my choices, Lady Vana?

His great ancestress, though, remained as she had been in life—serene… and aloof.

B’rel chuckled aloud.

“You are hardly worth a visitation, you old targ,” he chided himself.

“Do not be so certain.”

The hall’s acoustics were deceptive… and for a moment, B’rel glanced suspiciously at Vana’s lips. Then, when laughter followed, he turned.

“Kalinda, your intrusion is… untimely.” But not unwelcome.

His wife was a beauty; in many ways, he had long thought she recalled Vana herself: Tall, well-formed and sufficiently haughty to inflame him—in more ways than one.

“Communing with the ancestors is all well and good, husband… but your guests arrive.”

He blinked. That meant he had been here for over two hours.

“Why didn’t you come for me before?” he demanded. He saluted first Vana, then the rest of his elder kin, and swept past his wife into the adjoining corridor.

“‘A lord of men needs time to brood,’” she quoted, hastening to fall in stride. “I would question your wisdom before I would that of Kahless.”

B’rel concealed a smile.

“I shall have to rid you of that impertinence once we are abed this evening, woman.”

His wife growled quite fetchingly.

“So you have threatened every afternoon you have been in residence here—for 57 years, milord.”

He conceded that particular point with a grunt. The taming of Kalinda was an ongoing project, to be sure… but it was without doubt a labor of love. B’rel felt the stirrings of lust, but suppressed them. Just now, there were visitors to attend.

It promised to be an interesting afternoon.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kang brooded in his command chair.

His demeanor, while never what Mara (or anyone else, for that matter) would have considered “friendly,” had slowly worsened since their quarrel—until the crew, in near terror of their captain’s withering regard, had begun taking most concerns and reports to Korek, the executive officer. He had handled the extra workload with typically Klingon stoicism, and they had both waited for Kang’s anger to abate, as it always had.

With each passing hour, though, his wife’s worry had grown. Other than as pertained to ship’s business, Kang had not spoken more than a handful of words to her since that day almost two weeks ago. Each time she had tried, Mara had been met with a variant on, “Leave me be, woman.” And so, for the last three days, she had done just that, hoping that he would come to his senses.

Korek, who had known him even longer than had Mara, was unimpressed with his moods, but still took prudent care to seem intimidated in front of the crew.

“Sir, we approach the Agrimar star system.”

Kang’s response resonated through the bridge.

“Has our helmsman lost his tongue?”

Realizing there was probably no pleasing him right now, Mara decided to chance taking his anger more fully onto herself, and interjected with, “Scans indicate a number of other vessels in orbit of our destination, the most notable of which are a type D-7 cruiser the lists identify as IKS’ Taj’qIj—along with a ship the configuration of which neither I nor the computer recognize.”

As she had hoped, rather than expressing anger Kang chose instead to be intrigued, saying, “Direct a more thorough scan at this mystery vessel, science officer.

“Slow to sub-light velocities, pilot; approach according to assigned vector.”

This time, their helmsman responded—with alacrity.

“Affirm. Deactivating S-2 graph unit. Altering course to align with transmitted orbital parameters.”

While the sensors ran a full-spectrum cycle, Mara watched her husband with interest, to gauge his reaction: Young Kumar had overcompensated, to be sure; but Kang, instead of snapping at him yet again, offered a mild, “‘Affirm’ is sufficient, Lieutenant.”

He and Korek exchanged brief grins… and the latter flashed his at her.

Perhaps the storm was, at last, passing.

***

A storm is brewing, thought Mi’kal.

I’m not surprised.

Agrimar had proven barren and inhospitable, for the most part—which, fortunately, suited her mood of late. The Kelvan Foothills, in the midst of which she now stood, had been blasted bare of all water and most vegetation by the sun and wind eons before any Klingon had set foot here; and the bones of the land had been baking ever since.

Another three hours yet remained before she could fulfill her purpose on this pedestrian little world, and Mi’kal had thought to amuse herself with that most quintessentially Klingon of pursuits, the hunt.

The challenge at first, though, had been finding an actual challenge: The area—in fact, the very planet itself—did not support large carnivores... and the idea of purchasing an imported targ simply to release and hunt it down appealed neither to her sensibilities nor her money pouch.

In response to her inquiries, a local merchant (after his customary leer) had said, “Try this,” and handed her a gur’vah along with a leathern bag of smooth-polished stones.

“Try this on what?” she’d asked.

He’d sold her the sling, ammunition and skin of water… then gestured towards a distant ridge.

“You’ll see.”

And she had seen… but not many, and not often. The local predators were small, swift… and, as Mi’kal had learned, quite cunning. Two days of scrabbling through the rocks, enduring the heat and scratching at grit that seemed to unerringly seek out places women were especially sensitive, had yielded a dozen scents, a handful of shots…

…and no kills.

Within the hour, she would have to head for the town and find a place to cleanse herself, or miss her appointment; before that, though, Mi’kal was determined to take at least one infuriating little creature back with her.

And so, barely ahead of the tempest, she did.

***

Barella hated rain… and while it seldom rained on Agrimar, once a year was once too often, insofar as she was concerned. Standing in the eave of her small private quarters, she growled, ground her teeth and debated whether the idea she’d had concerning the warp plasma injectors was worth slogging through the muck and the wet to reach the hangar.

Then she grinned.

I’ll just transport over. “An appalling waste of energy,” Father would say… but Father is not standing here.

Like most Klingons, she wasn’t much of a giggler, but a vision of the old man grousing almost provoked one.

She strolled over to the house transit platform, employed her ciphers, set the controls and stepped into the beam… only to materialize right back where she’d been.

Huh.

The console was flashing indignantly, and read, Transport reflected back to source.

Her first thought was that an alert had been sounded while she was asleep, but a glance outside confirmed bored guards on post. It took only a few minutes to ascertain there was no easily correctable malfunction. Barella placed the station on Standby, and made a mental note to repair it after she’d returned.

Then, wincing, she sprinted across the compound.

It was a miserable passage; the downpour was torrential, and Barella managed to splash through every ankle-deep puddle on her way. In the span of just a minute she was soaked and half-blind from the spray lashing her face. At last, she reached the overhang and skidded to a stop, there to spend the next few seconds shaking her hair like a sodden targ and swiping almost comically at her eyes to clear them.

When at last she could see, Barella almost rubbed them again: There, standing before the entrance, were a pair of guards, dressed in the armor and leather of the Klingon Marines. One, the elder, seemed almost amused at what he’d probably labeled her “antics,” while the younger simply glowered more profoundly as she approached.

Her initial hope dissipated as each blocked her path into the bay.

“You have business here?”

She gave the one who’d spoken her full attention—briefly.

“No. My business is inside my hangar, with my ship.”

This declaration provoked a bemused chuckle from the otherwise silent veteran… and an incredulous belly laugh from his companion.

“Your hangar has been commandeered by the Defense Force, wench. Until we leave, nothing is yours.”

Barella managed to restrain herself, but it was a close contest. Still, she couldn’t leave his insult unanswered.

“Call me ‘wench’ again, targ offal, and your teeth will no longer be yours.”

The veteran smiled into his beard, clearly entertained by her spirit—not that Barella cared what the quiet old bastard thought in the least.

Her debate partner, though, growled and sneered, “Please… strike me. I shall consider it the beginning of a mating ritual, and give you a long sample of what you clearly need.”

For a long moment, Barella debated hitting him.

Then, she considered kneeing him instead. Her father had always told her that such was a reprehensible, dishonorable tactic. She, however, was an engineer, and engineers are nothing if not practical.

She’d asked, “Does it work?”

B’rel had said nothing, instead shaking his head in disapproval.

No doubt he’d have done so again just now, because Barella conducted a little empirical research of her own…

…and if the prone, gurgling guard was any indication, it did work.

CHAPTER SIX

Cho’van liked alcohol… and he liked women, too.

As a matter of fact, they were his two favorite things. If one asked him what Paradise was like, his description would probably mention “drinking” and “wenching” even before “fighting.” Tonight, thus, was a little slice of Sto-vo-kor to whet his taste for the afterlife.

His bar was full of women.

He had known this day was coming for almost a month: An anonymous individual had sent him a private communiqué, containing a credit chit redeemable for a tidy sum—no, rather an un-tidy sum, in that a few more like it would make him filthy rich—were he to “privatize” his establishment for the evening. The strictures had been exacting, but not overly difficult to meet… and cashing it constituted acceptance of all conditions contained in the contract that had accompanied it.

Now, both his ledgers and his prospects were looking significantly better than they had in… well, than they ever had… and his eyes were looking at significantly better women than he’d ever seen gathered in one place.

Kahless, he thought, you do exist.

They had trickled in over the last half-hour or so, women of every age and description—all of them clearly officers, enlisted or recently of either category.

None were regulars, or even locals, though, and he’d briefly wondered what had brought them to his entirely unremarkable little tavern. Of course, after only a moment’s reflection, Cho’van had realized that the fact it was an unremarkable little tavern had probably been precisely the reason.

Most didn’t know each other, either. That was clear. While three had taken seats together and were chattering as females—even Klingon females—will given half an opportunity, others had claimed stools at the bar or individual tables, and were eyeing each other in a way he imagined could only be achieved by warriors who happened also to be women.

It was funny. He had seen many worlds and peoples in his travels (having killed more than a few)… yet every humanoid race, no matter the cultural differences, had conceived the concept of a drinking hole, and placed a bar somewhere inside it. The gods had obviously possessed a sense of humor.

Perhaps that’s why the first Klingons had killed them.

The woman he’d targeted in particular had ordered a tall raktajino, and now sat at the counter dosing it to her satisfaction. First she’d added a copious amount of jalva syrup, and now spoonful after spoonful of that horrid white crystal humans called “sugar.”

He wondered if such habits made your blood sweeter, and was determined to find out—not so determined, though, that he’d simply initiate a mating ritual without gauging the woman’s interest. Some of them reacted poorly to that; and considering that this one carried sidearm and d’k’tahg openly, along with no doubt more than a few concealed weapons…. Cho’van chuckled at his unintentional pun while scrutinizing her breasts yet again.

After planning his assault, he approached.

Mi’kal glanced at the wall chronometer. Having taken seriously the stricture against being late, she’d arrived well before the attendance deadline and now sat at a corner table biding her time, alone—well, not entirely alone.

From the satchel before her, Mi’kal’s new companion poked her head. The small creature sniffed at the air, locked gazes with her, chirped once and then disappeared again into the pouch.

Evidently that’s adventure enough for now, she thought, amused.

Mi’kal had found her in the foothills—half dead, covered in scratches, bite marks and blood, panting desperately and lacking the strength to run or even crawl away as the Klingon approached. Still, she’d fared better than her foe, another female of the species twice her size… and also quite dead.

She’d at first wondered what had inspired such a battle. The mating season was still months off, so neither had been protecting young, and predators seldom clashed to no purpose. A quick glance around had provided the answer: There, a few feet away, lay a small coin, reflecting the sun brilliantly… and, no doubt, irresistibly to both combatants.

A pair of little mercenaries... an epic battle over priceless treasure—in miniature.

On an impulse, she’d scooped up the exhausted weasel, given it the last of her water, and then set it down in her pouch.

It had looked expectantly at her, and then issued a demanding chirp.

“Oh,” she’d said. “Sorry, little one.”

Then Mi’kal had grabbed the coveted prize and placed it in the satchel next to her.

She knew the coin was still somewhere in there, but hadn’t seen it since: Her new companion had buried it with all the cunning her tiny brain could summon… and had also decided that everything else within now belonged to her, too. That discerning little nose had detected the pair of ration bars Mi’kal had brought along and promptly torn into one. She’d actually heard the creature making happy noises at the fact that dinner had been so easily caught and subdued.

Now, after a drink, a meal, a long nap and a brief check to confirm that her servant was still about, Mi’kal’s newfound friend rearranged her mobile home further to her liking.

Mi’kal, with a hint of chagrin, realized she’d need another satchel.

Cho’van knew his technique needed a bit of work, but never before—well, maybe once or twice before, but that was another story—had a woman drawn her weapon even before he’d spoken to her. Yet his snaggle-toothed smile was now carefully frozen—as her disruptor tickled at the hairs on his chin.

This was definitely not his idea of foreplay.

She whispered, “Take the rest of the night off,” and then made it something more than a suggestion…

…by pulling the trigger.

Barella’s first sight upon entering definitely earned her undivided attention: What she assumed was (or had been) the bartender hurtled back, rebounded off the wall behind him and completed his brief, painful journey face down and motionless across his own countertop.

The woman responsible for his condition had smoothly snatched her glass away just before his… return. She took a drink and turned to address the gallery. The fact that at least four disruptors, including Barella’s own, were now trained on her didn’t seem to faze the woman much, if at all. Carefully, she holstered... then took another sip.

“Meeting,” she said, “convened.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Interstellar historian Jan Simerink, in his seminal work A Brief History of the Klingon Empire, noted that as a general rule, the more exacting a race’s honor codes, the fewer friends and allies it finds upon contact with other star-faring civilizations.

Klingon honor is not particularly flexible.

After a string of successes that introduced them to the galaxy at large, the Klingons, inevitably, encountered a people whose own exacting perception of what constituted proper and respectable behavior was, if not diametrically opposed to theirs, sufficiently different that conflict was inevitable.

And the Romulans, who also possessed not only a highly developed honor code but a growing empire all their own, had no intention of becoming the latest Klingon conquest.

They were everything the Klingons, as a people, despised—at least in others: Duplicitous; arrogant; secretive.

Worst of all, though, they would neither submit nor defer… and in the face of the Klingons’ “inherent” superiority, either was inexcusable, but both were intolerable. War, thus, was inevitable once Klingon and Romulan interests clashed… and it happened mere months after initial contact.

The Tular, a species with the great misfortune of having its territory wedged between the two rapacious empires, had, over the previous decade, fought a two-front war bravely, but unsuccessfully; they’d watched in despair as their own modest Commonwealth disintegrated under the unwittingly combined blows of their enemies—until, at last, the victors confronted each other over the corpse of the Tular Monarchy, each thinking the conquest and resultant spoils rightly theirs… and theirs alone.

Some sort of accommodation, at this juncture, would have benefited all… but like “peace,” there was, at that point, no word for “compromise” in the Klingon language. Rather than breaking down, negotiations never actually, technically, commenced.

While the Klingons, as a people, are often impulsive, they are not always imprudent: Their initial experiences with the Romulans, though, further emboldened them (if such a thing is even possible with Klingons). Romulan starships, it seemed, were slow, poorly armed and captained by men far more interested in evading their foes then engaging them.

The Romulans, however, were not interested in glorious combat. They had gauged the Klingons as a legitimate threat to their continued existence… and were determined to neutralize it. They lost the skirmishes, intentionally… and prepared for the inevitable battle.

It wasn’t long in coming.

A fleet consisting largely of House vessels, and organized loosely under the nominal leadership of B’rel’s great grandfather (three times removed) conducted an ad hoc invasion of Romulan space, hoping to gain both glory and territory they would not have to share—that last another word for which Klingons have little use.

Expecting an easy victory now that they’d “forced” the Romulans into a decisive confrontation, the Klingons were instead introduced by their suddenly far more resolute enemies to a pair of assets they had until then never seen: The plasma torpedo… and the cloaking device.

Klingon accounts of the fight tend either to be brief or curiously absent from historical records of the period. What is known, though, is that their forays into Romulan space ceased entirely for almost three decades. One or two scholars phrase it as “taking the p’tahks’ measure” or even “showing them their place,” but the actual facts are undeniable: The Klingon Empire had been given its first sharp check in the form of a serious bloody nose, and had withdrawn behind its own borders, there to brood resentfully… and plan vengeance.

Looking back with the gift of hindsight, it had not been difficult for a young B’rel to identify the moment in which his family’s fortunes has changed, and its star had begun the agonizing, interminable plummet from the Firmament.

The House of Kuras had left the flower of its manhood and the bulk of its star fleet behind in what was then undisputed Romulan space. If that had not been enough of a blow, blame, too, had to be assessed for such an unmitigated disaster… and since the first B’rel’s name had been the most famous, his was the one “awarded” the bulk of it.

Only narrowly had the family avoided having its titles and possessions stripped away. As it was, it had received an Imperial Censure and Condemnation for its ill-considered actions, a decision supported by the bulk of the Great Houses—houses that, had the Klingon fleet been victorious, would have raised an outcry at the “injustice” of having been excluded from the spoils.

As the Klingon proverb says, “Honor is blind.”

***

Mara didn’t know which was worse: The fact that, other than her hostess, she was the only non-servant woman present at this semi-official function; or the knowledge that it had usually been so her entire career, and showed no signs of changing any time soon… or ever.

After the usual introductions, during which a brace of new-met officers had praised her beauty—something Mara knew Kang enjoyed far more than she did, as his due for having captured such a “prize”—she had been none-too-subtly excised from the main discussion, and consigned (or condemned) to spending time with Kalinda, wife of B’rel. While sometimes such “girl talk” was insipid and tried even her considerable patience, this occasion proved in the short term stimulating… and in the long term, quite memorable.

The lady, it seemed, was not one to engage in trivialities.

“How often,” she inquired, as they slipped away from the knot of increasingly boisterous men, “has Captain Kang been forced to ‘defend your honor’ at such a gathering?”

Mara’s lips quirked… but she smothered the expression, and answered, “More than once,” her tone implying, “Far too often.”

It was a surprising conversational overture… and, at first, it seemed to Mara that she was engaging in an actual dialogue; but after a few minutes, something about the entire exchange began to nag at her.

Finally, it dawned: She was asking very few questions of her own, while volunteering information she might have chosen to withhold during an interrogation, let alone the superficial interlude Mara had at first thought this to be.

“I noted a sour expression behind that lovely smile when Kang introduced you.”

Now a bit warier, Mara countered, “Did you?”

Kalinda seemed immediately aware of her guest’s newfound reticence… yet continued in the same vein.

“Perhaps I am mistaken… but I sensed that you would have preferred to be introduced as ‘science officer,’ rather than simply ‘wife.’”

Mara usually took care to guard both her expression and her thoughts; but Kalinda, it seemed, still managed to divine both with a glance. She marveled that it wasn’t bothering her more.

“There’s nothing simple about being Kang’s wife.”

No doubt a woman married to B’rel understood that.

Kang had known Krador for a long time… and had disliked him for much of it. They were of an age, and had received their respective commissions only days apart. For years, their not-so-friendly competition had lain fallow: Klingon space was vast, after all, and they had not encountered each other for the best part of two decades.

Now at last, though, one of them had a clear advantage: Kang’s disaster in Federation space, during which IKS K’mok had been destroyed, had thrust Krador ahead of him in both power and prestige. They were both nobles, to be sure, both men of means and ability, but loss of a ship in any fashion was a blow from which it took time to recover… and while Kang’s accomplishments and connections had been enough to ensure he’d received another cruiser immediately, inherent within the choice of vessel bestowed had been an unstated rebuke and demotion of honor—for while his new command, IKS Vor’cha, was not by any means decrepit, neither was she a newer-commissioned ship.

The message from High Command, though unsaid, had been received and clearly understood: “We shall not risk a pristine new battle cruiser on a man who’s just lost one, no matter the circumstances... or the man.”

Both sets of officers had followed their respective commander’s lead, though, and the gathering had initially remained cordial.

The more freely bloodwine flows, however, the more freely blood tends to follow. B’rel’s cellar was vast and well-stocked; moreover, he was a generous fellow. Men relaxed and their tongues loosened.

In this case, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Krador was not the type that came at you directly, Kang knew; and so, over the last hour-and-a-half, he had listened carefully for any insinuations. To his surprise, none had been forthcoming. The arrogant ku’ba had even seemed sympathetic to his misfortune, in that he’d avoided the subject altogether—at first.

“Your wife is a great beauty, Kang. Possession of her does you honor.”

Korek was immediately on his guard, and at Kang’s side. He said nothing… but stood ready.

“And her steadfastness,” Krador continued, “is to be commended.”

Knowing precisely where his old rival was headed with this, Kang allowed anger to kindle. The huge tankard of bloodwine upon which he worked while Krador spoke his small mind did nothing to douse his temper… but instead had the usual effect alcohol does on fire.

“After all, Mara is of the blood—a lady of distinction and breeding. To see her husband’s honor decrease, well… it must be a trial for her to abide.”

Kang’s belly was quite warm, now. Still, he said nothing, and instead savored the rush of blood to his head.

Korek, instead, spoke on his behalf.

“Mara comprehends that honor is not a single battle, but a lifelong campaign. There are setbacks along the way, but overcoming them makes final victory all the sweeter. When one has not tasted adversity, one is not truly tested.”

While most Klingons possessed “a wicked grin,” Korek’s was downright malevolent… and he employed it now.

“I understand Taj’qIj recently acquired a brace of pergium from a Romulan storage depot… and then slipped away before their patrol ships could intercept you. Interesting combat strategy—to avoid it altogether, that is. Of course, knowing your reputation, I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason for fle–… excuse me, withdrawing—in the face of such underwhelming opposition, that is.”

Krador’s lip curled. “I can see why you have yet to gain your own command, Korek.

“You’re too busy fighting your captain’s battles for him.”

Only now did Kang speak.

“I should have killed you long ago, Krador… but didn’t bother trying. I’d assumed that if I’d approached, you would have run away.

“It is something of your pattern, after all.”

The bloodwine hadn’t dulled Krador’s wit; his reflexes were another matter, though. He actually fumbled for his d’k’tahg, and Kang felt a momentary twinge of guilt at the thought of killing a man who couldn’t properly defend himself.

Then, again, if he’d kept his mouth shut, less bloodwine would have entered, and less stupidity would have emerged.

As was the instinctual, nigh-atavistic custom of Klingon males when individual combat impended, they had formed a loose circle which would define the arena boundaries.

As the infuriated challenger advanced on him, Kang’s right hand fell to his own short blade, but he did not draw it. Instead, he took another sip of bloodwine…

…and then snapped his left wrist, splashing Krador’s face.

Krador roared… first in rage, then pain, and finally frustration: He was, momentarily, blinded… and knew blind warriors quickly become dead ones. Desperate, he lashed out at Kang’s last location, hoping for a lucky strike.

His luck had been better.

“Coward!” he growled.

“Imbecile,” came the reply.

Knowing he had little chance in his current state, Krador whipped his d’k’tahg towards the sound, and heard a satisfying thunk as it hit home.

Unfortunately, it had hit the wrong home.

Again, the disembodied voice of Kang addressed him.

“Your weapons officer has taken his title too literally, I’d say.”

Krador heard a crash. He didn’t have to guess what—or, rather, who—had fallen.

When, just then, the fortress’ alarms sounded, Kang put aside disappointment and returned his mind to business, focusing immediately on the announcement.

“Alert one… alert one… all personnel report to duty stations.”

B’rel strode to the nearest comm panel.

“Status?”

“My lord, someone has…”

The ground beneath them trembled… and the reporting officer hastily recomposed his statement to include news on what they’d just felt.

“…has blasted open the bay doors!”

He finished with the obvious—which was still no less stunning.

“Th–they’re stealing the prototype!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Five, in all, had decided to come. If Mi’kal had been superstitious, the omen would have been off-putting. As things stood, though, numerology was the least of her concerns.

She had pressed the others to act immediately. After what had been said in the bar, after all, it wasn’t likely they had months, weeks or even days with which to plot their strategy: Despite the oaths exacted from all who’d been present, someone, sooner or later, would break faith and reveal what they planned to do. Mi’kal had just hoped it wouldn’t be too soon.

And, besides, if Cho’van didn’t open the next day, thirsty, irritated patrons would begin asking questions… and questions were another thing they couldn’t afford.

Getting aboard had presented few problems, fortunately; as a matter of fact, it had been pathetically easy to secure the ship. Like computer programmers who write “backdoors” into their creations, thus allowing themselves access despite whatever protective protocols are later added, Barella knew everything about her love child—including shield resonance frequencies, security overrides…and even a trap panel or two. Now, she was contentedly sequestered in the heart of the beast, having assured them that an engineering department consisting solely of herself was actually some sort of blessing. Soon they’d learn whether or not she’d been boasting.

Sorting things out on the bridge was proving to be another matter.

Two positions in the small command center had immediately been settled. Their youngest, Nala, had literally sprung over the guard rail to land in the pilot’s seat; Mi’kal’s momentary unease has been assuaged by the girl’s impressive facility in handling a pre-flight check.

Perhaps it’s best she doesn’t know what she’s in for. Flying the ship should be more than enough to keep her happy at that age. It would have been for me.

The tactical post, too, had been claimed unchallenged… this by their eldest, Ta’soq—a iron-haired, steel-clad woman of indeterminate years who’d seemed like an integral component of her station the moment she took a seat there.

That left vessel operations and the center seat still vacant.

As if it were a foregone conclusion, Mi’kal moved to take the latter.

So did the other woman, Teya.

Somehow, Mi’kal had known it would come to this.

Her challenger, after having stunned the bartender, had given a rousing speech about slighted honor, denied opportunities and justice foresworn. She had moved each of the 13 women present… but only three others had been moved far enough. The rest had promised their silence and departed. It was then that Mi’kal had urged immediate action, and the others, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, had agreed.

Now, only 40 minutes later, here they were—face-to-face.

“I did not come this far only to follow another,” Teya declared.

Mi’kal smiled.

“Yet you expect that of us.”

Her point, though valid, did not impress.

Teya countered with a grin of her own.

“A leader should lead… and you should accept your lot. It is much better than what will result if you challenge me.”

Nala watched, avid, wide-eyed… and uncertain.

The snort of laughter from behind startled them all.

“The prize is not even ours in truth,” Ta’soq sneeringly reminded, “and yet you two fall to squabbling like a pair of Tzenkethi over a scrap. Neither of you is worthy, it seems… yet we have little choice.”

Her words possessed the sting of truth—at least to one of them.

Mi’kal, at once less eager than she’d been, gave way and assumed ops; it was clear, though, from the expression each woman retained that this dispute was not yet settled… but rather, simply set aside for a more convenient time.

And considering that there are not one, but a pair of cruisers in orbit above us, that time may never come.

Not until this moment had Mi’kal considered that she might not be the one commanding. The taste of that realization was unpleasant, indeed.

As she configured her station, Mi’kal’s adoptive “daughter” (or “mother,” depending on which of them you asked) poked her head out from the satchel, and chirped curiously at the pretty lights on the panel.

“Tend your treasure, little one,” she murmured… and, as if understanding, the weasel again disappeared into her home.

And I, Mi’kal thought, shall tend to mine.

***

Mara had often watched Kang, for he was a man worth watching, in many senses of the word. She had done so with admiration… curiosity… lust... and, more and more often of late, concern: This was the first time since the incident involving Kirk and the Enterprise that they had encountered an emergency situation… and she wondered how he would react.

Some of those who had been B’rel’s rowdy, half-drunken guests only moments before now hastened to man their posts, clipped exchanges with subordinates bringing them up-to-date with the situation even before they’d taken a seat. One or two of the evening’s more… enthusiastic… drinkers motioned to the on-bridge medic, who silently dosed them with kevelin. The powerful and instantaneously effective de-toxicant exacted a painful price when used¾enforced sobriety now meant a roaring headache later, one far worse than would have resulted from too much bloodwine¾but that hardly mattered. Still, Mara was glad she’d had little to drink and could forego such immediate measures... and eventual pleasures.

She watched Kang stroll across the bridge, intentionally setting a pace he knew would allow them all to be primed for action and prepared for orders before he settled into his own chair.

“Status, Helm,” he demanded.

“Secured for combat maneuvers… thrusters primed for touch adjustment… impulse engines operating at peak efficiency… warp engines nominal, and on standby.”

“Thorough… if still too lengthy,” Kang rumbled. “Remember your Battle Language, Lieutenant.” His tone, though chiding, was amused. He then continued, “Weapons. Shields.”

“Ready. Deployed,” was K’vel’s reply.

Kang chuckled. “Observe the virtue of brevity, Helm.

“Mara.”

She was, as always, well prepared.

“Target is moving at 30 kellicams per hour, maintaining an altitude of 50 kellidars; their course has thus far kept them over the city’s most populous areas.”

A few outraged murmurs seeped onto the bridge. Mara understood the indignation: To thus hide from battle using civilians as a shield would be interpreted by many as dishonorable in the extreme.

Of course, most who thought that would conveniently fail to notice the questionable honor of waiting to pounce from orbit¾with not one but two heavily-armed cruisers.

Her board sounded a warning; and she gave it voice.

“Black Blade is closing on our position, sir… arming disruptors… rigging for a descent into the atmosphere. They’re hailing the renegade on a private channel.”

Now the murmurs grew louder.

Kang, surprisingly, didn’t silence them.

“Interesting. Mara, Kiryn… I want to hear that conversation¾all of it.”

Both women sighed. He had set them a near-impossible task, given the time constraints.

Seconds later, it went from “impossible” to “unnecessary.”

“Receiving a signal… from the target vessel,” Kiryn informed them. “They are sending us the feed.”

Kang, with a touch of his old humor, murmured, “Well done.

“Let us listen.”

CHAPTER NINE

The House of Kuras had fallen, as the result of a single battle, from within reach of ambition’s pinnacle into a state that invited both ridicule and attempts to exploit their weakened position. Their main rival, the House of Kedon, had grown suddenly eager to take vengeance for every slight (those both real and imagined) their ancient enemies had given over the last few centuries. Wherever representatives of each family met, then, the Kedonites had sought to insult and provoke their counterparts, hoping for rash action that would lead to a resuscitation of the Blood Feud settled only 12 years before.

Despite the now-precarious state of their military preparedness, Kuras’ family had been too powerful for too long... and Klingons had never been much for turning the other cheek: It had taken only a few weeks for Mavak, Scion of Kedon, to acquire his casus belli… and over the next few months, he’d assembled much of his own House’s fleet for a strike against Agrimar, hoping to decapitate House Kuras quickly and then feed on the corpse of their possessions at his leisure.

B’rel, all too aware that he faced a sea of avaricious and resentful enemies, led by the Kedonites, had grown desperate. His allies had found excuses to repudiate treaties of friendship and vows of assistance… and while he possessed a Klingon’s desire for a glorious death, he’d much preferred surviving… and more, preserving his House.

Still, six of his seven sons had fallen against the Romulans, and the handful of men he had available were perhaps enough to offer battle, but not enough to offer a challenge—let alone have a chance at victory.

B’rel, though, had a resource that neither his enemies nor even he had at first considered.

He had seven daughters, as well.

***

It was even more engrossing a conversation than Mara had hoped.

“Whoever you are…” Krador hesitated; he clearly had no idea how to proceed—especially since disruptors were, just now, out of the question. “…you have destroyed your careers by doing this.”

The reply was a throaty laugh—a woman’s laugh—but the undercurrent of resentment was palpable.

“We have no ‘careers’ to speak of, Krador. Our talents are squandered… our accomplishments are ignored… or worse, used to advance the causes of those less worthy… our rightful honors distributed to others simply because they had the good fortune of being born male.”

“Mi’kal?” Krador couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice.

Kang gestured beckoningly; Mara quickly summoned a personnel summary and fed it through to his console for perusal.

“You have stolen!” Krador roared. “There is no honor in that!”

Now another woman’s voice interjected—this one less prepossessed… but far more indignant.

“I cannot steal what I myself created! The design is mine! You who would have claimed the ship are the true thieves, hiding behind Imperial edicts as if legalisms can justify taking what you neither conceived nor built!”

Dryly, Mara murmured, “And that would be Barella, daughter of B’rel.”

The situation was fast escalating into a potential disaster… and Krador did nothing to slow its progression with his next statement.

“Mi’kal… on my personal honor and that of the Black Blade, you and this pack of she-targs will not leave this place with that ship.”

The woman they all assumed was Mi’kal answered.

“I am as concerned with the preservation of your honor, Krador, as you were with mine.”

“Mi’kal? Mi’kal!”

Silence answered him.

Mara felt sick at heart. These women had chosen daring and a glorious death over silence and servitude. She found her eyes flicking back and forth between Kang and the ship on the viewer.

“Get me Captain Krador,” her husband commanded.

Despite their differences, they would, Mara knew, quickly commune on a stratagem that would exploit their numerical and tactical superiority.

The new ship had no chance.

Kiryn hailed the Black Blade, and Krador’s voice, now returned to a semblance of self-control, offered the traditional Klingon greeting.

“What do you want?”

Kang smiled.

“You and I have not been friends, Krador… but I now afford you a singular honor.”

“And what is that?”

Now, Kang shocked everyone, even his wife—especially his wife.

“My ship will withdraw. You may accrue whatever glory you may by the destruction of the vessel below.” Before Krador could protest, Kang added, “After all, you declared it a personal matter involving you and this woman, Mi’kal; I would not so dishonor you by interfering as you… give her what she deserves.”

He gestured, and Kiryn cut the channel.

Mara descended to stand beside Kang’s chair, exchanging a brief glance with a now-grinning Korek as she did. Together, the two flanked him in a silent gesture of solidarity and approval. Though, clearly, it was a breach of protocol, she then reached out to touch his hand.

He took hers and gave a brief squeeze, before releasing it and growling, “Mind your station, woman.”

“Yes… my lord.”

Despite his best effort, Kang could not help but smile.

So Krador wants to kill me, thought Mi’kal. Well, he is–

She tensed at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, and turned to find Teya glaring down at her. Her newfound rival gestured back to the chair she’d just vacated… and past, to where Ta’soq nodded approvingly.

“The issue of command is not, by any means, settled between us, Mi’kal… but this matter is clearly between you and Krador.

“I relinquish the center seat—for now.”

The day was full of surprises, it seemed; and as Black Blade began her approach, Mi’kal knew…

…the day was far from over.

CHAPTER TEN

“…so it was that, in secret, the Daughters of B’rel took counsel together, and there they resolved by all their kin had ever held sacred to stand between their House and its enemies, calling upon Kahless as their witness, and even the Dead Gods who dwelt now only in Darkness. So swore Vala, the eldest, and swiftly upon her heels spoke Kara and Kala, twins in thought and deed; then quiet Kiri took up the vow, and blue-eyed J’Dav, and Matal of the clever hands.

“At the last, Vana, youngest child of B’rel and much beloved of her kin, spoke the words, and the seven sealed the bond in fire, and sorcery, and blood.

“And it is said that the Dead Gods stirred at the mention of their names, waking from death for the moment it took to regard the seven sisters, to grant them their desire…

“…and, as always, to exact their price.”

- Qe’van, The Song of the Seven

Mi’kal savored the chair’s feel for all of an instant... and then set it aside in the face of their peril.

“New course,” she announced. “Bring us 70 degrees starboard, zero elevation.

“Take us over the water.”

Teya half-turned in her chair.

“That will give him a clear field of fire!”

Mildly, Mi’kal answered with a simple, “Mind your station.”

With an effort, Teya dragged her gaze back to it.

Nala, unbidden, put their approach on the main viewer, and Agrimar’s wine-dark ocean grew before them until sea and sky filled the screen.

“Black Blade continues her descent,” Ta’soq warned. “I anticipate they will open fire in 30 seconds.”

“Let them,” murmured Mi’kal. An instant later, she added, “Seal all exterior vents and panels. “Nala, 15 degrees down angle.” Mi’kal added a single word, to make her intent plain.

“Dive.”

Kang saw Mi’kal’s intent, and smiled.

A worthy gamble, he thought, and a true test of this new bird’s feathers. I begin to think, Krador, that your success over the last few years has much to do with this woman. You never showed such imagination as a midshipman.

He speculated as to her next move… and, after a moment, chuckled inwardly.

You would, indeed, be a worthy foe in battle.

Another thought occurred. Curious, he activated his chair’s comm unit, and focused on the science station—unobtrusively watching his wife. She, too, had an extremely keen tactical mind—a near rival for his own, if he were honest with himself… and would have made a fine ship commander if things in the Empire were different.

He noted the instant in which she, too, finally registered Mi’kal’s plan… and watched her struggle. Kang knew her loyalties were being tested: She could eminently sympathize with these women, yet it was every officer’s sworn oath to present all information to their commander.

At last, duty won out over sympathy.

She began, “My lord…”

“Silence,” he commanded.

Almost, she spoke again, but a moment later understood: He already knew... and with his next order, proved it.

“Prepare to alter course.”

Black Blade’s weapons officer informed Krador, “They have descended over 900 kellidars. Even adjusted to their narrowest focus, our disruptors will have little appreciable effect at that depth.”

Ops had no better news.

“They continue to dive… and my scanners, even directed almost exclusively towards the surface as you ordered, are now having difficulty maintaining contact. Agrimar’s oceans contain high concentrations of mineral salts and even a small amount of cavourite. If they go much further, I will lose them entirely.”

Their captain considered his options.

“Arm torpedoes. Rig them for proximity detonation.”

The gunner’s tone was both appalled and disapproving, but the response was the only one that would preserve his life. “Yes, my lord.”

Before Krador could give the command to fire, though, Kala’s board sounded, and she announced, “General B’rel warns that we are forbidden to launch matter/antimatter weaponry into his oceans… and that if we disregard, he will have Kang open fire on us.”

B’rel would not bluff, Krador knew. Add to that the fact that Kang would be overjoyed to comply...

He gritted his teeth, and growled, “Acknowledge his order.

“Engineer! How far can we descend into the ocean here?”

“I must strongly recommend against any sub-surface maneuvers…” Though he left the rest unsaid, everyone who heard knew, could almost feel, old Kuran’s thoughts as they emanated from the vessel’s heart: …even as I did descending into the atmosphere.

Krador knew he had run his ship straight into her limitations: The D-7 battle-cruisers were the backbone of the Imperial Fleet, and had been for centuries. Klingon engineers were intimately familiar with their strengths and weaknesses—that which they could do… that which they could be coaxed to do… and that which was simply beyond them. With an effort, he resigned himself to having been momentarily thwarted.

The already ephemeral contact dissolved off the main screen. It was unnecessary (and, no doubt, would have been unwise) to say it: Their prey was gone.

She cannot stay down there forever, Krador thought, and turned his mind to just where Mi’kal might resurface.

That answer, when it at last occurred, did not at all please him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Many things had the Daughters of B’rel surrendered in pursuit of their goal. The Dead Gods had guaranteed them the victory, and the perpetuation of their House… but had demanded as their just payment that only one of the Seven survive to carry on their line.

“To this the women agreed… but they were canny in their bargaining, asking the Gods to grant that as each of them died, those remaining would grow greater than they were, until the last living child of B’rel would be like unto a goddess herself—until her own time finally came.

“And, amused, the Dead Gods agreed.”

- Qe’van, The Song of the Seven

That the Klingons are ferocious enemies is a fact apparent to every race that has encountered them. They never ask quarter, rarely grant it, and fight until either their hunger or their honor is satisfied.

Perhaps, then, it is no surprise that the most savage of Klingon wars are those between Klingons themselves.

What could have been the House of B’rel’s last hour became, instead, its finest: The paltry collection of vessels (scholarly estimates run from 15 to perhaps, at most, 25) that could be made ready for battle was deployed to defend Agrimar against an encroaching fleet that numbered not less than 100.

The battle was, as one would expect, a brutal affair. Hoping, it seemed, that audacity would serve in place of numbers, the defenders met the assault near the most distant of Agrimar’s five moons, holding to a tight protective formation and maneuvering the resultant edge like a bat’leth, concentrating their fire and cutting a swath through the enemy warships in the engagement’s opening moments.

Still, it wasn’t nearly enough, and, one by one, they were destroyed: By a strange (or not so strange) quirk of fate, the six remaining ships each had a daughter of B’rel aboard... and, instants before they would all have died at the hands of their enemies in a final assault, the seventh and youngest, Vana, returned…

…leading a relief force composed of reluctant allies she had… persuaded into fighting. According to certain witnesses (the kinds of witnesses whose observations usually don’t make it into historical records), the eloquent Vana had spoken to wives and concubines, mistresses and lovers, sisters and daughters, setting the women on their men in harangues that left their ears ringing, their hearts heavy… and their spirits shamed.

However she had managed it, Vana’s arrival turned the tide of battle just enough to assure victory for the House of B’rel.

It also left her the last of seven sisters.

***

Mara sat at her station and considered what might come next. Kang was in a good humor, it seemed, but still.... Mi’kal had managed to evade Taj’qIj; to do the same with Vor’cha would prove, she wagered, far more difficult.

Korek announced, rather matter-of-factly, “I like this Mi’kal. She is clever.”

“She is a clever thief,” Kang amended.

His friend and first nodded, but added a definitive, “She is also attractive, though somewhat… angular for my tastes. Nevertheless, I would take her to my bed.”

With difficulty, Mara suppressed a snort. Why did men think such comments were complimentary?

The answer came to her a moment later. Because, to them, they are.

Kang chuckled. “Or she would take you to hers.” Abruptly, he demanded, “Science officer, analysis: Will she remain submerged and attempt to wait us out?”

For a moment Mara wondered who had asked the question: Her husband, her commander… or both.

“I do not think so. Mi’kal, from what I have gleaned in reading her performance reviews—reviews written by Krador, I might add—she believes in stealth, but is not one to skulk, even in the face of superior firepower. She will attempt to slip past us… somehow.”

Kang inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, and tapped a series of numbers into his console.

“Helm… align for an orbit that will allow us to focus all our sensor beams here.”

Vor’cha came about; both ship and shipmaster directed their gaze, the former at the latter’s bidding.

Mara didn’t bother to look.

She knew he was right.

“New heading!” Krador roared, hurling course corrections at his helmsman. “Full power ascent! Ready on torpedoes! Prepare to fire on my command!”

“Target, my lord?”

Krador noted the tinge of sarcasm in his weapons officer’s question. Sorely tempted to either behead or disintegrate the man, he instead gritted, “After we have killed this bitch, you’ll report to your new post, Kozag—the agonizer booth.”

As she approached empty space, slipping the bonds of atmosphere and gravity, Black Blade began to respond as she should and could, almost as if she herself was eager to avenge her captain’s embarrassment.

Krador grinned wickedly. A bold effort, woman… but a vain one.

“Dispersal pattern along the axis of the planet’s magnetic north.

“Stand by to fire.”

All skill and no zeal, Mara scanned along the set of coordinates Kang had indicated… and, not without some effort, found exactly what they’d both expected.

“I have her.”

Kang instinctually leaned forward in the command chair, even as Korek clenched his fist triumphantly.

“You were right, my lord. She was using the planet’s own energy fields as a makeshift cloak. I do not understand why it worked so well, though.”

“No doubt she’s polarized their hull,” Kang answered, respect now evident in his tone. “It’s an old human trick. Unfortunately for her, I am somewhat familiar with humans… and their tricks.

“Give me visual.”

Everyone’s eyes narrowed, as if squinting would actually make a difference in the view screen’s pickup.

Then, everyone rubbed their eyes… or blinked.

Klingon vessels were, for the most part, left unpainted… and thus remained green, the shade depending on just how much diburnium had been added to the tritanium base. On rare occasion, they were painted silver, white or gray, if the current commander so wished it.

Their prey, though, wasn’t green. She wasn’t silver, white or gray, either.

Korek gasped, “She’s…”

Kang finished, “…red.”

As always, Mara provided an immediate explanation.

“Evidently the ocean water has oxidized, or perhaps stained, their exposed surfaces. Barella may have used a slightly different alloy when assembling the ship’s frame… and the hull polarization may also have played a part.”

At once, she had an epiphany. Rather than couching it cleverly in hopes of convincing Kang to do nothing, Mara simply said what had come to mind, and let him decide.

“Perhaps it is a sign.”

Kang made as if to reply… even as Black Blade swept by them in pursuit, weapons primed to fire.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I do not think Krador believes in signs.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Vana lived for many years, and ruled her House in the manner of a mighty king—gainsaid by none, loved by many… and feared by all. She married seven times, all princes and mighty men, having at last and at once seven husbands—bearing each, in turn, a single child. And despite a warrior’s rightful desire to possess women for and to themselves, her mates abided by this strange compact, and suffered to accept what measure of her she would give them. More than that, they became like unto brothers, preferring each other’s fellowship over that of other men.

“Though rivals called her a whore and worse, none dared do so in her hearing… and many of the Wise wondered if her vow to the Dead Gods had compelled her—as if each of her sisters had, through Vana, claimed the man who should have been hers. It is said her manner with each differed strangely…

“…and yet was filled with love.”

- Qe’van, The Song of the Seven

It seems you are not half so clever as you believed, Mi’kal, thought Teya.

Even as they laboriously emerged, thrusters only, from the sensory blindness the planet’s magnetic fields had caused, the small ship’s scanners had immediately located their pursuers.

One was nearly upon them… and the other was closing.

“No question one cruiser tracked or anticipated us; she’s turning to maintain orientation.” The tone of Teya’s voice let it be known she was torn between a certain satisfaction at the failure of Mi’kal’s deception… and certain dismay at the possibility that said failure would be the death of them.

It seems I am not half so clever as I believed.

With a confidence she didn’t at all feel, Mi’kal snapped, “Shields.”

Ta’soq told them, “Vor’cha is closer… but her weapons systems are inactive. No lock attained.”

The reprieve, though, was momentary.

“Taj’qIj is another matter. She is preparing to fire. Fifteen seconds, at most.”

Mi’kal knew what that meant.

At this range, with their firepower, shields will not matter… and we cannot outrun them quickly enough at impulse. Wha–?

“I say we go to warp.”

Teya had stood and turned to confront Mi’kal with a statement that had her gaping.

“So close to a planet? The gravimetric forces will crush us!”

I relinquished that chair for now… but I must convince she who sits in it that I am right.

“Cleverness brought us this far... but now is the time for courage.”

After an agonizing moment, Mi’kal nodded.

At once, Teya whirled, and urged, “Nala… now!”

Krador’s crew was efficient; those who could not perform their duties with skill had long ago been… culled. He had overseen their training… but could also acknowledge, in his heart, that the woman they were about to kill had performed much of that training.

Why could you not just accept your place, Mi’kal? I would have honored you—made you my consort, and my executive, eventually.

He knew the answer, of course. She hadn’t wanted to accept what was offered… and she definitely hadn’t wanted him.

His final acknowledgment of that fact left him quite happy to do his duty.

“Fire.”

At Krador’s bidding, a pair of photon torpedoes struck out and flashed unerringly towards their target.

They hit... or, rather, they would have—had it still been there.

Metal had life, Barella knew.

It could weep, when forged.

It could whisper, when drawn from a sheath.

It could murmur and groan when under stress.

And if that stress—that pain—grew great enough, metal could even scream.

As the ship she had labored on oh so long decided whether or not to come apart, it did, indeed, scream…

…and, powerless to help, so did she.

In that instant he saw Redbird (for such had it become in his mind) leap for the stars, Kang smiled at the doom the women had chosen. They would either make their escape, or die gloriously.

Either way, they will be immortal.

Mara, unbidden, announced, “Scanning… no evidence of debris in subspace. Returning to normal sensor deployment…”

She then asked a question that answered his own… and he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Pursuit course, my lord?”

Kang paused, as if truly considering, then replied, “No… we shall leave the chasing of skirts to Krador.”

As if he had issued the command himself, Black Blade turned abruptly on her z-axis and accelerated—not, however, into warp.

“They are bringing their S-2 Graph Unit online… making for the closest calculated system grav boundary… and ignoring hails from Agrimar.”

They had escaped. It would be a further stain on his reputation… but Kang, of late, had begun to realize that reputation and honor were not necessarily one and the same.

He wondered whether one could retain both.

Kang, commander of Vor’cha, stood, and motioned to his wife.

“Come, Mara. We have business we must conduct before leaving this place.” He gestured at the comm station.

“Tell General B’rel I wish to see him.”

EPILOGUE

“Though many later claimed to have been in attendance, and borne witness, few in truth were there at the moment of Vana’s death. Her husbands, long before, had died gloriously, giving battle as she’d bid them… and her children were far afield, in the service of their House and their Lady Mother. Only her handmaidens were present… and when they were found, just one yet lived to tell what of she had seen.

“Few believed her.

“The fire of Vana’s spirit, and the six others that dwelt within, had finally consumed her body, and she lay abed, frail and helpless, awaiting death. Fek’lhr came, in that moment, to enwrap her in his whips and drag her soul down to Gre’thor as penalty—in part for her sorcery, but most of all for defying the truest role of women, as servants.

“As his sword descended, though, another blade gainsaid it… and turned it aside.

“Fek’lhr, unused to being challenged, turned his baleful glare upon the little being that had dared deny and defy him… to find Kahless the Mighty, Kahless the Undaunted, Kahless—who, alone, had ever defeated him.

“And they fought over the body of Vana.

“In Fek’lhr’s blows and his terrible roar could be heard the souls of the damned, craving in their hate and despair, lusting for another to be added to their number.

“But in Kahless’ strong arm was not only his own might, which was very great, but that of all Klingons who had in their lives loved honor, and duty, and sacrifice. And he laughed as he fought, mocking Fek’lhr’s foul power, making light of his wrath… until, unable to bear his unmasked joy, the Guardian of Gre’thor fled home to his Darkness… and Kahless had the victory.

“Then he turned, and there before him, freed in death from their single body, were the Seven Daughters of B’rel, hale and lovely and terrible as they had been in life.

“And Kahless laughed, saying, ‘I would welcome you to Sto-vo-kor, where you might wait upon the pleasure of your father, B’rel, but I know you would not be content there. So go now… find a place among the stars, to be your dwelling place, even as I have mine.’

“It is said, thus, by some, that Vana and her Sisters abide in a realm of their own, to gather the souls of Klingon women to them... and that the warriors of Sto-vo-kor and Kahless himself are frequent guests in their House. Others believe, though, that they still wander—that they are reborn in their descendants, knowing their time will come again... and that they will repay their debt to Kahless, and aid him even as he aided them….”

Qe’van – The Song of the Seven

Kang’s recent good humor was now a memory.

“Do not take me for a fool, B’rel! I am not Krador, to stumble along after flitting females without giving thought to what had gathered them together!”

Mara nearly cringed. Her husband was known neither for restraint nor subtlety in his words; but braying at the lord of a House, even one so… disadvantaged as that of B’rel, was not particularly wise—especially not deep within the man’s fortress, before his very Seat of Power… and surrounded by what looked to be restive, increasingly angry guards.

Kang—of course—chose not to notice.

“Resentful women from throughout the Klingon Empire find their way to Agrimar... and, less than a day later, the Navy’s newest prototype—a ship for which you are responsible, old man—is stolen by a handful of them. Am I to believe this is a coincidence?”

B’rel regarded them for a long moment before answering all charges.

“I had nothing to do with it, Captain Kang… and if you address me so disrespectfully again as to call me ‘old man,’ you yourself will not live to ever hear the same.”

Mara marveled at the manner in which her host’s voice had increased not at all in volume… and yet had gained immeasurably in power. She wondered if Kang had noticed.

“I… apologize for my outburst, General.”

Evidently he had.

“You must concede, though, that this turn of events reflects on neither of us very well.”

That, at least, was true. B’rel frowned, and Mara decided that he was either a superior actor (as well the lord of a house might be) or equally perplexed as to what had occurred.

Kalinda’s reaction, though, was far more interesting than her husband’s.

She, too, possessed a formidable veil of serenity and restraint; if Mara had not been scrutinizing her expression, she would have missed the flicker of something—something the younger woman knew had escaped Kang, whose attentions were focused entirely on B’rel.

By Kahless, and Vana Herself… it was you.

It made perfect sense… if you were a woman, that is.

Mara returned her attention to the conversation at hand.

“…House fell on difficult times long ago, Captain Kang,” B’rel was saying. “I cannot imagine things will devolve any further as a result of this… unfortunate happenstance. We still have the design specifications for the new Bird-of-Prey. These you may have for the High Command. The Fleet will be able to construct another prototype within a few weeks.

“Further, I acknowledge my responsibility over this; and I shall do so in a way that reflects well on your comportment in this matter. You need not fear a loss of honor.”

He stood.

“Come, Captain. I have a bottle of bloodwine over 300 years old. It will get no older.”

As Kang permitted himself to be led away, B’rel threw a companionable arm about his shoulders… and the guards at last relaxed. She heard laughter ringing in the hallway, and breathed somewhat more easily. Mara wondered whether Kang would let the matter lie, and hoped he would—at least until she could speak to him privately.

She, however, could not… and let that fact be known to the only person remaining.

“Neither am I a fool, Kalinda.

“Why?”

B’rel’s lady admitted to nothing, at first. Instead, she smiled, and replied, “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers—if not in your scientist’s mind, than in your heart and your soul?”

Before Mara could formulate a reply, Kalinda added, “Some part of you wishes you were with them, I wager. I wonder how strong it is?

“You see… I did not simply insinuate my way into personnel files searching for disaffected women. I made careful choices, and knew that those who would take that ship—those who would seize their destiny—would be, literally, of a very special breed.

“Each one of those women, Mara, is a direct descendant of Vana, even as I am… even as my daughter is…” She paused; Mara felt a wonderful, terrifying thrill… and then heard the words that would forever change her life.

“…even as you are.”

***

Barella stumbled onto the bridge… and staggered over to the empty center seat. There, she spoke to it, as if it were occupied.

“I thank you for trusting my skills with so bold a maneuver…

“…and vow to kill you if you ever do anything like that with my ship again.”

Then, without another word, she shuffled back the way she came.

Mi’kal and Teya exchanged glances… and then words.

“It was your idea,” the former noted.

“But it is your chair,” Teya countered. “For now.” And she grinned.

Mi’kal took no umbrage…

…but she did take the chair.