Chapter Text
Kiersonn had introduced Bemsal Craylee as his ship’s civilian bartender, a member of a species that Trujillo was unfamiliar with. The young man certainly appeared Human enough, with the exception of his black, iris-less eyes.
Kiersonn had explained that Craylee’s homeworld had been contacted by Starfleet some thirty-years earlier but had since expressed little interest in diplomatic relations with the Federation. Still, some Betazoids chose to explore Federation worlds as tourists or students, eager to investigate the multispecies panoply that was the UFP.
Most interesting of all, Kiersonn had explained that Betazoids were very powerful telepaths. Unlike Vulcans, they need not touch a person to read their thoughts or memories, and also unlike the Vulcans, some Betazoids had no moral qualms about using their abilities to extract information from unwilling subjects.
Craylee was apparently one of his species with a more flexible moral framework. He would never use his skills to compromise a friend or stranger for his own personal benefit or gratification, but Craylee could not abide bullies. Criminals, pirates, and the like, those persons Craylee was more than willing to scan if it could potentially save lives.
And so, Trujillo, Kiersonn and Craylee found themselves in Reykjavík’s brig, having chased out all other personnel due to the delicacy and dubious legality of their plan. True, there were no specific Starfleet regulations at present forbidding the telepathic scanning of sentient minds, due mostly to the fact that the various Federation species possessing such psionic talents had their own codified prohibitions against such. Still, they were skirting the edges of ethical conduct with this course of action.
“Are you certain you don’t want to wait outside, Commodore?” Kiersonn asked. “It’d be another layer of plausible deniability, however thin.”
Trujillo shook her head fractionally. “No, thank you. I’m responsible for everything that happens on this ship, this included.”
Kiersonn smiled grimly. “I figured as much, sir. I wanted to offer just the same.”
“Will they be in much pain?” Trujillo asked, still flirting with second thoughts about this.
The captain laughed lightly. “They won’t even know it’s happening. That’s our other defense. They can’t very well refuse or object to something they know nothing about.”
The young man loitered in front of each of the opaqued cell barriers for a few moments then returned to the two starship commanders. “What would you like to know?”
* * *
Arggentha Secundus, Myrovar System
The Orion marauder blew apart with the detonation of Shras’ volley of photons, adding another victim to Task Force Scythe’s tally for the day.
“By the gods,” Glal murmured from his bridge post, “those missile-cruisers can certainly lay down the fire.”
Trujillo had to agree. The Andor-class ship’s torpedo spreads put Reykjavík’s healthy rate of fire to shame. It was for that reason that the rest of Task Force Scythe’s ships were essentially running interference for Shras, herding the pirates’ other misfit corsairs, skiffs, and brigs into the missile-cruiser’s weapons envelope.
The ambush on the Klingon pirate base, an abandoned Tellarite asteroid mining station, had become a slaughter. The pirates, used to having the advantage of surprise, were wholly unprepared to be attacked by a well-armed battle force. Jamming local subspace frequencies had only added to their woes, denying them the ability to coordinate a defense against Starfleet’s onslaught.
Even Kiersonn’s Exeter had joined in, her captain insisting that his crew needed live-fire tactical practice before undertaking their deep-space exploratory mission.
In short order, a Klingon formation of seventeen assorted ships had been whittled down to a remaining five. With Shras and Exeter having blasted apart the asteroid sheltering them, their only recourse was seeking to escape the system’s gravity well so they could safely jump to warp and attempt to flee.
Trujillo had reconfigured her swing-arm console to display a three-dimensional hologram of the battlespace in the air in front of the command chair.
“Have Hathaway, Feynman, and Zelenskyy come to zero-seven-three-mark-two-two-four and cut off their egress from the system. I don’t want any of them escaping to rebuild this awful little band of malcontents someplace else.”
“Aye, sir. Transmitting orders.”
Trujillo toggled a comms channel open, broadcasting in the clear. “Klingon vessels, you will stand down and prepare to be boarded. If you resist, you will be destroyed. Your attempts to flee like cowardly petaQ amuses me. Only by surrendering will you live to see another day. If you choose to run or stand your ground, you will die just the same.”
Glal, usually the voice of prudence, growled his approval from his post behind her.
“The raider at three-three-seven-mark-one-nine-four is now in weapons range,” Jarrod announced from the Tactical station.
“Torpedo spread, proximity burst to overwhelm shields and disable. Follow up with phasers if necessary. Fire when ready.”
Torpedoes flashed, phasers blazed and another Klingon marauder was updated on the holographic display, it’s icon flashing from red to yellow, indicating its disabled status.
“Find me another,” Trujillo ordered, fully engrossed in the running battle.
Lieutenant Shukla, his Sikh turban a glaring reminder of DeSilva’s absence at Ops, announced, “Signal from al-Ashtar, sir. They report one of their torpedoes has prematurely detonated. They believe it may have struck a cloaked vessel.”
This garnered Trujillo’s full attention. “Tell Captain Rith’vin to proceed with caution. Sciences, sensor sweep of that location, look for tachyon particle fields.”
“On it, sir,” Garrett affirmed.
“Mister Naifeh, set course for those coordinates and engage, full impulse. Ops, order Exeter and Vespula to continue the pursuit.”
Glal moved to lean in, whispering to Trujillo over her shoulder. “We may have got someone’s attention.”
“That’s what I’m concerned with,” she replied quietly. Trujillo glanced over at Sciences, wanting to prompt an update but satisfied that Garrett would alert her as soon as she had something.
“Tachyon surge ahead!” Garrett exclaimed. “Collision close!”
“Helm, hard over!” Trujillo ordered, activating her seat’s restraint system as Reykjavík’s extreme maneuvering momentarily overwhelmed the ship’s inertial dampers.
“Vessel decloaking,” Garrett continued. “Reads as a Klingon K’tavra-class battlecruiser.”
“Bring us around, nose-to-nose with them.” Trujillo said in a low voice.
A larger, more powerful evolution of the venerable K’tinga-class battlecruiser, the K’tavra was the empire’s newest heavy warship. Bristling with weapons ports and sheathed in reactive armor, it looked every bit the part of a Klingon battle-wagon.
The open red maw of the ship’s active torpedo tube only added to its menace.
Reykjavík came around in a tight arc, using the momentum from her evasive maneuver to swing back to face this newest threat.
“Stop engines,” Trujillo ordered. “Hold position here. Tactical, reinforce forward shields with auxiliary power.”
Shukla announced, “We’re being hailed, Commodore.”
Trujillo released her chair’s safety restraints, standing to face the main viewer. “On screen.”
The image of a glowering Klingon warrior seated in his throne-like command chair appeared, the man’s greying hair and visible decorations giving testimony to his long career. It was not lost on Trujillo that reckless young warriors were not entrusted with the empire’s largest, newest and most destructive assets.
Trujillo heard Glal’s involuntary intake of breath from behind her as recognition dawned on her and she fought to suppress a similar reaction.
“I am General Kang of the Klingon Imperial Navy,” the man rumbled in a voice that had made whole worlds tremble in the not so distant past. “Explain your purpose here or face the full might of our forces.”
Garrett’s voice rang out in the otherwise silent bridge. “Sir, additional Klingon warships are decloaking.”
* * *
“I bid you greetings, General,” Trujillo said after a second’s hesitation. Behind her eyes she was practically giddy, the result of a decades-long fascination with this very man and his exploits. Her senior dissertation at the academy had been about Kang’s role in imperial military politics leading up to the Khitomer Conference, and his opposition to General Chang’s cabal.
She took a steadying breath. “I am Commodore Nandi Trujillo of Starfleet. My task force is here hunting down the last vestiges of a band of depredators that have been plaguing systems in this and adjoining sectors. We have discovered that these pirates are Klingon but have been posing as other species. As their actions are clearly not representative of the Klingon government or military, we would welcome your assistance in finishing off these bandits.”
Kang bared his teeth, dropping his chin to fix his intense gaze on Trujillo. “You dare fire on Klingon warriors?”
“I dare kill Klingon warriors when necessary,” Trujillo shot back, unfazed. “The birds-of-prey silhouettes on our hull are proof of that. But the men we seek are no warriors. They are nothing more than scavengers. These men prey on the weak, staging hit and run attacks on civilian cargo ships and raiding non-aligned colonies. They are without honor. I have captured several of them, and they have revealed the location of their base, which we have just destroyed.”
“You speak of Klingon honor, but the words do not fit in your mouth,” Kang rejoined.
“I need not embrace a thing to understand it,” Trujillo answered. “Kahless said, ‘Honor is thicker than blood, and once washed away, the stains remain forever.’”
There, Trujillo taunted Kang in her head. Now you have a choice. Either openly side with the pirates and end this charade or hunt them down alongside us to prove their actions are illegal.
“Four K’tinga-class battlecruisers and eight Birds-of-Prey have decloaked, Commodore,” Shukla reported. “They’ve been added to the tactical plot, sir.”
With a flick of her wrist Trujillo moved the tactical holo-display that she was now standing partially within. She brought it up to eye level to observe the dispositions of the new Klingon arrivals. The imperial warships were evenly dispersed, having taken positions next to the two Starfleet squadrons.
Glal spoke up from behind her. “Hathaway’s formation has cut off the last of the pirate ships, sir. They are requesting you re-confirm your order to fire in light of our… new situation.”
“Tell them to hold,” she replied. Trujillo took another step forward toward the viewscreen. “What shall I tell my ships, General? Do we blast these raiders out of the stars, or shall you?”
For the briefest of moments, Kang appeared discomfited. He recovered quickly, shifting his weight to motion to someone off screen. “We will collect our wayward brothers, Commodore. Meanwhile, it would be in the best interest of… diplomacy… for you to come aboard the T’Kuvma so that we may discuss these things.”
All eyes on the bridge seemed to lock onto Trujillo as she said, “I agree, General. Send coordinates for transport.”
* * *
“I already know what you’re going to say,” Trujillo said, hand raised as if in a warding gesture as the two of them strode down a corridor towards the transporter room.
“So do I, sir,” Glal shot back. “This is a terrible idea. The last Starfleet captain to beam aboard a Klingon ship under similar circumstances was thirty years ago, and he ended up on Rura’Penthe mining dilithium.”
“It will be fine,” Trujillo countered. “Ambassador Dax says Kang’s a pussycat.”
“That is quite literally the exact opposite of the ambassador’s assessment of General Kang,” Glal growled.
“Oh, I must have read it wrong,” Trujillo said with a dismissive chuckle. This was bravado, pure artifice, and Glal knew her well enough to realize this.
She chucked him playfully on the shoulder. “Right now, he’s undoubtedly saying, ‘oh shit, it’s Nandi Trujillo!’”
Glal didn’t dignify that with a response.
“Come on, Glal, this isn’t the first time I’ve been toe-to-toe with an angry Klingon official.”
He grunted in response, then offered, “Yes, but this isn’t some jumped up provincial governor. This is Kang, Dahar Master. The man who bloodied the Romulans at Tolutlis, annexed the whole Pralok Cluster, and tangled with Kirk and lived to tell the tale.”
They entered the transporter room and Glal dismissed the on-duty technician with a mere look as Trujillo ascended to the platform. Glal stared disapprovingly from behind the operator’s console.
“No beaming explosives onto their ship this time,” Trujillo admonished the Tellarite.
“That would have worked,” he replied sullenly.
“If this little tête-à-tête goes wrong, defer to Captain Kiersonn. That means no shooting unless he orders it, understood?”
Glal’s silence spoke volumes.
“Damn it, Glal,” she sighed, venting a fraction of her anxiety. “I can’t give this meeting the focus it deserves if I’m sidetracked with what you might do. There’s too much at stake. If I’m removed from the equation, Kiersonn’s next in line to command the task force. Following his orders protects you and the crew from any political repercussions from whatever follows.”
He came to a semblance of attention behind the console. “Understood, sir. In the event you are killed or captured by the Klingons, I will not attempt a rescue or to exact retribution without direct orders from Captain Kiersonn.”
She shared a meaningful look with him before nodding slightly. “Thank you, my friend. Energize.”
* * *
She materialized in the heavier gravity and higher humidity of a Klingon transporter bay. A single warrior stood ready to meet her, the only person in the compartment other than the transporter operator. The woman barked something at Trujillo that the Universal Translator in her combadge rendered as, “Follow!”
The Klingon turned and headed out the reinforced hatch with Trujillo trailing behind.
The corridors here were octagonal, dimly lit, and bustling with warriors and technicians going about their duties. Conduiting snaked across the bulkheads and ceiling, with no thought given to aesthetics or comfort.
Trujillo followed the woman to a turbolift, where the two of them stepped into the lift-car, noticeably smaller than it’s Starfleet counterparts. The smells of Targ-hide leather armor, stale sweat and the musk of unwashed warriors was almost overpowering in the close confines of the car.
Trujillo took a moment to prepare herself for meeting Kang. She knew he would be a larger-than-life presence and realized that her own fascination with the man might serve as a disadvantage in these circumstances. So little was known about Kang himself beyond the state-sponsored propaganda, most insights limited to snippets of his writings, the musings of Klingon expatriates and the conflicting impressions of Federation officers and diplomats who had interacted with the mercurial warrior in battle or over the negotiating table in the preceding decades.
Yet another hatch screeched open to admit the Klingon adjutant and Trujillo to what appeared to be General Kang’s office.
The bulkheads of the large compartment were adorned with battle flags and a host of martial memorabilia, to include bladed weapons from a score of worlds. What appeared to be a humanoid skeleton stood within an elaborate display case, next to the crystalline head of a Tholian which was itself housed in a specialized pressure-tank to prevent its shattering in the humanoid-friendly environment. A pair of Romulan disruptor pistols were displayed next to a mid-23rd century Starfleet phaser.
Kang stood from behind an enormous metal desk that appeared comprised of the same metals as the deck and bulkheads, so much so that it seemed to extrude from the floor. She was thrown off guard by the realization that he was of average height for a Klingon, and Trujillo experienced a wistful pang of regret that she’d expected him to be taller. His long hair was tied into a single braid and was shot through with streaks of grey that gave testament to his decades of experience.
Kang waved the escort out of the compartment and resumed his seat, observing Trujillo silently.
She nodded to him. “General,” as she gestured to the assorted mementos. “May I?”
A slight inclination of his head communicated his assent.
Trujillo paused to inspect an Alshain sword held aloft in a suspensor field, the blade still stained with dried lupanoid blood. She pointed to it and inquired, “Is this the one you used against Polemarch Olikk Z’Orberik?”
He eyed her warily. “It is. You know of that battle?”
She turned to face him fully. “I know of that entire campaign. You and Koloth led a battle fleet against the Alshain Starforce in their last stand at the Nonshaa Passage. That battle stripped the last systems of the Pralok Cluster from the Exarchate’s hands. It’s said that you led the boarding party aboard Polemarch Z’Orberik’s ship, and slew him in single combat, despite his having broken your bat’leth with his sword. This sword.”
“It is true,” Kang said in that uniquely sonorous rumble of his. “His blade was forged of duranite, and what he’d meant to be a killing blow shattered my weapon as I parried. I was forced to wield one half as a mek’leth, and was able to strike his arm, making him drop the sword. I recovered it and used it to remove his head.”
“Remarkable,” Trujillo murmured, turning to look again on the sword. “I wish I could have been there.” She smiled wistfully. “Starfleet frowns on displaying such prizes, a pity really. My victories must live only in here,” she said, tapping a finger to her temple.
“With the exception of the kill marks emblazoned on your ship’s hull?” he asked sardonically.
“That they tolerate, grudgingly,” she admitted with a smirk.
Kang stepped out from behind his desk. “You did not come here to fawn over my trophies, I think.”
“No,” she conceded, “but when else might I have the chance to see so much history, or to hear the tales of their taking from the source?” Trujillo turned again to face him. “But you are correct, General. We have other matters to discuss.”
He waved her towards a high-backed chair facing his desk. She moved to it but did not sit. “It is our tradition that the senior officer sits first.”
Kang nodded at this and sat, followed by Trujillo. “Speak your mind, Commodore.”
“Those Klingon pirates I have not slain are in my brig, men and women who have attacked colonies and ships as though they were common criminals. Yet they went to great lengths to hide their true nature.”
“Piracy among my people has flourished of late,” Kang answered. “A function of the empire’s growing restlessness in the… peace that has befallen us since Praxis.”
She noted that he’d said ‘peace’ as though issuing a curse.
“Yes,” she replied, “and if these were simply Klingon brigands from lesser houses or from the fringes of your society, I might agree. However, the sophistication of their ship’s systems and the devices used to alter their life-signs are clearly beyond the capability of mere pirates. Two of the Klingons in my custody are So’taj agents and are evidently involved in this business.”
Kang sat back in his chair, emitting a surly growl as though he found the entire conversation distasteful. “What of it?” he asked finally.
“I’m not going to show you the disrespect of pretending that we don’t know this is a covert operation to test the defenses of the colonies in these sectors. On behalf of the Federation and Starfleet, we are surprised and disappointed that the empire is skulking about in the shadows.”
As anticipated, this had the immediate effect of angering Kang, who’s fist crashed down atop the table. “Ha'DIbaH!” he shouted.
It took every ounce of self-control Trujillo possessed not to flinch in the face of his outrage, despite her having intentionally ignited it.
He rose from his chair, driving his hands palm down onto the tabletop and leaning across to glare balefully at Trujillo. “We are the empire! We do not cower in shadows!”
Trujillo stared up at him, seemingly unmoved by his outburst. “Tell that to the men in my brig, General.”
A long silence followed in which Trujillo fought to control her breathing and bring her heartrate down.
“I know this to be false,” she replied after the pause. “They have talked. If they hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here mopping up their base of operations. So, tell me, General, on your honor. Who is telling me the truth? You, or them? Does a Dahar Master soil himself by association with spies and saboteurs?”
Kang sank slowly back down into his seat, the fury in his eyes diminishing gradually like a forest fire extinguished by rain.
“The High Council is a pack of fools,” he said finally.
Trujillo held her tongue, not willing to risk another wave of his indignation. The fact that she had survived one was miraculous enough.
“They are so fearful of losing Federation assistance in saving Qo’noS from the remains of Praxis that they allow spies and outlaws to set the stage for our next expansion.”
She judged that his anger had been sufficiently quenched to allow her some leeway. “If the empire cannot afford both, perhaps it would be wiser to wait for a time when the fate of Qo’noS is no longer in jeopardy?”
His eyes came up, still fierce, still smoldering with intensity. “It is in our blood. It is what we are. Fight to live, expand or die. The call of the hunt is bred in the bone for my people.”
Trujillo offered a fatalistic shrug. “The Federation will object to the empire conquering new worlds while we supply the equipment and knowledge to maintain the equilibrium of your home system.”
“So be it,” Kang intoned, sitting straighter as his course became clear. “Your prisoners, I would have them.”
“Now that we’ve confirmed their identity and they’ve given me all the information I require, I have no further need of them. They are yours.”
Trujillo tapped her combadge and ordered Glal to have Reykjavík’s prisoners transported aboard T’Kuvma. Ever dutiful, Glal requested and received the proper countersign indicating all was well with Trujillo.
Sensing the approaching conclusion to their meeting, Trujillo stood. “Be advised, General, if the So’taj continue with this subterfuge, Starfleet will go on hunting them down as we’ve done here. If the Klingon Empire wants to return to subjugating other sentient species, it will have to be done in full view of the Alpha and Beta quadrants. You should be prepared for the inevitable consequences.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked from behind hooded eyelids.
“You may consider that both threat and promise from your friends in the Federation, General Kang. Do you have any message for me to deliver to my government, sir?”
He considered that, but then demurred. “Not at this time. My government’s response will be tendered through the proper diplomatic channels.”
Trujillo reached for her combadge. “I will take my leave, then.”
“You are an unlikely ambassador,” Kang offered by way of farewell.
“Sometimes to avoid conflict, you must send a representative fluent in the language of war. Our diplomatic corps is the carrot, Reykjavík is the stick. This is what we do.”
She had no idea if the allusion translated well into Klingonesse, but found herself not caring overmuch.
He inclined his head as she called her ship and the transporter beam swept her home.
* * *