Chapter Text
The Klingon K’mpec stared at Trujillo from across her ready room desk. An untouched cup of something called raktajino sat in front of the young man. Glal occupied the couch along the wall, leaning forward with his elbows atop his knees, thick three-fingered hands clasped.
“What can we expect from the warring factions as we approach the homeworld?” Trujillo asked.
K’mpec sat back in his chair, scrutinizing the woman seated opposite him. “A warning has been tendered, Commodore. What you just experienced is as subtle as my people get. Someone obviously suspects you may be doing more than retrieving your personnel. The next confrontation will exact a much higher price.”
Trujillo shot a look at Glal, who grimaced behind his beard.
“I’m sorry,” Trujillo said, “how should I properly address you? Do you hold a military rank or some kind of familial title?”
He chuckled ruefully in response. “I am my father’s third son, functionally the ‘spare.’ Little has been expected of me, and I have rather enjoyed living down to those expectations. As a member of a family on the High Council, I hold the rank of sogh in the imperial navy, but I have never actually served.” He took an experimental sip of his raktajino and appeared to find it passable. “I spend most of my waking hours drinking and whoring, Commodore.”
Trujillo sat forward, craning her neck to look around K’mpec to address Glal. “Him? This is the kid who’s going to stop Klingon coreward expansion?”
“To that point, Commodore,” K’mpec offered, “my father was opposed to the empire’s present military adventurism. I’ve always felt our people need to expand to survive. Without wars, too many of our young men and women turn on each other in pointless factional squabbling. If they were to die enlarging our empire’s borders, at least then those deaths would count for something.”
Trujillo observed K’mpec as though weighing the wisdom of ejecting him in an escape pod. After a moment she said pointedly, “Then why am I hauling you back to Qo’noS?”
A slow smile spread across K’mpec’s face, and despite herself, Trujillo felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rise. She had seen smiles like this in the past, but only rarely. Smiles such as this belonged to mad men, or those bent on vengeance who no longer cared for their own safety. It promised horrors beyond imagining.
“I will retake my family’s place on the Council, Commodore. In so doing, I will kill every last person associated with the attack on my family and the assassination of my father. I will drown the soil of the homeworld with their blood, the blood of their entire families, their retainers, and their allies. I will burn their homes and give away their holdings and property as gifts to those who follow my banner. I will stab, and slash and cut until my arms are so fatigued that I can no longer hold a knife. Then I will have one of my men bind the blade to my hand and use their arms to move my own so that I may go on killing until the deed is finally done.”
He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Trujillo’s as he continued. “I will vote to curtail the expansion because it defies the will of the enemies of my house, not because I care about my father’s final cause. You see, I have cared for nothing and no one until now, Commodore, except satisfying my own base desires. But now… now I’ve suddenly discovered that I actually loved the family I so often ignored and rebelled against. The family taken from me by cowards who struck under the guise of pirates and raiders.”
He stood, slowly, and suddenly the unremarkable young man who had entered her office minutes earlier seemed to have been replaced by someone larger than life. A man imbued with dark purpose. “When I am done, not even the chancellor himself will dare stand in my way.” He glanced back at Glal, then looked to Trujillo once again. “Do you have any further questions for me, Commodore?”
All the air seemed to have been drawn out of the compartment.
Trujillo swallowed, finding her voice at last. “No. No, Sogh K’mpec, I think that about covers it.”
K’mpec turned and departed, joined by a security escort as he exited the ready room.
After the hatch had closed, Glal expelled a long breath. “That man is psychotic,” he assessed gravely.
“No,” Trujillo countered. “Someone reminded him that he is a Klingon. They will regret it, but not for very long, I fear.”
* * *
Composition of Task Force Scythe
USS Reykjavík – Shangri-La-class attack cruiser – Commodore Nandi Trujillo
USS Exeter – Excelsior-class heavy cruiser – Captain Olaf Kiersonn
USS Shras – Andor-class missile cruiser – Captain Oshath Th'thaorhok
USS Hathaway – Constellation-class cruiser – Captain Ruprecht Sheinbaum
USS Zelenskyy – Miranda-class light cruiser – Lt. Commander Eldred Withropp
USS Vespula – Hornet-class frigate – Commander Va'obb
USS al-Ashtar – Saladin-class destroyer – Lt. Commander Marc Chu
USS Falmouth – Nereus-class Starship Tender – Lieutenant Neled Zomhura
* * *
Task Force Scythe, led by their Klingon escort, dropped out of warp at the edge of the Qo’noS system, the seat of power for the many worlds of the Klingon Empire.
“We are secured from warp, sir,” Naifeh advised from the Helm. “H'behln has set a course for Qo’noS at one-third impulse.”
“Match course and speed. Ops, transmit the same to the task force,” Trujillo ordered.
Glal stepped over to Trujillo’s chair from his post on the bridge’s upper level. “Into the belly of the beast,” he said in a grim whisper.
She turned to look at him, her jaw set tightly. “Never thought I’d live to see Qo’noS with my own eyes.”
“I know the feeling, sir,” Glal replied. “I can’t believe we’ve made it this far without another attack.”
Trujillo nodded slowly, turning her attention back to the main viewer. “Easier for a hostile faction to stage their attack here at our destination, rather than somewhere along the way. This is where they’ll show their hand.”
She had already briefed the other commanding officers in the task force as to their rules of engagement should hostilities erupt here. So long as the violence was exclusively between Klingon factions, they were not to intervene. However, Trujillo had authorized all ships in the task force to defend themselves if attacked directly.
“ETA to Qo’noS at our present speed is one hour, seventeen minutes, sir.”
“Acknowledged.” Trujillo sat a little straighter in her chair and said, “Ops, open a channel to Qo’noS orbital control.”
“Channel open, sir.”
“Klingon Control, this is Commodore Trujillo of the USS Reykjavík, leading a Starfleet task force to retrieve Federation personnel from your system. I am requesting permission to enter orbit of Qo’noS to transfer our people over.”
There was a noticeable delay, prompting Trujillo to prop her chin on her fist, elbow braced on the chair arm as she fumed silently. It was so like the Klingons to convey insult via bureaucracy, stalling as intentional slight. I do not wait for thee, thee shall wait for me.
Finally, the vaguely disinterested reply. “This is Klingon Control. We grant you orbital privileges on the authority of the High Council. You may assume station at the coordinates to follow. Your weapons and shields will remain powered down. If you violate these provisions, you will be destroyed.”
Trujillo grunted defiantly, then checked herself. This was neither the time nor place to provoke the Klingons. She was a guest in their house and reminded herself that she must behave accordingly and demonstrate the respect they were due. “Understood. We will comply.”
She shifted in her seat, nodding in the direction of the Operations station. “Mister Shukla, raise the command center for our operation here,” she ordered, forcing herself back to the task at hand.
A moment later a bald, dark-skinned Deltan female appeared on the viewscreen. Though her collar was command-white and she bore a full commander’s rank insignia on the epaulets of her jumpsuit, the fact that she wore engineering coveralls rather than a standard uniform rankled Trujillo’s finely honed sense of military decorum. So many burdens to be suffered today, she thought sardonically.
“Reykjavík, welcome to Qo’noS,” the woman said brightly. “I’m Commander Osaoi of the Joint Orbital Interdiction Mission.”
“Good afternoon, Commander. I’m Commodore Trujillo with Task Force Scythe. We are to be your ride. May I presume you and your people are finalizing preparations to depart?”
Osaoi nodded, her expression darkening. “That’s correct, Commodore. It’s difficult to see all we’ve accomplished here jeopardized by politics, but I understand the Federation’s position on this. We’ve been turning over control of the operation to the Klingons for the past week, but they’ve been dragging their feet. As a result, some of our personnel are still trickling in from our ancillary outposts.”
“If the Klingons are assuming control, isn’t that their problem, Commander?” Trujillo asked.
Osaoi looked incredulous. “If we botch this handover, a planet dies, sir. The High Council and the Klingon military may be at fault here, but I’m sure you’ll agree that the five-billion other people down there aren’t deserving of that fate.”
Trujillo suppressed a wince, but only just. “My apologies, Commander Osaoi. I’ve been raised to see the Klingons as the enemy, and my old soldier’s bones are aching the closer I come to Qo’noS. You’re right, of course.”
The Deltan’s answering smile signified an understanding between the two women, and a spark of mutual respect. “No apology necessary, sir. These are uncertain and troubling times.”
“How may we be of assistance?” Trujillo asked, surrendering her illusory sense of control over the scenario.
“We could use some help collecting our people from our harder to reach outposts within the PDD, sir.”
“PDD?” Trujillo asked.
“Sorry, sir. Praxis Debris Disk, the orbital deconfliction zone we’ve established to safeguard the planet from descending meteoric fragments. Some of the areas of the disk are quite dense, most notably the intact shards of Praxis that we’ve glued together with our gravimetric web network.”
Trujillo’s eyes widened. “You have people… inside what’s left of that moon?”
“Yes, sir,” Osaoi confirmed. “We have manned operations and monitoring stations within the shell. You’d need a small ship or shuttle craft to reach most of them.”
“You’ll have them,” Trujillo affirmed. “We’ll be in orbit in a little over an hour.”
They terminated the comms link after a further exchange of logistics information, prompting Glal to step over and lean in towards Trujillo. “Where’s the rest of our escort? If a Klingon task force were approaching Earth or Tellar Prime, you’d best believe we’d have more than one ship out there.”
“You know the answer to that,” she chided him quietly.
The Tellarite grumbled, “Yes, they’re all out there, cloaked. Both our enemies, and our… allies, for want of a better term.”
“They’re running the same risks we are, Commander. Allies, co-conspirators, take your pick.”
An alarm warbled at the Science station. “Commodore, I’m picking up some rather intense electromagnetic interference in the upper atmosphere of Qo’noS, overlapping scattering fields across the spectrum.” This from Rachel Garrett.
Trujillo pursed her lips. “Might I imagine such interference would prohibit beaming a person safely to the surface, Ensign?”
Garrett looked up from her sensor returns. “Yes, sir. Most definitely.”
Shukla looked over his shoulder from Operations. “They couldn’t keep that up for very long, sir. Widespread transport jamming would cause enormous economic damage in mere days. Commerce and transportation, both civilian and military…”
“Oh, yes, Lieutenant. I’m certain this arrangement is in our honor,” Trujillo interrupted. “Someone down there doesn’t want us depositing K’mpec on the surface. General Kang told me something like this was to be expected.”
“Which also means they anticipate this situation being resolved quickly,” Glal noted darkly.
Trujillo accessed her swing-arm console, bringing it up over her lap and tapping in instructions for the task force to form a protective sphere with Reykjavík and Exeter at its center.
“No shields, sir?” Glal inquired.
“You heard Orbital Control,” she replied. “I’m not going to provide them with the excuse to begin shooting. That’s an honor they’ll have to earn.”
“Lots of tetryon emissions out there, sir, as well as sporadic energy distortions throughout the system,” remarked Garrett, her eyes fixed to her displays.
“We’re also seeing only a fraction of the military traffic usually active in the system, Commodore,” Shukla added from Ops.
“Acknowledged,” Trujillo rejoined evenly. “Maintain course and speed. Tactical, I want shields and weapons on hot-standby, ready for immediate deployment.”
“Aye, sir,” Jarrod answered from the Tactical station.
“Everyone be ready,” Trujillo coaxed. “When it happens, it will be quick.”
Moments later, it began. A handful of Klingon ships decloaked, followed by a few more, then scores more appeared as various houses, alliances, and power blocs began to maneuver against one another.
“Tactical plot map,” Trujillo ordered, trying to keep track of the assorted groupings as they came into view throughout the system. She looked over at Glal. “Any way to identify who’s who out there?”
“Unfortunately, no, sir,” he replied glumly. “They’ve gotten away from emblazoning their house sigils on their ships in recent decades. That might have made things easier for us.”
“Weaps,” Trujillo called to Jarrod at Tactical, “what do you see?”
“Various Klingon formations are holding defensive positions at strategic strongpoints throughout the system, Commodore. Others are attempting to gain positions of advantage over their opponents. These three groups,” he highlighted them on the main viewscreen’s tactical plot, “are clearly shadowing our task force.”
“And no way to know which of those groups belongs to Kang, or his adversaries?”
“No, sir. Not until General Kang decides to decloak T’Kuvma. His is the only K’tavra-class ship we’ve encountered so far.”
“I doubt he’s terribly anxious to show himself at the moment,” Glal postulated.
“We’re being hailed, sir,” Shukla announced. “The signal’s coming from multiple comms satellites, audio only.”
“Let’s hear it,” Trujillo commanded.
“Federation ship Reykjavík, you are carrying a Klingon national aboard your ship in violation of Klingon law. You will surrender this individual immediately or you and your task force will be destroyed.”
Trujillo raised a hand in abeyance. “No reply,” she ordered. She knew the thoron fields erected to hide K’mpec and the Klingon doctor’s life-signs had proved impenetrable to Klingon sensors earlier. It was nearly certain that this was a bluff. It was one she had no intention of calling.
“Signal all ships, maintain course and speed,” Trujillo instructed.
They stayed on course, heedless of Klingon threats. The ships of the task force swept with sensors in all directions, assessing the capabilities of nearby Klingon warships and probing for those they could not otherwise see.
“Signal from al-Ashtar, sir. Commander Va'obb reports many of the Klingon ships they’ve scanned show signs of significant systems degradation.”
Trujillo raised an eyebrow at that and inclined her head towards Garrett at Sciences.
A few tense moments later the young woman said, “Confirmed, sir. I’m seeing structural fatigue, power-systems fluctuations, even entire sections of some ships that have been depressurized.” The younger woman directed a questioning look at Trujillo.
The commodore shared a knowing look with Glal. “We turned over control of the atmospheric processors and terraforming operations on Qo’noS to the Klingons a decade ago, and just absorbing that added expenditure has overstretched the empire’s industrial base. Their military vessels are getting less than half the drydock time they should be. Some of their ships languish at their moorings while the others are flown until they’re falling apart at the seams.”
Glal grunted in agreement. “It helps to explain their poor showing in the attacks on those non-aligned colonies. They lost far more ships and soldiers than expected in taking those worlds.”
“But how do you keep something like that a secret, sir?” Garrett asked, clearly perplexed. “We’ve had personnel in this system for three decades, some of them had to have been intel assets.”
“Oh, we’ve known, Ensign.” Trujillo confessed. “They’ve done their best to hide the deterioration of their military capability, but corruption and mismanagement on that level are nearly impossible to cover up completely.”
In response to a trilling alarm at his station, Shukla called out, “Priority from Exeter, sir. They’ve picked up a sensor echo at two-two-seven, mark zero-eight-one, CBDR. Possible incoming vessel under cloak.”
“Mister Shukla? Mister Garrett?”
“We’ve got it, sir,” Garrett spoke up first. She then shot a glance at the lieutenant at Ops and nodded in his direction in deference to his seniority.
“Definitely a cloaked ship,” Shukla picked up from where Garrett had left off. “Closing at… one-half impulse. It will penetrate our escort perimeter in thirty seconds, coming within a quarter million kilometers of Zelenskyy.”
Trujillo sat back in her chair, her expression grim. “Here’s hoping we don’t give Kang a bloody nose for being too stupid to call first.”
“Can’t be, sir,” Glal refuted. “Kang would never allow his cloak to malfunction that badly.”
She toggled open the task force’s encrypted channel. “This is Scythe-Actual to all ships. Either this is a friendly or they sent a ship with a faulty cloak to try and stage an ambush. This also may be an intentional distraction. Zelenskyy and Reykjavík will keep this target painted, everyone else keep eyes out for other inbounds. We’ll raise shields if this target decloaks, and we’ll engage it if it fires on us. All ships to alert condition red.”
The klaxon blared in response to her command.
“And what about Klingon Orbital Control’s orders, Commodore?” Glal inquired teasingly.
“Fuck Klingon Orbital Control, Mister Glal,” Trujillo replied caustically, causing heads around the bridge to swivel her direction in open surprise.
“Inbound is passing Zelenskyy, on a direct intercept course with us,” Shukla advised. “Now within Klingon weapons range, sir.”
Trujillo, intuiting the course of the next few seconds, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Here we go,” she whispered to herself.
A garishly painted K’tinga-class cruiser emerged from behind it’s imperfect cloaking screen, the ship an improbable blood red color, it’s hull pocked with years or decades of unrepaired micrometeorite impacts and weapons strikes. Even as it wavered into view, the open maw of its forward torpedo tube came to life like a great red eye opening.
“Klingon battlecruiser preparing to fire!” Jarrod exclaimed, raising shields and powering weapons systems before the order had even been given.
“Shields and weapons,” Trujillo said. “Evasive, hard to port.”
Three Klingon torpedoes flashed from its forward tube, the first slamming home against Reykjavík’s ventral deflector screens as the ship pulled hard to port and exposed her belly. The following two sailed harmlessly past, victims of Naifeh’s deft maneuvering.
Zelenskyy fired first from behind their opponent as Reykjavík heeled hard over, trying to avoid the battlecruiser’s opening salvo. Four photon torpedoes and streamers of phaser fire from both Zelenskyy’s saucer and the outboard emitters on her tactical rollbar bludgeoned the Klingon ship’s aft/ventral shields.
Exeter, unbidden, threw a volley of four more torpedoes into the mix, hammering the old K’tinga’s port/aft shields and causing buckling in sections of the aged battlecruiser’s hull.
Reykjavík completed her yawing turn, her phaser emitters erupting with answering fire as she did so. Thanks to the abuse already delivered by Reykjavík’s escorts, the battlecruiser’s shields collapsed under the barrage of phaser fire from the attack cruiser. One salvo punched into the Klingon’s hull, creating catastrophic internal explosions as another slashing burst of phaser energy scored across the graceful neck of the crimson warship, severing the command section from the engineering hull in an eruption of atmosphere and short-lived flame.
The bisected ship fell behind the task force in a glittering corona of gas and debris as Reykjavík corrected her course and joined the assembled starships as they forged ahead.
“Report!” Trujillo called as the bridge crew worked to assess the ship’s condition.
“Shields holding, negligible damage aside from a few systems overloads,” the duty engineer relayed.
“Another incoming transmission from the Klingons, sir.”
Trujillo glared at the viewscreen through hooded eyes. “Put it through.”
“Federation squadron, you have fired on Klingon warships in violation of your orders from Orbital Control. You will surrender or be destroyed.”
She toggled the channel open. “You fired first. You attacked a mission of mercy flying a flag of truce. Is this Klingon honor? Stand down and allow us to collect our people, and we’ll be on our way. Interfere, and the damage to your home system will be on your heads.”
Now I’ve gone and done it, she thought to herself. Decades of peace discarded in seconds.
* * *